Bookish and the Beast

by Ashley Poston

  I wonder if she knew that she was.

  I try to hang on to those memories, where she’s sitting at her sun-drenched chair with her round glasses pushed up the bridge of her nose, her brown hair pulled high into a bun, chewing on her fingernails as General Sond or Carmindor or Amara spiraled through the galaxy. But whenever I think of her at her chair, I remember that we no longer have that room filled with all of those books she loved. I remember that we had to sell the house to pay for the medical costs. I remember that we had to sell those books to close her casket.

  Some days I still wake up and forget that she’s buried in Haven Memorial Gardens at the edge of town.

  I don’t talk about my mom often. Whenever I do, my heart hurts in a way that nothing can really help. Like there’s this hole drilled into the center of my soul, an unending pit that keeps going and going, tempting me to fall in and get lost in the echo of who she was. Because she’s gone now.

  She no longer exists.

  But here, in this library, I can feel her, even though I know she’s gone. I can sense her sitting in one of the wingback chairs. I can hear her flipping the pages of a novel, slowly, and humming to herself as she reads.

  It’s been a year, but it feels like longer.

  I miss her so much.

  My fingers stop on the one binding that is a little warped, the pages crinkled, and I pull it out of the shelf. The Starless Throne by Sophie Jenkins. I smile to myself a little and take the book out of the library, like I did that first night. But this time I don’t leave for the patio. I return to the couch, and I curl up with my mom’s favorite book, and I get lost in a universe where perhaps, on some distant star, she’s still alive.

  I’m not sure how long I sit here reading, but after a while some movement near the stairs catches my eye and I glance over, expecting to see Dad coming to look for me—

  Blond hair. Plaid pajama bottoms.

  No shirt.

  I quickly avert my gaze, but my brain is already short-circuiting. I was fine when he was in a wet T-shirt. I was super okay when he had on a loose tank top.

  I am…extremely not okay now.

  He must see me at the exact same moment my brain starts to melt, because he quickly about-faces and flees back up the stairs. My tense muscles begin to unwind, and I melt down into the cushions. That was too close. I let out a sigh of relief, and return to the page I was on, when I hear footsteps down the stairs again.

  Vance returns, this time pulling a T-shirt over his head.

  A T-shirt that reads GENERAL SOND IS A PUNK.

  I snort even though I try not to. At least he’s self-aware. I watch him, apprehensive, as he gets a LaCroix out of the refrigerator and comes to sit down on the couch beside me. He glances over at my book. “Read me something,” he says.

  I give him a baffled look. “What, like that scene in Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell?”

  “I have no idea what that is, but if it has something to do with reading a book aloud, I’d much rather think of this as that scene from Titanic.”

  “There isn’t a reading scene in Titanic…” I trail off as he stretches out across the couch and strikes a rather ludicrous pose, like one of those ’60s pinup girls.

  “Read to me like one of your nerd friends,” he says valiantly.

  I snort despite myself and shake my head. “I’m sure you don’t want me to.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s about General Sond.” I show him the cover. “He gets sent on a mission from the Nox King to infiltrate a Federation outpost, but unbeknownst to him, Princess Amara is also undercover at this outpost, trying to solve a murder.”

  He scrunches his nose. “Is this a kissing book?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to read it so you can find out.”

  In reply, he takes a pillow from the edge of the couch and tucks it behind his head. He settles down and waits. “I suppose you do.”

  For the rest of the evening, I read to him from my mother’s favorite novel—and for a little while I can forget that my apartment went up in a (very) small fire, and that some toxic guy wants to take me to Homecoming, and my college essay is still woefully unwritten.

  For a few hours, nothing matters and I think, This is the best it’s going to get.

  Until the next morning when I wake up to the smell of chocolate murder pancakes.

  I WAKE UP TO THE SMELL OF SOMETHING BURNING. It twinges my nose, and even when I burrow my head under the covers, the smell doesn’t go away. It’s not like an electrical fire sort of burning, or a woodfire, or any of that sort. It smells, honestly, like—

  Breakfast.

