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okay? I tell her silently. But I don’t know how to do this. I think I might be fucking it up. Could we talk about it? God, I wish we could talk about it.

SEVEN
    In the spring of that awful first year in the bachelor pad, my dad found an article in the Saturday Arts Calendar of our paper about a book signing for a few local authors at a little bookstore in downtown Hudsonville. He waved the article in front of my face and hollered, “This is where it starts, Charlie-boy! This is our foot in the door!”
    He called the bookstore, turned on the charm, and within ten minutes had arranged for me to be one of the local authors. They were calling the event Night of the Stars, and I would be there as the youngest star—the youngest published author in history, a kid so enterprising and talented that he had written not one but two books about a beetle, with two more exciting publications on the way. Then Dad called the Hudsonville Daily and told them they had mistakenly forgotten to mention me in the article about the local book signing, and he insisted that they should do a separate piece on me and my books by way of apology.
    I was sitting on the sofa, listening to these two very different but equally urgent conversations. Up until that moment, the idea that Dad was really going to push me into the spotlight in this crazy-ass way—turn me into a pint-sized celebrity, call me a published author—none of it had seemed real. It was an abstraction. I was not the kind of kid who went for the spotlight in any way. But on that Saturday afternoon, I saw the spotlight coming for me like a big, searching beam, and I also saw that there would be no stopping Dad. He had a dream. It involved books and money and me. My life as a kid nobody noticed was coming to an end. I started chewing my fingernails frantically. Dad startled me by knocking my hand away from my mouth.
    â€œThe reporter’s coming Monday after school,” he said. His voice was tense and determined, as though he expected me to resist. His eyes, as he stared at me, held a trace of panic. I realized that his confidence was flagging now that we were closer to actual liftoff.
    â€œI got this, Dad,” I said, although I was way more scared than he was.
    â€œWe need to get you a haircut. And maybe a little sport coat. And some business cards. And we have to practice for the interview. We’ll have them photograph the first cover and then maybe a photo of you sitting at the computer, writing your next book. Because you were born to write. Can you say that in the interview, Charlie?”
    â€œI was born to write,” I repeat.
    â€œBorn to it! Unstoppable! Unbelievable! You’ll be on the front page, Charlie! Come on, let’s get you a haircut. Let’s get you dressed for success. Let’s rock this town!”
    He slicked back his own blond hair and put on a sport coat and changed out of his sneakers. It was, apparently, time for us to dress for success. We left Liam with Valerie, our latest babysitter, and went downtown to buy a suit, get me a haircut, and check in with the nice ladies at the bookstore. In the car, Dad interviewed me and told me the five most important things I needed to say to the bookstore ladies. And the reporter on Monday. And anybody who came up to me at my book signing. They were
I was born to write (lie).
I have always loved beetles (lie, scared of bugs).
I have already sold a lot of books (lie).
I get straight As in school (big lie).
I have more books on the way (true).
    At one point, Dad got mad at me for stammering. “Are you an idiot? Do I have to explain again how important this interview is? This is it , Charlie!”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Okay, okay, okay.” I was trying not to cry. I wanted Dad to get his confidence back, but I was so miserable. I had the shortest haircut I had ever had in my life, practically a buzz cut, and I hated the suit Dad had bought for me—it was