did the launch for her debut here. When Emily told me she’d booked me at P and P, I’d shrieked at my screen. I have to steel myself beforeI walk through the doors. My publisher for Over the Sycamore set up a “multi-city” bookstore tour for me, but each storeI visited never had an audience of more than ten people. And it is painful, truly painful, to struggle through a reading and Q&A when people keep leaving in the middle of your sentences. It’s even worse to sit and sign a pile of unpurchased stock after the events, while the store manager hovers and makes awkward small talk about how it’s probably because it’s the holidays, and people are busy shopping, and they didn’t have quite enough time to advertise that the attendance numbers were so low. After the second stop I wanted to call it quits, but it’s more humiliating to cancel a book tour altogether than to struggle through it, minute by minute, your heart sinking the entire time as you realize your irrelevance, your foolishness to ever hope. Tonight, though, the store is packed—there’s so little standing room, people are sitting cross-legged in the aisle. I almost walk back out. I hover at the entrance, checking my phone, making sure the time and date are right, because this can’t be real. Did I mix my reading date up with Sally Rooney’s? But the store manager sees me and ushers me into the back office, where he offers me a water bottle and some mints, and then it sinks in—this isn’t a mistake, this is real, and all these people are here to see me. Applause echoes around me as I walk out to the front. The store manager introduces me, and then I take my place at the podium, knees trembling. I’ve never spoken to this many people in my life. Thankfully, I’m set to do a reading before the Q&A, soI have a moment to get my bearings. I’ve selected an excerpt from the very middle of the book—a selfcontained vignette that will serve as an easy entry point for the audience. More important, it’s one of the scenes that was largely written by me. These are my sentences, my brilliance. “‘The British officer assigned to direct the men of Ah Lung’s squadron seemed perpetually afraid that these foreigners would turn on him any moment.’” My voice trembles but steadies. I cough, take a sip from my water bottle, and keep going. I’m okay. I can do this. “‘“Keep ’em contained,” his colleague had advised upon his station. “They do good work, but you’ve got to make sure they don’t become a general nuisance.” So he ordered that the men were not allowed to leave their barbed-wire
enclosure for any reason without express permission, and Ah Lung spent his first few weeks in France tiptoeing around warning bells and trip wires, wondering why, if he was here to aid the war effort, he was being treated as a prisoner.’” It goes over so well. You can tell when you have command of a room. There’s a certain hushed silence, a tension, like you have a grappling hook in everyone’s chest and the lines are pulled taut. My voice has smoothed out; it’s clear, attractive, and wobbly enough to make me seem vulnerable and human, yet composed. And I know I look good in the gray leggings, brown boots, and tight burgundy turtleneck I chose for this night. I’m a Serious Young Author. I’m a Literary Star. I finish reading to enthusiastic applause. The Q&A goes equally well. The questions are either softballs which give me a chance to show off (“How did you balance research for such a niche historical topic with your day job?” “How did you make the historical setting feel so rich and realized?”) or baldly flattering (“How do you stay grounded while being so successful at such a young age?” “Did you feel any pressure after receiving such a major book deal?”). My answers are funny, articulate, thoughtful, modest: “I don’t know that I’m balancing anything. I still don’t know what day of the week it is. Earlier tonight I forgot my own name.” Laughter. “Of course everything I wrote in college was utter tripe, because college students don’t know how to write about anything other than the romance of being a college student.” More laughter. “As for my approach to historical fiction, I think what I’m drawing from is Saidiya Hartman’s technique of critical fabulation, which is a way of writing against the grain, of injecting empathy and realism to the archival record of a history that feels abstract to us.” Thoughtful, impressed nods. They love me. They can’t look away from me. They’re here for me, they’re hanging on to my every word, the whole of their focus is consumed with me. And for the first time it really sinks in that I did it, it happened, it worked. I have become one of the chosen ones, one deemed by the Powers That Be to matter. I’m riding high off my rapport with the crowd, laughing when they laugh, riffing off of the wording of their questions. I’ve forgotten about my stilted, prewritten answers; I’m going completely off the cuff