  Oh, that’s right. We have guests.

  I spring up and tear the duvet off, scrambling out of bed. Sansa isn’t curled up at the foot of my bed, so Elias must’ve let her out already. How long have they been up? Laughter bubbles up from the kitchen downstairs. A man, and then—Elias. And Rosie. I remember now. She and her father are staying with us for the weekend.

  I slide on my sweatpants and make my way to the stairs. From the top I can see Elias at the stove in his cooking apron, holding the frying pan, and Rosie’s father trying to explain to him how to flip an American pancake.

  “It’s all in the wrist,” he’s saying. “You gotta feel it.”

  “I’ve always been bad at flipping things in a skillet,” Elias replies, troubled.

  “I believe in you!” Rosie cheers on from the barstool at the counter.

  “One…two…” Then Elias flips the brown pancake. It spins through the air—misses the pan completely—and lands smack on the ground.

  Everyone stares at the downed pancake.

  I clap slowly.

  Startled, everyone whirls around to me.

  “Vance!” Elias says. Rosie’s father scoops up the sacrificed pancake from the ground and tosses it into the garbage bin. “Did we wake you?”

  I put my hands in my pockets and give a half shrug. “Not really.”

  “Come and eat with us,” Rosie’s father says. “We’ve got two left with your name on them! I bet you’ve never had anything like it before.”

  That’s an understatement.

  “I…probably have not,” I reply cautiously, sliding up to sit at the counter next to Rosie. She excitedly wiggles back and forth on the barstool, grinning, still in her pajamas, too. They have little duck prints all over them, and I’m hard-pressed to say they’re cute. But.

  They’re not…not cute.

  “Chocolate murder’s the only thing my dad can cook,” she whispers to me. I recall her saying something about chocolate murder pancakes earlier in the month, but nothing prepared me for the sight of what Rosie’s father placed in front of me: two cocoa-flavored chocolate chip American pancakes drizzled with syrup and powdered sugar, and topped with a maraschino cherry. He slides it to me with a smile. I stare at it like—how in the bloody hell am I supposed to eat this monstrosity?

  I glance at Rosie, who apparently has already eaten, and so has everyone else.

  He gives me a fork and a butter knife and says, “Try it!”

  “It looks like a sugar coma,” I reply.

  “That’s why it’s called chocolate murder,” Rosie chides.

  The plate definitely looks like some sort of murder. The syrup runs off the side of the chocolate pancakes and pools at the edges. I lift one with the fork, inspecting the butter sandwiched between. I haven’t eaten something so unhealthy for breakfast since my mother fired my first nanny, who fed me ice cream some mornings.

  I gently cut off an edge of the pancake, already drowned in syrup, and with everyone watching, I eat it, wondering how much I should act like I love it—

  Until the taste explodes in my mouth. Chocolate, but more pancake-y than I realized. Fluffy, and yes the syrup is sweet, but it offsets the bitterness of the chocolate. I wouldn’t
eat it every morning, but the surprise on my face is genuine.

  Rosie’s father grins and leans against the counter. “So, what do you think?”

  “It’s…good,” I reply, surprising myself.

  Elias seems just as surprised as I am. “That’s a glowing recommendation from Vance.”

  “So I passed the test?” he asked, speaking more to Elias than me.

  “He’s not complaining.”

  “Hey, I never complain,” I complain, and everyone laughs.

  As I eat, Rosie’s father teaches Elias how to flip a pancake on the griddle, so by the time I’m done they’ve made at least five more with the leftover batter, and Rosie’s father looks rather pleased with himself. I watch him and Elias with interest as I set down my fork. I can’t eat the last few bites—it’s too sweet for me.

