what Grams said.
I wanted to stay in Grams’s house.
This isn’t Grams’s house.
“Found her,” Ollie says. “Lured by a phone charger.”
Dad sneezes. “Typical.”
I open my mouth to retort, but stop short at the sight of him. He’s holding Scout, Grams’s adorable maltipoo—who is definitely the source of his sudden-onset sneezing—and sitting at a glass table.
How does a person decorate cupcakes on a glass table? It’s not made for messes.
The kitchen used to be a shrine to baking, with two shelves on the wall next to the stove to display Grams’s fancy standing mixer and all her quality cupcake creation equipment. The kitchen table was solid wood, perfect for spreading out all the ingredients for a long afternoon of baking.
Now the table is glass. The shelves are gone.
Gramps is gone. I mean, I know the man sitting next to Dad is Gramps. I know this.
But he’s also not. Like, at all.
He’s skinnier. Messier, too. My Gramps was always short-haired and clean-shaven. This Gramps has a full beard and a short ponytail sticking out underneath his baseball hat. He’s wearing a graphic T-shirt and cargo shorts. And Ollie’s Nikes.
“Hi, Gramps,” I say, my voice soft.
Gramps nods. “Hal.”
His smile is forced, lips tight and no teeth, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react. I should probably hug him, right? A handshake would be weird, right? I mean, this is Gramps. My Gramps, who taught me everything I know about Johnny Cash and read picture books to me until I fell asleep on his lap. My Gramps, who always made sure to interject himself into the near-daily conversations I’d have with Grams, calls where we’d go on hour-long rants about the best books we’ve ever read, ever. Until the next best book we’ve ever read came along. Gramps would attempt to pivot the conversation toward narrative nonfiction and political memoirs. You ladies and your books, he’d say, giving up with a hearty laugh. Nothing ever put a bigger smile on my face from hundreds of miles away than his laugh. React, Halle. I’m the reason we’re here. I’m the one who’s been desperate to reconnect with Gramps in this post-Grams world. But now that I’m here, and he’s in front of me? Now that I’m about to move in with him? I don’t know what to say.
That’s the problem with words. In my head, words are magic. My thoughts are eloquent and fierce. On the page, words are music. In the clicks of my keyboard, in the scratches of pencil meeting paper. In the beauty of the eraser, of the backspace key. On the page, the words in my head sing and dance with the precision of diction and the intricacies of rhythm.
Out loud? Words are the worst.
“Gramps was just asking us about college,” Mom says.
Gramps nods. “Still NYU?”
“Still NYU.”
It’s always been the plan, to follow in Grams’s footsteps.
NYU undergrad. Interning at the Big Five publishers. A publishing job offer after graduation.
“Competitive school these days,” Gramps says. “College applications are so different now.”
The corners of my mouth drop. “I know.”
I know getting into NYU isn’t easy. I think about it at least ten times a day. It’s why I’m here instead of following Mom and Dad on their next adventure—to focus on nailing AP classes, to continue growing my blog presence, to keep putting myself out there as a viable media opportunity for authors, to prove to the book world and NYU admissions that I’m meant to shout about books for a living and will thrive in publishing.
“Well I’m pretty sure since I’m destined to get drafted into the MLB, Halle can get into NYU.” Ollie says.
“I mean”—sneeze—“if it’s destined,” says Dad.
Gramps snorts. “MLB? Good luck, kid.”
Ollie isn’t bothered. He just shakes his head, smirking. “You haven’t seen me play, Gramps.”
Gramps turns his attention to Mom. “How’s preproduction going, Maddie?”
He’s the only one who can get away with calling Mad Levitt “Maddie.”
“Oh! Really good, actually. Our locations were approved—”
And just like that, before my very eyes, my parents are no longer my parents. They’re Madeline and Ari Levitt, Academy Award–nominated directors. Seriously, my parents are the Leonardo DiCaprio of the Best Documentary (Feature) category. Six nominations. Six and the Academy Award goes to [insert name that’s not my parents]. Zero Oscar dude statues.
Leo had to eat raw bison liver for his.
My parents will spend a year on a kibbutz for theirs.
“—we’ll start filming at Kinneret next week and work our way south through four different kibbutzim.”
“Wait—” Dad sneezes. “You’re saying everything is all