Page 15 of A Storybook Wedding

“They hired you for star power?” she asks.

“I guess. I don’t know. I just took the job so that I could be around other writers. I thought that would help me get my flow going.”

“And has it?”

I shake my head. “Nope. So far, all I’ve gotten is food poisoning.”

She exhales. “Wow.”

“My point is I’m sorry about the workshop. But don’t let those other guys get you down. It’s easy to be critical of other people when you’re feeling insecure about your own stuff. Takes the spotlight off you.”

“I suppose.”

“And listen, I may have just confessed to you that I’m not the best writer, but I’m a damn good reader, and as a reader, I’m here to tell you that your work is solid.”

She nods.

“I mean it. You’ve got tremendous potential, CJ.” I shift in my bed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want this?”

She scrunches up her nose. “An MFA, you mean?”

I shake my head. “No. A degree’s a degree. I’m talking about the big picture. Why do you want to be a writer?”

“Hm.” The faintest hint of a smile turns the corners of her mouth up, and she looks off into the distance, awash in some kind of memory. “Well,” she begins. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve found myself in books. I don’t know if that sounds weird, but it’s true. I set the house on fire when I was in the second grade—”

“Wait. What?” I interrupt.

“It’s a funny story—well, kind of,” she chuckles. “I was little, and I wanted to light a scented candle that sat on our kitchen counter, so I took a box of matches from the drawer, struck one, and touched it to the wick of the candle. It took a few seconds to catch. As the match flickered, it got close to my fingers, and I was scared I’d get burned, so out of instinct, I dropped it and accidentally set the dish towel on fire. I didn’t know what to do with the flaming dish towel, so I picked it up and shoved it in the food pantry. I shut the door and pretended I had no knowledge of where the smoke was coming from. But I’m sure you can imagine what happened next.”

“All out mayhem?”

“Yeah. The smoke alarm went off. My father rushed in and grabbed the fire extinguisher, and my mom screamed bloody murder and called 911. She got my sisters and me out of the house, and somehow, my dad was able to put out the blaze, but the smoke was nuts, and a big red hook and ladder truck showed up, and it was just really, really bad. I was extremely shook. Like, I had nightmares for months afterward. And my mother gave me the spanking of a lifetime once my dad got out okay.”

“Yikes,” I say, waiting for her to connect the dots and tell me what on earth this story has to do with writing.

“Anyway, I never let my budding curiosity get the better of me again. First of all, I was grounded. No TV or anything like that for a month. So all I had left was books. And I was lucky enough to be a good reader, so I just started vicariously living through the pages of other children’s rule-breaking adventures.”

“You really don’t strike me as the type to get in trouble.”

“I’m not. That’s the thing! I’ve always been a nerd,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Don’t say that,” I rebut.

“It’s true,” she declares. “And the fire thing scared the crap out of me, to be honest.”

“I’m sure.”

“But even before the kitchen incident, I was always different. I have three sisters, and I’m nothing like them.”

“They’re not pyromaniacs?”

“Ha, ha,” she deadpans, a cute smirk playing on her lips. “No, even worse. They’re ‘cool girls.’” Here, she throws up air quotes before continuing. “They all developed an early love of makeup and clothing and unnecessary trips to the Queens Center mall. The older ones—Anna and Melanie—shared a bedroom, and my little sister, Jamie, was stuck with me. She was the top bunk to my bottom bunk, the wild and crazy to my quiet and shy, the yin to my yang. I would read books by flashlight, while she’d watch music videos and pose in front of the full-length mirror in one of Anna’s training bras.”

“Wow,” I respond, careful not to say anything that could be misconstrued as inappropriate or disrespectful.

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