Hero High didn’t believe in signposts. On the ground at the places where paths crossed, inlaid mosaics indicated direction. The design style paid homage to Reginald R. Hero, the school’s founder, who’d made his fortune in artisan tiles. None of the ones in the ground were his, though. Those were in glass cases in museums or ornamenting the historic homes of the superwealthy. The ones students stepped on were reproductions. Tiles shaped like books with opened covers spilled pages toward the library. Balls bounced toward the athletic fields and gymnasium. The masks of comedy and tragedy nodded at the theater. They’d charmed me on my tour of the school. They charmed me again today. I did a clumsy spin on top of a globe-shaped tile. “I love these.”
“They’re a pain to clean, so don’t get too many demerits, or you’ll spend your Saturday scraping gum, moss, and weeds from the cracks.” His grin was pure troublemaker—I bet he was a substitute’s worst nightmare.
When Eliza tutted—like the idea of demerits made her itchy, which, let’s be honest, it probably did—his smile turned sheepish and he ran a hand across his hair. It was dark, closer to black than the bronze of his skin, and short, but looked like it might curl if it grew longer.
A warm, tan hand landed on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Spoken by someone who’s logged many hours in detention, so listen to Curtis, Rowboat.”
Toby looked dapper—as always—in a uniform cut to showcase his long limbs and dark hair and eyes. But I’d never been so dismayed by his use of that nickname. Especially once I saw Curtis mouth it with a puzzled look. He turned to Eliza. “What is ‘Rowboat’ short for?”
Eliza ignored him and grasped my arm. “Let’s go.”
“Where are you headed? I can show you to your first class,” said Toby.
“No need.” Curtis took a micro-step closer to Eliza. “I’ve got this.”
She pointed to a mosaic of test tubes and beakers. The smoke that poured out of the top pointed down the path on the right. “Thanks, but we don’t need an escort.”
“Maybe not,” Toby said, “but I’m in bio, too, so you’re stuck with me.”
Toby and Eliza had long ago stopped treating each other with what most considered general manners or human decency. But they liked each other. Deep down they must. Possibly, way deep down.
“You’re stuck with us,” Curtis said, his grin turning impish when he added, “Just wait till you check me out in my lab goggles. Sizzle.”
“And suddenly I’m not looking forward to bio anymore,” Eliza muttered.
“Ouch.” Curtis said it lightly, but his smile flickered. “I’m hurt.”
Eliza glanced at the paths and pointed left. “The health center is that way.”
Toby laughed and reached for a high-five she would never, ever grant him, then chuckled again as he linked his arm through my other one, causing a brief moment of panic that they might literally play tug-of-war with me.
“Welcome to Hero High.” Toby smiled at us. “I’m going to like having you here.”
4
Eliza wore her post-biology high like a secret, tucked close to her heart so no one could tell how much she’d loved the class. It lasted through history, a trip to our lockers (so much shinier and bigger than our old lockers—though they still had that sweat-and-overripe-apple smell) and through Latin too.
All I could think on our walk to English was: Eliza’s parents had better remember to call her tonight! I didn’t care about the weather at the South Pole, the fickleness of their satellite phone, or how busy they were with their “important work”—I cared about Eliza. She deserved a phone call where she could rehash or gush—in her restrained, not-at-all-gushy way—about her first day at a new school.
The tiles pointing the way to English were a quill pen whose calligraphy spiraled off of a roll of parchment to form an arrow. While we walked the crowded paths, while Eliza was busy suppressing her still-lingering smile, I mentally composed an email about priorities and What the double helix is wrong with you? Because if they didn’t call, I was overdue to give them a piece of my mind. It was one of my emails six years ago that had gotten them to grant Eliza the leniency to have a doughnut on the first day of school (as long as the rest of her nutrition followed their absurd regimen). I’d also been the one to convince them she was terrified of the python they gotten as a pet/experiment.
