Chapter 3
Auggie
THERE’S A KNOCK AT MY BEDROOM DOOR. I DON’T MOVE FROM THE blanket cave I’ve created (which is really just me wrapped head to toe in my comforter). A knock again. Again.
“Leave me alone,” I groan.
Another knock.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right—”
I hear the door open and then close, footsteps on the carpet.
“Who is it?” I say.
“What are you doing?” Kate says.
“Kate, get out of my room,” I say, my body completely still and wrapped up. “I know. I ruined your newfound friendship. I’m a bad person. I know all of that, don’t worry.”
I hear her sit on my bed. “You know I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says.
“I kind of think I might be a bad person,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“Like, obviously what you did really sucked, and I’m not surprised that she’s not talking to you, but I also feel bad knowing you’ve been up here by yourself every day for, like, a week now.”
“None of them are talking to me. Not even Janko.”
“That really sucks,” she says.
“And as much as it sucks, I know I deserve it. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did but…”
“Then why did you?” Kate asks. “Write about her life like that? Why didn’t you just come up with some other story that had the same themes or whatever? Or why didn’t you write about our family instead and turn yourself into a character? You know yourself better than you know her, don’t you?”
“I mean, I guess. Overall,” I say. “But who would read a story about a character like me? Or about our family, for that matter? We’re all clean and sweet and perfect and drama-free and boring. We’re so boring. There’s no story there.”
Kate starts laughing. “What are you talking about?”
I unpeel the blanket from my head and look up at her.
“You said it yourself. I like vanilla milkshakes and cheese pizza and buttered noodles and I have four pairs of the same jeans, or at least I did until you let Mayte rip one pair up, and I have movie night every Friday with my family and I have a loving mom and dad and sister and I’m so basic.
I wouldn’t even read that. I’m the most boring person in the world. ”
“Well, what makes Mayte so interesting? Her dead sister? Her sick grandma? Her grief? Or is it just the fact that she’s so different from you?” Kate smiles at me. “You might be a loser, Auggie, but you’re not boring. Not even a little bit.”
“You’re just saying that,” I say.
“I would never just say something to boost your ego,” she says. “You of all people should know that.”
“I just feel like what Mayte is going through is so important, you know? It’s a story that needs to be heard.
People going through what she’s going through need to know there’s hope.
” I unwrap myself more, run my hands through my hair.
“And, like, I want to be a writer. I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
But what happens if my stories don’t mean anything?
What if I write shelves of cool stories, but they don’t save someone or fight for someone or have some kind of greater purpose?
I swear, all my stories before I met her were these sad, clichéd little stories that anyone could’ve written. This one was so different.”
Kate puts her hand on my leg. “I think the fact that you want meaning in your writing makes you a really good person, Auggie.”
“Then why did I do something that hurt someone I love?”
She shrugs. “Because you’re seventeen and stupid.”
“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. About any of it. Like, I have this story I shouldn’t have written, but what else am I supposed to do? How do I write what I know but make it interesting? Nothing I know is interesting.”
“Just because our family doesn’t have these big struggles and we’re not going through the pain that Mayte’s family is doesn’t mean we’re not interesting,” Kate says.
“I mean, I know you love your writing and all, but I don’t think you would ever…
” She pauses and looks at me. “I mean, I know Mayte’s sister died and you felt like it was so important to write about, but I think you would rather have nothing to write about than have me—”
I wrap my arms around her.
“No, Kate, of course not. I would never want anything bad to happen just so I could write a more interesting story. I love you so much.”
She looks up at me, and there are tears in the corners of her eyes. “I love you too, Auggie.”
“I really messed up,” I say, still holding her.
She nods.
“Kate, I really like her,” I say. “Like, really, really like her.”
“I know,” she says.
“Do you think I can fix it?” I ask.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Kate says. “The story exists already. I don’t know how you fix that.”
I recall my meeting with Mr. Ashwood. What matters more to me: true, beautiful, humanity-capturing work, or my relationship with Mayte?
How do I want to present myself to colleges?
To the world? And I think about my true, beautiful, humanity-capturing story.
The one I hid from everyone because deep inside I knew how wrong it was.
The one that made my sister think for a moment that I wished she was dead so I could write about the pain.
The one that betrayed the girl who means the world to me.
I’m still not sure how to fix it, but these things I know: this is not the Auggie I want to present to anyone ever again, and I have fallen in love with Mayte Morales.