Autoboyography
Page 26
Standing, I pace my room, grinning down at the screen.
A mountain. Our hike. He’s in his room, maybe, thinking about our hike.
My brain takes a detour. Maybe he’s in bed.
A tiny voice raises orange flags, working to get my thoughts back on track.
I resist replying with a rainbow, or eggplant, or tongue and instead send the one of a sunset over the mountain. He replies with a soccer ball. Ah, his weekend. I reply with an emoji of a boat—a reminder of what we could do this summer . . . if he’s around.
My phone buzzes in my palm.
Can we talk more about your book?
Yeah, of course.
My heart takes off running. In the flurry of our anxiety and admissions and kisses, I’d forgotten that he read my chapters and knew they were about him. I’d forgotten—though clearly he hasn’t—that I have to turn this book in, eventually.
I can fix it.
I can change it so it’s not so obvious.
We can talk about it in person, if that’s okay.
I wince, cupping my forehead. Be more careful, Tanner!
Sure, of course.
After that, he sends a simple
Good night, Tanner.
I reply the same way.
And I remember something he said earlier today: I can’t tell if this feels good or terrible.
• • •
“I have around fifteen thousand words,” Autumn says Monday afternoon, in lieu of a greeting. She sits down at her place in the Seminar room and looks over at me expectantly.
I scratch my chin, thinking. “I only have about seventy Post-its.”
It’s a lie. I have chapter upon chapter written. Despite what I promised Sebastian, the words pour out of me every night. I haven’t changed anything. I’ve added, wanting to capture every second.
“Tanner.” She sounds like a schoolmarm. “You need to think of this in word count.”
“I don’t think of anything in word count.”
“I am so surprised,” she deadpans. “A book is around sixty to ninety thousand words. You’re writing on a pad of Post-its?”
“Maybe I’m writing a children’s book?”
She glances down, eyebrows raised. I follow her attention to the space in front of me. A Post-it sticks out from the bottom of my notebook, and the only words visible are
LICK HIS NECK
“I’m not writing a children’s book,” I assure her, tucking it back in.
She grins. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“How many words are on a page, anyway?”
Autumn’s sigh is long-suffering, and she probably comes by it honestly. I would drive me crazy too. “About two hundred and fifty, for twelve-point, double-spaced font.”
I do some quick mental math. “You’ve written sixty pages?”
I’ve written more than a hundred.
“Tanner.” She repeats my name with more emphasis this time. “We need to have the book done in May. It’s late February.”
“I know. I’m fine. I promise.” I want her to believe me. But I don’t want her to ask to see. Even showing my fake version to Sebastian was mortifying. If he was already anxious about the transparency of “Colin,” and “Evan,” and “Ian”—imagine if he read what I wrote Saturday night where Tanner and Sebastian made out on the mountain?
“Where were you Friday?” she asks, absently poking her pencil into a groove created in the top of her desk by a hundred other students doing exactly what she’s doing.
“Home.”
This gets her attention. “Why?”
“I was tired.”
“Were you alone?”
I give her a flat stare. “Yes.”
“I saw you and Sebastian walking up Terrace on Friday afternoon.”
My heart takes off sprinting out of the room and down the hall. It doesn’t even look back. Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to me that anyone would see us, or anyone would care. But Autumn cares about nearly everything I do. And she saw us walking off onto a hike together—a hike, of course, where we ended up making out like the teenagers we are.
“We just went for a hike.”
She smiles widely, like of course it was just a hike. But do I see something beneath the surface there, some suspicion?
Maybe I’m not playing it as cool as I thought.
“Auddy,” I whisper. Just then Sebastian walks in with Mr. Fujita. My entire body seems to burst into flames, and I hope no one notices. Autumn stares straight ahead, and Sebastian’s eyes meet mine before he looks away. His face flushes.
“Auddy.” I tug at her sleeve. “Can I borrow a pencil?”
I think she can sense some panicky edge to my voice because she turns, expression softening. “Of course.” When she hands it to me, we register in unison that I’m already holding a pen.
“It doesn’t matter to me that you’re thinking what you’re thinking,” I whisper, now acting like I asked for the pencil just to get her to lean closer to me. “But it would matter to him.”
