“Are you kidding? You have infinite aura points,” I say. When she stares at me blankly, I add, “Did I say that right?”
“You’re the one who writes for teenagers, not me,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t need to have my finger on the pulse of Gen Z slang.”
“Your fingerison the pulse, but only when a character’s bleeding out,” I concede. Daphne’s career started with two historical fiction novels that didn’t sell well before she pivoted to bloodier pastures. She wrote a queer thriller in a fevered daydream of a writers’ retreat several years back, blew up on social media, and hit theUSA Todaybestseller list when it released last year. She hasn’t quite come to terms with it yet, but she is publishing’s new superstar, and I get to say I knew her when.
She takes a long drag of coffee before shaking the empty cup in front of me. “Do you want coffee? It’s free in the authors’ lounge! Oh, and I filled my bag with snacks for later.” She opens herRead Banned Bookstote to show me the dozen granola bars and breakfast pastries she’s smuggled from the school-library-turned-authors’-lounge. “Shoot. I forgot to grab a bagel.”
I shake my head. I’m already three espressos deep and should cut myself off from the caffeine IV drip. “You should set your standards higher than free campus coffee and stale granola. Didn’t your publisher give you a per diem?”
“I think so, but if I don’t have to spend it—”
“You should,” I tell her as my phone buzzes. I need to teach Daphne how to survive these long weekends, and it starts with DoorDashing overly expensive food to her room after a long day. There’s something about hotel sheets, HGTV, and a burritothe size of your face that hits the spot after socializing for twelve hours. The buzzing continues. “My publicist is calling.”
“Answer it. I’ll be inside stealing bagels.” Daphne walks back in the direction of the authors’ lounge as I answer my phone.
“Hey, Amina.”
“Mars! I’m so glad you picked up. Did you see my email?”
My anxiety radar goes off. “No. I just got to the festival.”
“I received an email from the director of the conference. You were copied on it, too. Did you see that one?”
My inbox is always out of control, and the closer we get to publication, the less likely I am to wander into its murky depths. “Not yet.”
“I didn’t think so,” she mutters, her tone hesitant in a way I’m not used to hearing. When there’s bad news—like the time my third book got eviscerated byThe New York Times Book Review—she sends an email, and I get to cry in peace. (Which I did. For several days.) The part of me that hates crying in public more than writer’s block flares to life. I duck between buildings and walk toward a quiet spot on campus. At least I’ll be alone if this ends in disaster.
“What’s going on, Amina?” I prompt.
“There’s been a change to the general session on Sunday.”
My stomach drops, but I’m not surprised. I wonder if they’re rolling up the banner with my face on it as we speak. “Have I been cut?”
Daphne thinks my constant worry is unfounded, but after the shit show that’s been my career over the past several years, it’s hard not to feel like I’m one wrong move from losing my last chance.
“No! No, of course not, not anything like that.”
The vise around my throat loosens slightly. “Then why doyou sound like you’d rather give yourself a paper cut than be on this call?”
She laughs—light and airy and fake as hell. “There’s been a change to the schedule—it’s really not something you should worry about.”
“What’s the change?”
“Wendell Tyler has the flu and had to drop out this morning.” I can practically hear her wince.
Wendell Tyler is one of the best YA sci-fi authors of the past decade, but it’s not like authors are in short supply this weekend. “I can hold down the fort on my own, but if they want a replacement, I’m sure Daphne would be happy to step in,” I say.
“Mmm.” Amina clears her throat. “Well, the thing is, you know how hectic it can be to schedule these things.”
I don’t, actually. I spend most of my days sitting alone at a computer while made-up characters talk in my head, but it doesn’t sound that complicated. “The Sunday general session is the biggest event of the weekend. Finding a conference author who wants more attention should be as easy as finding a newly released James Patterson book.”
Amina laughs again, this time high-pitched and panicked. “It sounds like they’ve already found someone, but without Wendell, it doesn’t make sense to keep the theme around YA—”
“That’s fine. I can talk about anything.” I once spent an entire hour talking about how to write faithful retellings (which I’ve never done), because someone in charge of something thought my first novel,Torched, was a retelling of Dante’sInferno. (It’s not.) “What’s the new topic?”
Amina is silent on the other end of the line as I walk farther from the busy festival, down a tree-lined path winding through brick buildings. I hear a quickknock knock knockthat matchesthe pounding of my heart, followed by muffled voices, like she’s covered the phone with her hand, and then she says, “Because you’re a University of Arizona graduate, they thought it’d be fun to invite another former Wildcat to the panel. You two can talk about your journeys from students to authors.”
Awareness prickles the back of my neck. “Who?”
