Afterworlds by Scott Westerfeld Read Free Book Online Page B

wooden table with a drink-ringed, battered surface and three people sitting at it.
    Max ushered her forward. “Oscar, this is Darcy Patel.”
    Oscar Lassiter rose a little and offered his hand, beaming a class-president smile. “Nice to finally meet you!”
    As she took his hand, Darcy realized that the other faces at the table were familiar. She’d seen them in videos, as Twitter avatars, on book jackets.
    “Oh,” she said to the less famous of the two, a man with red horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket. “I follow you.”
    The man smiled at this, and Darcy felt foolish. The last time she’d checked, two hundred thousand people followed Coleman Gayle. Most of them didn’t read the Sword Singer books, he always complained, and were only there for his profane political commentary and profound knowledge of vintage sock monkeys.
    “Good to meet you, Darcy. You know Kiralee?”
    “Um, of course.” Darcy turned to face the woman at the table, but her gaze shied away. She could hear the tremor in her own voice. “I mean, we haven’t met. But I totally loved Bunyip .”
    “Oh dear, Coleman. She’s got it all wrong!” Kiralee cried. “Save her from herself!”
    The others all laughed, but Darcy was perplexed and slightly terrified.
    Oscar softly sat her down. “We were just discussing Coleman’s theory about the proper way to meet famous authors.”
    “You check their sales on BookScan the day before,” Coleman Gayle explained. “And whichever novel of theirs has sold the least copies, you say that one’s your favorite. Because that’s the one they think is criminally underappreciated.”
    “Easy for me, since all of mine sold the least.” Kiralee tipped back her glass until ice rattled. “Except bloody Bunyip , of course.”
    “ Dirawong ’s my favorite,” Darcy said, though really it was second to Bunyip .
    “Excellent choice,” Coleman said. “Given the criteria.”
    “BookScanning bastard!” Kiralee said to him while toasting Darcy with her empty glass.
    Darcy finally managed to meet the woman’s eye. In a gray hoodie, with twin white earbuds draped across her shoulders, Kiralee Taylor was dressed like a jogger. But she had the bearing of a dark faerie queen, her expression arch, her face framed by gray-streaked curly black hair.
    “Though I’m afraid I haven’t read your books,” she said to Darcy. “So I can hardly be picky about which you like of mine.”
    “No one’s read my books. Book.”
    “Darcy’s a deb,” Oscar supplied. “Paradox publishes her next fall.”
    “Congratulations,” Kiralee said, and all their drinks went up in salute.
    Heat crept across Darcy’s face. She realized that Max had disappeared without even a good-bye, but she was allowed to stay. Here, among these writers.
    She wondered how long before someone figured out she was an impostor and asked her to leave. Sitting here, she felt as though her little black dress didn’t fit anymore. It felt too big on her, as if Darcy were a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
    “Welcome to the longest year and a half of your life,” Oscar said. “Published but not printed.”
    “Like when you’ve kissed a boy but haven’t shagged him yet,” Kiralee said wistfully.
    “Like you would know.” Coleman turned to Darcy. “So what’s your book called?”
    “ Afterworlds ,” Darcy said.
    The three of them waited for her to go on, but a familiar paralysis crept over Darcy. It was always like this when someone asked about her novel. She knew from experience that whatever she said now would sound awkward, like listening to a recording of her own voice. How was she supposed to compress sixty thousand words into a few sentences?
    “It’s quite good,” Oscar finally offered. “I’m blurbing it.”
    “So it’s one of these tedious realistic novels?” Coleman asked. “All the rage now, aren’t they?”
    Oscar made a pfft noise. “My tastes are wider than yours. It’s a paranormal