Eight Million Souls (FINISHED)

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

Fiona’s fingers skimmed the rows of books, her green eyes glancing over the titles carelessly. The New York Public Library had over fifty-three million things to check out- but Fiona couldn’t work herself up about any of them. She sighed and her hand dropped to her pocket. Today’s just not my day, she thought sadly. She hadn’t had a good reading day in a while. It seemed ages and ages ago since she’d worked on the Book, and even longer since she’d stayed up all night to finish a book- something that was pretty routine for Fiona Price. But there wasn’t much she could do but wait for the inspiration to hit her. She’d learned from experience that forced muse killed stories faster than she could start them.

It’s no problem, she thought. Somewhere in this city- somewhere in this huge city- is my muse. All I have to do is find it. Yeah. She shook her head. Like that’s going to happen. Face it, Fi, you’re just going to have to wait until the next storm and then hope a bolt of something good hits you.

Fiona walked back to the table where she’d left her things slowly, regretting the fact that the only things she was checking out that day were a soundtrack to an old movie and a volume of Shakespeare. Her hand came out of her pocket one last time, and she moved down the row, not paying any attention to what her hand was jumping over.

Something caught her fingertips. Fiona blinked and looked at it. The binding was cracked. It was a little book, no more than a hundred pages or so. She pulled it off of the shelf. She knew the author- the woman had written a lot of fiction, fairy tales and things like that. But this wasn’t a fairy tale. It was an instruction manual. A book on how to write a story? thought Fiona, turning the book over in her hands. I guess that’s what I need. Maybe she’s got tips on what to do when you’ve got no creative juice left.

Her pace picked up. She put the book on the short stack of items she wanted to check out and put her things away- her notebook went back into her bag with her laptop and her copy of Harry Potter, an old favorite. Fiona would never outgrow kids’ books. Then she looked around. ”Julia?” she called as loudly as she dared. It still wasn’t very loud. ”Julia, are you ready to go?”

Of course she’d had to take Julia Bertram with her. The girl was a little younger than Fiona, and slightly more bearable than her older sister, Maria. Fiona and Julia had grown up together- they were cousins- but it didn’t mean they had to be friends. Julia was as self-absorbed as her older sister, and all of the Bertrams looked down on the Price girl. So whenever Fiona wanted to go somewhere, unless she could slip away for a few hours, she had to go with her cousins or her aunt. Not that she needed the escort- but they did. So when Fiona said she was going to the library, Julia had volunteered to go with- but of course, as always, the trip had turned from a stop at the library to a shopping spree. Fiona had wheedled her cousin into letting her come to the library when the ordeal was over, but Julia was easily bored. Chances were she’d wandered off in search of boys- and then Fiona would get in trouble for losing her cousin.

”Julia?” Fiona called quietly. ”I’m all done, we can go home now. Julia?”

She didn’t see her cousin anywhere. Sighing and massaging her temples with one hand, Fiona picked up her bag and draped her coat over her arm. Where on Earth is she now? she wondered wearily. Juggling her coat, her bag, the books, Julia’s bag and Julia’s coat proved to be too much to handle for the skinny girl. She lost her grip, and everything fell to the floor. Fiona’s shoulders slumped. Oh, this is just too much, she thought. I just want this day to be over already.

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[LING LING DONGFENG]

Muse is a funny thing for Ling Ling. She was never one to have copious amounts of it, or be able to write consistently. No, she had to be in the mood for writing, and if she wasn’t in the mood, she couldn’t write. It came often enough to keep her going, but the urge to paint came more often. Unfortunately, paints were more expensive than pencils and paper, and she needed to keep her best paints for clients, and so sometimes she had to hold back the need to create.

It was so frustrating, knowing a masterpiece was brewing behind her eyes, and yet be unable to make it purely because of financial resolution. However she had good self-restraint, and good coping mechanisms. One of those was reading. She loved to read, even if she had to look up words often. She liked to marvel at the things that other people had made, the words that had poured from their hearts and souls and minds alike. They were inspiring, just like looking at other peoples’ artwork was also very motivating.

It was one of those days when she wanted to paint but had to save it, and didn’t want to write, and so she went to the library. She didn’t have a card yet, so she quickly registered with the kind lady at the desk. After signing her name on her new card, she decided to look around for a bit, trying out the new variety of books at hand. The library was larger than the one she’d known before with at least four levels, counting the basement. Possibly more. Endless.

