11
S ix weeks after discovering-slash-reaffirming her constitutional inability to run uphill, or run in general, MC stared down at her phone with the distinct sense that all her carefully laid plans had been in vain.
Sorry, can’t make the meeting. Work.
That morning, MC had invited Nora to another round of Explorations, Special Guest Edition .
Ms. Kim had spent the past month raining compliments on MC’s initial visit, declaring that she—and the students—would be over the moon if MC did a reprise.
The sooner the better. MC had finally agreed, mostly to rope Nora in, imagining that a librarian could easily take a late lunch, or just leave early. It was Halloween, for god’s sake.
But if Nora wanted to pretend her high-powered job was preventing her from doing a little community service with MC, that was her choice.
MC would choose to take a cab straight from the train station to the library so she could get a little “work” done before her commitment to Ms. Kim and the illustrious writers of Green Hills High.
She tapped her phone on her knee, staring out the train window as the scenery rushed past: lots filled with sand and gravel, pallets of stone.
Vacant storefronts. Excavators. Backyards overtaken by slimy aboveground pools and children’s toys, garbage everywhere.
She still hadn’t figured out how to give Joe the big story he needed without exposing Nora’s identity, but she hoped this quick—and final—visit home would deliver the key.
Especially because their meeting with Seth Flanagan and Jawbreaker’s top brass had been rescheduled for that coming Monday.
She texted Conrad.
Heading in for Explorations, will I see you there?
Then:
Also, thanks for having me over again.
Nice to be home for my birthday weekend.
It took him about twenty minutes to reply:
Sure. I’ll come find you after the meeting.
She was glad he wasn’t raking her over the coals for their spat back in September. On the other hand, the same stiffness remained between them. She told herself an apology wouldn’t have fixed that, anyway.
She took Girl Next Door out of her backpack and laid it on her lap.
For the past six weeks, as fall had arrived in force, she’d dipped in and out of it, still too flummoxed to read it from start to finish.
Part of the problem was the confounding factor of her increasingly frequent texts with Nora.
Part of it was her research into the larger fandom that surrounded the book.
One minute she’d be scrolling Instagram accounts devoted to cartoon art of Nicole Penny and Michaela Carson in what MC assumed were critical scenes in the book: Nicole sitting at a desk as Michaela loomed over her, comical red splotches on their cheeks; Michaela wolfing down a slice of pizza as Nicole stared at her with lustful eyes; and, of course, the iconic picket fence, the young lovers on either side, pretending not to see each other, with a sickeningly familiar exchange scribbled just overhead:
You do know you’re amazing, right?
What corny-ass movie did you get that line from?
The next minute, Nora’s name would pop up on MC’s phone:
Did you ever go back and get your bike?
I totally forgot! Oof.
Poor bike.
All alone in a bush.
On the side of the road.
Is that a poem?
As if I’d ever write poetry.
The blurred lines between Nicole Penny the character, S.
K. Smith the famous author, and Nora Pike the reference librarian—to whom MC was sending flirty messages on an almost daily basis now—had created a fixation that manifested in a growing notes document on her computer.
While her initial dispatch to Joe had been thin, she’d since indulged in copious speculation, trying to sift reality from fiction.
But what she needed to do was figure out what it all meant.
Then there was all the time she was spending online, consuming reviews, think pieces, and breathless sales milestones.
Trawling through GND fan fiction, GND meme accounts, and several hashtags, such as #LaughingThenCryingOverGND, which rounded up videos of readers going through a roller coaster of over-the-top facial expressions while staring into their paperbacks.
She’d even discovered a forum of GND erotica.
“Your body is a poem,” Michaela said as she caressed Nicole’s thigh. “Every part of you is a stanza.”
“Oh my god,” MC had said aloud to no one.
There were also forums devoted to discussing the identity of S.
K. Smith. Theories ranged from this or that established romance writer, eager to nab a queer audience without diluting their brand, to a middle-aged man living in Montana, who’d self-published a number of lesbian romance novels, including one called The Gals Next Door .
Business names in the book were constantly being cross-referenced to businesses in real life, creating a minor surge in sales for Dellafino’s Pizza in suburban New Jersey—Delfino’s, in Green Hills—and Dairy Haven twenty-four-hour minimarts on Long Island.
