lonely sometimes. Not the actual writing—of course that’s mostly solitary. But feeling like I can’t tell anyone, it almost makes me think it doesn’t really exist. This book signing felt like some validation of that.”
“I’ve read your papers,” he says. “None of that was fiction, of course, but you’re a good writer.”
“Sure didn’t stop you from nitpicking my grammar and punctuation,” I say, but I want to relish the compliment. I want to embrace what I love all the time, not just with Neil on the last day of school, when the stakes are pretty much nonexistent. I want to be fearless about it even when people judge it. “I guess it’s like, in my head, my writing can be as great as I want it to be. But as soon as I declare I’m a writer, I’ll have something to prove. It’s hard to admit that you think you’re good at something creative. And then it’s so much worse for women. We’re told to shrug off compliments, to scoff when someone tells us we’re good at something. We shrink ourselves, convince ourselves what we’re creating doesn’t actually matter.”
“But you can’t believe that. That it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s just as valid as becoming a lexicographer,” I say, zero sarcasm in my voice.
“Maybe it’s the whole concept of a guilty pleasure,” Neil says gently. “Why should we feel guilty about something that brings us—pleasure?”
He stutters a bit before uttering that word, the tips of his ears turning pink.
I point at him. “Yes! Exactly. And it’s usually things that women and teens or kids like.”
“Not everything.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Boy bands, fan fiction, soap operas, reality TV, most shows and movies with female main characters… We’re still so rarely front and center, even rarer when you consider race and sexuality, and then when we do get something that’s just for us, we’re made to feel bad for liking it. We can’t win.”
His expression turns sheepish. “I’ve… never thought about it that way.” Neil McNair admitting I’m right: another surreal moment.
Still, his agreement doesn’t feel as validating as it should. If we’d talked about this one, two, three years ago… we could have had a Westview romance-novel revolution.
Neil swipes around on his phone. “Look at this.” He’s pulled up Delilah’s Twitter. Her most recent tweet is from a few minutes ago.
Delilah Park @delilahshouldbewriting
AMAZING event tonight at Books & More! Thanks to everyone who showed up. I might read some pages from my next book at an open mic. Is Bernadette’s any good?
“Do you know what she’s talking about?”
“Oh. It’s something she does sometimes. She always talks about the importance of reading writing out loud to really get the rhythm of it right, and she likes doing it with an audience.”
“So why don’t we go to that?”
I know he’s trying to be helpful, and I appreciate that, I really do, but… “It’s not the same,” I say, feeling myself deflate. The whole point was to be around people who love what I love. “And we shouldn’t waste any more time. Let’s just move on.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket. “If that’s what you want.”
I force it to be. We make a plan to return to my car and drive to Gas Works for the view clue. When we reach the bus stop along Phinney Avenue, hoping for a shortcut, the numbers on the digital sign inform us the 5 isn’t coming for another twenty minutes. Though the sky looks ominous, we decide to walk. It’s all downhill from here. Literally.
“It’s weird no one’s come after me,” I say, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to guard against the cold, trying my best to banish Delilah from my mind. “I mean, we don’t know how many of them teamed up. But it seems like everyone’s been going for you, not for me.”
Neil straightens. “Well, I am the valedictorian.”
Ignoring him, I say, “It’s making me uneasy, not knowing who it could be.”
“We’ll just continue to be careful,” he says. “Three more clues. We can make it.”
The first raindrop hits my cheek when we’re a few blocks from the zoo.
“Okay, so what’s on your shirt?” I ask. “It’s been bothering me all day.”
He grins. “It means ‘anything sounds profound in Latin.’ The literal translation is ‘everything said in Latin seems deep.’ But that sounds like Yoda-speak.”
“Who?”
He staggers backward, clutching his heart. “What did you say? I might have to take back that nickname.”