She spent a while looking around, browsing for books, picking a few out to check home. Once she had about five, she decided she would come back another day, when it wasn’t so late in the day. Nodding in resolution, Ling Ling turned to find her way back to the front desk. She heard a girl from somewhere call “Julia? Julia, are you ready to go?” Ling Ling wondered briefly who Julia was. She often made up short-lived characters in her head, on the spot, just because, and now she was imaging the different possibilities of who Julia could be. But no, she stopped herself, she needn’t do this now.

She walked forward, and she heard the voice again. Quieter this time, but just as loud to Ling Ling herself, because she was closer. “Julia? I’m all done, we can go home now. Julia?” Ling Ling looked to her right and saw a young girl who seemed around the same age as her rubbing her head in frusteration, apparently at the lack of the girl named Julia. Suddenly the other girl dropped a pile of coats, bags and books from her arms to the ground, and her shoulders dropped in something akin to desperation.

Ling Ling felt bad for her and set her small pile of books on a nearby table before walking a few paces closer to the other girl. Silently, she started picking up a few of the books, neatly stacking them in her arms to give back to the stranger. She noted one of the books was on writing stories and one, dropped out of one of the bags, a battered copy of Harry Potter. She smiled. This girl was perhaps a writer too, and shared love towards Harry Potter, if the carefully packed but well-used copy was anything to go by.

Still kneeling on the balls of her feet, she placed the now stacked books aside and started gathering the two bags on her arms, carefully dropping the things that had fallen out of them back. She wondered if the girl minded her silent help, and looked up, trying to meet the other girl’s eyes for a sign of whether or not her assistance was welcome.

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

Fiona was close to tears. It had been a long day. She got down on her knees and started to pick things up- Julia’s bag had spilled everywhere, and of course she had to carry around a full arsenal of makeup and jewelry. But suddenly another pair of hands was picking things up, too- they belonged to a very pretty Asian girl about Fiona’s age. The girl had long, dark hair and big brown eyes, and her smile lit up her face.

The girl smiled when she caught sight of the copy of Harry Potter, and with both of them putting things back, it didn’t take long to finish clearing up the spilled mess. The girl met Fiona’s gaze, a rather uncertain look on her face, and Fiona smiled at her. ”Thank you,” she said, unable to hide the relief in her voice. ”That would have taken ages to clean up by myself.”

She stood up and took the bags from the other girl, slinging one- Julia’s- over her shoulder, and holding her own bag in her elbow. Then she stuck out a hand. Something in the girl’s face made Fiona like her- there was a creative shine in her eyes that told Fiona that here was a fellow writer, a fellow artist of some kind. And certainly the girl would be able to see it in Fiona- the pencil shoved into her thick hair, graphite stains on her hand up past her left wrist, the scribbled notes on the back of her right hand- everything about her said she was a writer, even if the writing book, the notepad, the laptop, and the well-loved books didn’t give it away first. ”I’m Fiona,” she said, smiling.

Fiona had never had many friends. In school, she’d been the quiet one, the one who never said much. And even if she’d been a social butterfly, it was clear that the Bertram girls didn’t like their cousin, and no one liked to disagree with the popular, pretty, powerful Bertram girls. So her friends had been limited to Edmund and those in her imagination, the friends she’d invented or imagined into being from books and movies. Her only real, concrete friend had been Edmund- and he’d never been one for writing or drawing like Fiona was. He didn’t really understand the creativity that she fed on, the fuel she needed to survive. And yet, here was this girl who had the same creative sparkle that Fiona had so often imagined on her daydream friends. The possibilities were making Fiona excited- what if, just this one time, she could have a friend with the same impulses, the same need to express herself through art, no matter what the medium? That would make Edmund’s absence and the Bertrams’ presence bearable. It would make her life so much easier, so much more full.

Fiona looked around quickly. ”Hey, you haven’t seen another girl around here, have you? About my height, blond hair, probably talking to a boy or three?” She felt almost guilty adding in the last bit. Almost. So long as it’s true, what’s the harm? she thought, ignoring her own sense of right and wrong for the moment.

[LING LING DONGFENG]

Together the two girls quickly picked up the small disaster in little time. When they were done, the other girl finally spoke. "Thank you. That would have taken ages to clean up by myself," she said, relief obvious in her voice. Ling Ling felt sympathetic for her, and nodded, watching the other strategically sling the bags and coats over the shoulder and in her arms so that she could hold them well enough not to drop them again.