  Rosie’s father checks his watch. “I’m heading to the apartment later to talk to the landlord and the insurance company about the damages. They have to rip up the carpet and see if the hardwood is ruined or not.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Rosie says. “Just let me get dressed first.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know, but I want to help—and besides, it’s silly to have two cars here. We can ride back here together this evening.”

  Elias agrees. “And since you treated us to breakfast, I can treat you to dinner.”

  Rosie’s father hesitates, but he’s won over when Elias gives him a smile. My eyebrows jerk up, and I glance over at Rosie, who is smiling from behind her fingers. Oh. Oh. “Well, all right—but just tell us when we start to impose.”

  “You aren’t,” I say before Elias has a chance to, and the words surprise even me. I shove a piece of chocolate syrup–drowned pancake around on my plate. “I mean, the house is so large I didn’t notice either of you here last night.”

  Rosie finger-guns her father. “And it helps we don’t snore.”

  “Right you are, Rosebud,” he replies, finger-gunning her right back, and then he nods toward the stairs. “Okay, go get ready.”

  She jumps off the barstool and races up to her and her father’s room. She’s down in five minutes, in jeans and a large T-shirt, pulling her hair back with a black scrunchie. Rosie’s father tries to clean up the kitchen, but Elias decides to have none of it and shoos him out.

  “You cooked, I clean,” he points out.

  “Fine, fine—ready to go?” he asks Rosie, putting a hand on her shoulder, and they leave through the garage.

  When they’re gone, Elias gives me a sidelong look. “Not imposing, hmm?”

  I spear the pancake, trying to quell the blush blooming on my cheeks. Because the Vance of a month ago would’ve not said anything. He would’ve asked them to leave as soon as possible. He would’ve hated this sweet disaster of a breakfast. He wouldn’t have admitted that, in the darkest part of his heart, it really wasn’t that bad. Instead I clear my throat and tell him, “You have a crush.”

  He scoffs. “I do not.”

  “Do too.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he replies, but he’s so flustered his ears are beginning to turn red. He grabs my plate from the counter even though I’m still pushing the last bite around in the syrup and dumps it into the sink to start washing it.

  “Whatever you say,” I reply, and slide off the barstool. I grab Sansa’s lead and whistle at her between my teeth to take her out on a walk while he’s sorting through his feelings.

  I might never have been in love, but I know what it looks like, and Elias is head over heels.

  THAT EVENING, AFTER DAD AND I RETURN from the apartment, where the electrician tore out the oven and the wall that had been damaged, we ate dinner with Mr. Rodriguez and Vance again—we order Chinese this time, from the great little takeout place down the street. I didn’t realize Vance could put down so much food; it’s really quite monstrous, because I thought I was the eggroll-eating champion. Alas, it seems I was dethroned. I didn’t mind it that much.

  After we watch a few hours of TV and Mr. Rodriguez retires to bed, I do the dishes with my dad and talk a little about the new oven and microwave being installed tomorrow, and the plasterwork, and having to repaint half of the kitchen again—but I really don’t mind. I hated the old appliances anyway.

  “And what have we learned?” I ask, handing him the last plate.

  He replies gallantly, “Never put tinfoil in the microwave.”

  “Good.”

  He kisses me good night and leaves for his room. I change into my pajamas and slink down to the couch again, thinking everyone has gone to bed—but I freeze on the bottom step.

  I was wrong.

  Vance is lying down, legs flipped up over the back of the couch, head lolling off the other side. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t look as worried or brooding as he usually does, which surprises me. I thought he probably frowns in his sleep, but he actually looks…well, not terrible to look at is the only concession I’m giving.

  I turn to creep back up the stairs when he says, a little blearily, “Can’t sleep either?”

  …Guess he’s not asleep after all.

  I turn back around to him. He pushes himself up on the couch and motions for me to come sit. I do, mostly because I can’t sleep. This house is too big and too quiet.

  As I get closer, he holds up a book. “I want to know what happens.”

  The Starless Throne.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. “Do you, now?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

  I climb over the couch to sink down beside him. “Probably not all afternoon.”

