I process Nash’s words. Either way.
It’s not like I forgot about BookCon. It’s just—clearly, I haven’t been thinking about it as much as Nash has.
“It’s not weird, I swear,” Nash repeats.
“It’s a little weird,” Molly says. “I mean, no one even knows who Kels really is.”
Nash looks at Molly like this is a constant point of tension in their friendship; like he’s so tired of having this conversation. “I do, though. In the ways that matter, at least.”
Autumn grades our practice exams.
Molly rolls her eyes.
Sawyer gags.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” I say quietly.
“Thanks,” Nash says. His ears are tinted pink with embarrassment, but his smile is sincere. The subject changes, thank God, and I’m just sitting here in silence, still pretending to work on another stupid practice test while I try to process what this means.
“… You should! Please, Halle.”
My attention snaps up from my test to Molly, who is making puppy dog eyes at me.
I have no clue why, but I pity Sawyer because it’s an extremely hard face to resist.
“Okay?” I answer.
“Oh my God, seriously?” Molly pumps her fists and yells, “Victory!”
“Um.” What did I agree to?
Autumn smirks. “You just got her out of the Kung Fu Panda marathon she’s been putting off since Rosh Hashanah.”
Nash shakes his head. “Now I have to watch five hours of Kung Fu Panda.”
Molly is doing a victory dance around the bakery.
“Molly bet that she’d get you to come bowling with us before Nash could,” Sawyer says.
“Oh,” I say, a bit blindsided. I really wish they’d stop making bets about me.
“It’s cool,” Nash says. “I’m just glad you’re coming.”
Molly, high on her victory, sets a timer and insists that we settle in for an actual practice round. Pencils scratch against paper and calculators crunch answers around me but I can’t even comprehend question one. Occasionally, my eyes shift to Nash, watching him answer questions with scrunched eyebrows through my peripheral vision.
I should cross my fingers behind my back and hope I don’t get the panel.
But I can’t. I want BookCon to want me so bad.
Even if it’s a complication, I can’t pretend I’d pass up this opportunity. I won’t.
It’s been weeks and people are still engaging with my Read Between the Lies content. Fireflies and You hype has dwindled since Alanna’s been quiet, and the next YA publishing scandal has since unfolded and the discourse has moved on, for now. One True Pastry is more perfect than it’s ever been.
Which makes me believe Kels has a shot at BookCon. For real.
The BookCon gods are emailing me in December, either way.
I need to tell Nash the truth, before this theoretical problem becomes a real one.
November 15
Elle Carter
HI. AN EDITOR TOOK MY MANUSCRIPT TO SECOND READS
5:28 PM
Amy Chen
elle. oh my GOD
5:29 PM
Elle Carter
I mean, it probably won’t amount to anything. But it COULD.
5:31 PM
Samira Lee
Positive thinking only, please!
5:32 PM
Amy Chen
can we video chat ASAP? please? TONIGHT???
5:35 PM
Samira Lee
YES
5:36 PM
Elle Carter
YES
5:36 PM
Samira Lee
Kels? Join us this time?!
5:37 PM
Amy Chen
WE MISS YOU
5:40 PM
November 16
OMG just seeing this now—congratulations, elle!! that’s SO ridiculously amazing
8:36 AM
Elle Carter
Thanks, Kels.
8:39 AM
Elle Carter
Glad you’re still here with us! We were about to send out a search party.
8:40 PM
TWELVE
Fact: Bowling nights are stupidly competitive.
It’s kind of hilarious.
Like, I haven’t taken bowling this seriously since I was twelve and determined to beat Sinclair Daniels, the product of the douchiest producer Mom and Dad ever had the—ahem—privilege of working with. Us doc kids usually made our very limited social life at the bowling alley, because every town in this country has a bowling alley within a ten-mile radius. If my parents had a late night or a long weekend of interviews and filming, one of the assistants would corral all the kids into the minivan and take us to the nearest one.
Sinclair Daniels was the only brat to ever give me a run for my money.
Because, plot twist: I, Halle Levitt, am a bowling prodigy.
Okay, fine, prodigy is a strong word for what is probably the most useless talent on the planet. But I’m good. I can’t draw or run a mile without running out of breath, but I can consistently bowl over 200 like it’s my job.
It impressed Le Crew the night of my first bowling appearance.
Now, they’re just annoyed.
Because that’s the thing about bowling. It’s the type of game that everyone thinks they can win, with no actual skill.
When Nash and I arrive at the bowling alley, Autumn and Molly already have their shoes on. Sawyer is sitting on the floor, his feet in the butterfly position. He leans forward, his head barely touching his toes. Of course, Sawyer is stretching before the bowling begins.
“It’s a sport,” Sawyer had said the first time I witnessed his elaborate routine. “Gotta get limber.”
Do you, though?
“Hey!” Molly says, greeting us with a hug.
I’ve learned to lean in to Molly’s embrace instead of flinch away. Autumn waves from her seat on the bench in front of our lane. She’s hunched over the table, writing phrases on notecards and putting them in Sawyer’s upside-down Red Sox hat.
“Is it lyrics night already?” Nash asks.
Molly shakes her head.
“Shakespeare?” Autumn asks.
“Sports metaphors?”
See, Le Crew doesn’t just bowl. That would be too easy, after years of doing it weekly. No, to raise the stakes, there is a challenge string. During this string, there is a very particular set of rules that must be followed. If someone breaks said rules, the first person to shout penalty gets to throw a gutter ball on the rule-breaker’s behalf.
Like I said, stupidly competitive. But also, stupidly fun.
Last week, Molly filled our score screen in with the most ridiculous names, and we could only call each other by those names all night—I lost that round so bad. We’ve also practiced our Spanish skills, and I don’t know if Señor Carpenito would be proud of us or horrified.
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard as I do bowling on crisp November Saturdays with Le Crew—and sometimes I wonder what challenge strings I’ve missed out on and why it took me so long to say yes.
Molly holds the Red Sox hat out to me.
“Pick one.”
I do.
Lefty, it reads.
“First round, you’re bowling lefty,” Molly says.
“Just me?” I ask.
“Just you,” Molly confirms.
Since when do the challenges not apply to everyone?