the seat Nash had gestured to behind him. I’m not the new kid anymore, Sawyer had said. I laughed and I don’t remember what I said because between the wavy blonde hair and ocean-gray eyes, I was too busy thinking Damn, Molly Good job.
“You know? Your jam.”
“Like how sometimes Sawyer speaks in syllables,” Molly says.
“And says ‘jam,’?” Autumn adds.
Sawyer rolls his eyes.
“Um,” I stutter. Six people, twelve eyes. All on me. “I like books?”
Great. Where’s the instant lie impulse when I actually need it? I should’ve made up some sort of fake hobby. Or said literally anything other than “I like books.”
Because of course Nash says, “Me too.”
“Nash likes comic books,” Taylor says.
“Graphic novels,” Nash clarifies, since I, Halle, am not supposed to know that.
Heat creeps up my neck when Nash looks at me. “It’s an underappreciated genre, honestly. I, um, kind of blog about it. I’m trying to make graphic novels mainstream, one review at a time.”
“Nash, don’t be modest,” Autumn says, dipping a potato chip in ketchup and popping it in her mouth. She swallows, then looks at me. “He writes and draws too. They’re good—I’ve already called dibs on the option.”
I would’ve known Autumn Williams was a director even if Nash hadn’t already told Kels that she’s destined to be the next Ava DuVernay. Her mostly black, trying-without-trying aesthetic screams film school. Her braided black hair is tied back into a ponytail and she carries around a little black notebook, where she jots down what she calls moments to remember, all through lunch. From what Nash has told me, USC is her dream, but for now she has A_Williams Films, a Vimeo account where she posts short films that are the epitome of black girl magic.
“They’re okay,” Nash says.
“Shut up, they’re so good,” Molly says.
It’s the second time today I almost say I know.
“He posts them online,” Autumn says.
“Autumn,” Nash says, his cheeks flush pink.
“outsidethelines/rex,” Sawyer chimes in.
Nash is full-blown red, but it’s adorable the way they’re hyping him up, like retweets in real time.
REX, Nash’s weekly web comic, is about two dinosaur brothers—Terry and Rex—exploring the modern world. At the end of the first series, they are separated and it is devastating. The second installment is from the POV of the younger dinosaur, Rex, searching desperately for his brother. It’s action-packed and adorable and heartbreaking all at once.
Online, Nash shouts about REX to his thousands of Outside the Lines subscribers. He’s always posting links, constantly liking tweets, and retweeting reviews.
IRL, he’s shy about it. It’s really cute.
I cannot think Nash is cute. Amy and Elle would go insane if they knew that thought even crossed my mind.
Nobody understands not wanting to talk about something more than I do, so I attempt to steer the conversation away from REX. Half for Nash’s sake, half for my own. But when I do I say, “Maus kind of changed my life.”
“Seriously?” Nash says. “Me too!”
His smile is grateful—not at all suspicious—but that doesn’t stop my heart palpitations and sweaty palms. Luckily, the bell rings and I take the opportunity to pretend I’ve left something in my locker and bolt.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I am the worst in group settings. I never know what to say, or the right questions to ask, or how to apply a face that reads approachable, I promise. It’s somehow always surprising if and when I’m directly addressed. It absolutely would’ve been better to sit with a different group, where even if it was uncomfortable, at least there were no stakes. No I like books and mentioning things I know he likes. I’m not supposed to know what he likes!
The whole point of not telling him is to protect our friendship because I won’t live up to Kels—and every awkward thing that’s happened today just proves me right.
REX: Series 1, Issue #24
FIVE
Friday is a cupcake day.
A reward for making it through my first week at MHS in one piece. There’s flour in my hair, the electric mixer is plugged in, and I feel unstoppable.
I feel like I can design a cupcake cover cake worthy of Ariel Goldberg’s cover reveal.
Earlier today, Alyssa Peterson emailed me. Subject line: Confidential. When I saw it at lunch, I promptly excused myself to go to the restroom, doing everything in my power to not gasp and run. I opened the email in the bathroom stall and stared at the cover for five minutes, stunned that someone from the real New York publishing universe trusted me with this