The girl held out her hand to shake. Ling Ling showed an unnoticeable second of hesitation before smiling shyly and shaking. She's been living in the states for two years now, yes, but she still started to remember American customs. Not that she had never shook hands with people before that in China, but the gesture was more uncommon; it was much more casual here. "I'm Fiona," the other girl introduced herself.

Ling Ling's eyes swept over the girl's exposed arms a moment before answering. There were hastily scribbled notes and stains made by pen and pencil, and there was another pencil in her - Fiona's - hair. Definitely a creator of some kind, then. Ling Ling beamed, happy to meet someone like her. And so close in age, too! She didn't often interact with the other students in her night class, only when she had to, but it was because of shyness and language difficulties, not because she wasn't interested in meeting other people her age. She briefly wondered what stories her own hands told. There were a few like stains on them, but they were from paint, not pencil and pen; she did a lot of her writing on her laptop nowadays. It was faster, that way. There were so many stories that could be told in her, or anyone's hands, if you looked closely enough. Fiona's said creative, a writer, frantic in ideas and ready to make do with what resources she had at hand. Ling Ling supposed her own also said creative, along with painter, and perhaps showed a few marks of what was once a long experimentation in methods of relief that she found eventually uncomfortable and causing more bad than good.

"Ling Ling," she answered, just a little proud of herself for remembering the right order of names. "Ling Ling Dongfeng." She returned the smile. She tried to assume that the other girl wouldn't mind terribly her accent.

”Hey, you haven’t seen another girl around here, have you? About my height, blond hair, probably talking to a boy or three," Fiona said, looking around. Ah, so that was Julia. Ling Ling was a little confused by the 'or three' thing, but didn't ask.

"No, I am sorry," she said apologetically. "I may help you look if you want," she smiled again. She liked helping, and hoped her offer wouldn't be turned down. She looked at the bits of things hanging awkwardly in pools off Fiona and motioned towards her. "And let me help you carry your things." She hoped she didn't sound too much like that was an order; she had trouble with putting emotions into tones, sometimes.

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

Fiona looked at the other girl’s hands with some measure of appreciation. They were far cleaner than Fiona’s, but she could see paint stains and smiled. A painter, she thought. Someone who maybe sees the world in images and descriptions, not stories and characters like I do. The Asian girl was beaming at her, and Fiona let herself think that maybe she’d found someone as lonely for a fellow artist as she was.

”Ling Ling. Ling Ling Dongfeng.” Her accent was strong and thick, but Fiona enjoyed the sound of it, and at any rate, it was what she said that mattered, not how she said it. All the same, Fiona’s mind was racing, filling in the blanks of her knowledge about Ling Ling. I think that’s a Chinese accent- maybe she’s just moved here? Her English is very good. Fiona had always wanted to learn another language- Italian or Arabic, maybe, or Hindi- something that sounded cool. From what little Fiona knew about Chinese- written and spoken- she knew it couldn't be easy to go from Mandarin to English.

Fiona couldn’t say she was strictly disappointed when Ling Ling admitted she hadn’t seen Julia. Good riddance to her, thought Fiona saucily, then felt guilty for thinking it. She probably wandered off in search of someone to talk to. She’s got her phone- she’ll be okay. ”I may help you look if you want,” offered the girl. Fiona returned her smile. ”She’s probably just looking for something to do,” Fiona said, but her face gave away her thoughts. Fiona didn’t much like her cousins, and though Julia was better than Maria, it was by a slim margin. It’s a library- she could read, she could listen to music, she could find a movie or get on the Internet… there’s lots of things to do here. But if she’s not getting adored by hordes of sniveling boys, what’s the point, right, Julia? she thought drily. ”I guess she’ll be okay for now,” Fiona continued. Sometimes she got a feeling- a vibe from a certain person- that made her want to get to know them better. Edmund had the vibe. So did Inspector Lestrade, a police officer who’d stumbled into the café where Fiona worked and captured her interest. And so did this girl, this Ling Ling Dongfeng. There was something about her, something about the way she carried herself, that convinced Fiona there was a story behind her- and Fiona was nothing if not a lover of stories.

Ling Ling moved toward Fiona, motioning at the bags in her arms. ”And let me help you carry your things.”

Fiona had heard the lectures on stranger danger at school- she knew the rules for being safe in New York. But if she’d wanted to take these things, she had her chance when I was picking them up. She could have taken everything then, she thought, and nodded to the girl. ”Thanks. My cousin- Julia- she always puts so much into her purses, they all weigh a ton.”

