Page 105 of Mistletoe Season
I don’t know. This one where we’re sitting in Lulu’s Diner, which is all decked out with tinsel garlands, drinking hot chocolate while snow is starting to fall outside the window rates pretty high in my book.
“I’m glad you came home,” he says when he drops me off.
So am I.
“Got any more book signings you need me to drive you to?” he asks.
“I’m afraid that was my fifteen minutes of fame.”
“I guess I’ll have to think of some other excuse to hang out, then,” he says with a smile.
I smile back. “I guess you will.”
I’m still buzzing when I get back in the house, and not simply from my successful signing and my parents’ proud gushing.
Back in my room I text Ramona.
Hailey:Carwyn Davies is more addicting than peppermint lattes.
Ramona:Your first mistletoe kiss? Oh no. Have you???
Hailey:No. I don’t want to ruin things.
Ramona:Hey, you’re not under the influence of mistletoe this time. It’s all good.
I hope she’s right.
Six
It’s easy to be brave when someone believes in you.
—Hailey Fairchild,What the Heart Needs
It’s Monday, and I’ve borrowed Mom’s car and am off to Cascade High to speak to Mrs. Wharton’s freshman English class. Under my coat I’m wearing a beige cashmere sweater over black leggings. This time I’m wearing my boots. I don’t want any more close encounters with the pavement.
Even though my book signing was a success, the gremlins are back in my stomach, churning the eggs I had for breakfast. There’s nothing to be nervous about, for crying out loud. According to Carwyn, I’m returning like a conquering hero. And didn’t I prove that at the signing? I park the car, square my shoulders, and walk into the school. The same school where I was once the shy bookworm, bullied by Gwendolyn and her gang of pirates.
Those days are gone. Carwyn was right. I am a conquering hero. Mrs. Wharton greets me like I’m Taylor Swift.
“This is so sweet of you,” she gushes.
Mrs. Wharton was never really a gusher. She was more of a frowner. A tall frowner who, I think, felt like fashion and literature couldn’t co-habit. Today she’s wearing a pea-green top under a stern black jacket to match her outdated black slacks. Her hair was starting to go gray when I had her in school; now it’s arrived at its destination. I remember once overhearing her tell my motherthat her students were going to turn her hair gray. It looks like they succeeded.
But this seems like a mellow class. They’re all quiet, smiling, and looking at me expectantly. Waiting for pearls of wisdom to tumble out of my mouth. Which is suddenly very, very dry. But there’s Emily, my fan from the book signing, looking adoringly at me. The gremlins settle down.
“Everyone, here’s the surprise I promised you. Hailey Fairchild, one of our own Cascade High graduates, has graciously agreed to tell you about her life as a bestselling author.”
Who has had three love fails and is stalled out on completing her next book.
I clear my throat. “It’s not easy getting published.”
My number-one fan’s smile falls from her face. I’ve just told her the writer’s equivalent of “There is no Santa.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it,” I hurry to add. “You have to keep trying, and you can’t give up. And you have to write every day, no matter what is going on in your life.” Says the woman who hasn’t written a word since December 1. “Get out there and get under the mistletoe.” Oh no. Where did that come from? The sizzle is hitting my face. “Metaphorically speaking,” I quickly add.
I babble on for what feels like a century but is only ten minutes, and then it’s time for questions.
“Do you ever get writer’s block?” asks one girl.
