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dynamite. That chicken character brought down the house.”
    She knew he was trying to make her feel better, but bringing up Gus the dancing chicken only triggered her biggest fear. She felt her voice climb higher in her throat. “The girls in the Writers’ Workshop do real writing. I need to learn how to write about people and serious things. Not made-up warriors and dancing chickens and fake fairies.”
    Dad raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know about that.”
    â€œIt’s true,” Zinnie said, covering her face and shaking her head in despair.
    â€œOkay. Let’s take a deep breath,” Dad said, placing a strong, reassuring arm around her back. “Close your eyes. Come on, we’ll do it together.” Zinnie closed her eyes. “In,” Dad said, and they inhaled deeply. “And out.” He made a shushing noise as they exhaled in unison. “In,” Dad said, inhaling loudly, “and out.” He shushed again. They repeated the cycle until Zinnie’s heart stopped galloping.
    â€œFirst of all, there’s no such thing as ‘real’ writing and ‘fake’ writing,” Dad said. “Good writing is good writing. I know that for a fact. And Mrs. Lee knows that, too, I’m sure.”
    â€œThen how come nothing in here,” Zinnie said as she held up Muses , “is like anything I’ve written? I need to go to Summer Scribes. But I really don’t wantto miss out on going to Aunt Sunny’s.” She was starting to get worked up again. “What do I do?”
    â€œEveryone is always missing out on something. Right now, there could be a really cool asteroid flying across the sky and we’re missing out on seeing it.”
    â€œReally?” Zinnie said, opening her bedroom curtains.
    â€œThere could be,” Dad said, drawing the curtains closed again. “My point is that we aren’t actually missing out on anything, because we’re here, in our home, hanging out together.”
    â€œI’m confused,” Zinnie said, too tired for any kind of lesson. “I just want to know what to do.”
    â€œWhen I have a tough decision to make, I write out a question and put it under my pillow, and when I wake up, I usually know what to do.”
    â€œReally?” Zinnie asked.
    â€œReally,” Dad said.
    â€œI guess I’ll try it,” Zinnie said. It was the only solution she had.
    â€œIt’s worth a shot, right?” Dad said, handing Zinnie her notebook and a pen.
    She wrote, Do I go to Pruet early or stay in LA? in her notebook and tore the page out. “Like this?”
    â€œExactly,” Dad said. “Now fold it up and put it under your pillow.”
    She did as he said and then, exhausted from thinking, climbed under her covers. “I hope this helps.”
    â€œMe too,” Dad said, handing her the book on her bedside table, a four-hundred-pager called The Misty Trails of Dragons , which she was almost done with.
    â€œI still don’t get why it works,” Zinnie said, turning on the little reading lamp that was clipped to her bed frame.
    â€œI like to think it’s the work of dream fairies or the moon spirits. But, shhh! I wouldn’t want Mrs. Lee’s Writers’ Workshop to hear me say that.”
    â€œHa-ha,” Zinnie said. “Very funny.”
    â€œLove you,” Dad said.
    â€œLove you, too,” Zinnie said as Dad kissed her between the eyebrows and shut off the light.

8 • The Illuminated Path
    T hat night, Zinnie dreamed that she was walking down a twisting path in a dark forest. She was scared because the plants and animals were all strange. Then she realized that she had one of Aunt Sunny’s field guides with her and she was able to identify the life around her. As she walked on, recording her discoveries in her notebook, dappled light illuminated the path. She knew that she didn’t need the field guide anymore