She let the other girl take a bag and nodded to her hands, to the smears of paint on her pale skin. ”Are you a painter, then? she asked, genuinely interested. Most of the painters she knew were long dead- Van Gogh, da Vinci, Matisse. The modern painters, the ones who had galleries and art shows in the city, weren't ones to draw her interest. It's like they just throw paint at a canvas and call it art, she thought. Anyone can do that. But the real painting, the true art- that takes talent. I can't do that. I can throw paint. She had to admit that she was interested in meeting a painter- maybe she could ask why a few lines on a blue surface was considered art.

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[LING LING DONGFENG]

Ling Ling listened as Fiona dismissed the girl she was looking for, and by the look on her face, she was pretty sure that there might be a reason along the lines of ‘I actually don’t want to find her but I can’t leave without her,’ or something like that. Probably some kid that Fiona had been forced to take along with her here. She took the single bag that Fiona handed her to carry, which was a lot less than she could have taken, but at least Fiona had trusted her enough to carry that. Well, not trusted, but was open enough to letting a stranger help. Which, thinking about it, was just what books in America told child not to do. Strange. Ah, well, she dismissed the thought. If someone was going to trust her so openly, she wouldn’t complain unless the other girl decided to get a little closer.

“Thanks,” Fiona said, “My cousin – Julia – she always puts o much into her purses, they all weigh a ton.” Ling Ling nodded. She knew how heavy carrying even a little could seem after a long enough time. And all that actually looked quite heavy even for a short amount of time. “Are you a painter, then?”

Ling Ling was startled for a second, then remembered: the hands. Right, that made sense, didn’t it. She’d deduced things easily enough from Fiona’s, it was reasonable that the other girl had done the same to her own. Of course, she could have been painting her bathroom or something. But she hadn’t been, and she wasn’t going to any time soon.

“Yes, I am a painter,” she said, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want to be yelled at in the library for speaking so much, though she supposed if they kept their voices to a minimum it wouldn’t be a problem. “Well, one half of my time. The other one half I am a writer.” She wondered if Fiona would be impressed. She liked praise, even if it was empty, but she doubted Fiona would give her some. But she wanted Fiona to be impressed because she had found someone else that was her age who did the same thing. Fiona didn’t look like much of an artist, but definitely a writer. A creator. And they were all in the same boat.

She looked down the short isle of books they were in and motioned with her hand to the table she’d set her books at a few paces away. “Would you want to sit down?” She asked, trying not to sound too pushy. But she wanted to talk to Fiona longer, the girl was interesting and a creator and the same age as she, and so she wanted to sit and enjoy herself, not just stand as if they might walk away at any second. She wondered if that was rudely devious of her for thinking of the tragedy to keep Fiona there. Then again, she didn’t seem too keen on finding Julia at the moment.

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

Ling Ling accepted the bag without a word, and nodded when Fiona mentioned her pesky cousin. When Fiona asked whether she was an artist, she looked surprised, but answered. ”Yes, I am a painter.” She kept her voice quiet, even quieter than Fiona’s. Her voice was soft, and had none of the sharp edges or vowels that American accents possessed. ”Well, one half of my time,” admitted the Asian girl. ”The other one half I am a writer.”

Fiona blinked, surprised. A smile spread across her face. ”Me, too!” she said delightedly, lowering her voice to the same volume. Even as quiet as she was, though, she couldn’t keep the excitement out of her tone. Her instinct had done her credit- Ling Ling was a fellow writer, another inventor of words and ideas. Fiona had met precious few, even in the bustling city. Eight million people in Manhattan, she thought, and I’ve never met another serious storyteller here until now, not even when I’ve lived here for almost eight years. Ling Ling motioned to a table a little ways away. ”Would you want to sit down?” she asked. Fiona nodded. There were a few books at the table, though she couldn’t see the titles from where she was. ”I’m sorry,” said Fiona, shaking her head in disbelief. ”I just can’t believe it. I’ve lived here for a long time- in this city, I mean- and I’ve never met anyone else who loved to write stories.”

