This Is All Your Fault, Cassie Parker Page 10

  Leelu interrupts, so Dad doesn’t hear me telling him pictures will be fine.

  “Me and Jennifer have our own suite! There are fluffy robes, and slippers, and a whole couch for each of us. Plus enough pillows for a giant pillow fight, not even counting the ones on the beds. We went on Ariel’s carousel three times in a row just because we can, and tomorrow we’re making cartoons at the Animation Academy!”

  Saying “just because we can” is a totally Jennifer thing, and I wonder if she taught it to my sister while they were having their giggly pillow fight on their magical sleepover. Mom jumps in to ask if Dad can send a copy of Leelu’s cartoon when she’s done, so I don’t have to say anything, which is good because all I can do is picture a Snow White remake, starring Jennifer as the pretty queen transformed into a horrible witch. Or maybe the one who lures children into her candy house and then gobbles them up for her dinner.

  It’d be a great first thing, I realize, to write tomorrow in creative writing camp.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Even through my gloom about Leelu, and nervousness about a new class, Mom’s words about a fresh start come back to me the next morning. Camp won’t simply be a place where I can write whatever mean stories about Jennifer I want—I’ll also be anonymous. The kids enrolled are from schools all over. Nobody will have any idea who I am, or, more importantly, who my former best (jerk) friend is and what happened with my diary.

  I hop out of bed and open up my side of the closet. If everything in my life has to start completely over, maybe I should look the part, too.

  Even with the help of the accessories Aja and I got, admittedly there’s not much in my wardrobe that isn’t plain Jane. Most of it is leggings, jeans, and tops that Cassie helped me pick out, and I definitely don’t want to wear any of that. As I push farther back in my closet, I find a wraparound skirt with big splashy poppies on it. When I opened it on my eleventh birthday (a present from Tante Juno, my aunt), Cassie wrinkled her nose at the blotchy floral print. I pull it out, knowing it’s perfect, even if none of my Cassie-approved tops will work with it. But on Leelu’s side I find an old black leotard that still fits. I wrap the silver paisley scarf I bought with Aja around my neck to dress it up a little. Flats will have to do, but at least the rest is different.

  At the last minute I find the red beret and pull it over my still sleeked-down hair. And, for good measure, I grab the butterfly-covered journal I got from my grandparents last birthday. Writing these new entries in my diary has felt okay, but if this is going to be a fresh start, I want it to be a real one.

  “Oh, I love that skirt,” Mom says when I meet her in the kitchen. “You haven’t worn it much, have you? And the beret is new. I like it.”

  The warmth of Mom’s approval, and the small shred of confidence I can cling to in my new outfit, disappear the moment we walk into the upper-floor classroom at the library, though. Inside, there are six kids already waiting—two boys and four girls—all of them wearing T-shirts, flip-flops, and shorts.

  I look ridiculous.

  But the woman I recognize as our teacher glances up and smiles. “Good morning.” She has pale, pale skin covered in freckles, and is wearing a faded yellow sundress with an orange cardigan over it, so at least I’m not the only colorful one.

  We say good morning back and Mom shakes her hand, before asking if Ellen’s read the note that says I have permission to stay in the library after the workshop is over until she comes to get me at four.

  “Everything’s in order,” Ellen tells Mom. “And I’d be worried about you, Fiona, staying after late, except I spent most of my summers hanging out at the library too, and it worked out pretty well for me.”

  I nod. Up close Ellen’s eyelashes are white blond, and there’s a big, single freckle perched right on the ridge of her upper lip. When she smiles again at me she looks like a bright, happy daisy, and I decide I like her.

  “Sit wherever you like.” She gestures to the table where the other kids are. “We’re just waiting on a few of the others.”

  I look at Mom, suddenly not wanting her to leave. She doesn’t like the idea of me hanging out in the library for so long after class either, but since Julio’s counseling at a camp back east, it’s the best option until next week when Maritza is back. It’d be embarrassing to look worried or be too kissy in front of other kids, so I squeeze her hand and show her in my eyes that I will be okay.

