“Ummsighgrumble.” I hadn’t yet reached the stage in my morning where I was using real words or full sentences. My bugbites itched. Why were Mondays so much meaner than other days?
Toby grinned and took a bite of toaster pastry, offering me the second from his foil wrapper. “So, are we stopping for a coffee-flavored sugar drink? You look like you could use it.”
Since he’d shared his breakfast, I guessed I could try communicating with something other than grunts. “My hero. Yes, please.”
“Yes, please, what? Why is Toby your hero?” Rory wasn’t a morning person either, but you’d never guess that from the way she bounced into the kitchen like Tigger on Pixy Stix. She had a small scrap of silk stuck to her sleeve; I plucked it off as she passed. Had she really been working on one of her textile sculptures already? I’d barely managed to brush my hair. “Good morning, Toby!”
“Hey, Rory.” He sat next to me, so close I could feel his body heat. I was tempted to snuggle against him—I still felt shivery cold from my hours on the balcony—but those instinctive friendship gestures no longer felt natural. “Rowboat, did you change your mind about Monroe? You can, you know.”
I lifted my head, blinked, and backed away from the intensity in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” demanded Rory.
The doorbell rang, providing a beautiful excuse for ignoring my sister and escaping the ferocity of Toby’s questions and wishes. I darted into the front hall, scolding Byron, “No bark!” as I flung the door open with a grateful smile for whatever paperboy, neighbor, or Rhodes family member was on the other side.
Or . . . Monroe.
I wanted to line up every wannabe boy-band look-alike with too much hair product and an attempted swagger that made him look like he was fighting a wedgie. Line them all up, and show them: THIS.
This is the look all those guys were going for—the one they’d never achieve—because putting effort into looking effortless is always transparent.
Monroe hadn’t tried. He was standing on my front step with hair that was shower damp and curling in ways that suggested his styling regimen consisted of shaking his head.
I wanted to stare, to study him up close, then retroactively add new details—the shape of his ears, the single freckle on his cheek, the cords of his neck muscles—to the shadowy face I’d inserted in my Romeo and Juliet fantasy.
“Impossible,” he said, his mouth turning up in a smile that evicted all traces of chilliness from my body. “You’re even more beautiful in the daylight.”
“Hi?” I mentally ran through a bunch of versions of What are you doing here? But even sleep-deprived and shocked, they felt tactless. Plus, all I really wanted to do was kiss him. Was seven a.m. too early for an enthusiastic make-out session? I’d brushed my teeth.
Before I could sway any closer, Gatsby joined Byron in barking at Monroe and trying to herd us apart. Traitor dog.
“Stratford.” Toby appeared at my elbow, doing that last-name-as-greeting, head-nod thing boys think makes them look macho.
“May.”
Okay, so, it did look macho when Monroe did it. Especially since he’d simultaneously slid a hand around my waist and pulled me to his side, tangling my fingers with his and resting them on my hip. It was a gesture that felt romantic for half a second; but the aftertaste was possessive. I sidestepped to put a little distance between us.
“Hush, Byron! Gatsby! Merrilee, who’s at the door?” Dad stopped short and dropped the newspaper he was carrying. Byron barked at the fluttering pages and ran to hide under the dining room table.
I gave a high-pitched laugh and went full ramble: “Good morning, clumsy. This is why you should never get an e-reader. Though who has time to read lately? I still haven’t finished the book I started last Thursday. That’s got to be a record for me.” Maybe if I kept talking, he’d forget about the tall, handsome boy standing beside me?
Except the tall, handsome boy didn’t know about this plan. And without letting go of me, he reached out his other hand. No, stop, T.H. Boy! And definitely don’t pull me closer, or look at me like I’m an empty peanut butter jar and you’re Gatsby about to steal me from the recycling bin.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Monroe Stratford.”
“George Campbell.” Dad’s eyes widened as he took in our body language. “Jennifer, could you come down here, please?”
“Coming.” Mom appeared on the stairs, putting in her left earring and frowning at Dad’s newspaper mess before noticing I was stuck between Toby and Monroe like the red-cheeked filling in a tall-guy cookie.
“Hello,” she said. “Merrilee, dear, who’s your friend?”
“This is Monroe,” I mumbled. “He goes to Hero High. He’s my . . .”
