More Peyton angst. I don't know where it comes from. I'm a happy person, honestly! We catch up with Lucas and the plotline gets properly started next chapter. Chapter title is a song by Lykke Li.
LOS ANGELES, CA – Watch out Lucas – your small-town sweetheart might not be so innocent after all.
Peyton Sawyer, the reclusive star of young author Lucas Scott's breakout autobiography An Unkindness of Ravens, has certainly not taken her newfound fame in her stride.
In the real world, away from all of Scott's literary praise, Peyton Sawyer certainly has an ugly streak.
Sawyer, who is yet to agree to any public appearance or interview, despite being reportedly offered such by the best and deepest pockets in Hollywood, has finally uttered her first public words since the book's astronomical release.
And it wasn't pretty.
"Go f**k yourselves," Sawyer lambasted at a group of photographers patiently waiting outside her workplace Sire Records in West Hollywood yesterday.
"Go print that in your f**king, useless paper."
Whoa, Peyton. Where's all that good old-fashioned Southern charm and hospitality?
Scott's novel largely deals with the extraordinary true events of Sawyer's high-school experiences in Tree Hill, North Carolina.
And it remains baffling that Sawyer is unwilling or unable to deal with the extra attention foisted on her since the book's release, despite her co-characters making nothing but gracious media appearances in recent times.
Scott's real-life half-brother, Nathan, who also features strongly in the book, recently accompanied Lucas to a book signing in Washington D.C., and stayed for a full five hours to sign books and take pictures with adoring fans – a perfect gentleman.
Nathan had nothing but praise for Sawyer, and laughed off the poor impression that Sawyer gave in public.
"Yeah, she's definitely a loose cannon," Nathan, a high school ex-boyfriend of Sawyer's, said.
"But that's part of her charm. Oh, and she has this weird thing about cameras. Something in her past. If you read the book, you'd understand. I wouldn't get too close."
While the rest of Scott's friends seem honoured to appear in public, Peyton's recent appearances only serve to paint her as ungrateful, unsupportive and increasingly rude – a picture wholly opposite to the rose-coloured description she was given in Scott's book.
Scott remains unable to explain or elaborate on Peyton's unfriendly manner in public, and we have yet to find out how and why their relationship ended so suddenly.
But the public is sick of being told that one thing is true, and then seeing a totally different story playing out in real life. Scott's readers are tired of being fed lies about a supposedly true novel and then being rudely berated by a central character just for believing them. And Peyton Sawyer should no longer be thought of as the heroine that Scott depicts her to be.
It's time for the public to know the truth about Sawyer and Scott. We urge the real Peyton Sawyer to step forward.
One Month Later
The Book – and yes, she had begun to term the Book with a capital B due to the incredible influence it had on her life – had been released two months ago, but it had been in her life, as some kind of unknown, powerful entity, for much, much longer than that.
The pre-Book days, though admittedly scattered sporadically with psycho stalkers and dead moms and heart attacks and a whole host of other adult things, were the days when she thought of herself as still innocent, still naïve, and much less cynical about the world and the people in it.
She might not have looked innocent, this pre-Book Peyton. No, this Peyton certainly walked around with a hard outer shell. She didn't let too many people in; she didn't trust.
And rightly so, she thought. For Peyton's life back then was hers to live. Though confusing and scary, she alone was free to determine its direction. She was proud of all the mistakes she had made, because ultimately they were hers.
And then this book arrived, this love letter to her, as the reviewers crowed. Scott's youthful voice sears true throughout both the wonderfully mundane and appallingly tragic events in this stunning debut. The characters in Scott's book could be you, and they could be me: Scott has managed to capture the inner mystery yet aching simplicity in a story of five teenagers desperate to find their place in this ever-baffling world. The love story between Scott and Sawyer is one for the ages and one for us right now – young, honest and astonishingly raw.
Peyton saw it differently. And she searched, but could not find one review which saw things from her side. It was not a love letter, she thought. It was a warning. A manual on how not to live your life.
This Book, which grasped Peyton's choices and analysed and dissected them, as though she was a lifeless entity and Lucas her humble superior. This Book, as Peyton saw it, which started by saying how wonderful and beautiful and perfect Peyton was, but then simultaneously laughed indulgently at how much of a trainwreck her life was. It preached of her integrity; then warned its readers not to follow Peyton's foolish path.
What gave Lucas the right to write this? To write about her life as if it was a finished thing, as though her first meagre eighteen years summed up her entire existence? As though he, the omniscient, faultless narrator, could do no wrong, as if his stumbling journey through high school was not just as twisted and confusing as hers?
