I started down the sidewalk, because technically here was still two blocks away. “This is a fresh start. I no longer have to be known as the girl who still believed in Santa in the fifth grade. Or the one sent to the nurse because she couldn’t stop crying over Where the Red Fern Grows. Or—who could forget the super-fun first week when I couldn’t find my gym locker, and I had to wear my sweaty clothes to class? Can I just not be that person?”
I wasn’t a fan of Lilly’s future mother-in-law, but I was grateful for her insistence that Rory and I switch from the charter school we’d attended since sixth grade to this “much more prestigious” private school.
“I promise to remember where your locker is,” said Eliza. “And I called to confirm that our schedules are identical.”
“Thank you.” Bless this girl for transferring schools with me and Eliza’ing her way into matching schedules. Of course her parents had always wanted her to go to Hero High and had only begrudgingly settled on Woodcreek Charter School for Girls because of studies about the benefits of an all-girls’ educational environment on confidence and achievement. But, as they’d been happy to point out, those advantages weren’t significant enough to make up for a lack of lab facilities, AP classes, or International Baccalaureate programmes—all of which Reginald R. Hero Preparatory School had in spades. This was a rare moment when my parents’ lack of finances and Eliza’s stubborn refusal to go without me were finally not obstacles in the Gordon-Ferguses’ plans. So, if I was blessing things, I should include the financial aid and scholarship committees.
Eliza looked mournfully at her last bite of doughnut before popping it in her mouth and chewing slowly. She swallowed and asked, “May I make a suggestion?”
I gave her some serious side-eye, but her poker face was inscrutable. “Maybe.”
She began, “You know you’re my favorite human on the planet—”
I interrupted to add, “And Gatsby is your favorite canine.”
She laughed. “Sure.” Then she continued, “And I love your fearless optimism and imagination. But . . . maybe don’t spend the whole day starry-eyed. I know you’re excited about going coed and don’t intentionally get so lost in your thoughts—but at least on the first day, try to focus on what people actually say—not the narratives you’re inventing for them.”
I dragged the toe of my boot along the pavement—then winced when it added a scuff to the stain. There was no way I could return these without facing capital punishment from Lilly. I’d have to bury them in the back of my closet with her pink blouse (blueberry pie) and Rory’s white skirt (impromptu Slip ’N Slide—though to be fair, Toby had dared me).
Eliza cleared her throat and I blinked, realizing I owed her an answer. “Oh. I do try.”
She laughed. “You know what? Be you. If they don’t adore you, that’s their problem. And we’ll try every club until we figure out what you’re yearning for. Now, what about me?”
Because that was the thing about Eliza—she gave lots of advice, but she also asked for my opinion and listened.
“Try not to be so sensitive if your parents come up.” Since she was nodding and receptive, I added, “And be nicer to Toby.”
Eliza scowled. “I can’t believe we’re going to have to see him every single day.”
He lived next door. I already saw him every day, but I didn’t remind her. I also didn’t say, You need to learn to share me, because I’d said it—and they’d ignored it—a gazillion times.
“We’re here.” My stomach tightened as the long driveway to Hero High loomed large across the street. I dropped the last piece of my doughnut back into the bag and stared at the stone arch and, beyond that, a campus that looked much too perfect and pristine for someone with scuffed and jelly-spotted boots, someone who frequently got grass stains by just looking at lawns and who hadn’t yet managed to wear tights for an entire day without snagging them. Someone who occasionally still forgot to raise her hand and blurted out the answer in math class before the teacher finished explaining the problem.
I took a deep breath and a moment to absorb the beauty of the campus—my new campus. There was a double row of trees that arched over the drive leading to the stone mansions where classes were held. The grass was Technicolor green and so temptingly lush that I wanted to climb the gentle slope off to our left and roll down it.
Okay, so maybe there was a reason I was prone to grass stains.
“Ohhh, who’s that under the maples?” I pointed across the drive to a guy pacing beneath the row of trees. It reminded me of a scene from a book—I just couldn’t remember which one.