Was there any ending to that sentence that wouldn’t make me want to fling myself onto the nearest pointy object? Especially since everyone in the foyer seemed to be leaning in and holding their breath. Rory hopped off her stool and came to join us. She was still clutching her fork. It was pointy; it would do. . . .
“What did you say? I missed that,” Rory prompted. “He’s your what?”
Monroe squeezed me. “I’m the guy she’s captivated. And who can blame me?”
Mom cooed like I was a toddler. “Merri! You have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell me, sweet pea?”
“Um, I didn’t say ‘boyfriend.’” I looked up at Monroe with wide eyes. “I never said ‘boyfriend.’ You heard me, that word did not cross my lips.” He just shrugged and smiled.
“Our little late bloomer,” said Dad, and I wondered if it was possible to combust from humiliation. “We wondered when you were going to notice that boys existed outside of books.”
“Seriously. It’s about time,” Rory said, perking up. Like she had any right to talk. Rory always had a line of artsy fanboy admirers trailing after her like paper dolls. But she never looked up from her easel long enough to notice them. Lilly and I were convinced that when someone with enough talent came along, Rory would put down the paintbrush and pucker up. She beamed at Monroe. “You should drive with him. Toby and I will get Eliza.”
Why wasn’t Monroe sprinting? There should be a cartoon cloud of dust behind him and steam coming off the bottoms of his loafers. That their overzealous, super-weirdo reactions didn’t make him go dashing for the door won Monroe all the bonus points in the world. Not that he’d get to cash them in, because embarrassment this acute had to be fatal.
“How did you two meet?” Dad asked.
“At Lilly’s party.”
“Hmm.” Mom’s eyes narrowed as she wagged a finger between us. “Does this have anything to do with why you were MIA during the fire drill?”
“Fire drill?” asked Monroe. I elbowed him, and the confusion smoothed off his face as a lie slid confidently off his tongue. “Right. The fire drill. They should really plan those things for less inconvenient times.”
“So true.” Mom was moony-eyed. Rory was too. Part of me wished Lilly were here so she could meet Monroe and see an example of real romance—and maybe be inspired to dump her stodgy, insomnia-cure fiancé.
No offense to Trent.
“C’mon, Rory, let’s go.” Toby sounded as bitter as his disgusting coffee preference: no cream, no sugar.
“Later.” Rory started to follow Toby’s stiff march out the front door, then pivoted and paused in front of Monroe. “It’s so nice to meet you.” After shaking his hand, she hugged me before flouncing after Toby. Hugged me. Rory hadn’t voluntarily done that since . . . ever?
“I—” It was still far too early, far too Monday for so much drama. “Mom, Dad, you can finish mortifying me later? We’ve got to get to school.”
“Mortifying you is a parental requirement.” Mom smiled and kissed me on the forehead. She hugged Monroe. “I hope we see you again soon.”
Monroe’s eyes rounded in surprise. “It was nice to meet you both.”
“You too,” said Dad. “Don’t be a stranger—you’re welcome any time
.”
“Thanks, sir.” Monroe lifted my school bag from the foyer bench and slung it over his shoulder before opening the front door for me.
“You guys are too cute.” Mom sighed audibly and cuddled into Dad’s arms. “Think we’ll have finished paying off Lilly’s wedding before we start getting bills for Merrilee’s?”
Oh. No. Please. No. That was an auditory hallucination, right?
I wanted to cover my ears with my hands and hum. Or go even more old-school, to the years of sandboxes and juice boxes, when it would’ve been acceptable to pull my skirt over my head and pretend I’d disappeared. Instead I cringed and kept walking, because if I didn’t acknowledge their words, he’d assume he’d misheard, right?
Or did silence imply agreement? Gah.
Monroe’s car was black and sporty. It had tinted windows and a gray interior. He let go of my hand just long enough to shut my door and start the ignition, then knotted our fingers and looked at me. I had no words for what had just happened. I mean, I knew my parents were romantics—I’d stumbled upon more than a few of the sappy love notes they still wrote each other, and they marked “date nights” on the kitchen calendar in pink glitter pen and engaged in gag-worthy PDA—but I hadn’t known they’d gone pro in daughter humiliation.
And since I had no words and Monroe was clearly expecting some, I leaned in and kissed him. Apology quickly turned to something else altogether when his mouth opened against mine. My blush faded into a flush as fireworks crackled along our lips.
