Kirsten felt different from when her mom and Sophia told her what to do—it probably had something to do with how Eleanor called it Teddy’s plan. She was the one who was in charge; no one else could have Teddy Time for her.
And after all, this was what Everett St. James had recommended, and who did she trust more than a television host she’d never actually met?
“I think I’m going to go to sleep,” Teddy said, disentangling herself from their hug. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
In her room, tucked into bed, Teddy rewatched Keegan’s episode of Everett’s Place. Once again, Everett told Keegan that he should keep searching for his passion, keep trying new things, keep looking for what lit him up. Basically, he was telling Keegan to have Teddy Time, if not in so many words.
This is right, Teddy thought. She had to try to do the things that scared her, like Eleanor and Everett said.
But upon this viewing, Teddy focused on something she’d never paid attention to before: the words that flashed on the screen as the show ended.
Have a question for Everett? Email him at Everett@Everettsplace.com. Parental permission required. All emails become property of the show.
She opened her email.
It wasn’t that she thought Everett would respond. Well, honestly, she hoped he would. Sort of. She knew the show wasn’t meant as a puppet version of Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday and that she wasn’t the target audience. But in that moment, thinking about that disastrous dinner at Richard’s and Teddy Time and her family’s plan for her and the fact that she related to a nine-year-old, she figured that emailing Everett might make her feel a little better, even if she was flinging her words into the abyss.
Dear Everett,
She shivered. Even typing his name, like they were old friends, gave her a little thrill. She really needed to get ahold of herself.
I need your help. You see, I watched you tell Keegan how he could find his “thing”—that is, the thing he’s really good at, the way his friends are good at their respective things. And it’s not that you didn’t give him good advice—you did, and I’m sure Keegan is destined to live a long, passion-filled life once he discovers his love of the flute.
But, and not to sound too solipsistic here, what about me? What about a woman who’s aging out of her twenties and recently got an ill-advised breakup bob? Is it too late for me to discover my thing? What if I had a chance to find my thing when I was, say, 23, and I missed it? Am I doomed to live the rest of my life thing-less?
Teddy exhaled. This email to Everett felt very, very scary. She kept typing.
Help me, Everett St. James. You’re my only hope.
Very sincerely yours,
Theodora
PS: Do adults often write to you? Am I the first? Maybe I should be ashamed, but I had a very rough night that involved a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and I’m feeling vulnerable (and slightly nauseated) right now.
She clicked SEND, then pulled the blankets over her head. Day one of her Teddy Time plan was officially in the books, and maybe it was the nerves or the fast food, but it kind of made her want to throw up.
13
Everett couldn’t sleep.
This wasn’t unusual for him, at least not when he was on the verge of a creative breakthrough. People thought his job was easy. You talked to some kids, made a puppet say a few words—no big deal, right? But the thing was, someone had to make those puppets. Someone had to write those words. That someone was Everett, and the idea that he might be letting a kid somewhere down by half-assing his job kept him up at night.
Or, more accurately, kept him up in the morning, seeing as it was four a.m.
He ate a bowl of cereal (responsible, joy-free Raisin Bran, because even though he worked in children’s entertainment he still understood the value of a fiber-rich breakfast) and by five a.m., he was letting himself into the studio.
This was his favorite time of day to be there. Most of the lights were off and it was silent, giving the whole place an almost eerily calm vibe that it never had during the day when he was filming.
But as he walked down the hallway toward the studio, he could hear the squeaky wheels of the custodian’s bucket rolling along.
“Tom!” Everett called. “It’s me! Not an early-morning robber who’s