Few people really understood Fiona's love of a good story. Edmund liked to read, as did her older brother William, but neither of them had her fascination with words, with the way the story moved, with characters. They enjoyed the story well enough- but that was as far as they went. Fiona utterly disdained of "fanfiction"- most of what she had seen was mediocre stuff, insertion of perfect characters into already well-done plotlines created by someone else. No, it was true creation that attracted her, the euphoria of making something brand new. Edmund couldn't understand why she never went with orthodox characters or stories- but it was all too done, too overused. Telling a story from the perspective of the antagonist, or a minor character, that was a challenge for Fiona just because she didn't often see it- and she loved that kind of challenge. Creating characters with more flaws than strengths, writing about ideas no one stopped to consider, that was what made Fiona love writing so much. Now that she'd finally met someone who shared the passion, she couldn't help but wonder if Ling Ling had the same need to be original- or if she chose to go over the usual material.

It doesn't matter, thought Fiona stolidly. Just meeting someone who calls herself a writer is enough. She sat down at the table and peered at the new friend. "I don't suppose you like to write fiction, do you?" she asked hopefully. "My specialty's fairy tales, things like that."

[LING LING DONGFENG]

”Me, too!” Fiona cried rather loudly, and Ling Ling was so delighted that she really didn't care about the noise the other girl was making, her face beaming. How wonderful, to meet a person who was a writer and appeared to be her age! However Ling Ling knew most people at her years had not dropped out of school when they were small children, and were only just beginning college, rather than living alone in a flat making their own livings. Still, even if writing was just a hobby for Fiona, Ling Ling saw no matter in the object; the girl had introduced herself as a writer - thought herself to be one - and that drive itself was enough for her to be intruiged.

Fiona and she walked towards the table where her books were, and Fiona said, ”I’m sorry, I just can’t believe it. I’ve lived here for a long time- in this city, I mean- and I’ve never met anyone else who loved to write stories.” Well, that was certainly peculiar; how could she have not? Authors meet other authors all the time, they are drawn to each other, and besides, she'd had to go to small interviews and parties before, where most of the occupants were writers of some sort themselves. It was strange, that she'd never met any, but Fiona seemed earnest, shaking her head in disbelief. Perhaps she was just referring to writers who were her age. Or, slightly more disappointing but not to be expressed, Fiona really did just find writing as a hobby. That wasn't a bad thing, per say, it just meant that when she would inevitably look for things to read by Fiona, the would be hard or even impossible to find.

They sat at the table with her books placed in their neat pile on top of it. Fiona sat on one side of the thin rectangular furniture, and Ling Ling sat across from each other, her eager-to-know-more expression that she knew she wore mirrored in Fiona's own eyes.  "I don't suppose you like to write fiction, do you?" Fiona asked, her tone conveying that she hoped that Ling Ling did. "My specialty's fairy tales, things like that," she finished, confirming Ling Ling's suspicions.

"Yes, sometimes," she said, nodding. "I've some fiction published." She didn't elaborate, not wanting to sound snotty, but a small, still jealous part of her wanted an excuse just to explain about her creations. She wrote mostly articles, news reports, creative descriptions for things that needed it, because that was what most of her commissions were for. However she had written a few things on her own accord that were actually published, and for that - and really only that - she was irrevocably proud of herself for doing.

One, was a collection of short stories about a young boy named Rory, and his life. His big sister was jealous of his talent, but they loved each other still. It was classified as fiction. She never said in interviews how most of it's not. The second was sligtly more widely received, and got good reviews that made her heart swell; a book written all in letters between two women who shared a deep and trusting relationship. Though they marry and drift physically apart, they remain important to each other even though distance separates them. Finally, she'd had a few of her short stories published in magazines and independent publishers' collections, some of which were fiction and some of which were biographical (though if they are autobiographical, she never publicly said that they are).

"Fairy tales are good," she said. "I like them." Ling Ling had painted for a good few children's books before, and she considered really any kid's book a fairy tale. They were interesting, and played with the mind, deeper meanings hidden under a cheery or woeful take that will always start and end the same way.

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

Published? thought Fiona. She’s published? That’s incredible! I wonder how she did it- I could never figure it out. She felt slightly less comfortable now, slightly more amateurish in the presence of a published author. ”What have you written?” she asked quietly, her head cocked slightly to one side. ”Maybe I’ve read it.”

Fiona read everything- newspapers, magazines, detective stories, science fiction, fairy tales, autobiographies, textbooks… She read so much that it was impossible for her to go to sleep without having read a book during the day. Fiona had been slowly working her way through the children’s section of the New York Public Library, pausing for anything else that caught her attention. Her love of reading had stemmed from days when she’d lived with her real family, and there had been no TV, no Internet. Fiona had never been one for running around with the others, preferring to stay inside. The local library was free- and furthermore, it was full. Fiona made her way through almost the whole building- or as much of it as the librarians didn’t censor- before she’d been shipped off to Manhattan. And for the first few months or so, all she’d had to get on with was the few books she’d taken with her from home. Then she’d discovered the library in New York, the building with eight million books and no limits on how much you could check out at one time. For Fiona Price, it was love at first sight.

