Cath ran her fingers along the cover, over the raised gold type.
Then someone else ran right into her, pushing the book into Cath’s chest. Pushing two books into her chest. Cath looked up just as Wren threw an arm around her.
“They’re both crying,” Cath heard Reagan say. “I can’t even watch.”
Cath freed an arm to wrap around her sister. “I can’t believe it’s really over,” she whispered.
Wren held her tight and shook her head. She really was crying, too. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Cath,” Wren laughed hoarsely. “It’s never over.… It’s Simon.”
Simon stepped toward the Humdrum. He’d never been this close. The heat and the pull were almost too much for him; he felt like the Humdrum would suck his heart through his chest, his thoughts from his head.
“I created you with my hunger,” Simon said. “With my need for magic.”
“With your capacity,” it said.
Simon shrugged, a Herculean effort in the presence and pressure of the Humdrum.
Simon had spent his whole life, well, the last eight years of it, trying to become more powerful, trying to live up to his destiny—trying to become the sort of magician, maybe the only magician, who could defeat the Insidious Humdrum.
And all he’d ever done was stoke the Humdrum’s need.
Simon took the last step forward.
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
—from chapter 27, Simon Snow and the Eighth Dance, copyright © 2012 by Gemma T. Leslie
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was her last Friday night in Pound Hall.
There was a boy in her room.
In Cath’s bed, taking up way more than his fair share of space, and eating the rest of her peanut butter.
He pulled the spoon out of his mouth. “Did you turn it in?”
“Slid it under her door. I’ll e-mail it, too, just in case.”
“Are you gonna read it to me?”
“Pfft.” Cath got The Eighth Dance out of her bag and dropped it onto the bed. “Priorities,” she said. “Make room.”
Levi scrunched his nose and tried to suck the peanut butter off his teeth.
Cath shoved his shoulder—“Make room”—and he grinned, leaning back against her pillow and patting the bed between his bent legs. She climbed between his knees, and he put his arms around her, pulling her in close. She felt his chin on the back of her head.
“Are you getting peanut butter in my hair?”
“It’s preventative. When I get gum in your hair later, it won’t stick.”
She opened the book and tried to find their place. It was massive. They’d been reading for two days, taking breaks between studying and finals, and they still had four hundred pages left. They had one weekend left together, and Cath was going to read until she ran out of air.
“I can’t believe I haven’t been spoiled yet,” she said.
“I was planning to despoil you later,” Levi said. “But if you want, we can do that first.”
“I had lunch with Wren today, and she almost spoiled me four different times. I don’t dare get on the Internet—people are blabbing all over FanFixx.”
“I made a sign to wear on my apron that says, DON’T TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS TO SIMON SNOW.”
“Maybe I should write that on my forehead,” Cath said.
“I could make that part of the despoiling.…”
“Do you remember where we left off? I dropped the bookmark.”
“Page three nineteen. The Humdrum had turned the merwolves against the school, and they were crawling around, dragging their fins, getting everything wet and gnashing their teeth at little kids, and then Penelope Bunce, the hero of our story, cast a spell that made the clouds rain silver—”
“I think Baz cast that spell.”
“Yeah, but Penelope watched. She was instrumental.”
“Page three nineteen,” Cath said. “Are you ready?”
Levi jostled her around, kissed her neck a few times, then bit it, pinched Cath between his knees and squeezed her middle. “Ready.”
Cath imagined his eyes closing—then cleared her throat.
The silver bounced like mercury off Simon’s skin, but it was drawn sickly into the merwolf’s fur. Steely grey lines appeared in the beast’s yellow eyes, and it went limp, sloshing to the ground.
Simon caught his breath and looked around the lawn. All the merwolves had collapsed, and Penelope was herding the younger kids back into the relative safety of the fortress.
Basil strode across the lawn toward Simon, brushing the silver from his black cloak. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his fangs; Simon could see them from here.
Simon adjusted his grip on the Sword of Mages and held it up in warning.
Baz stopped in front of him and sighed. “Give it a rest, Snow.”
Simon held the sword higher.
“Do you really think I want to fight you?” Baz asked. “Now?”
“Why should today be any different from every other day of our lives?”
“Because today we’re at war. And we’re losing. You’re losing … for once. And it isn’t nearly as satisfying as I always thought it would be.”
