I MEET Jake after school on Friday. As we take the subway to Brooklyn, I dab my nose and cheeks with some powder wipes. I didn't know much about makeup, but the salesgirl at Sephora told me this is the cure to having a sweaty face.

At least these ridiculous things make my face smell nice. I had taken the extra time that morning to apply some foundation to my under-eye areas to conceal how little sleep I've been getting. I even smeared some nude lipstick on my mouth to make my lips look naturally pouty. Of course, it had all worn off by now. I wish I could reach the pumpkin spice lipgloss at the bottom of my backpack.

Jake stares at me incredulously as I try to hold my compact mirror steady while leaning against the subway pole for stability.

"You're primping to meet your stalker?"

"She thinks I'm WilderLuna; I have to live up to her idea of who that is."

"Why? Otherwise, she might not spend all her time obsessing about you?"

"Are you saying that I deserve to be stalked?"

"No, no," Jake says apologetically. He wisely decides not to continue speaking. I continue to scrutinize every last blackhead on my nose.

A couple of people get off at the next stop, and a seat frees up. Being a gentleman, Jake offers to let me sit. I decide it's easier to continue fixing myself up from a seated position. When I sit down, Jake moves in front of me so that we can keep talking to each other. I don't really like how his crotch is now hanging inches from my nose. He sways a little as the train picks up speed. He doesn't seem to notice how awkward this is. Luckily, the seat next to me is vacated at the next stop, and Jake sits down.

"What I'm saying is that I think the reason why this Andrea chick is more popular than you online is because she lets people see her, the real her. You don't seem very down to earth."

"What are you saying? That I should start a GoFundMe for people to buy me things? That I should complain about how hard it is to find time to write after doing all my physics homework? That I should make a video of myself crying about how after all the hours I've dedicated to my stories, that all I get in return is a bunch of prank calls and stalkers? Is that what people want?"

I laugh and hug my backpack to my chest like it's my security blanket. "No, then the illusion is gone. Then I won't be the all-knowing author anymore. I'll just be another character in a story for them to sympathize with. I don't want to be their friend; I want more, I want to be —"

"Their queen? Their god?" Jake asks. "PrincessSilver is right. You are a narcissist."

"Who do you think this prankster is?" I say and try to divert the conversation away from a study of my character. "Do you think it's PrincessSilver? I can't imagine her calling me up and giggling."

"It could be more than one person," Jake says. "Whoever it is, it's not someone who posts about it on the Cooler Cougars. I would know, I hacked into their private forums."

"Oh, you did? Find anything interesting?"

"No, nothing. Other than the fact that they think you are the cause of global warming, inflation, and society's moral decay. PrincessSilver thinks you alone are the reason why the average IQ in this country has been trending downward."

"Wow, it's like I'm all-powerful. I wish I could dumb down the IQ in my physics class so I wouldn't have to spend every waking moment studying."

A couple of more people get off the train at the next stop, and Jake takes the seat beside me. I see a couple of middle school girls sitting across from us, sneaking a peek at him. Poor girls, they can't help themselves; Jake is an obscenely attractive guy even though he's wearing baggy winter clothes that hide his impressive physique. I can't believe I'm saying this, but even that ridiculous wooly scarf he has around his neck can't conceal his chiseled jawline or take away from his mischievous, dimpled smile.

There's something about Jake that's very sexy in a dangerous way. Girls can't help checking him out even though I doubt he's the kind of boy they want to bring home to their parents.

I don't know why I do it. I reach out and flick a speck of dust from the tip of Jake's scarf. When I glance at the girls again, they're both avoiding eye contact. Yes, by performing something small and intimate like picking a speck of lint from his clothes, I just showed them that he's mine. Stop checking him out, girls.

I feel oddly possessive about Jake, like because he's one of my fans or fanemies (did I just coin that word?), somehow no one else should be allowed to have him. He doesn't even seem to notice my gesture. Instead, he's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like he's a pro football coach getting ready to layout our carefully coordinated game plan.

I find the seriousness of this moment utterly hilarious. So much so that I immediately punch Jake in the knee with my closed fist.

"So, tough guy, if this stalker turns violent, are you going to make sure I don't get kidnapped Misery style?

Jake crosses his arms over his chest in a way that makes his biceps bulge. I see it even through his relatively thick black peacoat. "You scared, Queens?"

"Nah, why would I be? Are all those tattooed muscles for show?"

"I'm surprised you came this far into Brooklyn with me. You're not afraid I'll kidnap you and force you to write about Alpha Gerard finally strangling that annoying Ava chick?"

"Seriously?"

"No," Jake says and then turns silent.

"What are you thinking?" I finally ask as he stares at the ground.

"You know what's the one thing you do have, Corrine?"

"What? Sweat stains? Funky odor?"

"No," Jake says. "You have a sense of grace. That's what none of your frenemies, Andrea, or Princess Silver has. And that's what baffles them. That's why they want to destroy you. So they can shatter your facade and see behind the curtain. So they can convince themselves that you're just like the rest of them."

"And you think I'm not  like the rest of them?"

"No," Jake says, smiling. His dimples show, and they're all I can think about. "You're most definitely not like anyone I've met before."

"I'm just another trashy smut writer. That's what everyone says. It's hard some days, not to believe it, to become it."

"You won't," Jake answers and squeeze my hand. "I know it. Because I've seen the real you. You're going to be a great writer one day, Corrine. And I will be glad that I once sat here, on the subway with you."

"You don't mean that," I reply with a laugh. "You, and all your serious writing."

"I do, Corrine, and I mean it. I know I haven't said this before, but your writing connects with people. Don't belittle your accomplishments. Not many people can do what you do."

"Write for the masses?"

"Make people feel less alone, especially the people who need it the most."