She opened the file folder and began arranging printed sheets of paper in a grid before the two of them.
“There’s concrete stuff like where we last saw them, or where we can expect them to be at the beginning of the story, and there’s more abstract stuff, too, like where they are on their character arc and the state of their relationships with the rest of the cast of people.”
Merritt glanced at Whit, who had gone bug-eyed. Oh God, what did that mean? Quickly, she began explaining herself.
“This is all just my interpretation, of course, and we can discuss everything, and maybe you have a different sense of things, and that’s fine, of course, it’s your baby. Or your, what, half-baby? Step-baby? This is not helpful, we can cease and desist with the baby metaphors.”
Whit waved a hand for her to stop.
“You didallthis?”
Merritt took a deep breath, ashamed of her presumption.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“You’re what?”
“Sorry.”
Whit lowered his head all the way to the table. She had killed him. He’d died, clearly, of incredulity. But then he raised up again, a grin shining on his face like a neon marquee. He shook his head with a different kind of incredulity than she had expected.
“This is amazing—you’reamazing.”
Merritt felt the words in her throat. No one had told her she was amazing for a long time. Since before she started apologizing all the time. Since before dropping out, before Graydon.
Whit scanned the papers, touching them as if they were priceless treasures, as if to make sure they were really there. He held one up and began to speed-read it with fluttering lips before slapping it down on the table.
“I...” He shrugged. “I can’t believe it. Incredible.”
Merritt’s own grin was threatening to go supernova, and though containing it made her cheeks feel like they were lifting weights, she managed by returning her attention to the backpack.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “There’s more.”
As she pulled two more file folders from the bag, she shot a glance back at Whit, whose eyes had once again gone praying mantis–shape.
“What?”
She shrugged.
“I had a light day at work yesterday.”
Whit put both hands on his head and said, eyes closed, “You’re a wonder, Merritt Pryor.”
He opened them.
“A true wonder.”
Something about those words said by this man, from that mouth, while those eyes looked at her—this man who was sitting before her, appreciating the work she had done and the brain she had done them with...
Oh no, Merritt thought, in response to the egg-like thing that had just cracked open in her chest.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Chapter Eight
Growing up, Merritt had been a teacher’s pet, though not by choice. People were just constantly making her into one. She excelled at school and was well mannered and always game for a class discussion, and teachers loved that sort of thing. It had not been good, at first, for Merritt’s ability to do hard work, because every time she stood at the front of the room to give a book report on her most recent Madeleine L’Engle experience or explain the primary imports and exports of Brazil, her teacher would breathe a sigh of relief, immediately committed to being impressed by whatever it was she had to offer.
This moment with Whit felt a bit like that. He was dazzled by her preparedness, which in his eyes constituted quite a bit of work. The truth was, for a Greenwood Castle fan like herself, these documents essentially wrote themselves. She knew this world like she knew the complete lore of the Baby-Sitters Club, the history of most American Girl dolls, and the comprehensive soundtracks of the movie musicals she’d grown up loving: she had immediate, encyclopedic recall when it came to these imaginary people, places, and things. All she’d had to do was write it all down.
