Fangirl

Leslie

 
    THIRTY-FIVE
    “Look at them,” Reagan said, shaking her head fondly. “They’re all grown up.”
    Cath turned to the cereal bar and watched two very hungover freshmen fumble with the scoops.
    “I can still remember the night they came home with their first My Little Pony tattoos,” Reagan said.
    “And the morning that we noticed those tattoos were infected,” Cath added, drinking her tomato juice. That’s something Cath would miss about the dorms. Four different kinds of juice on tap, including tomato—where else could you get tomato juice? Reagan hated watching her drink it. “It’s like you’re drinking blood,” Reagan would say, “if blood had the consistency of gravy.”
    Reagan was still gazing at the hungover girls. “I wonder how many familiar faces we’ll see next year. Every year it’s a new batch, and most of them don’t come back to the dorms for a second tour.”
    “Next year,” Cath said, “I won’t make the mistake of getting so attached.”
    Reagan snorted. “We need to turn in our housing forms if we want the same room next year.”
    Cath set down her juice glass. “Wait … Are you saying you want to live with me again?”
    “Eff yeah, you’re never even home. It’s like I’ve finally got a room to myself.”
    Cath smiled. Then took another long pull of tomato juice. “Well … I’ll think about it. Do you have any more hot ex-boyfriends?”
    *   *   *
    Wren was right.
    She’d been on Cath to post a chapter of Carry On, Simon every single night. “Otherwise you’re never going to beat The Eighth Dance. ”
    They were going to go to the midnight release party at the Bookworm, back in Omaha. Levi wanted to go, too.
    “Are we gonna dress up in costumes?” he’d asked the other night, up in his room.
    “We haven’t done costumes since junior high.” Cath was sitting on the love seat with her laptop. She could write with him in the room now; she was so focused on Carry On, she could have written in a room full of circus animals.
    “Damn,” he said, “I wanted to do costumes.”
    “Who do you want to go as?”
    “The Mage. Or maybe one of the vampires—Count Vidalia. Or Baz. Would that make you wild with desire?”
    “I’m already wild with desire.”
    “She said from across the room.”
    “Sorry,” Cath said, rubbing her eyes. Levi had been needling her all night. Teasing her. Trying to get her to come out of her head and play. “I just need to finish this chapter if I want Wren to read it before she falls asleep.”
    Cath was so close to the end of Carry On that every chapter felt important. If she wrote something stupid now, she wouldn’t be able to fix it or rein it in later. There was no room left for filler; every chapter meant the resolution of a plot line or a character’s last big scene. She wanted all of them to get the ending they deserved. Not just Baz and Simon and Agatha and Penelope, but all the other characters, too—Declan the reluctant vampire hunter, Eb the goatherd, Professor Benedict, Coach Mac.…
    Cath was trying not to pay attention to her hit counts—that just added more pressure—but she knew they were off the chart. In the tens of thousands. She was getting so many comments that Wren had taken to handling them for her, using Cath’s profile to thank people and answer basic questions.
    Cath was keeping up in her classes, but just barely. All her other assignments felt like the hoops she had to jump through to get to Simon and Baz.
    One thing about writing this much … her brain never really shifted out of the World of Mages. When she sat down to write, she didn’t have to wade back into the story slowly, waiting to get used to the temperature. She was just there, all the time. All day. Real life was something happening in her peripheral vision.
    Her laptop snapped shut, and Cath pulled back her fingers just in time. She hadn’t even noticed Levi moving over to the love seat. He took her computer and gingerly set it on the floor. “Commercial break.”
    “Books don’t have commercials.”
    “I’m not much of a book person,” he said, pulling her into his lap. “Intermission, then?”
    Cath climbed onto him reluctantly, still thinking about the last thing she’d typed, not sure she wanted to leave it behind. “Books don’t have intermissions either.”
    “What do they have?”
    “Endings.”
    His hands were on her hips. “You’ll get there,” he said, nosing at the collar of her T-shirt.