Who the hell writes an autobiography at eighteen, anyway?
Peyton was the girl in the book. She had been for months. She had endured people approaching her as if they knew her intimately, when they didn't know the first thing about her. She had been reduced to ink on a page, to paper flicking under fingers, to whispered gossip among strangers.
She hadn't seen Lucas in over a year, since a lonely hotel room in Los Angeles and a night bursting full of accusations and bitter ends.
A year ago, they spoke the last real conversation they would ever have. Now, she never wanted to speak to him again. She didn't know how on earth he would be able to look her in the eyes after he had exploited their entire relationship.
Yet, in the bottom of her heart, in the depths of her soul, in a place secret even to herself, there was this pull. This ache. This feeling that her anger would melt delightedly away if she only allowed it. The feeling that maybe the book wasn't so bad, that Lucas' intentions were only good and that she had misunderstood it all.
But she stayed angry, and she walked around defensively as if she was waiting for someone to accuse her of being That Girl In The Book, and she cursed Lucas and his precious Book as though it was wholly responsible for every problem in her life.
She had only ever let one person fully into her life, she reminded herself. And that person had failed her so immensely that she would never make that mistake again.
Work at a record label starts late and finishes late. Peyton would see record execs piling into work around eleven, with an obvious hangover, some mismatched combination of roughly-ironed clothes, and last night's makeup smeared unattractively across their tired faces.
Peyton had grown used to working steadily throughout the afternoon and well into the light. She could watch the L.A. sky fade from day to night from the small window in her office, its darkness creating a veil over the city, making all that it shrouded look gentle and mysterious; a pleasing change from the usual traffic and scramble that was downtown Los Angeles at peak hour. But up on level four, in her tiny workspace with her narrow window, watching the sun wink on the horizon as if it, like she, had a secret, Peyton could feel some semblance of peace and calm.
For some reason, she liked being at work in the dark. Everyone was in a strange, feverish rush. Coffee ran like water. Ideas came easier at night, she was told. Your most creative time of day is between eight and ten pm. Use it. It was like being at a slumber party, with people shouting orders across the hall and playing music at full blast, or muttering incessantly into cell phones that never left their grasp, harnessing the favourable time distance between L.A. and New York at this time of night.
Peyton's mornings, then, were her own. She was a late sleeper in the winter, when the chilly L.A. mornings confined her happily into mornings of lazy sleep-ins and late, coffee-fuelled breakfasts. But in summer, as it was now, she left the house as early as she could get out of bed. She would walk lazily through the streets of L.A., stopping to glance at flea markets or sample a cappuccino at her favourite café, vastly grateful that the Los Angeles tabloids had thankfully decided weeks ago that she was too boring and un-newsworthy for their scrutiny.
And every day, without fail, she would go to this quaint little bookshop on the same street as her work. She didn't know why she was drawn to the bookstore. But as soon as she entered, and began to pace the cramped aisles and thumb the dusty books, she felt calm.
And, yes, she would look for Lucas' book, still as popular as ever. She would find it in the non-fiction or bestseller section, unless it was sold out, as it often was.
She didn't want to admit it, but her eyes were constantly searching out that familiar cover, those particular words. When she found it she would grasp at it hungrily and flick to any part of the text, desperate for even one random sentence of his concise prose.
And of course she would buy the book if she found it. Her bookshelf was half-full with different editions of the same novel. A hardcover, a large-print, an audiobook read in that achingly familiar deep rumble.
She told herself that by buying them, she was ensuring that one less person would get to read the book. Her logic was warped, sure. It was one tiny, dusty bookshop, filled mostly with travel guides, dog-eared secondhand paperbacks and a bunch of hippie, dreadlocked customers who mostly looked like they hadn't seen sunlight in days. Come to think of it, with her messy, tangled hair, a casual grey singlet dress and combat boots, Peyton probably didn't look too different.
But it gave her some confidence, some security, to take the books away with her. Like her being at this one bookshop mattered somehow; made a difference, however miniscule. It was like she was saving the L.A. public from her tragic story, one book at a time. At least, that's what she told herself.
But then why did she display the books almost proudly, in the centre of her bookshelf, next to her cherished family photographs? Why was each copy of the book as crumpled and well-read as the last? And why did she still carry a copy of the novel in her already over-packed bag every damn day of her life?
Today, the breeze seemed to blow Peyton into the bookstore.
