New Book

Snippet from new novel I'm writing (I'm writing again!) where the main character (Noah) introduces a new, integral character (Charlotte) to the story:

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There are surprisingly few things Noah knows about Charlotte.  Charlotte is three months older than her to the day.  Charlotte dyed a blue streak in her black hair in May (which Noah saw on Instagram).  Charlotte was at an arts camp over the summer for drama and cello.

Noah knows that Charlotte is the kind of person who will attend family Christmas parties and say she’s a new vegan just to piss off Aunt Clare and her elaborately baked ham.  She knows Charlotte is the kind of person who likes to read fantasy novels (based on her Goodreads profile), eat Skittles in order of color (based on the one Halloween they spent together at two years ago for a distant relative’s funeral), and run for class president just because some guy told her women couldn’t be leaders (all over her campaign flyers on Facebook—she won that year).  

Apparently, Charlotte is also the kind of person who misses the first day of school.

Noah has always thought of Charlotte as teetering dangerously close to becoming a real life trope of a manic pixie dream girl and was a little curious about what getting to know her would be like.

It turns out, Charlotte is not particularly interested in getting to know her.

Noah didn’t text Charlotte the night before, but Aunt Clare had called and said, “Charlotte is so excited to show you around, dear.  It’s so nice that you two can be together again.  You two are such peas in a pod.”  Which is not precisely true, all things considered.  Charlotte has always been herself, and Noah has been … completely lame in comparison, in her own mind anyway.

Jamie met Charlotte once, when she was around for the day after Thanksgiving.  “I don’t do Black Friday shopping,” she announced when they asked if she wanted to come along.

“Is it because you’re, like, against corporate America and our materialistic society ruining a family-oriented holiday?” he asked, eying her then-black fingernails and the anarchy button pinned on her bag.

“No,” she said, raising an eyebrow in amusement.  “Because I hate waking up early.”