She read anything she could get her hands on- and some of it- most of it- was material no one else had even heard of, stuff that had never gotten a lot of attention from the media. So the chances that she’d read something of Ling Ling’s were better than usual.

”I’ve been trying to find someone who’s interested in my stories,” said Fiona wistfully, ”but most places won’t look at my work since I don’t have an agent.”
And the trouble was that most agents wouldn’t look at anything she put on paper- unless it was green. Fiona didn’t have the money for college, for agents, or the security needed to get loans from the bank. She was stuck, and the only way out was to wait or to win the lottery somehow. But it didn’t mean she hadn’t finished anything.

Hidden underneath a floorboard in her room were two flash drives and a fat stack of paper- all of her finished work. It amounted to three novels and a growing collection of short stories. It was Fiona’s most precious possession, more important to her than anything. ”Fairy tales are good. I like them,” said Ling Ling in the quiet voice Fiona was beginning to like. Her accent was strong, but her English was excellent, and Fiona had to respect her for being able to learn another language- Fiona’s brief spell trying to learn French in school hadn’t gone over well, and the German had only been marginally better. She had a lot of admiration for people who could speak more than one language, no matter what their skill level. For someone who was fluent she had a lot of respect.

”They’ve always been my favorites,” she said to the girl. ”I’ve tried writing other kinds of stories, but nothing works as well as fairy tales.”

It was for a simpler reason than most people imagined. In fairy tales, there was always hope, always a happy ending. No matter how much suffering went on in the middle, the ending always went well. The idea of a story that ended happily kept her hopeful. If they can have happy endings, she thought, then I can, too, someday. And it was that elusive “someday”, that chance for something else, that made it possible for her to keep going.

[LING LING DONGFENG]

“They’ve always been my favorites,” Fiona said, smiling. Ling Ling liked the smile; it was nice, it fit the girl’s face well. She had a nice face, smooth and rounder than most around here. “I’ve tried writing other kinds of stories, but nothing works as well as fairy tales.” Ling Ling nodded in agreement. It was easy to stick to one style of story, one style of writing, until there’s nothing left to write about the topic. After all, originality was good, but consistency in style was easy, and acceptable.

“What have you written? Maybe I’ve read it,” Fiona asked. Ling Ling shrugged. She doubted it – her books, though got very good reviews, were not popular to most.

"Well… a one book called Letters to Hope For and a one book called A Perfect Shadow," she said, because they were the only two books she has published solely by her. She didn’t want to brag – they weren’t nearly good enough to even think about bragging about, if that was in her nature, and it wasn’t – but she felt to urge to tell Fiona more, because so rarely the opportunity to speak to girls her age about her greatest love – the power of pure creation – came in this life. She must seize the opportunity gladly.

"I have a lot of short stories and news articles mostly, they're not very popular; I really doubt you have read them. I mean, I mostly illustrate anyway." She tried to finish, biting back excited words. In truth, she preferred some of the short stories she wrote rather than the novels, but they were harder to find, mixed in with the thousands of others in omnibuses full of secluded authors’ works. She thought of mentioning that she went by her professional name when published, but decided that Fiona, if she'd read any of Ling Ling's materials, could figure it out on her own by the titles she’d given.

“I’ve been trying to find someone who’s interested in my stories,” Fiona admitted, her tone slightly hopeful and disappointed all at once. “But most places won’t look at my work since I don’t have an agent.”

Ling Ling wasn’t surprised, due to logic. But still, she’d wished… "Oh," she said dumbly, managing to keep the regret from her tone. She suddenly got the brilliant idea of offering up her own publisher, but no, bad idea. After all, she had no idea how well this girl actually wrote. Susan would probably scold her for her un-thinking eagerness. Of course unless… "I can see it?" She asked, her phrasing awkward. "I mean, if you would want, I could look at some of your work and maybe connect you with a publisher if it is good?” She hoped that didn’t sound too self-righteous, but Fiona had seemed impressed when she’d mentioned being published – a fact that made her heart swell just a little – and so if she was truly dedicated, Ling Ling convinced her conscious that Fiona would recognize her offer as a god chance, and not as her looking down upon others.