"Hi," she said to Ben, the owner, and somehow her Southern accent had crept momentarily back in, twisting the word, making it longer, broader.
"Mornin', sugar," he chirped back at her, mimicking her drawl. Peyton cleared her throat, embarrassed at her mistake. After a few solid months of making fun of Peyton's bizarre book-buying habits, it seemed thankfully like Ben had almost hit the last of his material. She sighed inwardly, realising she had just given him another topic to mercilessly tease her about. But she loved it, really. His familiar cackle-like laugh and taunts were completely in good nature and had become a staple part of her summer mornings, along with a coffee, a flaky almond croissant from the cart outside, and the latest issue of B. Davis. Anyway, she had so few relationships in her life anymore that were truly genuine and not forced through work or some other situation. It was nice to have a real rapport with someone in L.A, even if he was just some guy in a bookstore.
"What're you after, darlin'?" he asked expectantly. "'Cause we're fresh out of Gone With The Wind, sorry."
She laughed. "Aw, shucks." She clicked a finger in front of her in mock disappointment, then raised her eyebrows and looked at him searchingly, with a what-do-you-think expression. "You know me, Ben. The usual."
"You know," the owner observed seriously, "it's not exactly normal to have a usual order at a bookshop. Favourite coffee, yeah. Lunch orders, sure. But books? Not so much. Most of us are happy enough with one copy."
"Not me," she replied breezily. "I'm greedy like that."
Her hair was just washed and gleaming, despite the still-remaining clashing black highlights underneath. She looked youthful and blooming and beautiful.
The precise combination was unfathomable. It might have been the endearing slip into her Southern twang. Maybe it was the way her hair caught the light and seemingly refused not to sparkle, as if appreciating the sunny California weather. Because today, despite her best efforts to blend in, Peyton Sawyer had once again managed to walk into a room and cause everyone to notice.
"Yeah," Ben replied, a beat too late, looking at her for a moment and chuckling, as if attempting vainly to figure her out. Finally, he settled for wrinkling his nose sympathetically, booting up his computer, and pushing his reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "Giving Lucas Scott another royalty paycheck, huh? Lucky guy."
"Actually, I like to hope the money is going to the poor, suffering fatcat publishing companies," she quipped. "Helps me sleep better at night."
He grinned. "Well, either way, Peyton, you really are beefing up my kids' college fund, you know that?"
"Which I'm sure it desperately needs," she replied dryly.
"You're not wrong," Ben agreed, laughing weakly. He gestured around the store, where a handful of lost-looking backpackers were half-heartedly thumbing the covers of a few dusty travel magazines. "As you can see, the book-selling trade isn't the most lucrative business out there. The book writing trade, on the other hand…" he countered, biting his tongue in concentration and tapping quickly at his computer keyboard. He whistled loudly when he brought up Peyton's account history. "How much money has Lucas Scott made out of you to date?"
Peyton set her mouth. It was honestly unintentional, but what Ben said hit slightly too close for comfort. "Too much, Ben," she whispered softly, and her eyes told him that their conversation was over. Ben raised his eyebrows in resignation, nodded his head grimly and flicked his eyes back to his computer, tactful enough to know when to mind his own business.
"The computer says I've got one copy of Ravens left in stock," he said airily, as though the tone of their conversation had never changed. "I tell ya, it's been two months and they're still selling like crazy. Try over on the far wall. I think I saw one there yesterday." He pointed her in the right direction and she nodded a brisk thanks.
Ben had only seriously asked Peyton once why she constantly came in only to buy the same book over and over. It was a couple of months ago, the day after she had bought her first copy of Ravens, and Ben recognised with curiosity the quiet, blonde girl who took off her dark sunglasses only after she had thoroughly scoped out the room, and who carried the book up to the register with the exact same expression of wariness that he had noticed the day before when she had bought an identical copy of the same book.
"I remember you," he began conversationally. "What happened? One book not good enough? You can reread books, you know."
"I'm buying this one for a friend, actually," she replied coldly, looking away with a scowl. She was so used to people recognising her midway through a conversation that she had learned to completely do away with chatty small talk. She just wanted to buy her book and get out fast.
He held up his hands in mock surrender, not wanting to pry. But her hostility was strange to him, because she didn't look at all like an unfriendly person. "Got it, blondie," he said smartly. "Read you loud and clear."
She nodded impatiently, eager to have the sale processed. "Sorry," she said, softening slightly. "I'm just kind of in a hurry."
