Turns out, functional Gramps is kind of a hard-ass.
November blends into December, and I am still grounded.
“You’re always on that phone, and you couldn’t answer one of my three calls?” Gramps had said to me when I got home.
“It’s called silent mode?” I tried to joke.
Gramps does not appreciate sass unless he’s the one giving it.
I was sentenced to two antisocial weeks, too shocked he was so upset to argue further. If this had happened when we first arrived, I don’t even think he would’ve noticed I was missing. I got too used to the freedom, to not expecting anyone to account for me.
There are still five days left until I’m free. Gramps didn’t confiscate my phone or laptop, though, thank God. Halle and Kels’s simultaneous absence would have been a ridiculous coincidence.
In some ways, the sentence has recalibrated me. Without the ability to spend my free time with Le Crew, I’m able to focus on the thing that matters most: One True Pastry.
I send my first-ever pitch rejection.
I also block my first troll.
My following ironically has plateaued, thanks to the Fireflies and You trailer drop. The film is back in the YA Twitter spotlight—and most of my movie tie-in content has gone live. Posts I scheduled months ago—an interview with the cast before production started, Twitter chats encouraging my followers to reread the book, a throwback post boosting my original, spoiler-free reviews. It has been extremely divisive with my followers.
I wish I could tell Twitter I’m not pro-Alanna—I’m pro-Grams.
But I can’t.
And OTP isn’t the only thing I’ve been neglecting.
I’ve never been so disconnected from Amy, Elle, and Samira. Now that I spend most of my weekends with Le Crew, it feels like I’m always catching up on their conversations. Elle’s novel is on submission, Samira’s submitting her art portfolio for a competitive summer program, and Amy is drowning in midterms. I know this. I do still read the messages when I can.
It just feels impossible to respond after five or seven or twelve subject changes.
Not to mention I don’t even know how to talk to them right now. They’re Nash’s friends too. What if I slip up and say something about Nash? I want to tell them so badly, but they’ll freak out. Ollie is on my case enough. Besides, they don’t know who I am either.
My friendship with Nash isn’t the only one at stake. Pretty much all of them are.
I need to find a better balance between Halle’s life and Kels’s.
It’s the Sunday after an uneventful Thanksgiving and I’m spending my morning working on my personal statement. The cursor blinks in an empty word document and I stare at the screen, totally stuck. How can passion be infused onto the page? This essay has to compensate for my below-average SAT score—but it can’t be a gushing blog post. This needs to be professional, but still show who I am.
All in six hundred fifty words or less.
I twirl Grams’s necklace between my fingers, unsure how to essay.
I text Nash.
question.
12:00 PM
Nash Kim
Oh! Hey. What’s up?
12:01 PM
I almost drop my phone when his answer comes through as Nash Kim. Crap. I can’t talk to Nash about my college essay! Obviously, it’s about One True Pastry. This is supposed to be a Kels-Nash conversation. I contemplate what to do, staring at the screen for so long the brightness fades.
Actually.
Maybe Nash can still help me.
What was your college essay about?
12:02 PM
It was about Nick. I wrote about why I started REX and the elusiveness of memory.
12:03 PM
Wow. That sounds really smart.
And kind of sad.
12:04 PM
I hope so. Isn’t that a college admissions reader’s dream?
12:05 PM
Valid.
12:06 PM
That’s helpful. Thank you!!
12:06 PM
I’m glad I texted the wrong Nash. It feels like we’ve been online talking about NYU since the beginning of our friendship. Him writing about REX. Me writing about OTP.
But of course, Nash’s essay is about more than a web comic.
Mine is about more than a blog.
Grams. Everything I know about publishing is because of Grams. She’s the reason I know I need to work in publishing; how I know I need to scream about books for a living. How many eight-year-olds sit on their grandmother’s lap at Thanksgiving and ask, Grams, how are books made?
Grams, do you know Junie B. Jones?
Grams, can I be an editor, just like you?
She told stories to me about the life of a book, a tale of Bella Book’s journey from inception