And as long as they hadn’t changed their email addresses or blocked mine, I was more than willing to remind the famous Drs. Gordon and Fergus that their best achievement was being parents to the most awesome girl on the planet.
“Hey!” Toby called from a classroom doorway. “We’re in here. I saved you seats.”
My smile widened; Eliza’s dimmed. “Just how many classes do you share with us?”
“Not as many as you have with each other, so calm down.”
Ha! Point to Toby . . . except the seats he’d saved were in the back corner, and Eliza only liked sitting in what she called the “classroom T-zone”—first row across and single row up the center. There was some study or other that proved those seats were linked to higher performance.
“You’ll be okay,” I assured her, dismayed that all traces of her smile were gone. “At least they’re together. Thanks, Toby.”
“Ms. Gregoire is one of the most popular teachers on campus. I was only one building over, and it was almost full by the time I got here,” he said with a shrug.
“Full” clearly had a different meaning in private school, because while almost all the desks were claimed, there were only twelve students in them. I leaned toward his. “What’s she like?”
“You’re going to like her.” Toby nodded toward the door, which was opening to reveal a petite woman with red hair. She balanced two leather bags, a stack of papers, and a coffee mug.
“Welcome, sophomores!” Ms. Gregoire punctuated the statement by dropping everything but the coffee on her desk. “If you’re not a sophomore, scram. If you are, get out your laptop and turn it on. Open a file and add today’s date. We’ve no time for laziness.”
The class scrambled to do her bidding, and I was grateful I’d taken the time to download the software to make Eliza’s and my laptops “school-ready”—more grateful Toby had installed some under-the-radar messaging program, which I opened along with my blank document.
“If you were in my class last year, you’ll remember we surveyed American literature. This year’s curriculum is going to focus on Brit lit.”
There were so many things I wanted to tell Eliza. At Woodcreek Charter, I would’ve whispered, or scrawled a note, or texted in my lap. At Hero High, texting was “absolutely verboten.” They broke out fancy vocab words and cellular signal blockers that were only turned off at lunch and dismissal.
I sent a quick: I’m so grateful for your hacker skills right now to MAYbeToby. He sent back a gif I’d have to ask him how to access.
Then I opened a messenger box to ElizaGF. My screen name riffed off Toby’s nickname for me—one he’d given me back in preschool when he’d thought “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” went “Merrilee, Merrilee, Merrilee, Merrilee, life is but a dream.”
RowboatReads: Do you think Rory has Ms. G. too?
What books do you think they studied last year?
Do you think next year is Australian? Canadian?
Or what about an Asian country?
Or African?
Or other parts of Europe?
French or German or Roman or Romanian . . .
Eliza still hadn’t responded, though I could see the boxes filling up her screen, and the corner of her mouth twitched.
Narnia.
Neverland.
Hogwarts.
Endor.
I finally heard her fingers move on the keyboard. Score one for persistent badgering.
ElizaGF: I’m buying you a globe for your birthday.
Now PAY ATTENTION!
Then the spoilsport signed out.
For once, paying attention was easy. It wasn’t he
r clothing—though Ms. Gregoire’s jade-green dress with subtle gold pinstripes made me super jealous I was stuck in a uniform. And it wasn’t her hair—awesome, deep red, worn in a crown of braids around her head. Or the tone of her voice—rich and breathy, like she was whispering magical secrets, though she wasn’t actually whispering at all.
It was all of these. Plus the swoop and curl of her letters on the electronic whiteboard in handwriting that made me think of quills and inkwells. And her graceful hand flourishes that seemed to invite us all in to “take an educational journey with me.”
No one laughed when she said this. Instead we leaned forward in our seats.
“This year you will fall in love—” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. I swear the mug had been regular brushed steel—but as she locked eyes with me over its rim, light reflected off it like it was covered in rhinestones. It made my mind spin, and for a moment time seemed to pause so her words could echo in my head: This year you will fall in love. In love. In love. She kept sipping as she stepped around her desk, closer and closer to my mine—I didn’t dare break eye contact even though I still had messenger open on my screen.