"Can I ask you something, though?" Ben blurted, twirling the copy of Ravens in his hands, out of her reach. He wasn't going to give up that easily. The bookshop wasn't the most interesting place to work, and he mostly got his daily kicks from the customers that passed by the shop. "From a purely…marketing perspective?"
She grinned reluctantly, and shrugged her shoulders. "Sure."
"Just putting this out there," he continued. "Because you're a customer, and you seem like a fairly astute kind of person, and as you can see," – he gestured around the shop – "we tend to get some… let's just say, less than desirable patrons in here…"
"What's your point?" Peyton shot quickly, but she was shaking her head and smiling at him.
"What would you think about a two books for one special?"
"Somewhat unoriginal," she observed fairly.
"Hold your horses, Miss Impatient. Here's the catch: the two books have to be two copies of the exact same book."
She giggled doubtfully.
"C'mon," he insisted. "If it means I get girls like you coming into my shop, then it's gotta be a good idea, right?"
She relaxed, still laughing, and he finally saw the witty, clever person that he had initially noticed in her face when she walked in. "Speaking as your advertising and marketing adviser," – she paused and narrowed her eyes at him – "I can call myself that, right?"
"Oh, yeah," Ben nodded briskly. "Yeah, I think we're way past that now."
"Naturally," Peyton agreed seriously. "To be honest, I think I'd probably be the only person who'd ever be interested in that kind of deal."
"Damn it!" Ben replied flippantly. "And here I was thinking I had it all figured out!"
"Sorry," she laughed. "Keep brainstorming, though. Just remember to run them by me first."
"Seriously," he said boldly, finally confident enough to ask. "Why are you really buying a second copy? And don't give me any of that 'gift for a friend' bullshit, because nobody reads a book and then decides to give it as a gift, all in under 24 hours. Not even someone as clever as you."
Peyton sighed. "You're nosy, aren't you?" she observed shrewdly.
He shrugged, grinning broadly. "What else have I got to do around here all day?"
She scoffed. "Fine," she conceded, "I kind of used to know the author, okay?"
"Really!" Ben exclaimed with interest, and he began flipping through the book. "I'll finally have to read it, then."
Peyton inhaled a sharp breath. She was shocked. Because everyone had read the book. "You haven't read it?" she asked in astonishment.
"Nah," drawled Ben casually, still thumbing through the pages of the book, "never had the interest, really. But if you recommend it – "
"I don't," interrupted Peyton sharply. She grabbed the book out of his hands. "I don't recommend it. Not at all."
He raised her eyebrows, looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged. "Well, if you say so," he agreed, unconcernedly. "I won't read it then. To be honest, the author looks kind of like a tool. What's he like, anyway?"
"He's…."
She thought. It would be so easy to agree with him here. To laugh – yeah, he's definitely a tool – and bond with her new friend, and make it even more clear to him that he should never read the book. This guy knew nothing about her. He was so refreshingly indifferenttowards her life. He couldn't care less about her past. He wouldn't know her from any other person who walked in off the street. And there was something freeing in that. But it didn't – and it couldn't – change the way she felt.
"He's…" she started again. Her head fell, and the book's front cover fell open to the dedication page, and there, stark and true, were the book's first opening words:
To my mom, for raising me with integrity.
To Lily, a precious flower.
And to my first editor: P.S., I love you.
"He's a brilliant writer," was what she finally whispered softly, as her index finger unconsciously touched the two letters that Ben didn't realise formed the initials of her name.
Today, with a dozen copies – at last count – of that very book sitting on her shelf at home, and two months since it had been released, Peyton set off, thumbing the books casually, yet intent on that one cover, that familiar group of words, that Ben had indicated was still sitting somewhere on the shelves.
After half an hour, despite Ben's insistence that he had one copy left, she was sure Ravens wasn't anywhere in the store. Shit, she thought. There was a copy here yesterday, I'm sure of it. And now one more person in L.A. was going to know her story. I should have arrived here earlier.
She was steps away to the exit, when –
"Excuse me, but is this you?"
Peyton closed her eyes and grimaced. She hadn't counted on the books already in customers' hands. On her heel she wheeled around, eyes pre-emptively narrowed, ready to correct the enquirer with one of her many stored-up vicious replies.
It had been weeks since she was last recognised. Last time, it was a group of college guys in Starbucks, who were laughing and joking and making way too much noise for a quiet café.
"Hey, look, it's Peyton Sawyer! From the book! From Us Weekly, remember? The love story special?"