Snack Barn, the knockoff, was the true analog.
But nothing could distract MC for long from the portrayal of herself in the book.
She’d been prepared for Nora writing her as clueless.
Instead, Nora had captured something more subtle: a longstanding desperation to avoid anything that might’ve given away the fact that she possessed complicated emotions, which was somehow worse.
To add insult to injury, Michaela Carson the adult had managed to grow up in ways that MC hadn’t even begun to work on.
Michaela was more confident, less self-effacing—a person with a sense of direction.
And so, over the past six weeks, MC had managed to go from feeling relatively content about her life to embarrassed and, wonder of wonders, kind of grumpy about it.
She got off the train at Green Hills and took a cab straight to the library. For once, she was eager for a confrontation.
When she walked in and saw Lois, she waved and said, “Happy Halloween.”
Lois frowned. “Where’s your costume?” The librarian was wearing a headband with glittering red horns, a fuzzy red cardigan, and red slacks that had a velvet tail pinned to the backside. MC was trying to figure out how to excuse her lack of holiday spirit when Lois barked, “Mine’s in hell.”
MC laughed. “You know, I think I forgot mine there the other day.”
“Actually, you left it in the supply closet behind the circulation desk.”
“You should’ve seen the emails we got after that,” said Maureen, striding over in a giant banana costume, purple lipstick set off by the yellow peel that surrounded her face. “I almost got fired.”
“Seriously?” MC said. “I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize to her.” Lois turned and shook her head at the children’s librarian. “You’re the one who saw that getup and decided it was the perfect thing for impressionable children.”
“I only saw it in pieces,” Maureen fired back.
Then she shot MC a look and continued on, her costume waggling obscenely.
“Did I actually almost get her fired?” MC asked. The idea of threatening someone’s livelihood, even if it was an accident, and well-intentioned at that, was unbearable.
“No. Helen does want to fire her, though.”
“She does?”
“It’s taking forever to put the documentation together in case she decides to sue. Nora’s in the children’s section, by the way.”
“Oh, I wasn’t... I’m just here to get some work done.”
“Uh-huh.” Lois’s eyes were barely discernible, but MC could still detect a sly look.
“Lois, have you ever...”—but asking about Girl Next Door was a step too far—“had a project you really needed to finish, but had no idea how?”
“My taxes.”
Lois walked away without another word.
To make a point of not heading straight over to Nora, MC took her usual spot in the study wing.
At the table next to her, three older women were knitting, holiday pins bright and colorful on their sweaters.
They were talking in low voices as MC pretended to get to work on some web copy for an aviation client.
But after a few minutes, the volume went up.
“Do you know what corn started out as?” one woman yelled. “Maize. The Native Americans grew it to grind it up. They didn’t just eat it.”
“But what I’m saying is, it’s different now—”
“I can’t digest it.”
“There are new strains.”
“It wasn’t designed for human consumption.”
“There’s nothing quite like summer corn,” said a third woman.
“Well, I can’t digest it .”
MC shut her laptop and left it on the table, meandering over to the stacks, where she could pretend to look at books while sussing out whatever Nora was up to.
She was in a witch costume. Black hat rumpled as if from regular use, velvet cape draped across her shoulders.
Her fingers were laden with rings of heavy metal and gemstones.
She’d done some kind of stage makeup as well, darkening her eyes and tracing colored veins at her temples and jaw.
She was reading to a group of small children.
MC didn’t recognize the book, but the narration was weird. It seemed to be a retelling of “The Ugly Duckling,” except at the end, the duckling didn’t realize it was a swan. It was just ugly.
As soon as Nora had finished, the kids demanded that she read it again. MC hadn’t seen her in action at the Winnie-the-Pooh story hour back in September, due to overwhelming nausea. But now she understood why Nora was the reader of choice.
The kids loved her. They climbed into her lap, put their grubby hands on her velvet-clad shoulders, squealed when she practically shoved them out of her way to get up and dust herself off.
They trailed after her, begging her to stay, whining when she told them she had work to do.
Her cool demeanor didn’t put them off at all.
In fact, it delighted them. There was a wicked warmth just beneath it, so strong MC couldn’t believe she’d never noticed it before.