Okay. So much for no tension. Her voice is muffled because she has a thick purple scarf wrapped around her face. It’s January in Connecticut, meaning waiting for anything outside should be illegal. We’re all huddled together like a cluster of penguins, trying to steal each other’s body heat.
“I keep my double pinky swears,” Molly says. “Autumn and I were obsessed with Fireflies and You when it first came out.”
“Obsessed is a strong word,” Autumn says.
“Obsessed,” Molly reiterates. “It’s kind of the reason we’re best friends.”
“I’d prefer not to give Alanna LaForest credit for our friendship, k thanks.” Autumn shivers. “She doesn’t even want us here. Every opportunity she has, she says that her books aren’t for us—that this movie shouldn’t be for us.”
“Can’t you just, like, separate the art from the artist?” Molly asks. “And remember the good times? This means something to me.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
Autumn looks at me and her expression softens, then she turns back to Molly. “Halle gets a Grief Pass. You don’t. Alanna acts like her teen fans are less than. Look around. Look who’s here and who she’s profiting from. Doesn’t that piss you off?”
“Yet here we are,” Sawyer says, as the line inches forward.
“It sucks,” Nash says.
“Tell that to your girlfriend,” Autumn says.
Nash takes a step backward as if the wind has been knocked out of him.
I bury my face in my scarf.
“Autumn,” Molly says, her voice low.
Autumn crosses her arms over her chest. “What? Kels has a platform to call out Alanna, but instead chooses to post Twitter chats and fifteen feelings about fireflies and you, in memes, or whatever. I don’t know if she’s afraid to speak out because Alanna’s fandom is ruthless—or if she’s still very much a part of the ruthless fandom and doesn’t want to alienate the critics. Either way, she’s playing both sides like we’re too stupid to notice.”
Oh my God—Autumn reads OTP?
Nash opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Maybe Kels doesn’t know what to say.”
I don’t.
“That’s not an excuse,” Autumn says. “Kels’s silence? It’s so loud. She’s a total coward, Nash! Like, she can’t not have an opinion.”
“Autumn.” Molly’s voice lowers. “I think we can all agree that Alanna is gross. But she’s not even affiliated with the movie so—”
“So what?” Autumn cuts Molly off. “You know what? I’m not giving my money to this movie, to her, especially not when there’s a new Barry Jenkins film that deserves support playing across town.” She picks her backpack filled with contraband snacks off the ground, tosses it over her shoulder, and marches toward the parking lot.
Molly chases Autumn and Sawyer follows Molly and somehow, only Nash and I are left in line.
“I get why you want to see this movie,” Nash says. “I do too.”
Do I want to see this movie? For the first time, I let myself think about this—what I think, without all the contributing factors and interests. Even without Grams.
Do I want to see it?
Not really. It hits me all once. Alanna has had every opportunity to apologize to the teens she has hurt. She has not. Alanna brushed off my cupcakes in an interview like it didn’t matter. I didn’t let it hurt until Autumn called out a truth that’s so painfully obvious, even Grams would agree. This is just wrong. This whole time I let myself be caught in the middle, believing I didn’t have a choice. But I can love Fireflies and You as Halle and criticize Alanna as Kels. That’s supposed to be the whole point of Kels! Clearly, Halle has influenced One True Pastry just as much Kels has complicated my real life.
We’re not the same—but maybe we’re not as distinct as I’ve always believed.
So it’s clear to me now that Kels would never see this movie.
And as for me, I can love the book that Grams helped create, but that also doesn’t mean I have to see the movie either.
“Autumn is right,” I say. “If Alanna doesn’t think her teen audience is valid, why are we throwing the little money we, as teens, actually have at her?”
“I guess I don’t think about it like that,” Nash says. “I think I loved the book, the creative team behind the movie is awesome, and I want to support them—not Alanna.”
“I know,” I say, digesting this.
Our phones simultaneously light up with a text from Molly.
Molly Jacobson
There’s an 11:30 showing of the Barry Jenkins movie at the Omni. I can’t see F&Y when A’s like this. You coming?
10:57 PM
Tonight is supposed to be sharing popcorn and staying out too late with Le Crew. Part of me wants to stay, to be with Nash, to pretend like it’s a date. But it’s not. And I know now I can’t give my money to this film, not when Autumn slayed me with the truth like that. I’ll deal with the Kels consequences in the morning.
I look at him. “I’m going to go.”
His eyebrows rise, surprised. “Really? Okay.”
I shoot Molly a text before I change my mind. “Yeah. Let me know if Grams would’ve approved, okay?”
I walk away from Nash before he responds, heading toward the front of the theater, my arms wrapped around myself because it’s so cold. Molly says they’ll wait for me at the curb and, wow, I am having a Feeling—because I’ve never had people like this, people who will wait up for me.
“Halle. Wait!”
I turn around at the sound of Nash’s voice. He’s here, not in his spot in line. And it was a decent spot, too, only maybe a third of the way back. He’s here, his hood fallen in his haste to catch me, revealing a green-and-white knitted Celtics hat. Under the streetlights, his nose is bright red, and I see his breath every time he exhales.
“I’m coming too,” Nash says.
Now it’s my eyebrows that rise. “Really?” I think back to his offer to see this with Kels. The Kels who isn’t speaking to him. The Bye, Kels.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
Nash stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and nods. “Yeah. I want to see a movie with my friends. I want to see a movie with you.”
I want to see a movie with you.
We wave to Molly to go ahead and I follow Nash to his car, processing what this means, thankful my face is already red from the bitter cold.
* * *
Damn you and your beautiful movies, Barry Jenkins.
Seriously, the way he’s able to capture the smallest moments is breathtaking.
How I’m even paying attention when Nash’s arm keeps brushing against mine is a testament to his cinematic skills, honestly. It keeps happening—every time Nash whispers an observation in my ear or offers me more popcorn or a sip of his cherry slushee. During a tense moment between the main character and his father, Nash’s arm is against mine for ten whole seconds.
Yeah, I counted.
Ten-second arm touching is not an accident. It’s definitely a lot more than not awkward.