  Once she’s gone, I take in the rest of the table. One girl is busy drawing what looks like anime dragons all over the inside cover of her notebook, and another is deeply engrossed in a book in her lap that I can’t see but immediately want to. Two more girls with glasses and braces sit at the farthest corner, snuffling with giggles over some game on their phones. The boys are on opposite ends of the table, with the giggling twins and our teacher, Ellen, in between. The bigger, taller one is staring fixedly at a single spot on the ceiling, like if he concentrates hard enough he’ll make the whole room disappear. But the other, smaller one, with long black curls mopped all around his face and neck, is looking straight at me. When our eyes meet, he points with his pen, smiles, and says, “I like your skirt.”

  I smile in thanks and sink into the nearest chair across from him, right as the rest of the students and their parents pour in. One of the moms apologizes about a problem with the elevator in a way that’s really a complaint, but Ellen greets each parent and student with a handshake and her relaxed smile. It gives the rest of us a chance to check each other out. There are two more boys in the group (obviously friends who signed up together), and three more girls, the last of whom stands out to me in part because of the big rhinestone flower she has pinned in her smooth and tight Afro, but also because she’s the only other black girl in the whole group. As I suspected when Mom and I looked at the other registrations, I don’t know anyone from school, so at least that’s good.

  Fresh start, I remind myself, smoothing my skirt for reassurance.

  “Welcome to creative writing camp,” Ellen says once everyone’s seated and the parents are gone. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. But since this is a writing class, before we do anything else, let’s take out our materials and get warmed up.”

  I can tell by the hesitant looks going around the table that most of us were expecting at least a name game first, but we take out our tools anyway. On our errands yesterday, Mom bought me a new assortment of pens and pencils—including a new sharpener—and a vinyl pencil case to zip them all up in. It’s tidy, and sophisticated I think, but to my surprise I’m almost the only one using paper and pencil; several kids have tablets or laptops with them, just like at school.

  “One thing we tend to do as writers,” Ellen tells us, “is edit ourselves before we put down the first word. How many of you have gotten an idea for a story, and then told yourself ‘Oh no, that’s stupid,’ before you’ve even started writing?”

  There are several shy sounds of confirmation, and the two girls who were playing on their phones before nudge each other.

  “It’s very important to get comfortable with not doing that,” Ellen says. She explains about first thoughts and how necessary it is to get them down, without any editing or censoring. “That can come later. You can always revise. At first, perhaps what you write will be nonsense, but I promise you, it’s only by writing through all that that the good stuff comes out.”

  She tells us she’ll give us a prompt, and then it’s very important to write whatever comes to mind—no matter how silly it is—and keep going until she tells us to stop.

  The girl with the sparkling flower in her hair raises her hand. “What if you can’t think of anything else?” she asks.

  “Write whatever’s in your head next,” Ellen says. “Let your mind go, and your pen will follow, I promise.”

  I glance across the table. The boy with the curls and I trade uncertain looks, and I can tell he knows as well as I do that good writing isn’t all over the place—it’s tight and careful and
thoughtfully constructed.

  “All right, gang,” Ellen says. “Your first word is ‘summer.’ Write anything and everything that comes to your mind about the word ‘summer,’ until time’s up.”

  Summer, I write at the top of the first page in my stiff new journal.

  Beach time. Play time. Friend time. Pool time. No more pencils no more books no more Izzy Gathing dirty looks.

  I smile at that, but keep writing as instructed.

  Sunburn. Sunshine. Bathing suits. Parties. Grilling. Sailboats. Hammock naps. Everyone outside and having a good time. Friends together playing singing laughing shouting running: no one around to take away their fun—pure happiness spinning in the sand without a care, forgetting the pressures of school and friends and new girlfriends and broken families and everything else. Only you and me sunning and playing and laughing, everything healed and nothing between us broken.

  Right when I’m getting into it, Ellen tells us it’s time to stop. I stare at my paper, feeling loopy, dazed, and disappointed it’s over. By the looks of everyone else around the table, it doesn’t seem I’m alone.

  “We’ll be doing that again,” Ellen says, proud of us, “but now that we’ve tried that out, let’s get to know each other.”

