was
published about its origins— that it had come from a fellow writer
who knew her work well. This writer had told his well- regarded
agent, who had passed on the information to a respected critic at
a Hamptons literary dinner party. It wasn’t hard to fi gure out
that this other writer was my dad, the agent was Stu, the party
was ours— and the fault was mine.
I truly hadn’t understood that this would be the result of my
e-mail. I’d wanted Stu to help create distance between my dad
and Karen— not to damage her career. When I wrote that her work
wasn’t original, I was just using the phrase I’d heard my dad use
whenever he wanted to put down a fellow writer, usually one who
had just received a good review. I hadn’t realized it was code for
—-1
being a plagiarist.
—0
—+1
S 81 T
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 81
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 81
10/2/13 7:32 AM
10/2/13 7:32 AM
Over the next week, I watched in horror, feeling increasingly
sick, as things for Karen went from bad to worse. Bloggers were
going out of their way to fi nd passages in her novel that were simi-
lar to other books. Every day, it seemed like a new sentence was
found, a new passage that was similar to something else, no mat-
ter how thin the evidence. Bookstores were returning her book in
droves. She was a cautionary tale on the publishing websites. Her
career as a novelist was over.
Karen had refused to speak to my dad ever since it came out
that he was the one who’d started all this, and she and Hallie
stopped coming by the house. And I came downstairs for a drink
of water one night to fi nd my dad hunched over the kitchen table,
his face pale and dotted with stubble.
“Hey, kid,” he said, and I heard just how tired his voice sounded.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shook my head and stayed where I was. I didn’t want to join
him at the table. I was afraid that if I did, I would confess, it would
all spill out of me— everything that I’d done.
“Me neither,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and I felt a sudden
stab of guilt, knowing that I had caused this. “I should tell you
something, Gem,” he said, looking over at me as I shifted my weight
from foot to foot and didn’t meet his eyes. “I fi red Stu.” I opened
my mouth and closed it again, at a loss for words. “I’m not going
to fi nish the book,” my dad continued, looking down at his hands.
“I’m done with novels. I don’t want to be a part of a business that
would treat someone this way.”
-1—
I just stood there, feeling myself shiver, even though it was a
0—
+1—
S 82 T
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 82
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 82
10/2/13 7:32 AM
10/2/13 7:32 AM
warm night. I tried to, but I couldn’t get my head around it. My
dad not writing was like my dad not having eyebrows, something
I couldn’t even fathom. What he’d just said threatened to upend
everything I had ever known as normal. And it was all my fault .
My stomach churned again and I wondered if I might be the fi rst
eleven- year- old in history to develop an ulcer.
O O O
The last time I saw Hallie that summer was a few days later.
I was sitting in the car as my dad stood by their house, hold-
ing a box of Karen’s things he’d brought back to her. Karen, her
face drawn, packed up her car. As a result of all the controversy,
she had been fi red from the summer writing workshop. Hallie
was sitting on the front steps, her head down. My dad was trying
to talk to Karen, but she just shook her head and walked back
inside, slamming the door behind her. My dad followed her into
the house, carry ing the box, and then it was just me and Hallie,
separated by a car window.
It occurred to me that I was fi nally getting what I had wanted,
what I had been working for, all summer— Karen and Hallie were
leaving. Things were over with her and my dad. I waited to feel
happy, victorious . . . but nothing happened.
And just like that, it was like the evil,
published about its origins— that it had come from a fellow writer
who knew her work well. This writer had told his well- regarded
agent, who had passed on the information to a respected critic at
a Hamptons literary dinner party. It wasn’t hard to fi gure out
that this other writer was my dad, the agent was Stu, the party
was ours— and the fault was mine.
I truly hadn’t understood that this would be the result of my
e-mail. I’d wanted Stu to help create distance between my dad
and Karen— not to damage her career. When I wrote that her work
wasn’t original, I was just using the phrase I’d heard my dad use
whenever he wanted to put down a fellow writer, usually one who
had just received a good review. I hadn’t realized it was code for
—-1
being a plagiarist.
—0
—+1
S 81 T
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 81
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 81
10/2/13 7:32 AM
10/2/13 7:32 AM
Over the next week, I watched in horror, feeling increasingly
sick, as things for Karen went from bad to worse. Bloggers were
going out of their way to fi nd passages in her novel that were simi-
lar to other books. Every day, it seemed like a new sentence was
found, a new passage that was similar to something else, no mat-
ter how thin the evidence. Bookstores were returning her book in
droves. She was a cautionary tale on the publishing websites. Her
career as a novelist was over.
Karen had refused to speak to my dad ever since it came out
that he was the one who’d started all this, and she and Hallie
stopped coming by the house. And I came downstairs for a drink
of water one night to fi nd my dad hunched over the kitchen table,
his face pale and dotted with stubble.
“Hey, kid,” he said, and I heard just how tired his voice sounded.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shook my head and stayed where I was. I didn’t want to join
him at the table. I was afraid that if I did, I would confess, it would
all spill out of me— everything that I’d done.
“Me neither,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and I felt a sudden
stab of guilt, knowing that I had caused this. “I should tell you
something, Gem,” he said, looking over at me as I shifted my weight
from foot to foot and didn’t meet his eyes. “I fi red Stu.” I opened
my mouth and closed it again, at a loss for words. “I’m not going
to fi nish the book,” my dad continued, looking down at his hands.
“I’m done with novels. I don’t want to be a part of a business that
would treat someone this way.”
-1—
I just stood there, feeling myself shiver, even though it was a
0—
+1—
S 82 T
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 82
105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 82
10/2/13 7:32 AM
10/2/13 7:32 AM
warm night. I tried to, but I couldn’t get my head around it. My
dad not writing was like my dad not having eyebrows, something
I couldn’t even fathom. What he’d just said threatened to upend
everything I had ever known as normal. And it was all my fault .
My stomach churned again and I wondered if I might be the fi rst
eleven- year- old in history to develop an ulcer.
O O O
The last time I saw Hallie that summer was a few days later.
I was sitting in the car as my dad stood by their house, hold-
ing a box of Karen’s things he’d brought back to her. Karen, her
face drawn, packed up her car. As a result of all the controversy,
she had been fi red from the summer writing workshop. Hallie
was sitting on the front steps, her head down. My dad was trying
to talk to Karen, but she just shook her head and walked back
inside, slamming the door behind her. My dad followed her into
the house, carry ing the box, and then it was just me and Hallie,
separated by a car window.
It occurred to me that I was fi nally getting what I had wanted,
what I had been working for, all summer— Karen and Hallie were
leaving. Things were over with her and my dad. I waited to feel
happy, victorious . . . but nothing happened.
And just like that, it was like the evil,
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