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

”Well… one book called Letters to Hope For and a one book called A Perfect Shadow,” said Ling Ling. Fiona nodded. The first one she didn’t think she’d read, but the Perfect Shadow sounded vaguely familiar. There had been a time in Fiona’s life- a time she was now almost ashamed of- when she’d been only too happy to read books about shadows and death and dark things that won in the end. It had not been a good time for her, and she still had the emotional scars- though she buried them deep enough that even Edmund couldn’t see them.

Edmund was the only other person in the world who knew about her writing stash. Once she’d made him promise that if she died, if she ever got hurt or went mad, that he’d take the writing and keep it for himself and read all of it- even the Book. She’d been very young at the time, but she would still hold him to it if he ever came home from college. But even Edmund, even her best friend in the world, couldn’t share her joy in finding the right words. He wasn’t one for writing. He liked reading well enough- but Edmund was a normal boy, and books didn’t hold the same appeal for him as people- especially girls these days- did. So Fiona wrote alone. It was lonely sometimes, but she was well used to it.

Not that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to have a friend who understood, she thought. Not that it wouldn’t be beyond amazing to have someone else know what the words mean to me.

”I have a lot of short stories and news articles mostly, they’re not very popular; I really doubt you have read them. I mean, I mostly illustrate anyway.” Ling Ling’s face was bright, and she looked as excited as Fiona felt. Fiona made a face, but she was still smiling. ”Lucky,” she said. ”I wish I was good at art- the extent of my drawing abilities is pretty much limited to stick figures.” She shook her head a little. Most of her drawings as a little girl had to be accompanied by explanations of what they were. I’m beginning to think this girl is too good for me, she thought, a little nervously. She can speak two languages well, she can write well enough to get published, she can draw or paint well enough to have her work in books… I’m so meager in comparison.

Of course, it was probably healthy for the aspiring writer to meet someone who already had something published at roughly the same age. As the only passionate writer she knew, Fiona was beginning to get an ego. She always did well on essays and English classes- even the history materials were a breeze when she read as much as she did. If she was honest with herself, Fiona would admit that she often thought herself a cut above people her own age, better with words and ideas, more mature- smarter, too. Ling Ling is good for my ego as well as my social life, she thought, and regretted the thought almost instantly. She didn’t want to make friends who would be useful. Well, no, she did- but she didn’t want to befriend people because of what they could do for her. That was Maria’s signature move, one Julia was picking up. Fiona was different- or at least she tried to be. The seventeen-year-old didn’t want to think that her cousins’ habits were rubbing off on her.

”Oh,” said Ling Ling faintly when Fiona explained that no one would take her work. Fiona dug her fingernails into her palm under the table- she hadn’t meant it to come out the way it had. I don’t want pity! she thought wildly. It is how it is- my not being able to find an agent or a publisher is just the way it is right now. There’s nothing anyone could do about that.

Or maybe there was.

”I can see it? I mean, if you would want, I could look at some of your work and maybe connect you with a publisher if it is good?”

Fiona’s jaw dropped.

”Are you… are you kidding?” she asked faintly, shaking her head in wonder. ”You… you’d do that? Gosh…”

She blinked rapidly. This was too much. Too good to be true. There are eight million people in this city, she thought. And I get the one who’s a writer- the one who gets it, who understands the words, and not only does she get it, but she’s willing to see if anyone will give me a chance? I must be dreaming…

But the leftover sting in her palm from where she’d dug her nails into her hand was evidence to the contrary. She swallowed once, twice, and a slow smile spread across her face. ”I… yeah, of course you can read it,” she said in delighted disbelief. She pulled her bag across the table, scribbling her email address on a scrap of paper. ”I’ve got most of it on my computer,” she said, ”but I did print a few chapters out the other day- I meant to edit it again.”
The first four chapters of the Book were almost done- a little tweaking here and there was all they wanted for her to be satisfied with her work. The rest of it was mostly finished- but the ending was still in progress. Fiona slid the red folder with the first four chapters across the table to Ling Ling with the scrap of paper. ”Please,” she said, ”let me know what you think. I’ve only showed one other person, and, well… he’s not much of a critic.”

[LING LING DONGFENG]

“Are you… are you kidding?” Fiona asked, disbelieving. Ling Ling smiled; the other girl was having a hard time imagining her offer. She found it easy to assume that the reason she was so was having such a hard time finding a publisher was because it’s hard to start out, and not because the writing was awful. “You… you’d do that? Gosh…” She looked overwhelmed with the casual kindness that Ling Ling had offered.