  The game Ellen uses for us to learn each other’s names is one I’ve played before: picking a descriptive word that begins with the same letter as our first name, and putting that word in front when we introduce ourselves.

  “For example, I’m Effervescent Ellen.”

  Each time a new person says his or her name, we go back around the circle repeating everyone’s who has come before. This is how I learn Galactic Grace (the girl drawing all the dragons), Cool Connor, Jellyfish Julian, and Mercury Michael (who was looking at the ceiling before like he wanted to disappear). Then Meridian and Megan, the identically dressed girls on the corner who are apparently not related (though they both choose Marshmallow for their word), and eXacting Xi (the girl with the book I still can’t see). Ridiculous Ruby, Adventurous Austen, and, next to me, Dynamic Diamond, who pushes her teeth forward in a gigantic smile and tosses her hands wide when she says her name, reminding me a little of Aja. The black-haired boy who complimented my skirt introduces himself as “Sideways Sanders.”

  Everyone has such surprising words, I start to feel doubtful. Usually I just say “Friendly,” but now that seems too boring. “Fantastic” might be show-offy, but “Fun” is too obvious. I’m not sure what to pick, until what Ellen said, about not editing yourself before you write anything down, pops into my head.

  “Fearless Fiona,” I say when it’s my turn, surprising myself. I’m not sure it’s really true, but I suppose I’d like it if it could be. The smiles of approval Sideways Sanders and eXacting Xi give me from across the table help me think that it might.

  Ellen’s freewriting trick works the rest of the morning, too. I had no idea how much could come out of a couple of easy prompts, once you stop worrying what it’s going to look like at first. After a couple more sessions like this, we move on to revising, but having so much material to work with makes it heaps easier to shape a piece. Ellen gives us some exercises that help us refine first thoughts into a mini essay, and at the end of the day, we share. Some of the stories are funny, like Grace’s about her irrational fear of beach balls when she was little, but then Austen reads one about the summer her new baby half sister was born. Seeing how creative and free everyone can be, including myself, only makes me want to do more of this exact kind of thing.

  It helps too that everyone is so friendly, and into the writing. Even Michael got over the anxiety he seemed to be feeling at first by lunchtime, asking Grace to show us her dragon illustrations. It inspired me to ask Xi about the book she was reading before class (I’m Fearless Fiona after all), and when she showed me a fantasy novel I’d never heard of, Austen jumped in to tell me how good it is. The three of us got into a rapid-fire book-recommending spree that eventually absorbed the whole group, and there were so many titles flying around that I didn’t feel awkward at all about mentioning a dusty classic like Little Women.

  By the end of the day, when I’m waiting for Mom in the library, I can’t wait to tell her how right she was about that fresh start.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Things I Love About Writing Class:

  Ellen’s smile

  Grace’s drawings

  Diamond’s dramatic readings

  The way Michael half chokes when he laughs

  Freewriting, freewriting, freewriting

  Sharing ideas

  Making new friends

  Exploring everything

  —see, even this doesn’t feel enough, now that I know what it’s really like to keep the pen going, going, going putting anything and everything down to keep or discard as I wish, not needing everything to be so tidy and smart like in my old diary trying to perfectly record every single thought and moment, or then after when I wanted everything shrunk down and minimal. Thoughts aren’t trapped or finite! And they don’t have to be restricted! They are fluid and malleable and you can make them from something raw into something more shareable, if you want, or they can stay that way, leaving an interesting trail for you to follow later. The early stuff that comes out—that isn’t for everyone, like Ellen says, and I know that all too well, but it doesn’t have to define you, either. I know I’ve always loved writing, but before I spent so much time worrying about vocabulary and trying to develop structure. I was always focusing on how it looked, and even though I was putting down my thoughts—even before the Incident—they were only half bits of what I truly feel. They were one side instead of all sides. Linear instead of upsidedownbackwardwhateveryouwant. Before, I was so careful with my writing but look what happened! I still got made fun of. Now I have this class and Ellen and my friends and no one flinches if I write something like Aja is a parade of herself with her own mouth the marching band. That doesn’t even make sense, and it’s not wholly true (though I still haven’t heard from her). Maybe I was a piccolo in that parade marching behind her too. See? I can say stuff like that! Or, this: Evie sweetie pie cute curly button beauty with a dimply smile treating people so fragile they break in her fingers, turning to porcelain doll pieces on the floor when all she wanted was to play. It’s how I feel, sort of, but also there’s this: Evie wrapping bandages around burns—Florence Nightingale to the rest of us, how your messages are a balm to me, a lost soldier of so much war tired of fighting so yes I will put down my weapons and answer you.