  “Does Sond get out of prison? Does Amara save the planet? Who’s the murderer? Are they ever going to kiss?” He asks the last one a little impatiently. “I want to know.”

  In the dim light of the living room, his golden hair shines in a platinum halo around his head, and his cornflower eyes are bright with curiosity. He really does want to know what happens. I’ve read it a thousand times, I can recite most of the chapters by heart. I know what the words sound like in my head, but I don’t know what they sound like in his.

  I push the book back to him. “Read it to me.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I yawn. “I’m tired. I worked all day. You’ve lounged around playing video games.” Which he doesn’t dispute, because I know him well enough by now. I’m not sure what kind of video games he plays, though. I close my eyes, curling up in the corner of the couch, and rest my head on the cushions. “Please?”

  For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, but then I hear him flip open the book, the pages buzzing between his fingers, until he settles on the page where we last left off, and he begins to read in a soft, steady cadence. The adventure of Amara and General Sond spills softly from his mouth, and I’m not sure when I drift off to sleep, but when I do my head is filled with stars.

  A GUST OF WIND SHAKES THE TREES, and I watch as yellowing leaves scatter across the yard. It’s early afternoon, and Rosie’s father’s already gone back to the apartment again. Rosie slept in this morning—her father told us not to wake her, since she hasn’t slept in for a long time. “Not since my wife…well, you know,” he had said with a shrug. “She always makes me coffee in the morning, like Holly used to. I think she thinks she has to take care of her old man now.” I remembered that her mother passed away, but I didn’t realize how recent it was. Only a year.

  I tap out “I Like Big Butts” on the grand piano in the living room, because I can’t think of a more ridiculous song to play on a five-thousand-dollar instrument, putting my ten years of music lessons to excellent use.

  I’m working out the notes to round thing in your face you get—when my phone, sitting on the bench beside me, pings with a text.

  DARIEN (3:47 PM)

  —Hey man,
it’s been a while.

  Yeah, no kidding. It feels like an eternity. I keep tapping away at the notes, adding a bass chord as I get more acquainted with the song.

  …with an itty-bitty waist and a round thing in your—

  My phone pings again.

  DARIEN (3:48 PM)

  —You okay?

  Just two words. But they’re enough to thoroughly ruin my fun. I should text him back the truth, that I’m having about as much fun as anyone else in the lowest circle of hell, but when I pick up my phone I can’t do it. We made our choices, and this is how the dominoes fell. He made the right ones, I made the not-so-right ones.

  Instead, I turn off my phone, and as I close the cover on the piano keys, the Star Wars theme echoes through house. Elias’s ringtone, but he’s out running errands. His phone is vibrating on the edge of kitchen.

  He forgot it—again.

  I stare at it, because the first thing I think is that it’s my mother. Or my manager. Or a reporter. Or my mother.

  And none of them I want to talk to.

  The call goes to voice mail, and my anxiety begins to ebb. I shove the bench underneath the piano and start for the stairs when—

  His phone goes off again.

  What if it’s important? a voice inside me whispers.

  My stomach flips into a knot and I make for the counter and swipe up on Elias’s phone. It’s not my publicist, or my manager, or a journalist. It’s…

  My mother.

  I haven’t talked with her since our fight, and I have strategically avoided her every single time she’s tried to call me, and despite everything, I do miss talking to her, even as I try to remember why I’m so bitter about it all to begin with.

  Because she sided with my stepfather. She sent me here, to nowhere. To hide me away because she, like my stepfather, is ashamed of me.

  That’s the part of all of this I don’t like thinking about.

  “Um, Vance?” I glance behind me. Rosie stands in the doorway to the living room with her suitcase and her bookbag. Her hair is pulled behind her head in two short pigtails, and she tugs on one of them nervously. “Dad just called. He said the apartment’s back in tip-top shape! I hate to ask, but Elias has gone to the farmer’s market, so…do you think you could take me home?”