now, and every word out of my mouth is clever, adorable, engaging. I’m killing it. And then I see her. Right there, in the front row, flesh and blood, casting her own shadow, so solid and present that I can’t be hallucinating. She’s dressed in an emerald-green shawl, one of her signature looks, looped over her slender frame in such a way that makes her shoulders look thin, vulnerable, and elegant all at once. She’s slouched gracefully against her plastic pull-out chair, pushing her shiny black locks back over her shoulders. Athena. Blood thunders in my ears. I blink several times, hoping desperately she’s an apparition, but every timeI open my eyes she’s still there, smiling expectantly at me with bright, berry-red lips. Stila Stay All Day, I think wildly, becauseI know this, becauseI read that stupid Vogue feature with Athena’s makeup tips a dozen times before my launch. Beso shade. Calm down. Perhaps there’s some other explanation. Perhaps it’s her sister, someone who looks exactly like her—a cousin, a twin? But Athena doesn’t have a sister, or any extended family in her generation; her mother had made that very clear. It was just me and my daughter. The spell breaks. Dizzy, dry-mouthed, I stumble through the rest of the Q&A. I’ve lost whatever hold I had over the audience. Someone asks me whether any of my coursework at Yale influenced The Last Front, and suddenlyI can’t remember the names of any classes I’ve ever taken. I keep glancing down at Athena, hoping she’ll have disappeared and that she was a trick of my imagination, but every timeI do she is still right there, watching in that cool, inscrutable way of hers, judging every word that comes out of my mouth. Then the hour’s up. I sit through the applause, trying desperately not to faint. The store manager guides me over to a table at the front of the signing line, and I force a grin on my face as I greet reader after reader. There’s an art to smiling, making eye contact, making small talk, and signing a book without misspelling your own name or the name of the person you’re personalizing it to. I’ve had some practice at prerelease stock-signing events now, and on a good dayI can juggle it all with only one or two awkward silences. Today, I keep fumbling. I ask the same person “So, how’s your evening been?” twice, and I flub one customer’s name so badly that the store offers them a free replacement copy.
I’m terrified Athena will appear before me, book in hand. I keep craning my head to search for her green shawl in the line, but she seems to have vanished. Has no one else noticed? Am I the only one who’s seen her? The store staff can tell something is wrong. Without consulting me, they rush the rest of the signing line along, reminding everyone to keep their questions short as it’s getting late. When we’re done, they don’t ask me out to dinner or drinks; they merely shake my hand and thank me for coming. The store manager offers to call me an Uber back to my apartment, and I gratefully accept. At home, I kick off my shoes and curl into bed. My heart races; my breaths are shallow. My brain buzzes so loudly that I can hardly hear my own thoughts, and I feel a tug at the base of my skull, like I’m withdrawing into and then away from my body. I can feel a panic attack oncoming—no, not oncoming, peaking; I’ve been low-key suffering an attack for the past hour, and I’m only now in an environment private enough to experience the full range of symptoms. My chest constricts. My vision fades to a pinprick. I try going through the checklist Dr. Gaily taught me. What doI see? This beige comforter, stained on one side with my foundation and streaks of my mascara. What doI smell? The Korean food that I ordered for lunch today that’s still sitting out on the table becauseI was too jittery before the event to eat; the clean detergent scent of my freshly laundered sheets under my nose. What doI hear? Traffic outside, my own heartbeat in my eardrums. What doI taste? Stale champagne, since I’ve just noticed the half-empty bottle from this morning. It all brings me back down a bit, but my mind is still racing, my stomach still curdling with nausea. I ought to stumble to the bathroom, should at least take a shower and wipe off all this makeup, but I’m too dizzy to get up. Instead I reach for my phone. I search Twitter for Athena’s name, and then my own, and then our names in conjunction. First names only, last names only, first and last names; hashtag, no hashtag. I search for mentions of Politics and Prose. I search for the Twitter handles of every bookstore staff member whose nameI remember.
But there’s nothing. I’m the only one who saw Athena. All everyone’s talking about on Twitter is how brilliant the event was, how passionate and articulateI sounded, and how very excited they are to read The Last Front. My search for “June+Athena” yields only one new tweet in the past hour, written by someoneI assume is a random audience member: Juniper Song’s reading from The Last Front tonight was absolutely gorgeous, and it’s clear why she feels this book is a homage to her friend; indeed, as she spoke about her creative process, it felt as if Athena Liu’s ghost was right there in the room with us.