“Those are sycamores,” said Eliza. “And the only male I know here is Toby, so your guess is as good as mine.”
I studied the way the mystery student’s head was bent. Sunlight and shadows played across the black curls that spilled around his ears. “Does he look upset? Do you think we should—” I stepped off the path in his direction, but Eliza grabbed my arm.
“No, I don’t think you should bother the brooding boy who’s choosing to be by himself. He’s a stranger, not a stray puppy.”
But he was so alone beneath the trees. So alone and so picturesque with his dark pants and white shirt against the green backdrop and dappled shade. His tie wasn’t fastened, just draped around his collar, and his sleeves were rolled up. A blazer was slung over a book bag at the base of a tree. The guy’s face was hidden by the angle and those touch-me curls, so I couldn’t see if his expression was as emotional as his posture and pacing, but I could practically hear his sighs as he clenched and unclenched a fist in time with his footsteps. It was something right off the pages of a half dozen romance novels. Only it was happening, real, live, right in front of me.
Color me emo-intrigued.
School with boys was awesome.
“Earth to Merri.” Eliza shook my arm.
“He’s so mysterious.”
“You can’t solve all the school’s mysteries on your first day.” Eliza spun me back in the right direction. “Today, let’s focus on the mystery of locating our classes. He’s probably just angsty about summer being over.”
“I doubt it. Today’s Friday. Who gets that moody about one day of classes? Though maybe his weekend plans are as exciting as mine.” I wagged one finger in faux enthusiasm. “It’s finally here—Lilly and Trent’s engagement party is tonight.”
I’d never understand what Lilly saw in Trent—what anyone did. Sure, he was handsome, in an entirely generic soap opera actor way. But before he’d put a ring on it—it being my sister’s finger—he’d been on a list of the state’s most eligible bachelors. Everything about Lilly’s relationship and fiancé were yawn-inducing. The party would be a total snoozefest, too—full of his mom’s politics and fussy food. Gah, neither the election nor the wedding could come fast enough.
I let Eliza drag me farther down the path but glanced over my shoulder. The boy was leaning against a tree. Not back against it. He was facing it, one palm pressed flat against the trunk as he bowed his head, the other hand fisted tightly by his side. He was so broody and so mysterious. The broodiest boys in books were also the ones who made my heart c’thunk, and this guy was a Brontë hero: Heathcliff and Rochester combined. The mysterious ones brought out my inner sleuth—and this guy made me want to dig up Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie.
I wished he would look up so I could offer an encouraging smile or a friendly wave. Heck, if Eliza wouldn’t have killed me for even thinking it, I would have given him a cheer-up hug. Since I couldn’t, really, shouldn’t—Stranger Hugger was not the reputation I wanted at Hero High—I just gave him one last look and vowed that as soon as possible, I’d solve his mystery.
3
The closer we got to the gray stone buildings of the campus, the faster Eliza walked. When we heard the voices of other students, her pace forced me to jog. She wasn’t overanxious to get to homeroom; she was just anxious. Fast footsteps, clipped tone, jerky gestures—these were Eliza’s tel
ls. Distraction mode: activated.
“The scenery here is certainly better,” I teased, raising my eyebrows and tilting my head to indicate yet another pretty guy made prettier and preppier by a perfectly cut blazer and pants. Since Eliza didn’t answer, I poked her and added, “By ‘scenery,’ I mean ‘guys.’”
The boy I’d indicated was standing in front of a trash can. And since I was still holding a sticky doughnut bag, this had all the ingredients of a perfectly book-worthy meet cute. As gorgeous as the tree boy had been, this one was an upgrade. Like, an are-you-kidding specimen of teenage perfection. If all the Hero High guys looked this good, I was in serious danger of flunking out. Or maybe I just needed some time to build up a tolerance? Like with caffeine. Either way, I gave this tall, dark double espresso my best attempt at a flirty, not-pixie smile and said, “Excuse me,” as I leaned around him to toss my bag in the trash.
“Wait!” he called.
