Page 1 of The Write Stuff

PROLOGUE

17 YEARS AGO

Huxley Ambrose glared at his mother’s back, arms crossed, and wished — not for the first time — that his mother wasn’t Eleanor Ambrose.

Yes, the Eleanor Ambrose.

The woman that everybody wanted to hire to fix the Star Trek franchise.

The woman who got an executive producer credit on the biggest science fiction show to hit network television in two decades.

The woman who had more than 100 writing awards.

That Eleanor Ambrose.

Being her son was not as cool as everybody assumed. In fact, it was the exact opposite.

“I don’t want to hang out with her,” Huxley argued. Why couldn’t his mother understand where he was coming from? “She’s weird.”

“She’s 16,” Eleanor replied as she fussed with her eyelashes. They weren’t popping enough for her way of thinking. “All 16-year-old girls are weird.”

“She’s especially weird,” Huxley growled. “Like … she keeps batting her eyelashes as if they’re going to fall off or something. I swear they look like caterpillars.”

“Hey, when you’re first getting used to false eyelashes, they can be a chore.” Eleanor shrugged. “Is that really the end of the world?”

“It’s weird,” Huxley insisted.

“It just means she likes you.”

That was the last thing Huxley expected his mother to say. He was struck dumb as he watched her move to her lip liner, his mouth hanging open. Eventually, after what felt like a really long time, he found his voice.

“She does not like me.” That was all he could think to say.

Eleanor gave her only son an exasperated look. “Of course she does. Don’t you see the way she looks at you whenever you’re around one another?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s not your fault.” Eleanor patted his cheek. She really did delight in everything he did, despite the fact that he was always full of complaints. “How do I look?” She did a circle without Huxley’s prompting so he could see her outfit.

She was dressed in what Huxley described as a catsuit. It was tight and looked metallic, which was appropriate since they were at a science fiction convention in Atlanta. Eleanor and her writing partner, Agnes Quincy, had a huge panel starting in 15 minutes. It was completely sold out — standing room only — and they would be making a big announcement about a movie franchise for their joint series. It was expected to be a big deal.

Huxley knew his mother didn’t have time for his complaints — this was possibly the biggest thing that would ever happen to her — but he couldn’t get past his part in the entire thing. “Why do I have to hang out with her? Why can’t I just stay here, in the dressing room, during the panel?” To him, that was a perfectly acceptable turn of events.

“Wylie is nervous,” Eleanor replied, looking back at her reflection. Her eyeliner was much heavier than she normally wore, but she was going for a certain aesthetic to charm the fans. “You know she’s an excitable girl.”

“Oh, I know,” Huxley agreed dryly. “That’s one of the reasons I can’t stand to be around her. She talks about Star Trek as if it’s a religion. Do you know she actually blogs about what Captain Kirk would do in juxtaposition to what Captain Picard would do?”

Eleanor paused a beat, then grinned. “That’s kind of cute.”

“She pretends she’s them when answering questions.”

“So? She’s not hurting anybody.”

“She wants to adopt a tribble. They’re not real.”

“Good grief.” Eleanor gave him a biting look, which told him he was treading a very fine line. “Wylie Dixon is 16. She’s an awkward 16 at that. She’s still all elbows and knees.”

Huxley had no idea where she was going with this, but he didn’t like it.