Free Write This Down by Claudia Mills Page A

play one! Now I’ll have to perch at the top of the basement stairs when they finally head down and listen to the practice to try to figure out which song is his. I don’t dare to hope the song Cameron wrote for the band is about me. No, it couldn’t be.
    But what if it is?
    They’re back to talking about playing a tune from some band I never heard of, and then they’re tromping down the stairs making almost as much noise with their feet as they’re about to make with their music.
    I’m getting ready to escape from my hiding place, which is feeling more cramped by the minute, when Hunter reappears in the room, calling downstairs to the others, “I’ll just be a sec. There’s a record I want you to hear.”
    Hunter is totally into vinyl these days. He saved a bunch of Dad’s old records when Mom was going to donate them to Goodwill in one of her decluttering fits.
    Then it registers.
    The records are on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
    The bookcase where I’m hiding.
    This is when I wish I had Tatiana’s magic wand, captured from Ingvar, to make myself invisible, or her amulet to ward off danger.
    But I don’t.
    His eyes widen when he sees me. “What the—”
    â€œI was just writing,” I say, holding up my notebook as proof, at the same time that I’m clutching it to my chest in case he makes a snatch for it.
    â€œYou were just spying ,” he says.
    Well, what if I was? A person is allowed to spy on somebody who might be making fun of her to somebody else who is the brother of the person she is in love with. Right?
    â€œAs if I’d want to spy on you and your dumb friends,” I say with as much haughtiness as I can muster.
    Hunter’s face registers new understanding.
    â€œYou were spying on David ,” he says. “Give it up, Autumn. Like you’d ever have a chance with Cameron. The stuff he writes is actually good. Unlike a certain so-called poet .” In a warbling falsetto, he begins a screeching tune, “Oh, Cam-er-on! I love theeeee!” He’s clearly doing his best to sound like a dying cat.
    â€œHunter!” one of the guys bellows from the basement. “Are you coming or what?”
    Hunter grabs one of the records and disappears without another word. Which is lucky for him, as my eyes are glittering with tears of a fury so pure and poisonous one drop could kill him dead.
    *   *   *
    I’m back upstairs in my room, with the door slammed shut. If only I had a lock! But Mom doesn’t believe in locks on bedroom doors. Hunter wanted to get one last month, and she said, “Family members don’t lock their doors against other family members.” But I’m locking my heart against Hunter right now.
    It’s been a whole two hours since I checked the emails on my phone, probably the longest ever since I sent my poems to The New Yorker almost two weeks ago.
    When I check my phone now, my inbox has one new message.
    It’s from The New Yorker .
    It’s been nowhere near two to six months. Maybe they love my poems so much they have to publish one of them right away? Maybe they hate my poems so much they have to reject all of them right away? The editor sent the email on a Saturday. Do all editors work on weekends? Or was this editor just so excited by my poems he couldn’t wait until Monday to let me know?
    Before I let myself read the message, I stare at the sender’s address for one long moment: my first email from The New Yorker .
    How many writers my age are even getting emails from The New Yorker ?
    Then I read it.
    My poems don’t suit their “current publishing needs.”
    That’s all they say.
    I didn’t realize how much I’d been counting on a yes from The New Yorker until now, when I’m staring down at my phone and rereading that message over and over again. For the past two weeks, every day was a little more special,