The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.Ĭome back, Marietta. She’s witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. It’s usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the fact that I didn’t even hear the question. I’m not a natural when it comes to social interactions. It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book signings. Everyone ready?!” I ask, forcing excitement into my tone. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. “Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for coming. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s attention, the murmurs fade to silence. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counting in my head. Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large number of people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway. I glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building. “Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to the dead air. I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That’s not cute. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new-a home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.Īnd then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. The Hardest Cheese in the World: Chhurpi's Remarkable 20-Year Shelf Life
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