"Hey Peyton, how's Lucas? Still pissed that you broke up with him? He looked gay anyway. How about we go out, you and me, baby? I can be your Lucas, if you need me to!"
"Fuck off," she had snarled, and not entirely satisfied with her comeback effort, she stalked out of the coffee shop, not before tipping her hot coffee into the loudest guy's lap for emphasis.
Today's voice was much higher and softer. Peyton turned around. It was a young girl, no older than thirteen, and, sure enough, she was holding a shiny copy of Ravens.
"This girl," the teenager said. "Is it you?"
She was pointing to the centrefold of the book, where the publisher had inserted glossy photographs of all of Lucas' characters. Peyton didn't ever remember giving them permission to publish her photo. Maybe they didn't need it. Her objections didn't seem to be worth much to Lucas.
This particular picture was of Peyton, Brooke and Lucas. It was taken by Brooke, Peyton remembered, using Peyton's borrowed Polaroid camera. It was in their junior year, right after the Ravens had won a game. Brooke and Lucas were dating at the time.
Brooke was smiling toothily at the camera, a neat 'R' painted on her high cheekbone. Peyton and Lucas were looking uncertainly at each other, seemingly unaware that Brooke had pressed the shutter. They were laughing, elated at the win, but there was also something else in their eyes. Secrecy? Simmering teenage lust? No, nothing that covert. Simply the start of something completely new, but unwaveringly right and purely true.
Peyton looked back into the young girl's eyes. The girl looked so hopeful and optimistic. Peyton found that she didn't want to lie to her.
She opened her mouth to own up, to admit to being the girl in the photograph. What would the Peyton two years ago have said?
"Yes, that's me," the eighteen-year-old Peyton would have said, smiling. "And that's my best friend Brooke – doesn't she look pretty here? We were only sixteen, can you believe? And that's Lucas, the love of my life. He had just scored the winning shot – he's so talented. I love him so much. Maybe someday you'll find someone you're in love with, too."
Oh, how she wanted to say that to this girl, this innocent little thing. How she wanted to tell her that life never changes from when you are a teenager, not once, not ever. How she still felt as blissfully in love with the world now as she had four years ago, cheering on the Ravens at Tree Hill High. Oh, how she wanted to declare that life, and love, and fate, would always be on this young girl's side.
Peyton caught sight of her eyes in the picture again. The teenage Peyton looked so wildly happy, so joyfully sure of herself.
Then Peyton remembered she hadn't spoken to Brooke in a year. How she felt ashamed to talk to Nathan or Haley after she and Lucas had broken up – like she had disappointed them somehow, like they had nothing in common anymore without Lucas as the common thread. How James Lucas Scott was growing up without knowing or caring who she was. How she had let every single one of Lucas' many calls go to voicemail, and then eventually changed her number altogether. How she knew, with painful certainty, that she would never be seeing any of these people ever again.
"No," Peyton said slowly, looking into the teenager's wide, blue eyes and then back down at the curly-haired girl in the photograph. "No, I don't know who that person is."
And while the young girl looked at her in disbelief, Ben, who had been listening to the whole conversation, sidled up next to her, grabbed the book out of the girl's hands, and looked intently at the picture in front of him.
"But that's you," he insisted cluelessly. "This girl, in the book. It's you." He lined up the images and looked left at the image in the book and right to its identical, real-life manifestation.
And then, as if grappling with something uncertain, as though he had just realised something that, although surprising, somehow made all the sense in the world, he whispered slowly, "Peyton, was this book written about you?"
And as though they were playing some kind of warped game of pass-the-parcel, Peyton then snatched the book away from him. She'd had enough. She was sick of it. Sick of being defined into the box that she had been written into. Sick of everyone she met being told exactly who she was. Disappointed that one of the few people who didn't know about her past was now going to read about all her pain, and humiliation, and heartbreak, thanks to Lucas Scott. She looked carefully at the smiling picture in the centrefold, and then, before she really knew what she was doing, before she could register that ten people in the store, including Ben, were now watching her intently, she tore the photo out, threw the vandalised book uncaringly on the floor, and fleetingly looked at Ben with wounded, cheated green eyes.
And then Peyton Sawyer swept quietly out of the bookstore and into the anonymous, safe Los Angeles street, where she was swallowed immediately by the surging crowd passing obliviously by. She could feel the photo safely crumpled up in her furled fist.
She wouldn't ever go back to that bookstore. And she was taking the girl in the book with her.