Unstuck

INK POISONING

Right after ELA is lunch. Like usual, I sit with Journey Lombardi-Sullivan. One day at the start of seventh grade she just decided that we would sit together, and I was too surprised by this to argue. So now that’s what we do every day.

Back in elementary school, I always ate lunch with my best friend, Rania Goswami. But the way our town works, starting in sixth grade half the kids from our elementary school go to Walt Whitman Middle School and the other half go to Emily Dickinson. And since Rania lives on the north side of town, she goes to Dickinson. I go to Whitman, along with no one I’m actually friends with.

Unless you count Journey, who’s a nice person, but a little… weird. I mean, I think it’s cool that her dream job is to work in the control room at NASA. I like hearing about all her pets—a corn snake, a ferret, a bearded dragon, some rabbits, a box turtle, and an axolotl. I don’t mind that she always wears a chocolate-brown newsboy cap indoors (unless a teacher makes her take it off). I don’t even mind the way she hums (softly, just loud enough that you can tell she’s off-key). But sometimes having a normal conversation with her isn’t easy.

For example, today. I’m telling her about my story—what I’m deciding about the characters—and she isn’t saying anything, or asking questions. But she’s eating her big, drippy taco like she forgot to have breakfast.

And when Aster discovers what’s happened to her big sister, she leaves home to rescue her, I explain.

Journey doesn’t say anything. Some cheddar cheese escapes from her taco; she pokes it back in with her thumb. Is she even listening? It’s hard to tell.

So that’s why she has to battle through the Quagmire, I add. Which is haunted by the Defectors. And other creatures too, like a mysterious one-toed Beast.

Huh, Journey says finally. Why can’t Aster just fly over it?

Excuse me?

The Quagmire, I mean. Didn’t you say she had wings?

"No. Where’d you get that?"

Oh, sorry. I thought that’s what you said.

Journey, Aster’s a person, not a dragon. Or a bird—

Sorry, Lyla. I like comics, but I don’t read a whole lot of fantasy. Journey tugs on the brim of her newsboy cap. She used to have hair down to her butt until one day in sixth grade, when she cut it off to donate to Locks of Love. Now what’s left of her almost-blond hair practically disappears under her cap. Except for her bangs, which she didn’t cut at all.

Sometimes I think about chopping off my hair for a good cause. But it’s thick and shiny, the kind of brown that changes color in the sunlight. I’ve spent the past two years growing it past my shoulders—and with my pale, round cheeks, gray eyes, and blobby nose, it’s the only thing about my looks I actually like.

Can I ask you a personal question, Lyla? Journey says as she wipes her mouth with a greasy napkin. Why are your hands all purple?

They’re not, I say. My pen leaked blue ink, and I washed it off. Mostly.

Well, don’t put your fingers in your mouth or you’ll get ink poisoning.

Ink poisoning?

Yeah, if you swallow Sharpie it’s toxic. But you have to eat large quantities to actually die. I read an article.

That’s another thing about Journey: one of her hobbies is reading random stuff online and then telling you about it. Even when you kind of wish she wouldn’t.

I nibble my tuna sandwich. Well, don’t worry, okay? Anyhow, the ink isn’t from a Sharpie.

"The article said any ink could be toxic. In biggish amounts."

Okay, thanks. I say this because I don’t know what else to say.

Then I tell myself that I’ll just call Rania tonight, because she’ll want to hear my story. And actually listen when I describe the plot.

Maybe she’ll even suggest a great way to begin.

PARACHUTE

At dinner, Mom passes the salad bowl to Dahlia, who immediately passes the bowl to me.

Aren’t you having any? Mom asks my sister.

Dahlia shakes her head.

Why not? Dad asks.

My stomach feels funny, Dahlia says.

Mom frowns. What does that mean? How is it funny?

Just nervous or something. I don’t know. But I definitely shouldn’t have any salad.

Dad dumps half a bottle of ranch dressing on his lettuce. What are you nervous about, baby?

He calls her that even though she’s seventeen and a senior in high school. And with her bouncy blond hair, big green eyes, and high cheekbones, she looks like a TikTok star, not a kid, and definitely not a baby.

I don’t know, Dahlia says again. She takes a bite of roll. The whole college thing, I guess. All the applications.

I chew a naked slice of cucumber. I never use salad dressing; to me it’s like drowning your vegetables in oily soup.

You started working on the essay? Mom asks my sister.

Eh, Dahlia says. Sort of.

Because with those schools you’re looking at, it’s really so important! A great college essay can make a huge difference.

Dahlia tears off a chunk of roll. "Mom, I know."

And even with your grades—

Megan, she said she knows, Dad says.

Well, there’s knowing and there’s actually doing something about it, Mom replies.

Nobody talks for a minute. Underneath the table our scruffy dog, Spumoni, pokes my foot, like he’s giving me a cue to talk.

So I do. We started writing stories in ELA, I announce. Ms. Bowman says we’ll do a little every day. And it’s creative, so it can be about anything.

Mom and Dad look at me like I’ve just parachuted down to the dinner table. Like they’re trying to remember who I am and how I got there.

Fun, Dad says with too much enthusiasm. What’s your story about, Ly?

I crunch on a crouton. Well, it’s a fantasy novel, and it gets really complicated. Mostly it’s about these two sisters, and they live in a world where kids get sorted out, and then assigned to these jobs for the rest of their lives. So like the older sister gets assigned Vanguard, and the younger sister gets Scribe. At first the younger sister is kind of jealous, because Vanguard is supposed to be the best, and Scribe just means writing things, lists and contracts and recipes and boring stuff like that. But then the younger sister finds out what Vanguard really is—basically a sacrifice during war—and she has to rescue the older one. Which means she has to cross the Quagmire and battle enemies. Who are all hunting her down for some reason she doesn’t understand.

