Today, a woman who needs no introduction, but whom I'm going to go and introductinate anyway. Stephanie Perkins is the author of ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS, coming this December from Dutton. She is a connoisseur of HBMs (Hot British Males), a collector of Celebrity Boyfriends, and one of the most geniunely delightful and kind people I have ever known.
The Truth About Kiersten White
Please allow me to assure you, I am not here to blog about me. You and I are here for the same reason—we like reading Kiersten's blog. So for the purpose of this post, here is the only thing you need to know about me:
I have met Kiersten White. In person.
And unless you know her personally, like myself, here are some things you THINK you know about her:
—She is short. Supernaturally so.
—She is married to someone hot, and they have two children.
—She wrote a book called Paranormalcy.
—She has never smoked, tasted alcohol, or uttered a dirty word.
WELL. I am here to tell you that these things . . . are lies.
I first met Kiersten White last spring. To this day, I vividly recall the shock I felt when she climbed out of her car, and I discovered . . . she's tall. I'm not even talking regular person tall, but Kiersten is, like, basketball player tall.
Confused, I asked this strange woman, "Are you Kiersten's sister? Because your face is kinda sorta like the pictures online*, but I was expecting someone . . . you know. Smaller."
*I said "kinda sorta" because her face was covered in acne blisters, she was wearing heavy black eyeliner, and she had a Tweety Bird tattoo on her forehead. She is, apparently, a Photoshop whiz.
I'm sorry to say that I cannot tell you what her reply was. It was so profane, so spectacularly vulgar that not only would I not want to tell you, but halfway through her diatribe, my ears began to ring and my subconscious took control and muted her words.
To this day, I am not sure why I got in her vehicle. Perhaps it was the taunting lure of jelly beans in her passenger side seat.**
**More on that later.
As she pulled out of the adult video store parking lot (it was a handy meeting spot, she'd claimed), it immediately became clear that Kiersten White was:
(A) Drunk as a sailor.
(B) High as a kite.
We flew down the California interstate, crashing between the other vehicles as if in a high-speed bumper car race, and I attempted to calm my nerves by asking her a few questions. Things like, "Do you live far from here?" "Will there be anyone else in your home?" and "How close is the nearest police station?"
Her (edited for family-friendliness) answers were: "No," "Fudge no," and "None of your fudging business, fudge-face."
"No?" I replied, rolling down a window to let the cigarette (I hope it was a cigarette!) smoke escape. "Hot Stuff? Nayna? Dojo? They won't be around?"
She laughed. "Oh. They're around, all right."
Five terrifying minutes later, we arrived at a tiny brick house in the corner of a dark neighborhood. The grass looked as if it had never been mowed, and the bushes, on closer inspection, were actually dandelions.
Now, I didn't make it all the way into adulthood just to have it end right there. As soon as the child-safety locks were off, I jumped from her car and ran straight into the woods behind her house. I'd hoped to lose her there, to cut through to another neighborhood. But what I hadn't expected was this: a second house.
The second house was hidden behind her regular house, and the most peculiar thing about it was that it looked exactly like the main house but playhouse-sized. And as I raced past it, I heard the screaming of children.
I am not proud about this next part.
I did not stop to see who was in the playhouse. I kept running.
To make a long blog short, Kiersten caught me. It turns out her legs are not only long enough to play basketball, but they're STRONG enough, too. She yanked me by my blue hair back to the playhouse, which was where I discovered her biggest secrets of all: "Hot Stuff" is more like "Okay Stuff." And he's the one who guards the children.
Oh, Nayna and Dojo are real, all right.
And they're the ones who wrote Paranormalcy.
Lured from their Preschool for Brilliant Children with—yes—jelly beans, Kiersten has locked them into her playhouse to do her bidding. Okay Stuff sleeps in a hammock in the corner (the children sleep on a bed of straw) to ensure they churn out a minimum of 500 words per hour. (Not including the three hours allotted per night for sleeping, nor the ten minutes spread throughout the day for bathroom purposes.)
I am not proud about this next part, either.
I walked to the closest 7-11 and bought two packages of Tropical Skittles. And then Nayna and Dojo agreed to finish MY novel. And then Kiersten and I went inside and watched Penelope.***
***She really does love that movie. That much is true.
And we have been close friends ever since.
OH. And one of us—Kiersten or me—is a great big liar.
That tweety bird tattoo was the best decision I ever made. And if you think this was funny, wait until you read Steph's books! Please pester her in the comments.