The Definitive Guide to BluesClues' Novels

Secondary World Fantasies:

• The Moor Ponies - low fantasy in a vaguely Scottish setting, completed a first draft and never revised.
• a story about a prince in an extremely obvious Narnia that I otherwise remember almost no details about, mostly (?) completed a first draft and never revised
• The Two - don't remember much about this one? except that two people were in love BUT LITTLE DID THEY KNOW that it was sort of an R&J situation. I think this was the same story that was inspired by some Egyptian pharaonic names I read in some copy of National Geographic (?) once, where the main characters were like Meryre and Meryn or something, but I'm not entirely sure this was the same story, I remember so little of it - definitely did not complete any significant portion of a first draft
• the Meryre/Meryn story, assuming it was a different story, in which a queen was murdered and the prince, one of two newborn twins, ended up being raised by some farmers somewhere - I don't think I finished a first draft, but I think I restarted the story a couple times

The remaining fantasies all take place in the same world, while the above stories take place in different worlds or worlds that were not explicitly (and therefore probably not at all) the same.

• Queenstar, a story about a princess who prematurely takes the throne when her father is poisoned, but it was mostly a romance - several drafts completed, each longer than the last because the first was SEVERELY underwritten.
• The Song of Greatheart, a story about a half-elf destined for greatness or something - several partial drafts completed, but I'm not sure I ever finished one in full?
• Llwyn story, where I had read The Dark Is Rising series and was 1000% in love with Welsh for a hot minute, a probable spinoff of tSoGH involving a totally different character in a different part of the world - a partial draft completed but I think that's it?

I'm staring at a case full of chocolate chip cookies I can't eat, and I'm fucking hungry.

I mean. Okay. I'm usually hungry when I'm at work, because, you know, the service industry. ARRbucks isn't any better about giving us breaks than any other business in this capitalist hell-hole, which I guess makes sense because pirates weren't known for their employee benefits or whatever? Even when we get breaks, it's hard to walk away, you know? Like we're always overrun with customers. And you're about to go on break but the register's all backed up and your coworkers are running ragged and it's really fucking hard to walk away without feeling super guilty, even though you've been on your feet for four hours and you know you deserve a fucking break for five fucking minutes.

And that's if you can walk away in the first place, because inevitably the moment you turn away from the register another customer walks up, or someone further back in line is like, "Ummmm aren't you going to help ME now?" or makes a loud and pointed comment about how slow the service is here.

Customers suck.

Don't tell my manager I said that. This job sucks, too, but I don't exactly have a lot of options and I need the money.

Anyway, the customers aren't actually the reason I'm hungry.

Well, one is.

More on that later.

Right at this particular moment it's kind of my own fault that I'm hungry. I forgot, again, to bring gruel to work for lunch.

Okay. I didn't forget. I "forgot."

Look, don't judge. I know it's not a great idea to accidentally-on-purpose forget your lunch when you have an eight-hour shift ahead of you, but I'm fucking tired of gruel. As is probably everyone else ever who's had it. Like, they probably got tired of it after, like, a single serving. It's thin and watery and gross and sometimes I'd rather not eat than eat gruel.

But I can eat it, unlike *checks notes* literally anything at ARRbucks. And I have to eat something, right? I mean I'm not enthusiastic about gruel but I'm not exactly cool with starving to death, either. Usually I try to trick myself into thinking it's something better by bringing it to work in a colorful container, which doesn't work because I put it in there, so, like...I know it's gruel.

Maybe I should ask Aalea to do it next time.

"Excuse me."

Oh, shit. I have no clue how long I've been gazing at the case of chocolate chip cookies I can't eat, but it's been long enough for a customer to come up to the counter without me noticing.

Oh. She's cute. Oh, no.

She's shorter than I am, which isn't exactly a shock because I'm five-ten and lots of people are shorter than I am. Probably around my age, i.e. should technically be referred to as a woman, but it's weird because "woman" is a grown-up word and I do not feel remotely grown up in any conceivable way. Like, teenagers look more grown up than I feel, wtf.

Oh, shit. I still haven't said anything. She said "excuse me" and then I stood here staring at her like a fucking weirdo, thinking about how not-grown-up I am at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Her brows knit together and she leans over the counter and touches my arm and says, "Hey, are you okay?" and instead of answering I jump halfway out of my skin because holy fuck she is touching me.

