We’re supposed to be studying and going over our notes from Catcher in the Rye, but instead we talk about a book that she’s writing.

“You’re writing a novel? Really?” I say in shock. We’re both 18 years old and the thought of even beginning a novel scares the shit out of me. But Tea is unfazed.

“I’ve had this idea in my head for the last two years and finally this summer, I just decided to go for it. I mean, what the hell am I waiting for?”

“What’s it about?” I ask.

“A mysterious death of an old expat in Belize. The narrator is a young woman who finds clues to his murder in a book of Belizian folk tales.”

“That sounds…intense,” I say. It takes me a moment to find just the right word. The book sounds interesting, but I’ve found that saying that something is interesting is kind of a throwaway line. That’s what people say who aren’t really interested.

“It sounds daunting, too,” I add.

“Yes, I guess.” She shrugs. But her eyes twinkle and I get the sense that it’s more exciting than daunting.

“So can I tell you something embarrassing? I don’t actually know where Belize is,” I say. I hate to admit, but geography isn’t my strong suit. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it in the world. Is it in Africa? Asia?

“Not embarrassing at all.” She laughs. “It’s a small country in Central America right next to Mexico and Guatemala.”

“How small?” I ask.

“Very small. It’s got a population of about 320,000 people. Like a medium-sized town here. But it is English-speaking. Sort of. Their accent is something to get used to.” She laughs.

“Have you ever been there?” I ask. I have no idea why else anyone would write a story about Belize.

“Oh yes! My family has a place there and I go there every summer for at least a month and often for Christmas break, too. Oh my God, Alice. It’s the most beautiful place on earth. The air is filled with salt and hope and cheer. And the people there dance for no other reason except that they’re alive. Every day is like a celebration of life.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait to read the book.”

And then suddenly, the conversation turns to me and my writing. A topic that I’m not comfortable discussing. Not at all.

“Well, I’m not working on a novel, that’s for sure,” I say shyly.

“But you write? Right?”

“Yes,” I admit it. “I love it, actually. But the thing is that I don’t have much time.”

Time has always been an issue with me. For some reason, having other things to do, like schoolwork, completely derails me and makes it impossible for me to do work. Homework weighs heavily on me and even if I’m not working on it, I can’t focus on anything else. So I waste my time on the Internet or watching Netflix instead of seizing the little time that I have left and writing. And then, of course, I feel guilty over the whole thing. And guilt makes it even more difficult to focus.

“I know what you mean,” Tea says. “But the thing is that you have to make time. You just have to, if it’s important to you. Because no one else will.”

“But there’s something else,” I say. “I’m also kind of afraid. No, not kind of, really, really afraid.”

I don’t mean to blurt that out, but it just sort of comes out. I’d never really admitted it out loud before. I haven’t even admitted it to myself before, in the privacy of my own thoughts. But here, I am sharing my deep dark fears and secrets with Tea, of all people.

“I’m afraid, too,” she says. “I hate to admit it. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? I mean, what’s there to be afraid of? It’s just pen to paper or typing on a keyboard. But it is. You’re pouring your whole self onto the page and what if it’s crap? What if it’s no good?”

I nod. Perhaps, only writers can understand these fears.

“But then I just have to tell myself that what’s important is the process. Nothing else. If it’s crap, then that’s what it is. But that doesn’t matter. The final product doesn’t matter so much. At least, you can’t worry about it until later. While you’re writing, you have to let go. I sometimes feel like I enter some sort of alternative consciousness where all I’m doing is typing and someone else is coming up with the story.”

“Yes, of course.” I nod. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s like all the characters have minds of their own. They’re no longer made up people. I’m no longer playing pretend. I’ve created them, but then at some point they start to speak and think and act on their own.”

“Exactly!” she nods her head vociferously. For a second, she looks like a bobble head and I think that her head might pop off her shoulders and roll away.

“But as for being afraid,” Tea continues, “you just have to do it. A little every day. If you write a few hundred words for a few days, then in the coming days, you won’t worry about not being able to write. You build confidence. And experience shows you that it’s possible. You suddenly realize that it’s just a building process. You put a few blocks up every day and after a certain number of days, you’ll have a building.”

“And how many blocks do you have up?” I ask, continuing on with her metaphor.

“I have 45,000 words. The novel will be about 60,000 words.”

“You’re almost done!” I say. “I really want to read it when you’re done.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs and looks away.

“Please?”

“I don’t know,” she says without meeting my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid? But what about what you just said about fear?”

“This fear is different. I’m worried about what you’re going to say,” Tea says, looking up at me. She’s trying to read my face to see what kind of critic I am.

“Don’t be,” I say, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sure it’s marvelous. And if it’s not, I won’t tell you.”

We both burst out laughing. I laugh so hard that my eyes tear up a bit. When we finally catch our breath, Tea’s face gets very serious.

“You promise?” she asks.

“Yes.”

* * *

Just when I’m about to leave, Tea insists on heating up some leftover pizza from last night. I’m sucker for day-old pizza and cave.

“So how are things going with that guy you’re seeing? Simon?” she asks, pouring me a cup of soda.

My chest tightens a bit. She has broached the boyfriend topic. Why would she do that? Doesn’t she know that our relationship depends on us explicitly not talking about our boyfriends? It’s okay, stay calm, I say to myself. She just asked about my boyfriend. Simon’s neutral territory. Maybe she won’t bring up her boyfriend at all. I’m definitely not going to ask about Tristan.

“Good.” I nod. “He invited me for a weekend to this cabin in upstate New York.”

“Wow, that’s a big step,” she says.

“I know. It is. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. But he really wants me to go.”

She looks puzzled for a moment. But then I realize that it’s not confusion painted on her face. It’s disappointment. With a hint of sadness.

“You’re lucky. Tristan won’t even let me call him my boyfriend. He says that he doesn’t like labels.”

Shivers run up my spine. I can’t believe that she has mentioned Tristan’s name, just like that. Like it’s nothing. Just another word.