When she was a step or two away, the mug blazed so bright that I had to close my eyes. By the time I’d opened them, she’d shifted her gaze to someone else. “—with books.
“This year you’ll fall in love with books,” she repeated. She put her mug down on her desk. I stared at it—plain dull silver with the school crest—then typed frantically in messenger.
RowboatReads: Did you see that?
MAYbeToby: See what?
RowboatReads: Her mug. It glowed! You didn’t see it?
MAYbeToby: Um. No???
Well, he was useless. Luckily Eliza’s nosiness must have gotten the best of her, because she’d logged back in.
RowboatReads: Did you see that thing with her mug? Tell me you did.
ElizaGF: ??? Did she spill coffee or something?
Ugh. I wanted to slam my laptop shut. They were both useless. How had they missed it? It had glowed, flashed. I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t!
Ms. Gregoire paused in the center of the room. “We’ll be starting with a story you all think you know.” She flung her arms wide and spun around—and if she’d sprinkled us with pixie dust and told us we could fly, I would’ve been the first one to the windowsill. “I’m going to break your expectations over and over and over again.”
“What book?” asked a guy in the first row. All I could see was the back of his head, his neck, and his shoulders—but they were a nice head, neck, and shoulders: blond hair, muscles and lines and tanned skin that made the uniform do all sorts of attractive things. Maybe I would fall in love in this room after all.
Except he groaned when Ms. Gregoire answered, “Actually, Lance, it’s a play. . . .” So, maybe not.
She hopped onto her desk and swung her feet—clad in gold-trimmed navy heels that inspired English bulldog levels of drool. She let the dramatic pause stretch until all eyes were on her, but not so long that we started to turn to one another and exchange she’s lost it looks. “The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.”
She painted the title in the air with her fingers and then shushed the grumbles with a gentle plucking motion. “None of that—though each of your reactions, moan or smile, prove my point. You think you know this story. You don’t.” She paused to make eye contact with each of us. She was looking at me when she said, “But you will. You’ll know it like you’ve lived it by the time we’re done.”
I turned to see if Eliza was equally spellbound, but she was typing.
ElizaGF: So much for academic rigor. We read that in eighth grade at Woodcreek Charter.
“I know some of you are probably already dismissing this as an easy class—after all, those of you who attended Mayfield Middle Academy already studied Romeo and Juliet, in, what, sixth grade?” Ms. Gregoire paused, and everyone in class except for Eliza and me nodded.
Eliza signed off again.
“Like I said before, you think you know this play. But you’re wrong. And you’re not preteens anymore. You’re not going to be stumbling over ‘thees’ and ‘eres’ or have the bawdy humor slide over your heads. There is so much more to this story than Leonardo DiCaprio or that hideous remake with Chuck from Gossip Girl. Seriously, if you’re going to try and cheat by watching a movie, skip that one.”
We laughed.
“Okay, I had you turn on those laptops for a reason—and not so you can talk about me on whatever new chat program bypasses the school firewalls. I’d like you to write yourselves a letter about this play—quotes, feelings, themes, scenes, whatever comes to mind. Romeo and Juliet is a play that reveals a lot about the reader. It’s a great way for me to get to know you and figure out who you are as learners and people and what you need. So I want you to take this letter seriously. Reviewing them will be illuminating for me—I’ll draw from these as I shape your curriculum for the year. When you finish, send them to me via the class dropbox.”
She paused and surveyed the room with a mischievous smile and, I swear, a twinkle in her eye. “I look forward to proving you all wrong.”
5
“You know, these mosaics may be more picturesque than signposts, and I get the whole ‘tiles as tribute to our school founder’ thing, but they’re really impractical.” I wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. We were smushed in a glob of bodies making its way from various points A to B (in my case, locker to lunch), and I assumed Eliza or Toby was listening. “For one thing: traffic jams like this. For another: leaves, snow, mud, puddles, or people standing on the tile you need to see.”