Oh, I waited. I so willingly waited for whatever would come out of his mouth next. And while I waited, I tried to picture how he’d be described in a Mick Flame novel. Everything about him was crisp and corners, from the collar and cuffs on his shirt—were those cuff links?—to the angles of his cheekbones and jaw line. Lips that any romance writer would write raptures over: just this side of sulky and, in a word, bitable. Eyes, rich brown, intense, alert like he was taking note of everything—and I didn’t mind being noted. His posture would make an etiquette teacher drool; yet, like his clothing, it seemed a natural part of him. His hair was dark brown and neat—except for one piece that dared to droop onto his forehead. Oh, I liked that piece. I bet it annoyed him, but a girl could go swoony just thinking about fixing it. Even his voice was sharp—sharp enough to pierce my heart and make me—
“You can’t do that!” I jerked backward from his scolding. His scowl made me want to apologize, even though I didn’t know what for. “You’re not going to leave it like that, are you?”
“If you could use a more specific noun than ‘that’ or ‘it,’ perhaps we’d have a clue what you’re complaining about,” snapped Eliza.
“That’s recycling.” He pointed to the can behind him, then aimed his intense dark eyes back at me. “Your trash was not recyclable.”
“Oh.” Breath whooshed out of my lungs in a relieved gust. “That’s easy enough to fix. My mistake. Sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for making a mistake,” lectured Eliza, and I bit my tongue so I didn’t say sorry to her as well. Usually I would, just to see her cheeks flush and hear her speech on female disempowerment through the narrative of apologies and self-blame, but leaning elbow-deep into the recycling can, I was willing to let this chance pass.
“You know, they should really mark these better,” I chattered as I leaned deeper into the can, hoping my skirt still covered all the parts it should. This wasn’t a scenario I’d tested for accidental exposure.
The guy’s eyes widened like I’d just told a particularly cutting “yo’ momma” joke or insulted his puppy. “Most of our students don’t have difficulty reading.”
I gasped—which was apparently the last boost I needed, because my fingertips finally brushed against my doughnut trash. I stood and crushed the bag in my hand before tossing it in the next can.
“Did—” I swallowed and took a deep breath, because I must have misunderstood. “Did you just accuse me of not knowing how to read?”
The accusation was so preposterous that I couldn’t help but giggle. Everyone said I was practically born with my nose in a book. I stopped laughing when he didn’t smile. His eyebrows arched like perfectly graceful, perfectly disdainful punctuation on his perfect and disdainful face. He tapped a polished loafer on the tiles that read “trash” and “recycling.”
“Who puts signs on the ground? That’s hardly practical.” I looked to Eliza—who nodded in agreement—then back to the guy.
“Like I said before, most of our students don’t struggle with this concept.” And since he’d saved the planet from my waxed-paper bag, he gave me one last haughty sniff and started walking away.
I chased after him, determined to coax a grin and win him over, because this had to be fake. Some sort of new-kid hazing, or Toby had set this up as one of his pranks. “Hey,” I called when I caught up. I held out my palm. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”
I knew I was vertically challenged, but no one had ever actually looked down their nose at me before. And, gah, the intensity in his gaze—if this was how he looked when he was annoyed with someone, imagine being on the receiving end when he gazed on someone he adored. Not that I wanted to be that someone. Not at all. Despite all the enemies-turned-love-interests books I’d read, I was okay with this guy keeping his pretty scorn to himself. Especially when he paired it with a slow, measured, are you an idiot? voice. “That hand was just in the garbage. Do you really expect me to shake it?”
“Actually, as you were so quick to point out, it was in the recycling.”
He stared at my fingers like they were crawling with salmonella, which . . . maybe they were. The longer he stared at them, the more I was tempted to run for the closest sink or dig through Eliza’s bag for her anti-bac.
In the half second before I convinced myself I could actually see the germs crawling across my nails—had that freckle always been there?—Eliza tugged on my arm.