Seven I HIT NUMBER THREE ON THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LIST THE following Wednesday. Daniella emails me with the news: Congratulations, June! No one’s surprised here, but I know you were anxious, so here’s the official proof. You did it :) Brett follows up a few minutes after that. WOOOHOOO! Emily in publicity puts out a blast on Twitter, which sparks a flurry of joyful tweets, Instagram posts, and DMs. Eden’s official account tags me in a tweet with that GIF of the two ladies jumping around over a bottle of champagne. JUNIPER SONG, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR! Oh my God. Oh my God. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. We’d known from the preorder numbers that my hitting the list was likelier than not, but seeing the evidence printed in black and white sends me into paroxysms of delight. Here is my stamp of approval. I’m a bestselling writer. I’ve made it. For a full half hour I sit at my desk, staring blankly at my phone as more congratulations messages trickle in. I want to call someone and scream all my joy into their ear—but I don’t know who. My mother won’t care, or she might only pretend to care, and ask inane questions about how the list works, which will feel worse. Rory will be happy for me, but she won’t understand why it’s such an achievement. The fourth name down my call history is an ex, attempting a booty call when he was swinging by DC for work, and I certainly can’t tell him. I’m not close enough with any of my writer friends that the news wouldn’t come off like a classless brag, and there’s no satisfaction in telling my friends who aren’t writers—I want
someone who is in the know, who can really understand that this is a Big Fucking Deal. It takes me a minute to realize that the first person I would have called, the only person who would have understood this news for what it was, and wouldn’t have reacted with petty jealousy or feigned support, is Athena. Congratulations, I tell her ghost, becauseI can afford this generosity, because by now the disturbing sight of her at my reading has faded to the back of my memory, crowded out by my present, vicious delights. It’s easy, now, to chalk that vision up to nervous hallucinations; easier still to forget that it happened at all. I tweet my news to the public instead. I write up a long thread about why hitting the list means so much to me, especially after the failure of my first book; about the long, painful slog in publishing that has finally, finally paid off. Not everyone becomes a bestseller overnight, I observe sagely. For some of us, it takes years of hard work and hoping and dreaming. I always hoped my moment would come. And here, now, I guess it has. The infusion of likes and CONGRATULATIONS responses are precisely what I need to fill the void. I sit in front of my screen, watching the numbers tick up, enjoying that little serotonin boost every timeI get another flurry of notifications. At last I have to pee, which forces me to tear myself away from the screen. While I’m up, I order a box of a dozen cupcakes from Baked & Wired, one of every flavor they have on sale that day. When it arrives, I sit down on my floor with a fork and eat until it tastes good. THE LAST FRONT HANGS ON TO THE LIST AT NUMBER SIX FOR ANOTHER week, and at number ten for the week after that, where it sits for an entire month. That means I didn’t hit the list by accident. I’m selling well, and selling steadily. Eden’s investment in my advance has paid off. I am, by every possible metric, a major success. Everything changes. I’ve now moved into an entirely different class of writer. I receive a half-dozen invitations to speak at various literary events in the next month alone, and after attending a few, I find I enjoy them. I used to hate these events. Big author gatherings—awards ceremonies, conferences, conventions—are like the first day of high school, but even worse, because the cool kids actually are that cool, and there’s nothing more humiliating than being shut out of a conversation circle because your book
didn’t sell enough copies, didn’t get enough marketing, or wasn’t critically acclaimed enough for everyone else to treat you like a human being. At one of my first literary conferences, I bashfully introduced myself to a writer whose work I’d loved since middle school. He squinted at my name tag, uttered the words “Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you,” and promptly turned his back on me. Suddenly now, I’m important enough to acknowledge. Now, guys hit on me and buy me drinks at the bar. (We call bar gatherings at literary events “barcons”—watering holes for people who have been waiting all year to rub shoulders and get into dick-measuring contests over their advances and print runs.) An editor from a small press corners me in the bathroom to tell me what a big fan of my work she is. Film agents give me their cards and encourage me to be in touch. Writers who have snubbed me ever since my first novel flopped start acting like we’re best friends. Oh my God, how have you been? Funny how time flies, huh? Hey, would you consider blurbing my next book? Would you introduce me to your editor? At this summer’s BookCon, which you can think of as publishing prom, I receive invitations to multiple after-parties around the Javits Center, where I’m passed around and introduced to a series of successively more important industry people until I find myself in a circle with Daniella and three of her bestselling authors—Marnie Kimball, who’s written several bestsellers about a sexy blonde waitress fighting supernatural crime and romancing vampires in seedy bars; Jen Walker, who’s just been on the Today show to talk about her memoir about becoming a rich and powerful CEO before she turned thirty; and Heidi Steel, a severe and handsome romance novelist whose titles I’ve seen on Target racks sinceI was a child. “Is it just me or are the debut writers getting younger?” asks Marnie. “They look like children.” “They’re all getting signed right out of college these days.” Heidi shakes her head. “No offense, June. I had a girl on my romance panel who was still a sophomore. She’s not even old enough to drink.” “Is that wise, though?” asks Jen. “Giving them book deals before they’ve had time to develop frontal lobes? “One of them came up to me in a signing line and asked for a blurb,” says Jen. “Can you believe it? Title I’ve never heard of, from some small press I’ve never heard of, and she comes up to me with a bound ARC, beaming, like of course I’m going to say yes.”
