Page 32 of Trip Me Up
12
NIALL
Sam’s freckles—usuallysuch a subtle dusting, like grains of sand scattered on the page of a paperback at the beach—stood out stark against her too-pale skin. As she read the passage from her book, her voice trembled, and her gaze didn’t leave the screen of her tablet. Yet I didn’t see that she ever flipped a page. She squeezed the microphone, her knuckles white.
“I think she’s about to lose her lunch,” I muttered.
“No.” Kathy put a restraining hand on my arm. “She’s got that cute little dog up there with her. She’ll do fine.”
On the raised platform, Sam sat in the chair with her feet tucked up under her as if trying to make herself seem even smaller. The dog nestled beside her.
How the hell Sam had convinced Happy Troll to allow her to bring her dog on tour was beyond me. Though, given how superiorMagician in the Machinewas, they probably would’ve done anything to appease their star author. Even let her act like a diva.
She didn’t look like a diva up there. When her voice had boomed out over the sound system, she’d jumped like a frightened mouse. She’d started out speaking so low, so hesitantly, that the audience members strained forward in their chairs. But as she read—slowly, carefully—her shoulders lowered. Soon she picked up speed, and while she’d never be an audiobook narrator or even a story-time librarian, her voice took on a more certain rhythm.
The audience loved it. We’d pulled a massive crowd at the bookstore near the Chicago lakefront. The people sat, silent and motionless, listening to her words. Perhaps it was the words themselves, or perhaps it was the contrast between the desolate, stripped-bare story full of hard edges and gritty dialogue and the elf-like beauty who’d written and performed it for them.
I was just as enchanted as they were.
Sooner than I’d expected, the audience applauded.Good job, Qiana, coaching her to read a short excerpt her first time out.
I strode to the front and turned on my own microphone. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t forget, if you haven’t already purchased your copy ofMagician in the Machine,we’ll have copies on the table for Sam to sign at the end. Now I’ll read a passage fromTreachery of the Wood Elves.”
The difference between my flowery descriptions and the starkness of Sam’s prose couldn’t have been more pronounced. The passage fromTreacherywas embroidered, rococo-style, with details: the scent of the horses’ sweat, the thunder of their hooves, the sharp pain that arced from the stab wound in Nieven’s side after the battle that ended the first book. Should I have cut it all to focus on the action as Sam had done?
Too late now. I wiped away the doubt and, taking a cue from Nieven, soldiered on.
During the question-and-answer period, Sam withered like a frost-bitten rose, her shoulders hunched and her voice low and monotone. Hadn’t Qiana prepared her for it? She froze when an audience member asked, “Where did you get your inspiration?”
I knew for a fact that question was on Qiana’s sheet. It was a softball. You could say literally anything: everyday life, dreams, the socio-political structure of the Ottoman Empire. I stared hard at her, willing her to say something, anything.
“Other books, I guess?” she said at last. “My dad used to read to me.” She captured the gaze of a kid in one of the front rows. Hero, the one she’d been talking to before we ascended the platform.
“Any specifics?” I asked. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have taken the next question and given her a break. But what a person reads says a lot about them. And I wanted to learn as much as I could about my tour partner, my muse.
She looked down, stroked the dog. “Tolkien. I remember we readThe Hobbittogether. In fact”—she picked up the dog and set him on her knees—“this guy’s name is Bilbo Baggins. He’s five years old, and I got him at the San Francisco SPCA. He likes long walks, unseasoned boneless chicken thighs, and being blow-dried after a warm bath. He hates beaches—the sand in his toes—and being alone.”
The next two questions were about dogs, and Sam answered them with an ease she hadn’t had when she was talking about her book.
Then the question came to me, the same one Sam had been asked a few minutes earlier. “Where do you get your inspiration, Niall?”
I had an answer, of course. I wasn’t some newbie like Sam. But when I opened my mouth, I froze. When I’d prepared it, I hadn’t expected the answer to the question to be sitting next to me. My throat went dry, and my tongue flopped uselessly in my mouth. I held up a finger and picked up the bottle of water next to my chair to take a long drink.
Sam’s head cocked to the side. She had to be thinking about the dedication, too. Why hadn’t we had it out last night in Columbus? Why hadn’t she scolded me about it?
Why hadn’t I taken her aside last night before she’d fled with Qiana to apologize for it?
I’d been acting like a coward, that’s why. And I had to stop now. Today.
I set down the bottle of water. Still, I didn’t have to do it in front of all these strangers. So I trotted out the answer I’d used on my first book tour. “There’s a small forest on my family’s farm, and a creek runs through it. When I was a kid, I used to run there after I’d finished my chores, and I’d lie on the forest floor and dream about the magical creatures who inhabited it.”
Just like on my first tour, they ate it up. Everyone likes to hear about a farm boy with dreams who later finds success. Sometimes, I thought it was my backstory, and not my books, that had gotten me where I was today. And I hated that thought. I wanted to be valued for what I produced, not who I was. Especially considering who my father was.
I ended the Q and A after that, not wanting to field any follow-up questions, and we descended to the signing table.
Every time I signed the title page, the following page, the dedication, tried to burn its way through. Thank God for Kathy, who turned everyone’s book to the correct page so I didn’t inadvertently flip to it and spontaneously combust. Sweat beaded at my hairline and rolled down my back under my flannel shirt.
Finally, Sam’s line dwindled, and she moved away from the table.Almost done.My hand hadn’t cramped yet—it was in pretty good shape from writing my manuscripts longhand—but my muscles ached from sitting so long. I stretched and smiled at the next reader.
