“Dad,” I say, emotion thick in my voice.
My parents know about One True Pastry—I just had no idea they paid attention to it.
“Wow,” Mom says. “That was unfairly good. How do I follow that?”
“You’re the only one who thinks a reality check is necessary,” Dad says.
I smile. I miss Mom and Dad banter.
“It is,” Mom says. “Halle. Listen to me. One college does not determine the course of your life. If you don’t get into NYU, you will be okay. There are other options! You could take a gap year. Just remember, you have options—and you’re lucky that you do.”
“I know,” I say.
It’s true. I do know.
But knowing isn’t going to minimize NYU stress. It’s just not.
Mom sighs into the phone. “Ugh—I’m so sorry to cut this short, but Tavi needs us for more last-minute interviews.”
“Last minute?” I ask.
“It’s our last day at Kinneret,” Dad says. “Tomorrow we’re heading to Naama.”
“It’s all in the emails.” Mom’s delivery is blasé, but I hear the disappointment.
“I’ll read them,” I promise. “I’ll answer them, too.”
“Thanks, babe. We love you!”
“Travel safe. I love you too,” I say.
We disconnect and, wow, do I wish my parents weren’t an ocean away. I wish I could have an Ari Pep Talk and Mad Reality Check every time I need it.
I wish it were enough to make me put away the practice tests.
My eyes focus on the last one I took, blurring around the 600 math score. I am a 600. That’s me. How can I not put pressure on myself when NYU might throw my application in the rejection pile before they even read about One True Pastry? They receive a ridiculous number of applications—so many that their acceptance rate decreases every year. Before I’m a person, I’m a number.
“Hal?” Gramps’s voice is behind me. He took Ollie out for breakfast this morning to give me some space to study. I didn’t even hear them come back.
I can’t look at him. “I—”
Gramps closes my laptop and tucks it under his arm. Places his other hand on my shoulder to steady me. “I think we need a day off from this.”
Gramps heads upstairs with my laptop and locks it in his room and I don’t even protest. If Dad were here, he would’ve pulled the same thing. It’s a relief, honestly. Gramps has been so refreshingly Gramps lately. Not always. He still has days where he’d rather be alone. But his concern right now? It’s everything. When he returns, he goes straight to the freezer, pulling out a brand-new tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Then he pulls a bowl out of the cabinet and a metal spoon from the silverware drawer.
“Gramps, it’s not even noon,” I say.
His eyebrows raise. “It’s never too early for ice cream.”
“I don’t think that’s an actual thing.”
Gramps pauses scooping. Looks at me. “Are you rejecting ice cream?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll stop talking.”
“Good.” Gramps pushes all my college stuff into a messy pile and takes a seat next to me at the table, placing my bowl of ice cream in front of me. “Do you have any plans today?”
I take a spoonful of ice cream. “I’m helping Autumn with her portfolio piece for film school. But that’s not until later.”
I didn’t expect to miss Le Crew while Nash and I weren’t speaking. I was so nervous returning to their lunch table after weeks of library lunches, but they acted like I’d never left. Which I’m pretty sure means they missed me too. I don’t know. I’m not exactly used to navigating these friendship feels. But I am glad to be back.
Yesterday, I sent Autumn notes on her script, as promised, and wow, she is bad at dialogue. But her concept is amazing—and the idea of being on a film set tonight is more exciting than I’ll ever admit out loud. My college future feels so out of my control, it’ll be nice to focus on someone else’s.
“Next Harry Potter?” Gramps asks.
I nod.
Gramps is such a Potterhead and he never even knew it. He resisted the hype even though Grams could not have been a bigger fan, but now we’ve been making our way through the movies, one each weekend. Now that he’s actually giving them a shot, he’s obsessed. We’re working our way through my boxed set and Gramps asks me a million questions, wants everyone’s origin stories, the whole nine yards.
It’s kind of adorable.
Last week, he made me take the sorting hat quiz for him.
He’s a Hufflepuff.
“But the only cool Hufflepuffs died!”
Gramps has yet to come to terms with his Puff-ness.
We transition to the living room, ice cream bowls in hand. I set up Order of the Phoenix while Gramps takes his preferred couch corner, Scout claiming her spot in the middle.
“Ready?” I ask, popping the DVD into the player.
“I don’t know. How much more can this poor kid be put through?”
“Four more movies worth of sweet, sweet torture.”
I settle into my spot on the couch and scoop a giant spoonful of ice cream. For the next few hours, there is no college anxiety, no One True Pastry, no wondering if Nash is texting Halle or Kels—or worse, both, now that we’re friends. I shut everything out and focus on Harry, whose problems are infinitely worse than mine, tbh.
But honestly, it’s watching Gramps that’s the best distraction.
* * *
After Harry has defeated Voldemort once again, Autumn is filming her masterpiece at Maple Street Sweets, and it’s all hands on deck.
Actors have been recruited from the MHS drama club—two juniors, Lil Rivera and Monique Jackson, are Autumn’s stars.
Molly handles all aspects of design—set, costumes, hair, and makeup. Sawyer bakes two dozen cupcakes to have on standby. Nash sets up grip and electric. And I have the distinct honor of being Autumn’s AD—assistant director—as well as the resident reviser of scripts. I don’t even realize how much I miss being behind a camera until I’m holding one in my hand again. The equipment may be amateur and, okay, we’re shooting a five-minute narrative, not a ninety-minute documentary, but it’s fun using this part of my brain again.
Autumn’s film is called Look Down, Swipe Right. “OBJECTIVE: Queer WOC on a date because WE EXIST” is written in Autumn’s handwriting at the top of the storyboard attached to my clipboard.
If it comes out the way it looks in my head, she’s getting into USC. It is current—the use of dating apps and cell phones as both an initiating and distracting device. It is sweet (cupcakes!) and it is light (seriously, why is every portfolio piece on YouTube so dark?). Yet there’s a depth to it—not a coming-out story, but a first-date story.
I’m trying to set the white balance on the camera when Nash jumps into the frame and strikes the most ridiculous pose.
“Hey,” he says.
“Not camera shy. Noted.”
Every time I pivot to reposition the camera to focus on the white backdrop, Nash follows the lens. His lips are tinted frosting blue and I’m shaking my head like, If you’re going to eat the props, at least be more stealth about it? Maybe?