Enemies? Dad drinks some water.

Yeah, a one-toed Beast that’s kind of stalking her for some reason. And a bunch of witches. Also the Defectors, who used to be people who tried to rebel, until they got caught and were turned into these horrible Quagmire creatures. Who shriek.

Wow. Sounds exciting.

I haven’t worked out all the details yet, I say. But it can be as long as we want. Mine may even end up a whole series.

"A series?" Dahlia says.

"Yeah. Lots of fantasy novels are series. Percy Jackson, The City of Ember—"

"Lyla, I know. I just meant a series is a lot of writing."

Not for me! I’m always writing anyway.

Dahlia’s eyebrows shoot up. You are? Since when?

The question stings.

Because doesn’t she know how much I love words? How I’m always reading—and thinking about—stories? And filling up notebooks with amazing ideas? I even got in trouble for it in ELA last June, when Mr. Delgado checked our writing notebooks, and instead of some boring exactly-five-paragraph essay about Why You Should Study a Foreign Language, I’d written a two-page tour of the Quagmire, with maps and pictures.

And I mean, Dahlia is my sister, so she should have noticed this about me! Because it’s basically who I am.

So then I wonder: Do Mom and Dad know this about me?

Does anyone?

Well, Rania does. And Journey, too, I guess, because I’ve told her. If she was even listening…

I shrug like: Ho-hum, Dahlia, you can’t insult me. Well, I first started thinking about this story last spring. Mostly I’ve just been planning little scenes in my head. And writing a whole novel will be totally different, but I’ve already started, so.

"I’m sure your story will be excellent, Lyla, Mom says. I can’t wait to read it."

She slices a tomato with a steak knife. I almost ask how she’s sure it will be excellent if she hasn’t even read it. But I stop myself.

The table goes quiet.

Dahlia chews her roll like she’s thinking something. Then she flips her hair over one shoulder, looks at me through her long eyelashes, and sighs.

Oh, Lyla, she says. You’re so lucky you’re just in seventh grade.

FLOWERS

After Dahlia and I clear the table, I go upstairs to my room. I sit at my desk and open my math textbook so it looks like I’m doing homework. When I hear Mom close the door to the bathroom, I text Rania: HEY.

I wait twenty-three minutes, then text again. HEY, IT’S ME. You there???

Still no answer.

Probably she’s eating supper, even though it’s almost seven thirty. By now I’ve gotten used to the fact that Rania’s family is on a different schedule from mine. Her parents usually get home from work pretty late, and sometimes they don’t start supper until eight or eight thirty. So there’s no point calling her, because Rania’s parents don’t allow phones at the table.

I know she’ll text back as soon as she can, because she always does. But I wish she’d just answer already.

Bleh.

Well, maybe while I’m waiting I should start my math homework. Although just thinking about exponents gives me a brain-ache. And all I really want to work on is my story, even though we’re only supposed to do it at school.

Ms. Bowman was very clear about that: Listen up, cats and kittens, she told us. This is an ongoing class project, not a homework assignment. So please leave your writing notebooks on my desk at the end of class, okay?

Are you going to read what we write? Noah asked. He looked worried.

Not unless you’re ready to share it with me, Ms. Bowman said. "Although I will be checking your progress from time to time."

When she said this, I wanted to ask if we were allowed to work on it at home. I mean, if we chose to. Because then it wouldn’t be homework, just voluntary. But I didn’t want her to think I was challenging her, especially since she was letting us be creative, woohoo! So I left my spiral notebook on her desk, just like everybody else.

What I’m thinking now is that even if I’m not actually writing in my writing notebook, I can still do something useful, right? Like researching names for my characters. Because names are super important! Sometimes I stop reading books when the names feel all wrong for the characters. And in my story I’ve decided that the main character is called Aster, so it would be good if her older sister had a flower name too—maybe a more show-offy kind of flower than aster. But not Dahlia, obviously. Anything but Dahlia.

I open my laptop and type: girl names flower.

What comes up: Fifty Adorable Flower Names for Your Baby Girl. Aster’s older sister is fourteen—not a baby, obviously—but maybe some of these names would work.

I scroll through the list, which includes Country of Origin, Meaning, This Name in Popular Culture, and Celebrity Babies with This Name (like anyone cares). Except it’s all Rose, Iris, Daisy, Posy, Lily. Regular, normal names, not names for fantasy characters!

I type something else: Weird Flower Names.

This list is way shorter: Bat Face Cuphea. Naked Man Orchid. Eyeball Plant—

Okaayyy, a little too weird.

How about: Unusual Flower Names. Because unusual is not the same as weird.

Common Toadflax, Swamp Lousewort, Thimbleweed, Cheeseweed, Corn-cockle, Pussytoes, Adder’s Tongue, Sneezeweed, Turtlehead, Mad Dog Skullcap, False Hellebore, Viper’s Bugloss, Monkeyflower, Cow Vetch—

Haha, these are awesome! Although completely wrong for Aster’s sister, obviously. Maybe for other characters, though—possibly low-level villains, like assistants to the witches. Or the king’s minions:

Cheeseweed, fetch me my sword!

Turtlehead, what have you done! And where’s Pussytoes with my cape?

You can’t hide from me, Cow Vetch! Even here, in the