“Real ones,” I say. “Ones with small plot holes and unfinished sentences and characters who made bad decisions based off of their misconceptions because that’s the truth.”

I hover my fingers over a few letters on the keyboard.

“People read fiction because they want to escape their own reality, to jump into someone else’s problems and world, but it doesn’t mean you have to abandon what makes us who we are. Humans are impulsive and confusing and complex. Life isn’t wrapped up in a neat little bow with declarations, it’s just…yeah,” I finish.

Dylan’s eyes follow the motion of how I delicately trace the space bar.

“Yeah,” Dylan says slowly. “It is.”

I cross my arms across my chest, as if I need to hold myself together as I say the next few words.

“Whenever I read books, I never want the girl to stay with her high school boyfriend. I always want her to go off and find new adventures and new loves, but isn’t there something kind of lovely about finding the love of your life early enough that you get to experience all of these things together? Like, really grow up together, challenge each other, make each other better as you face everything in life, and everything else?”

Dylan scoffs, and my defensive emotional walls are too shattered to try and repair themselves before he speaks.

“Well, I’m sure Lawson will sign up for that whenever it fits into your plan,” he says with an edge.

I blink.

Because I wasn’t even thinking about James.

But I wasn’t talking in hypotheticals either.

And that realization is what I imagine getting punched in the face in fourth grade feels like.

Oh my god.

Dylan shifts away from me slightly to pick up the remote. I can see the frown on his face, but I can’t explain what is swirling around in my mind. It’s everything all at once, and I need to get it somewhere else.

I pull up a blank document and let it all spill out.

My fingers fly as I recount the years of internal pressure I put on myself to be this good, productive human, but all it has done is suppress who I want to be creatively and as a person in general.

Trading dates on a calendar for the freedom of expression is not something that I need to be doing. Perfection isn’t relatable. Being a writer or an artist is about enjoying the messy parts of life and uncovering the beauty of it.

I don’t know how long I keep going because the world blurs around me as I let go of everything and keep writing.

It’s like I’m flying on a different wavelength of existence.

I’m weightless, soaring above myself and feeling it all from a different perspective, yet I have a tether. It’s no longer a tightrope, something I have to tread lightly on in fear of falling off the edge; it’s Dylan, who falls asleep beside me with his hand pressed on top of my shin.

14

In the weeks after Brandon’s party, I make subtle changes.

If my little experiment in altering my apperance to meet Audrey’s standards taught me anything, it’s that a big change that goes against who I am isn’t going to work.

I’m a planner, after all, so I appreciate that things take time.

It felt like thousands of pounds were lifted off my shoulders when I reread, edited, and submitted my essay to the Press. Instead of spending the days after picking apart every single line I wrote even though it was too late to change, I promised myself I wouldn’t look at it until I got an answer on the contest.

Then I channeled my obsession into more productive things. Like putting candy bars in Dylan’s locker every day before school.

I called it payback for the new computer at first—until I looked up the price of said computer and laughed at the calculations of just how many Hershey bars I’d have to give him to cover the cost—and then, I just let it be what it was.

Fun.

Amusing.

Sweet.

Three new adjectives I try my best to get on board with these days.

It’s the Friday before spring break, which is a notoriously easy day for schoolwork. But it’s a little bit nerve-wracking to put a pause on all of our momentum for the yearbook, and it’s made worse when Kyle approaches me.

“We have a crisis,” Kyle says, panic seeping from his words. “Chrissy has mono.”

I don’t react quickly enough, so he flails his arms as if he needs to drive the point home.

“Our best and only photographer has a disease that lasts for an entire month! What is going to happen to our whole vibe of the senior year spread with candids and springtime lawn photos and black and white spreads if we don’t actually have any of those photos?”

“Okay, we’re not going to panic,” I tell him as calmly as I can muster.

This seems illogical to him. “We’re not?”

“We’re going to figure it all out when we get back.”

“But spring break is going to cost us an entire week!” Kyle exclaims. “We’ll need to get all of the files to the publisher by May first.”

Too many times I have fallen to the stress and panic, but his tentative freak out is only making me feel more calm.

“I know,” I deadpan. “As the editor-in-chief of the freaking yearbook, I’m well aware of the deadlines.”

Kyle at least looks sheepish at this.

“We’ll figure something out,” I promise him.

He blinks and straightens, as if he realizes that he is overreacting.

Me two months ago would have been right there with him, whipping out my planner and stressing over what we’re going to do, how we can change the theme, and searching for a backup photographer.

Now, though, I’m fine. I simply pull out my planner and make a note to pick back up on this first thing when we’re back in school.

Subtle changes, I remind myself, are going to bring big results.

I’m the last one to leave the school for the day, and I revel in the eerie quiet until the cleaning crew politely asks me to leave.

When I get home, I’m surprised that Audrey hasn’t arrived yet. She texted me this morning to tell me when she left campus, but I suppose that doesn’t mean she planned on coming directly home.

Instead, I’m greeted by my parents.

They’re both sitting at the kitchen table on the same side and staring at me expectantly. Actually, no, they are beaming. I don’t expect them to greet me with glares, but it’s off-putting to see them like this just the same.

My mom taps the tabletop, bringing my attention to the three white envelopes on the table, each with the logo of a college I applied to. They’re all the same size, a typical white rectangle, and I can’t recall if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

It’s funny how these three nondescript pieces of mail hold all the possibilities of my future. They’re the summation of years of planning, and the papers inside have the potential to set me on three different paths for my life.

“Open them,” my dad encourages me.

And I do.

I start with the University of Pittsburgh.

My fail-safe, hometown school. The campus is right downtown, and it would be really convenient to be close to home.

It’s not what I want, but I still breathe a sigh of relief when I see my acceptance.