“I… yeah, of course you can read it,” she said, suddenly hurrying to write her email address on a piece of paper she took from her bag. “I’ve got most of it on my computer, but did print a few chapters out the other day – I mean to edit it again.” And then she slid a red folder, also from her bag across the table to her. Ling Ling nodded, meeting Fiona’s eyes. Holding the stories of your heart to a stranger was a huge leap of faith – a risk that Ling Ling was proud Fiona was taking with her – and she knew it meant so much. “Please, let me know what you think. I’ve only showed one other person, and, well… he’s not much of a critic.”

“Of course,” Ling Ling said earnestly, and ripped the piece of paper Fiona had given her in half, keeping the half with the email written down and on the other half writing her own.

’[e-mail]’ she wrote in her neat, careful hand, and pushed the paper back across the table to Fiona. “Here is mine,” she said.

“FIONA.” Suddenly there was a girl complaining at Fiona’s side, and Ling Ling was smart enough to assume that this was Julia. She grimaced politely at her new friend. “I suppose you’d better get going then. I’ll look over this,” she motioned to the red folder, “And email me.”

[FIONA "FANNY" PRICE]

”Of course,” said Ling Ling brightly, writing in neat, perfect handwriting on the paper Fiona passed to her. ”Here is mine,” she said. Fiona read the immaculate handwriting- [e-mail].

Fiona didn’t hear Julia coming, a fairly unusual occurrence. “FIONA,” she said crossly, obviously impatient to leave. The sound of her cousin’s voice was enough to ruin her peaceful, happy mood- now Fiona felt more like being contrary and snappish. Julia and Maria had a gift for making her feel that way. Fiona closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she looked at her cousin. Julia was the closest to Fiona’s age, but they couldn’t have been more different. Fiona’s style was all about staying out of the way, not drawing attention to herself. Julia’s style was the exact opposite, to put it mildly.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, folding her arms and glaring Fiona down. She ignored Ling Ling, though the look on the Asian girl’s face matched Fiona’s feeling. Fiona resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ”I looked for you, but you disappeared,” she said quietly. Julia lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I’m here now. Get a move on.”
She snatched her bag off of the table, not bothering to wait for her cousin as she sauntered off.

Fiona sighed. ”Sorry about that,” she said to Ling Ling. Her face turned a little red- Julia was always embarrassing. Maria could be- but she was getting better, mostly because she and Fiona no longer spent any time together. But Fiona often got saddled with the youngest Bertram, and every time they went out, Fiona was guaranteed to spend at least half of the time cringing. ”I suppose you’d better get going, then. I’ll look over this,” said her new friend as she gestured to the folder. ”And email me.”

Fiona nodded and smiled a little, taking the slip of paper and putting it in the outside pocket of her satchel. ”I guess I’ll see you around, then,” she said. Then Fiona turned around and left. Normally, letting the red folder out of her sight made her itch with worry- it was her baby, her beloved. Leaving it alone was out of the question.

But this one time, this one day, Fiona wasn’t worried.

[LING LING DONGFENG]

Ling Ling watched as Fiona and Julia exchanged a short row before Julia trotted off looking huffy. Though she didn't like the judge, Ling Ling had the feeling that Julia was a bit of a brat. "Sorry about that," Fiona apologized. Ling Ling just shrugged; it wasn't like it was her fault.

"I guess I'll see you around, then," Fiona said and pocketed the piece of paper with Ling Ling's email on it. Ling Ling stayed sitting at the table as Fiona walked off, and Ling Ling thought that the other girl looked a bit happier than before. A selfish part of her liked that she was possibly the cause of her smile.

Ling Ling stayed sitting at the table, flipping through the red folder and looking through the words of Fiona's writings. She didn't bother getting too much into it right at the moment, but it looked good for the few words she saw. She wasn't sure what it was about, and suddenly she wondered if offering this was a bad idea. After all, she did have her own job to take care of; what if she didn't have the time to finish this? But no, she was a fast reader, and she;d never had a problem with managing her time before, so she'd be fine, she thought.

Smiling, she stood with her pile of books in her arms and went to the front of the building to check her books out. "Thank you," she said to the librarian, and walking out of the building, found that her day had been considerably lightened by the idea of having a friend in this city who was her own age and who, best of all, knew how to create.