Simon wanted to argue—to say that he wasn’t losing, that he couldn’t afford to lose this fight—but he didn’t have the heart for it. He was afraid, terrified, that Baz was right. “What do you want, Baz?” he asked wearily, letting the sword fall to his side.
“I want to help you.”
Simon laughed and wiped his face on his sleeve. It left streaks of blood and silver. “Really? You’ll excuse me, I hope, if I don’t take you at your word, given the last eight years of you trying to kill me, et cetera.”
“Don’t you think I would have killed you by now if I really wanted to?” Baz raised a dark eyebrow. “I’m not that ineffectual, you know. I mostly just wanted to make you miserable … and to steal your girlfriend.”
Simon’s fingers tensed on the hilt of his sword. Baz took a step closer.
“Snow, if you lose this, we all lose. I may want a world without you—and a world without your tyrant of a father. But I don’t want a world without magic. If the Humdrum wins…”
Simon studied Baz’s pale, grave face and his smoldering grey eyes. There were times when Simon thought he knew those eyes better than his own—
Levi giggled.
“Shhh,” Cath said. “I can’t believe this is happening.…”
—times when he thought he could read his enemy’s face better than anyone else’s. Better even than Agatha’s.
“Let me help you,” Baz said. There was something Simon didn’t recognize in his voice. Sincerity, maybe. Vulnerability.
Simon made up his mind quickly. (The only way he ever did.) He nodded once and sheathed the Sword of Mages. Then he wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out before him.
Baz locked on to Simon’s gaze as ferociously as ever, and Simon wondered whether there was too much animosity—too much history—between them ever to breach. Too much to set aside or get over.
All the curses.
All the spells.
All the times they’d fallen to the ground, fists and wands swinging, grabbing at each other’s throats …
And then Baz took his hand.
The two magicians, young men now, shook hands and shared a moment that held nothing more—for what could be more?—than understanding.
“What about Agatha?” Simon asked when the moment had passed, when their hands dropped again to their sides.
Baz grinned and started walking up the steep hill to the castle.
“Don’t be a fool, Snow. I’m never giving up on Agatha.”
The problem with playing hide-and-seek with your sister is that sometimes she gets bored and stops looking for you.
And there you are—under the couch, in the closet, wedged behind the lilac tree—and you don’t want to give up, because maybe she’s just biding her time. But maybe she’s wandered off.…
Maybe she’s
downstairs watching TV and eating the rest of the Pringles.
You wait. You wait until you forget that you’re waiting, until you forget that there’s anything to you beyond stillness and quiet; an ant crawls over your knee, and you don’t flinch. And it doesn’t matter now whether she’s coming for you—the hiding is enough. (You win when no one finds you, even if they’re not looking.)
When you break from behind the tree, it’s because you want to. It’s the first breath after a long dive. Branches snap under your feet, and the world is hotter and brighter. Ready or not, here I come.
Here I come, ready or not.
—from “Left” by Cather Avery, winner of the Underclassmen Prize, Prairie Schooner, Fall 2012
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who was good to me while I wrote this book—but especially to:
Bethany, who is an excellent, tireless beta and a marvelous friend—and who just goes around making life and the Internet better.
Forest, who talks about these characters like they’re real people; and Jade, who never gets tired of them.
My editor, Sara, who is fucking awesome.
And everyone at St. Martin’s Press who’s worked so hard to help my books find readers—and to help readers find my books.
Thank you to Christopher, who is ten pounds of agent in a five-pound sack.
To Rosey and Laddie, who make me happy.
And to Kai, who tells me to write all the words.
Also: I decided to write this book after reading a lot (I mean, a lot) of fanfiction. Reading fic was a transformative experience for me—it changed the way I think about writing and storytelling, and helped me more deeply understand my own intense relationships with fictional worlds and characters. So thank you for writing it.
ALSO BY
RAINBOW ROWELL
ELEANOR & PARK
ATTACHMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rainbow Rowell lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband and two sons. She’s also the author of Eleanor & Park and Attachments. Visit her Web site at www.rainbowrowell.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, publications, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FANGIRL. Copyright © 2013 by Rainbow Rowell. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Rowell, Rainbow.
Fangirl / Rainbow Rowell. — 1st ed.
p. cm
ISBN 978-1-250-03095-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03096-2 (e-book)
1. Groupies—Fiction. 2. Authorship—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O8755F36 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013013842
e-ISBN 9781250030962
First Edition: September 2013
Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl
(Series: # )
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