“They aren’t meant to be a long-term solution.” The answer came from over my left shoulder. I recognized the voice by its condescension. Apparently recycling cans weren’t the only things that got his starched undies in a bunch. Mr. Recycling Fanatic was leaning down to talk to me, his words brushing over the shell of my ear, making my stomach squirm and plummet and my breath catch in surprise. “Once the freshmen learn their way—or realize campus maps exist—they’ll stop interfering with the rest of us getting to class. But since you have so many complaints, maybe you should return to your old school.”
The way he’d said “complaints” reminded me of the way a snotty earl had spat the word “peasants” on a BBC movie Lilly, Toby, and I had watched the previous weekend. I wanted to ask if all transfer students earned the same level of contempt, or if I was special, but Hero High’s resident curmudgeon turned down the path’s left fork without saying good-bye.
He was replaced by Lance—aka the owner of the neck and shoulders I’d momentarily admired in English class. They supported a head covered in disheveled blond hair and a face that was dominated by an open smile as he said, “C’mon, I’ll teach you a trick.” And while Lance’s English class grumblings disqualified him from any crushes, I was always open to new friends. So when he lifted an arm, which sported some serious muscles and one of those surfer-y friendship bracelets, I followed his pointer finger to the edge of the path.
I bet this was how secret societies started—put teens in uniforms and have one crook a finger and offer a temptation. Really, I was only one step away from chants and rituals and handshakes and midnight hijinks in a hidden tomb. It was good Eliza had signed us up for Latin; mottos and solemn vows were always in Latin.
He bent his head toward mine. “We’re not exactly supposed to walk on the grass, but it’s lunch, I’m hungry, and it’s grass. Are we really going to hurt it?” He took an exaggeratedly large step onto the lawn and waited, the heels of his fancy sneakers bobbing up and down. I laughed and took three normal-size steps to meet him.
Okay, so it wasn’t the same as blood oaths or drinking from a sacred mug made from a skull, but . . .
From behind me, Eliza called, “Merrilee! Where are you—What are you—That’s not allowed!”
“Come on, Eliza,” I said. “Or you can stay with Toby and catch up la
ter.”
In a blink, disapproval became fury: pink cheeks, straight-line mouth, I’ll kill you eyes. She took a deep breath, looked around, and tiptoed toward us. Pointing a finger at Lance, she said, “Walk. Quickly. And I’m blaming you if we get caught.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” I huffed, struggling to keep up as he followed her orders and practically jogged across the lawn to another path. “Except she kinda does.” He sped up.
At the door to the dining hall, Lance paused. “You buying or packing?”
“Packing.” Though, since the air smelled delicious, maybe I’d rethink that in the future. I sniffed again: basil, bread, chocolate?
“Cool. I’m buying, but if you head to the far table on the left side, that’s where our group sits. Toby will find you there.”
“Thanks,” I said. Eliza was already stomping off, but I caught up and gave her my winningest smile. “So, what do you think so far?” She kept frowning. “Dude, it was grass. I’m pretty sure it’s been walked on for thousands of years without harm. My opinions? Bio, blech. Meh on Latin and history. Hooray for English! Can you believe we’re studying Romeo and Juliet? It’s the most romantic story in the world. I would die to have a boy love me that much.”
“Seriously, Merrilee?” Eliza sighed, but her voice was less anger and more exasperation—it was an amused echo of the clinically cool voice her parents used whenever they combatted my imagination with their stupid facts. “Yeah, you would die—you’d be literally dead. You’ve read the play, you know how it ends. That is not romance. It’s rash actions and lack of communication and incredible immaturity.”
I shook my head, refusing to let her cynicism contaminate my imaginings. I had a balcony; why couldn’t I find a boy to stand beneath it and say poetical things? “It all goes back to what I was telling you this morning: boys are so much better in books.”
“Oooh! A book discussion? I want in!”
Bookish Boyfriends Page 3
