Page 3 of What I Like About You

“Competitive school these days,” Gramps says. “College applications are so different now.”

The corners of my mouth drop. “I know.”

I know getting into NYU isn’t easy. I think about it at least ten times a day. It’s why I’m here instead of following Mom and Dad on their next adventure—to focus on nailing AP classes, to continue growing my blog presence, to keep putting myself out there as a viable media opportunity for authors, to prove to the book world and NYU admissions that I’m meantto shout about books for a living and willthrivein publishing.

“Well I’m pretty sure since I’m destined to get drafted into the MLB, Halle can get into NYU.” Ollie says.

“I mean”—sneeze—“if it’sdestined,” says Dad.

Gramps snorts. “MLB? Good luck, kid.”

Ollie isn’t bothered. He just shakes his head, smirking. “You haven’t seen me play, Gramps.”

Gramps turns his attention to Mom. “How’s preproduction going, Maddie?”

He’s the only one who can get away with calling Mad Levitt “Maddie.”

“Oh! Really good, actually. Our locations were approved—”

And just like that, before my very eyes, my parents are no longer my parents. They’re Madeline and Ari Levitt, Academy Award–nominated directors. Seriously, my parents are the Leonardo DiCaprio of the Best Documentary (Feature) category. Six nominations. Sixand the Academy Award goes to [insert name that’s not my parents]. Zero Oscar dude statues.

Leo had to eat raw bison liver for his.

My parents will spend a year on a kibbutz for theirs.

“—we’ll start filming at Kinneret next week and work our way south through four different kibbutzim.”

“Wait—” Dad sneezes. “You’re saying everything is all set … before our arrival?”

“Doubtful,” Ollie and I interject.

“Allegedly,”Mom corrects herself.

Gramps looks perplexed. “Shouldn’t it be?”

Ollie pats Gramps on the shoulder. “Alas, the life of a director is unpredictable, Gramps. You’d hate it.”

Gramps nods. “I would.”

Mom shakes her head. “You’d think that, Ben. But it’s the best kind of unpredictable. It’s following—”

I take a few steps backward, toward the free plug above the countertop. Now that Mom is officially infollow the story wherever it leads youmode, I can charge my phone. Finally. I can’t make dead flowers bloom or make the kitchen look like my memories of it. But Ididmake small talk without bursting into tears. A small victory.

I plug my phone in and tap my fingers absentmindedly on the granite, waiting for it to come back to life. I count the seconds so they pass:152, 153, 154 …

At last, with a series of vibrations and notifications, Kels—YA book blogger and founder of One True Pastry—is back on the grid.

It’s overwhelming, the amount I’ve missed. Forty-two new emails. Sixty-five Twitter notifications. Hundreds of DMs.

And zero messages from Ariel Goldberg’s publicist.

I exhale anxiety because I didn’t miss it.

I inhale anxiety because it hasn’t happened yet.

Grams introduced me to Ariel Goldberg, one of my favorite YA authors, when I was twelve. So it feels fitting that today is the day I find out if I’m chosen to host the cover reveal of her newest book,Read Between the Lies. Fitting, but also ten times more nerve-racking.

What if the rejection email isnoemail at all? What if I’m not even worth responding to? What if Ariel’s publicity team read mypitch andlaughed ? Now that Ariel’s a best-selling author on her fourth book, now that her books have “critical and commercial success,” she doesn’t need my cupcakes. Hosting an Ariel Goldberg cover reveal is for sophisticated platforms now. Real magazines with subscribers. Literary reviewers. Adults.

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