“What?”
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Why not?”
“I think you love books and writing, and you’re ambitious and smart, and you’re out to prove something to yourself as much as anyone.”
I cross my arms, feeling weirdly transparent. “Even if you’re right, I’ll do it with or without anyone’s help, including yours.”
“Kaia needs more internal monologue.” He reaches out to push the crosswalk button at the loud and buzzy intersection.
“What do you mean?”
“She likes this bodyguard guy—”
“Felix.”
“Yeah. She likes Felix, but I don’t know why. What’s she thinking when she sees him lie to cover for her?”
“She’s thinking that she’s shocked that he would break the rules for her, because she’s never seen him step a toe out of line, and when she confronts him and they’re arguing, she realizes that he’s the only person who has ever cared about what happens to her!”
“So put it on the page.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Also, Felix licks his lips six times in one scene.”
“He does not.”
“I counted.”
Well, that’s humiliating.
West sees my expression. “I don’t actually know what I’m talking about, by the way. You get that, right? My writing is—”
“Stop.” I hold my hand up.
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
I pull him out of the flow of people on the sidewalk and crouch next to the window of a tattoo shop. “I need a piece of paper.”
He opens his backpack and rips out a blank page from his notebook. He hands it to me with a blue pen. I balance the paper on my knees and scribble the sentences that are appearing fully formed in my head. I don’t even have to reach for them. The characters are having a conversation, and I can barely write fast enough to keep up. It’s the best kind of writing magic.
I glance up to see West crouched over me in the fluorescent glow of the tattoo parlor’s window and admit to myself that I have a massive crush on the tall, skinny boy from my writing class.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Someday you’re going to tell me how you do that.”
“Do you thinkI’d look good with a nose ring?” I ask as dinner arrives. We’re tucked in a dark corner of the noisy restaurant, sitting on opposite sides of a wooden booth.
“Yeah,” West says automatically. “Do you want one?”
I take a bite of my pickle spear. “I’m nose ring curious. I’m writing a character who is covered in piercings, so it seems like I should know what that’s all about.” I crunch another bite of pickle, and West wordlessly slides his across the table, offering it to me. “I think I’ll do it tonight.”
“What about studying?”
I wave off his question. “We’ll get around to it.”
“After dinner?” he suggests.