Marnie shudders with horror. “What did you say?” “I said I don’t have the bag space for print books, but she could have her agent send an epub file to mine. Of course I’ll never open it.” Jen makes a whoosh noise with her lips. “Straight into the trash.” They all chuckle. “Diplomatic,” says Heidi. “Go easy on them,” says Marnie. “They’re not getting marketing support, poor things.” “Yes, it’s a real pity,” sighs Daniella. “I hate watching these small presses acquire good novels just to throw them to the wolves.” “It’s diabolical,” says Jen. “Their agents should know better. This industry is vicious.” “Oh, I know.” We all nod and sip our wine, relieved that we are not part of the unfortunate masses. The conversation moves on to the latest independent publisher that’s recently laid off half its staff, including all but one senior editor, and whether the writers in their stable should try their luck in the imminent shuffle or try to get their rights reverted and jump ship to another house. Publishing gossip, it turns out, is a lot of fun when you’re speculating about other people’s misfortune. “So what got you interested in the Chinese Labour Corps?” Marnie asks me. “I’d never heard of them before your book.” “Most people hadn’t.” I preen, flattered that Marnie knows what my book is about at all. I won’t inquire further about her thoughts—it’s good etiquette among writers not to ask if someone has read your work or is just pretending. “I took a course on East Asian history at Yale. A professor referenced it in a discussion section, and I thought it was surprising that there weren’t any novels in English about it, soI thought I’d make that necessary addition to the canon.” The first part is true; the rest is not—I spent most of that class reading about Japanese art history, meaning tentacle porn, but it’s been a convenient cover story for questions like this. “That’s precisely my approach,” Heidi exclaims. “I look for the gaps in history, the stuff no one else is talking about. That’s whyI wrote an epic fantasy romance about a businessman and a Mongolian huntress. Eagle Girl. It’s out next year. I’ll have Daniella send you a copy. It’s so important to think about what perspectives aren’t embraced by Anglophone readers,
you know? We must make space for the subaltern voices, the suppressed narratives.” “Right,” I say. I’m a little surprised Heidi knows the word “subaltern.” “And without us, these stories wouldn’t get told.” “Precisely. Precisely.” Near the end of the party, I run into my former editor while standing in line at the coat check. He comes in for a hug like we’re best friends, like he didn’t butcher my very first book baby, set it up to fail, and then leave me out in the cold. “Congratulations, June,” he says, smiling broadly. “It’s been wonderful to watch you succeed.” I’ve wondered often for the past year what I would say to Garrett if I ever came across him again. I always held my tongue whileI was his author; I was terrified of burning bridges, of him spreading the word that I was impossible to work with. I’ve wished I could say to his face how small he made me feel, how his curt, dismissive emails made me convinced the publisher had already given up on my work, how he nearly made me quit writing with his indifference. But the best revenge is to thrive. Garrett’s imprint has been struggling. He hasn’t landed anything on a bestseller list aside from titles from the literary estates of famous, deceased authors that he’s clinging to like a lifeboat. When the next economic contraction comes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out of a job. And I know what the whisper networks are saying behind his back—Garrett McKintosh had Juniper Song on his list, and he let The Last Front go. How stupid do you have to be? “Thank you,” I say. And then, becauseI can’t help it, “I’ve been really happy with the support I’m getting at Eden. Daniella is wonderful.” “Yeah, she’s brilliant. We were interns together at Harper.” He doesn’t elaborate, just smiles at me expectantly. I realize, horrified, that he’s trying to make small talk. I don’t need to impress him. I’m impressive enough as is. He wants to be seen with me. “Yeah,” I say, smiling tightly. “She’s so awesome.” And then, because I’m irritated now and becauseI want to twist the knife, “She really gets my vision, you know, in a way that’s wonderfully collaborative. I’ve never worked with someone so incisive before. I owe all my success to her.” He gets the hint. His expression sags. We trade some other niceties, give all the usual updates—I’m working on something new; he’s just signed an