Nick worked in the north stacks in a long white roomit was practically a missile silo with bookshelves. There was a constant hum no matter where you were standing, and even though Cath couldnt see any vents, parts of the room had their own wind. At the table where they were sitting, Nick had to set a pen on his open notebook to keep the pages from riffling.
Nick wrote in longhand.
Cath was trying to convince him that theyd be better off taking turns on her laptop.
But then we wont see ourselves switching, he said. We wont see the two different hands at work.
I cant think on paper, she said.
Perfect, Nick said. This exercise is about stepping outside of yourself.
Okay, she sighed. There was no use arguing anymorehed already pushed her computer away.
Okay. Nick picked up his pen and pulled the cap off with his teeth. Ill start.
Wait, Cath said. Lets talk about what kind of story were writing.
Youll see.
Thats not fair. She leaned forward, looking at the blank sheet of paper. I dont want to write about, like, dead bodies or naked bodies.
So what Im hearing is, no bodies.
Nick wrote in a scrawling half cursive. He was left-handed, so he smeared blue ink across the paper as he went. You need a felt tip, Cath thought, trying to read his handwriting upside down from across the table. When he handed her the notebook, she could hardly read it, even right side up.
Whats this word? she asked, pointing.
Retinas.
Shes standing in a parking lot. And shes standing under a streetlight. And her hairs so blond, its flashing at you. Its burning out your retinas one fucking cone at a time. She leans forward and grabs your T-shirt. And shes standing on tiptoe now. Shes reaching for you. She smells like black tea and American Spiritsand when her mouth hits your ear, you wonder if she remembers your name.
So, Cath said, were doing this in present tense?
Second person, Nick confirmed.
Cath frowned at him.
Whats wrong? he asked. You dont like love stories?
Cath could feel herself blushing and tried to stop. Stay cool, Little Red. She hunched over her bag to look for a pen.
It was hard for her to write without typingand hard to write with Nick watching her like hed just handed her a hot potato.
Please dont tell Mom, she giggles.
Which part should I leave out? you ask her. The hair? Or the stupid hipster cigarettes?
She pulls meanly at your T-shirt, and you shove her back like shes twelve. And she practically isshes so young. And youre so tired. And what is Dave going to think if you walk out on your first date to take care of your stupid, stupidly blond, little sister.
You suck, Nick, she says. And shes reeling. Shes swaying again under the streetlight.
Cath turned the notebook around and pushed it back at Nick.
He poked his tongue in his cheek and smiled.
So our narrator is gay, he said. And hes named after me.
I love love stories, Cath said.
Nick nodded his head a few more
times.
And then they both started laughing.
* * *
It was almost like writing with Wrenback when she and Wren would sit in front of the computer, pulling the keyboard back and forth and reading out loud as the other person typed.
Cath always wrote most of the dialogue. Wren was better at plot and mood. Sometimes Cath would write all the conversations, and Wren would write behind her, deciding where Baz and Simon were and where they were going. Once Cath had written what she thought was a love scene, and Wren had turned it into a sword fight.
Even after theyd stopped writing together, Cath would still follow Wren around the house, begging for help, whenever she couldnt get Simon and Baz to do anything but talk.
Nick wasnt Wren.
He was bossier and more of a showboat. And also, obviously, a boy. Up close, his eyes were bluer, and his eyebrows were practically sentient. He licked his lips when he wrote, tapping his tongue on his front teeth.
To his credit, he got over the gay thing pretty much immediately. Even when Cath gave gay-fictional Nick heavy black eyebrows and periwinkle blue wingtips.
Nonfiction Nick had trouble taking turns; hed start to take the notebook out of Caths hands before she was done writing, and her green pen would pull across the page.
Wait, shed say.
No, I have an ideaand youre about to ruin it.
She tried hard to make her paragraphs sound like Nicks, but her own style kept leaking through. It was cool when she realized he was imitating her, too.
After a few hours, Cath was yawning, and their story was twice as long as it needed to be. This is gonna take forever to type up, she said.
Dont type it, then. Well turn it in like this.
Cath looked down at the green-and-blue-smudged pages. Its our only copy.
So dont let your dog eat it. He zipped up a gray hoodie and reached for his ratty denim jacket. Its midnight. I have to clock out.
The book cart next to their table was still heaped with books. What about these? Cath asked.
The morning girl can do it. Itll remind her that shes alive.
Cath carefully tore their story out of Nicks notebook and tucked it into her backpack, then followed him up the winding staircase. They didnt see anyone else on their way to the first floor.