  Again, I don’t actually feel like a soldier, but Evie has kept messaging me and sending me pictures, even when I don’t say anything back. She’s just there, and present, and I can’t be mad at her anymore. She avoids the topic of Aja too but at least it’s better between us.

  And Sanders! So wild funny smart with a seersucker personality in a wolf boy body. Someone who makes me happy to look at but only as a friendly face without that magic hypnotic aura of Pencil Tyrick (SAY IT OUT LOUD IT’S ALREADY OUT THERE). Also Xi chee makes me snee-ze, Leelu lost lingering in the land of the ladies in waiting, waiting to snap up my sweet little sister—my lifeline my only one—and keep her for herself. Because Jennifer knows jewels when she sees them and wants to hoard them all.

  I can say these things and on and on and on and on until my hand breaks and I have to rest my eyes but my mind all the time whirling, whirling, whirling.

  Pages and pages come out like that. Sometimes in them I’ll find a line to start a new essay or poem with, and sometimes I’ll even rip out the page (something I would never do to my pretty old diary) and start over. Either way, in class my brain and my eyes and my fingers are all crackling with sparks, and I never want to stop, ever. It’s so freeing that on hair-wash day, I decide to let my flyaway curls air dry the way I used to, instead of trying to pin them back. If my writing isn’t held down anymore, I don’t want the rest of me to be, either.

  It all feels so great, and so free, until Thursday.

 
; “Writers, if I may,” Ellen says in her polite but commanding way. “Today we’re changing things up. You’ve done so well so far, that now I want you to push yourselves even more.”

  She explains that for the next two days, we’ll be paired with a response partner. Ellen will give us prompts and lessons to help us develop one longer, more intensive project, to be workshopped closely with our partners. Next week we’ll write a second story, and on the last day we’ll each get to present to the whole group whichever final piece we like best.

  Immediately my confidence disappears. Private freewriting has been great, but smaller pieces are my forte, not long fiction stories. I can come up with a good idea to start, but I can never figure out how to keep going. For epic make-believe, it’s better if I can work off another person, like Cassie or my sister. Last time I had to write a story for English, Leelu came up with the whole ending. But she’s far away, forgetting all about me thanks to Jennifer, and I’m on my own. At least I get paired with Sanders. Maybe he’ll be helpful.

  “For our first two days you practiced writing outside of your comfort zone,” Ellen says when we’re settled next to our partners, “but there’s always new territory to be explored. Today I want you to think of your favorite kind of story, and write the exact opposite. For example, if you really love fantasy novels, try something historical. Or if realistic fiction is your favorite, insert some dragons.”

  There are groans of disapproval, especially from Julian and Austen.

  “What if you never read anything but graphic novels?” Michael asks, face squinched all over again with anxiety.

  “If you have trouble,” Ellen assures, “I’ll help get you started, but why don’t we give it a try? First thoughts is all I want for now. Just put them down. The rest will come.” She starts the timer, which means time to stop talking and get to work.

  Sanders and I trade “oh well” looks, and I stare at my paper. Writing a whole story is very different from writing whatever you want on the page. It requires a good beginning, a complicated plot, and a satisfying resolution, or else it’s not worth reading—which is why I’ve had so much trouble before. And what’s the opposite of what I like, anyway? All my favorite stories are about real girls, facing real problems, like Little Women or books that take place now by authors like Jacqueline Woodson or Wendy Mass. I certainly don’t know how to write about dragons. Or how to make it any good.