And then immediately stops touching me and straightens up, which kind of sucks. Because I did not jump because I didn't like her touching me. I jumped because her touching me was like a fucking electric shock.

But, like, in a good way. Not the kind of way where it's an actual electric shock and you end up dying in a bathtub or something.

"Sorry," she says, flicking royal blue bangs out of her face. She has an undercut. I fucking love undercuts. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. You just seemed..."

"I'm hungry."

Oh, God. Did I actually just say that. Did I finally fucking say something only for it to be "I'm hungry." What the fuck is wrong with me?

Scratch that. I know exactly what the fuck is wrong with me: I'm only capable of absolute idiocy around cute girls.

My arms go around my midsection like they're armor that can protect me from embarrassment. I mean the word "arm" is literally right in the word. "I mean..."

She smiles, and it's like the sun breaking through the clouds. I'm dead. Deceased. A hungry ghost. Her smile has killed me.

"Okay," she says. "As long as you're all right. I’m so sorry, you’re on your break, aren’t you? I can ask another—”

“No no no." Oh my fucking God I'm interrupting so hard and I hate it and I can't stop myself. "I'm not--uh--I mean--"

I want to claw my own eyes out. But I don't, because ow. And also ew. I suck in a deep breath and smile, desperately trying to look cool and a thousand percent aware that no one has ever looked cool while desperately willing it. "If I were on my break, I definitely wouldn't be at the counter."

She grins. She has a button nose and one very deep dimple and dark blue eyes that match her hair.

“Okay, cool! I’m just here to pick up a to-go order, we called it in a few minutes ago, I don’t know if it’s ready yet? It’s under Cap.”

Be cool be cool be cool.

I am one hundred percent not cool as I repeat, "Cap?" in a voice that's supposed to suggest that I'm making sure I heard correctly but definitely makes it obvious that I want to know if that's her name or someone else's. Like maybe a romantic attachment who put in the order for the two of them. Not that it matters. Obviously.

She huffs a laugh like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Yeah, that's right."

Dammit. I mean I could just ask.

Except counterpoint: I absolutely cannot ask a GIRL her NAME.

I'm not sure when exactly I became such an idiot. It might've been at college? In middle school and high school I thought I appreciated girls for the aesthetic. It makes sense, right? I like art. Feminine figures are curvier, i.e. more interesting to draw, than, you know, dudes.
Duh. Anyone would think so.

That's compulsory heterosexuality for you.

It wasn't until those two years at community college that I realized, hey, maybe it wasn't so much an aesthetic appreciation of the female form as, you know, sheer gayness.

Or, well, bi-ness. Or pan-ness? Or possibly some combination of one of those and some kind of ace-ness. I don't know. I'm still sort of wading through it. All I can say for sure is that I'm attracted to more than one gender. But something about cute girls in particular turns me into a blithering idiot.

Hence how totally awesome this whole conversation is going. If you can even call me blurting out like two things in a fucking panic a conversation.

The two carboard drink-holders I filled a few minutes ago, before I got sidetracked by the cookie case, are sitting behind the register. I try not to breathe in the smell. Brewing the coffee was torture enough. I haven't had coffee in weeks. Not good coffee, anyway.

“Two black coffees one with sugar one without, a plain latte tall, an iced matcha latte venti, a caramel macchiato tall, and an extra-hot—” Oh no—”no-foam triple-steamed—” Oh please no—”latte with soy milk instead of regular milk and—” Stop. Just stop. “—exactly two and a half shots of espresso, three pumps of caramel, and three pumps of vanilla.”

This girl's about to look a lot less cute if that last drink is hers.

She rolls her eyes. "That's Cap's. He's high-maintenance."

Okay. So Cap is not her.

Even though Cap would be kind of a cool name for a girl with a royal blue undercut and one very deep dimple and dark blue eyes I want to get lost i--STOP IT.

Textbook Megan. Classic Megan. Big Megan energy. What is it about attractive strangers that makes my imagination zoom into fucking overdrive? I don't think anyone thinks I'm a hopeless romantic, but in my head it's like "THIS WEEK, ON THE ROMANCE CHANNEL. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT ROMANCE ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE TIME."

“Did Cap stick me with the bill again?”