She makes a screwball face of confusion. “What would I even be thinking?”
My heart unclenches.
When I look to the front of the class, Sebastian quickly turns his attention away from us. We haven’t seen each other in six days. I’d wanted our first interaction after the hike to carry a secret, precious weight, but instead it’s loaded with weirdness. He probably saw Autumn and me huddled together talking and then looking over at him. Is he worried I told her something? Is he worried she’s read my book—the real version? I try to shake my head to communicate that everything is fine, but he’s not looking at me anymore.
And he doesn’t look at me for the rest of the class. When we break into smaller groups, he spends the entire time with McKenna and Julie, who flutter and fawn all over him. When Fujita goes to the front of the room and talks to us a bit about character development and narrative arc, he stands to the side of the class, reading through some of Asher’s book.
When the bell rings, he simply turns and walks out, down the hall. By the time I get my things shoved into my bag and follow him out, all I see is his back as he pushes out of the exit and steps into the sun.
Over lunch, I pace and pace and pace, trying to figure out what to text him to let him know—without being obvious—that there’s nothing to worry about.
“You’re acting insane,” Autumn says from the concrete block where she’s spread out her tray of hummus and veggies. “Sit.”
I plop down at her side to appease her, stealing one of her carrots and eating it in two crunching bites. But anxiety over Sebastian is a rubber band pulled tight around my rib cage. What if he’s really upset about this book thing? Can I start over? Yes.
I can start over. I should.
I begin jiggling my leg in a new type of panic.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “You should ask Sasha to prom.”
“Prom again.” I shove my thumbnail between my teeth, gnawing it. “I don’t think I want to go.”
“What! You have to.”
“I don’t, though.”
She kicks my foot with hers. “So . . . Eric asked me.”
I turn and gape at her. “What? How did I not know this?”
“I have no idea. I posted it on Instagram.”
“Is this how we’re sharing information now? Random posts on social media?” I pull out my phone. Sure enough there’s a picture of her garage door covered in colored Post-its arranged to form the word “Prom?”
A mountain. Our hike. He’s in his room, maybe, thinking about our hike.
My brain takes a detour. Maybe he’s in bed.
A tiny voice raises orange flags, working to get my thoughts back on track.
I resist replying with a rainbow, or eggplant, or tongue and instead send the one of a sunset over the mountain. He replies with a soccer ball. Ah, his weekend. I reply with an emoji of a boat—a reminder of what we could do this summer . . . if he’s around.
My phone buzzes in my palm.
Can we talk more about your book?
Yeah, of course.
My heart takes off running. In the flurry of our anxiety and admissions and kisses, I’d forgotten that he read my chapters and knew they were about him. I’d forgotten—though clearly he hasn’t—that I have to turn this book in, eventually.
I can fix it.
I can change it so it’s not so obvious.
We can talk about it in person, if that’s okay.
I wince, cupping my forehead. Be more careful, Tanner!
Sure, of course.
After that, he sends a simple
Good night, Tanner.
I reply the same way.
And I remember something he said earlier today: I can’t tell if this feels good or terrible.
• • •
“I have around fifteen thousand words,” Autumn says Monday afternoon, in lieu of a greeting. She sits down at her place in the Seminar room and looks over at me expectantly.
I scratch my chin, thinking. “I only have about seventy Post-its.”
It’s a lie. I have chapter upon chapter written. Despite what I promised Sebastian, the words pour out of me every night. I haven’t changed anything. I’ve added, wanting to capture every second.
“Tanner.” She sounds like a schoolmarm. “You need to think of this in word count.”
“I don’t think of anything in word count.”
“I am so surprised,” she deadpans. “A book is around sixty to ninety thousand words. You’re writing on a pad of Post-its?”
“Maybe I’m writing a children’s book?”
She glances down, eyebrows raised. I follow her attention to the space in front of me. A Post-it sticks out from the bottom of my notebook, and the only words visible are
LICK HIS NECK
“I’m not writing a children’s book,” I assure her, tucking it back in.
She grins. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“How many words are on a page, anyway?”
