You have got to be kidding me.

​

I slowly scan the room, gazing at the desks of my friends and hoping they don't study the cover of the book Mrs. Dean is handing out. The worst possible outcome right now is them recognizing the doodles from my notebooks. They'd never let me hear the end of it if they found out I wrote books for fun. As the hardcover first-run copy of Jacksonville High hits my desk, my stomach turns. This had hardly hit store shelves, much less the 12th grade English classrooms of an underfunded school out in the sticks. Mrs. Dean must have cleaned out every Walmart this side of Delaware to get this many copies.

​

"Alright, guys. To wrap up the Postmodern unit, we're going to be studying this brand new book from Davinci." Mrs. Dean says, striding to the front of the room and standing behind her lectern. "A full book report is expected by the time the semester ends, 2000 words and properly MLA formatted. Rubrics are by the door, you can take one on your way out."

​

"Mrs. Dean, isn't that the author who refuses to identify themself that's been viral lately?" Serena raises her hand and asks. She's a bookworm and wicked smart, so she's always plugged into the online braniac scene. I twirl my pencil in my fingers. I'm nervous. If anyone could sniff me out, I'd bet money it's Serena.

​

"Yes! For the rest of you not initiated, Davinci is a mystery author that's been critically acclaimed and celebrated for their exemplary descriptive ability, wonderful world building, and humanistic characterization." Mrs. Dean's eyes twinkle with every new praise she heaps on me. It's suffocating. She turns to the whiteboard and starts writing the chapter list, with dates next to them. "These are the due dates for chapter analysis. We're doing this study more freeform, so we won't be reading aloud for this book. I want to hear every conclusion, prediction, and intrigue you have as you're reading."

​

I never wanted this scenario, for what it's worth. Being a mystery author is more lame than you'd think. Constant non-disclosure agreements to keep your team quiet, 4 different copy editors to remove any references that can be used to triangulate you, internet security out the wazoo to keep metadata divers from finding some geotag on a cover art you posted. It's a lot. I swear the clock is ticking slower than it was before.

​

"Dude, this looks like it blows. Who wants to read about...." Benny, my friend, peers at the back cover's synopsis as if unable to make out the words. From my angle with the window glare on the shiny cover sleeve, he looks like an old man hunched over a cellphone. I have to stifle a laugh. "A teenager photographing abandoned buildings?"

​

"Well, Mr. Erikson, enough people wanted to read it that it's sold in Walmart of all places." Called it. "And from what I hear, this book is a brilliant description of slowing down and taking in the small moments, something it seems you need a bit more practice at." Mrs. Dean says with a wink. She's poking fun at him, something she does often. Most students like her because she's so much more lively than the rest of the teachers, but it seems like Benny didn't find the humor this time, because he just huffed and reclined in his chair.

​

Wait. What was that?

​

"...brilliant description of slowing down and taking in the small moments." That's what she said, right? I rack my brain. Who would get that out of the book? I look confusedly at the cover. It's a fantasy novel about traveling through time with a Polaroid camera, just as I'd wrote it. I read the back synopsis and nope, it's still the same book. Where did she get that idea from? I lifted the book inspiration from eavesdropping on a couple of the theater kids. There's no overarching meaning here, it's just a regular ol' fantasy novel.

​

Serena raises her hand. Thank God, she'll probably get it sorted straight. "Mrs. Dean, I've also heard that it's a poignant criticism of foreign policy and how we've gone astray with bogging down the immigration system. How if we could just go back, we could fix modern-day America's problems!" Welp. I'm doomed. They're about to spend a whole unit overanalyzing a book I put out because I was bored as if it was some sort of statement piece.

​

"...huh?" I say, dumbfounded in my seat.

​

"Mr. Chambers, would you like to add something?" Mrs. Dean looks at me inquisitively. Great, now how do I get myself out of this one? I slink down into my chair.

​

"No, ma'am. Please continue." I croak out. God I can't wait until this class ends.