But I didn’t look at her. I looked up at him. He was looking at me too. Still arrogant. And maybe . . . as his dark eyes narrowed and searched mine—just a tiny bit surprised or confused or intrigued or . . .? Whatever emotion had sparked between us, he blinked it away. Covered it with annoyance and amped up the wattage of his glower. I was tempted to rub my germy hand all over his perfectly pressed shirt. Except my parents trained me better than that.
“Forget it. He’s rude,” Eliza said.
His gaze slid from me, to her, to away. I did a subtle fist pump by my side. It might be bad dog-training advice to commence an eye-contact contest with a pup, but it sure felt good to win one against this jerk. “Did you hear that?” I demanded of Eliza. “He said I couldn’t read.”
Eliza looked gratifyingly pissed, and her angry looks were way more murderous than mine. A hazard of cute is that it is incompatible with scary. “You sleep with books under your pillow. You read more pages than anyone else in the Chester Elementary read-a-thon. You can recite Keats and Dickinson like the alphabet. You were the first in our class to complete all seven Harry Pot—”
I held up a hand to cut her off—and because I really wanted the anti-bac she kept in her bag. While I loved her defensive mode, I didn’t need a recitation of all the evidence that he was wrong. Not that he seemed to care or even acknowledge that she’d spoken. Well, I wasn’t going to directly acknowledge him either.
“Wow, the welcoming committee at Hero High is top-notch,” I said while slathering anti-bac all over my fingers. I’d said it louder than I should. Loud enough—I hoped—that it carried to his reddening ears as he walked away.
It certainly reached the ears of several other students, because I caught two girls giggling, and a guy stopped and asked, “Do you need help?”
“No.” Eliza turned her back and tapped an impatient ballet flat on the path.
This new guy couldn’t be more different from the Recycling Can Enforcement Squad. He was rumpled. One side of his shirt untucked. One cuff unbuttoned, revealing a wiry wrist and more of his rich brown skin. He had the hopeful eyes and eager smile of a well-loved puppy and looked like he was going through a puppylike growth spurt too. Oversize hands and long limbs he hadn’t quite mastered yet. I glanced at his feet, because if shoes were the only nonstandard part of the uniform, I wanted to see what his said about him. Unlike the polished loafers of the jerk, this guy had on flip-flops. Their madras straps were shades of red, gray, and navy, which made me smile, because those were the school colors.
“Hey, I’m Curtis. What’s your first class?” he asked me, which I appreciated since fro
m my experiences around town at the mall and movies and parks, most guys forgot I existed once they’d seen Eliza. Maybe I just needed her to turn around whenever a boy approached.
“Um . . .” I never wasted headspace on things like schedules. Eliza picked our classes, then I followed her around and let her badger me into studying. She loved time management and any excuse to be bossy.
“Biology,” she answered.
“Seriously? Bio first thing?” I stopped just short of stomping my foot. Instead I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “No wonder you were so excited to get here. Science before eight a.m. is cruel and unusual punishment!”
“I’ve got bio too. And I’ll have to respectfully disagree—it’s my favorite cla-ahh—” He got his first glimpse of Eliza and choked on his words or his tongue or his drool.
I winced. Yes, my best friend had a face and body that made guys stupid. But since stupidity and being objectified were her biggest turnoffs, this guy was not doing himself any favors.
“Um.” Curtis cleared his throat and his voice came out octaves higher. “The bio teacher’s—uh, really good. And you’re . . . wow.”
Eliza glowered, and I cursed her parents for the way they’d drilled into her head that her beauty was a liability. They were away on research trips ten months out of the year and still managed to convince her that—since she fit a narrow beauty standard of privileged perfection with her Caucasian features and her blond-and-blue combination—no one would take her seriously.
I needed to change the topic before either of them made things worse. Clearly she was interpreting his bio-ramble as a reference to her parents, and clearly he was about to build an altar to sacrifice himself upon. I said the first thing I could think of: “Don’t you agree the trash cans aren’t well labeled?”
“Um.” He blinked at me. “What?”
“Never mind.” Gah, five minutes on campus and I was already ruining my chances of being seen as normal. I sighed and walked the last five steps to where the sidewalks intersected.
Bookish Boyfriends Page 2