Autumn’s sigh is long-suffering, and she probably comes by it honestly. I would drive me crazy too. “About two hundred and fifty, for twelve-point, double-spaced font.”
I do some quick mental math. “You’ve written sixty pages?”
I’ve written more than a hundred.
“Tanner.” She repeats my name with more emphasis this time. “We need to have the book done in May. It’s late February.”
“I know. I’m fine. I promise.” I want her to believe me. But I don’t want her to ask to see. Even showing my fake version to Sebastian was mortifying. If he was already anxious about the transparency of “Colin,” and “Evan,” and “Ian”—imagine if he read what I wrote Saturday night where Tanner and Sebastian made out on the mountain?
“Where were you Friday?” she asks, absently poking her pencil into a groove created in the top of her desk by a hundred other students doing exactly what she’s doing.
“Home.”
This gets her attention. “Why?”
“I was tired.”
“Were you alone?”
I give her a flat stare. “Yes.”
“I saw you and Sebastian walking up Terrace on Friday afternoon.”
My heart takes off sprinting out of the room and down the hall. It doesn’t even look back. Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to me that anyone would see us, or anyone would care. But Autumn cares about nearly everything I do. And she saw us walking off onto a hike together—a hike, of course, where we ended up making out like the teenagers we are.
“We just went for a hike.”
She smiles widely, like of course it was just a hike. But do I see something beneath the surface there, some suspicion?
Maybe I’m not playing it as cool as I thought.
“Auddy,” I whisper. Just then Sebastian walks in with Mr. Fujita. My entire body seems to burst into flames, and I hope no one notices. Autumn stares straight ahead, and Sebastian’s eyes meet mine before he looks away. His face flushes.
“Auddy.” I tug at her sleeve. “Can I borrow a pencil?”
I think she can sense some panicky edge to my voice because she turns, expression softening. “Of course.” When she hands it to me, we register in unison that I’m already holding a pen.
“It doesn’t matter to me that you’re thinking what you’re thinking,” I whisper, now acting like I asked for the pencil just to get her to lean closer to me. “But it would matter to him.”
She makes a screwball face of confusion. “What would I even be thinking?”
My heart unclenches.
When I look to the front of the class, Sebastian quickly turns his attention away from us. We haven’t seen each other in six days. I’d wanted our first interaction after the hike to carry a secret, precious weight, but instead it’s loaded with weirdness. He probably saw Autumn and me huddled together talking and then looking over at him. Is he worried I told her something? Is he worried she’s read my book—the real version? I try to shake my head to communicate that everything is fine, but he’s not looking at me anymore.
And he doesn’t look at me for the rest of the class. When we break into smaller groups, he spends the entire time with McKenna and Julie, who flutter and fawn all over him. When Fujita goes to the front of the room and talks to us a bit about character development and narrative arc, he stands to the side of the class, reading through some of Asher’s book.
When the bell rings, he simply turns and walks out, down the hall. By the time I get my things shoved into my bag and follow him out, all I see is his back as he pushes out of the exit and steps into the sun.
Over lunch, I pace and pace and pace, trying to figure out what to text him to let him know—without being obvious—that there’s nothing to worry about.
“You’re acting insane,” Autumn says from the concrete block where she’s spread out her tray of hummus and veggies. “Sit.”
I plop down at her side to appease her, stealing one of her carrots and eating it in two crunching bites. But anxiety over Sebastian is a rubber band pulled tight around my rib cage. What if he’s really upset about this book thing? Can I start over? Yes.
I can start over. I should.
I begin jiggling my leg in a new type of panic.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “You should ask Sasha to prom.”
“Prom again.” I shove my thumbnail between my teeth, gnawing it. “I don’t think I want to go.”
“What! You have to.”
“I don’t, though.”
She kicks my foot with hers. “So . . . Eric asked me.”
I turn and gape at her. “What? How did I not know this?”
“I have no idea. I posted it on Instagram.”
“Is this how we’re sharing information now? Random posts on social media?” I pull out my phone. Sure enough there’s a picture of her garage door covered in colored Post-its arranged to form the word “Prom?”