"What?"

"The bill. He was supposed to pay, but he likes to 'forget,' or whatever. He said he paid online, but if he didn't I can--"

My face burns. She's waiting for her drinks and I've been standing here with the drink-holders in my hands, lost in my own head as usual. I shove them at her.

"No, you're all paid up."

"Miracles do exist!" She grins. "Thank god, honesty. Coffee for six is not cheap."

"Mmm," I say, intelligently.

She stares up at me like she's waiting for me to say more. But I don't know what else I should be saying. Probably, like, "enjoy your coffee, have a nice day." My manager gets on my case about forgetting things like that. But the silence has stretched out and the moment for that has passed, I'm pretty sure, and if I say it now it'll be awkward.

I mean, okay: the silence is awkward, too. Saying something would be even more awkward, though.

Her smile doesn't fade, exactly, but it dims. Like she's disappointed.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into that.

"Thanks for the coffee," she says.

"You too," I blurt out, and then I clap my hands over my fucking mouth. "Fuck. Shit. No! I mean. You know. You’re welcome. Any time. Have a nice day. Something like that.”

She's laughing so hard she has to put the drink-holders back on the counter. Other customers look up from their laptops, smart phones, magic mirrors, and spell books. My whole body feels like it's being stabbed from the inside by a zillion tiny needles.

"Oh no!" The girl reaches for my arm but then puts her hand back on the counter, like she remembers how I jumped the last time she touched me. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m so sorry, I laugh so loud it’s ridiculous, can’t help it. You’re just, you’re so cute. You’re like a very tall, very cute...uh...cute....person.”

Her laughter dies down. The other customers frown and return to their laptops, smart phones, magic mirrors, and spell books.

If I weren't absolutely ready to fucking die from embarrassment, I'd probably have the wherewithal to be fucking astonished that someone who is objectively far cuter than I am just called me cute.

She flicks her bangs out of her face and grins. "Sorry. I suck at metaphors. Similes? Analogies. I don’t know, I get them all mixed up. Do you want to try this again?”

“This?”

She nods. “I’ll take my coffee and say, thanks for the coffee. And then you can say, you know, whatever you meant to say. Or whatever comes to mind. Like I honestly don’t care if you say ‘you too’ again. Or fuck. Or shit. I know what you mean.”

My fingers itch to twist the hem of my t-shirt, but my apron is in the way. “At least one of us does."

Everything from my neck up is burning hot, and the rest of me still feels like I'm getting stabbed by tiny needles, and I want to melt into a puddle on the floor, where no one could see me because there's a counter in the way.

"Seriously," she says. “It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed. Please? It’s okay, really. Here, you know what? I’m just going to take my coffee and leave, and you can pretend like this never happened. You can forget all about me. It’s like I was never here.”

Fat chance. The whole stupid encounter is seared into my memory forever, stored away with all the other horrifying moments that will keep me awake at night if I live to be ninety.

She slides the drink-holders off the counter like she's trying to sneak away with them, even though I'm standing right here. Her dimple deepens as she catches my eye. I try to smile, but I'm pretty sure I just look like I have cramps or something.

"Enjoy your coffee," I mumble. "Have a nice day."

“Whooooo are you talking toooo?” the girl whispers in a spooky voice. “There’s nooooo one heeeeere.”

Okay. That makes me laugh, a little. The girl smiles. That fucking beautiful, sun-behind-clouds, barista-murdering smile.

"That's better," she says. "See you around. Or. You know. Not. Because I was never here and you’ll never see me again.”

The bell tinkles as she bumps the cafe door open with her hip and slips outside. I let out a harsh, shaky breath and sink onto the floor behind the counter.

Right on cue, a voice above me says, "Hello!!! Aren't you going to serve me???"

I am so torn by this. One one hand I love it and I agree, it totally works and I cannot wait to read her meeting Zaffy because that will be grand in this tense.

But it also almost makes her seem less awkward to me, I don't know!

I think to make a full judgement, I'd have to continue reading it like this I also definitely don't hate it though

right she seems less awkward right now because you see inside her head??? but also??? we haven't gotten to the MOST awkward bits yet and this is my very first time EVER with first-person present, so I think she could get more awkward as I go!

The Death of Daniel McKnight
Til Life Do Us Part