My head was filled with the sounds of applause. I thought it was my hormones cheering . . . until I saw my parents standing on the front step, clapping.
I pulled away and sank down in my seat. Monroe waved to them stiffly and backed out of the driveway, narrowly missing our poodle-shaped mailbox. His ears had turned red, which was actually kind of a relief. There’s perfect, and then there’s doesn’t mind putting on a makeout show in front of parents. I was so glad he didn’t fit in the second category.
“Thank you for the roses,” I blurted, because silence was making my humiliation feel louder.
“Did you like them?”
“I loved them, but . . . I could’ve told you that at school?”
“I thought we agreed if we didn’t see each other over the weekend . . . You said Monday morning. I thought that meant I should pick you up,” said Monroe.
“It was a wonderful surprise. I’m just sorry you had to deal with my parents.” I lowered my face into my hands and spoke around my fingers. “They were kidding about the wedding stuff.” Um, at least I desperately hoped they were. “Anyway—that’s my parents. What are yours like?”
His jaw hardened and he braked sharply at the corner. “My parents only listen to campaign advisors and media consultants. The flowchart of communication in my house only goes one way—and I’m at the bottom. But let’s not talk about them.”
“Okay. Um, do you have siblings?” Technically I knew this answer—courtesy of a quick Google search while getting ready for bed the night before. But I wanted to hear it from him. I wanted all sorts of get-to-know-you conversations.
“No.”
I waited—because according to Wikipedia, Monroe had an older half sister from his dad’s first marriage—but that was his full answer. “Oh.” Maybe they weren’t close? Maybe she was much older? Maybe I should break the lingering silence and tell him about mine? About Eliza?
Or ask him more questions—on a different topic, since family was clearly off-limits. But before I could, he said, “Cast lists are being posted this morning.” He squeezed my hand and I watched his smile shrink. “Come with me to check it?”
“Of course.” Ooh, my first relationship duty. I could do this. “What’s the play? What role do you want?”
“I don’t want to jinx it.”
Him as an actor made so much sense—his expressive face, sometimes over-the-topness—he was very theatrical. “They’d be stupid not to give you the best role. I mean—look how good you were at ad-libbing about the fire drill.”
This earned me a quick, fierce kiss as we waited in the line of vehicles filtering into the Hero High lot. And a not-so-quick but even fiercer one when he found his name on the page posted outside the theater.
With a whoop of delight, he twirled me off my feet. Normally I’d have told him to Put. Me. Down. Because being little did not mean I was a human kite. I had not signed off on going airborne. But he was too busy celebrating. “I can’t believe it. Romeo! The whole time I was auditioning, I pictured saying the lines to you.”
“Really?” Goose bumps rippled down my arms. “That’s so weird, because we’re reading it for English, and I pictured you when—”
“Hang on!” He turned to high-five a guy who’d just yelled, “Mercutio!”
“Woooo, Stratford!” There was a steady stream of people wanting to clap his back and congratulate him. Which I was sorta okay with, because this whole morning felt pinch-me surreal. I took a step back from the jubilant theater crowd. Someone was cheering. Someone singing. Someone dancing. Did none of them have respect for the silent sanctity of Monday mornings and the uncaffeinated?
Before I could completely escape, Monroe clasped my hand and drew me into the melee. “Juliet has nothing on you, love.”
Love. Wow. He’d gone there. I loved my family and friends and books and cream soda and Gatsby and movie nights and bath fizzies. And none of those feelings felt like this. But they shouldn’t, right? Like, sisters and suitors shouldn’t inspire the same flutters.
Thankfully he hadn’t used the word as a declaration. It was an endearment. One that rolled off his lips as naturally as my name and bounced in my stomach like a pinecone.
“I—I need to get to bio. Congrats on the role. I know you’ll be great.”
“How can I not be, with you as my muse?” I took a step away, but he grabbed my hand. “Hey, before you go. You know that whole ‘boyfriend’ thing from your foyer?”
“Oh.” My face felt like an inferno. “I didn’t . . . My parents, they . . .” I ducked my chin into my chest and prayed to disappear.
“Let’s do it.” He put a finger below my chin and tilted it up to meet his eyes. He didn’t look embarrassed or angry—he still had the same glowy triumphant look as when he’d seen the cast list.
“Do what?” I asked, my eyes going owl-wide.
He laughed. “Us.” He pointed a finger between our faces. “Make it official. You, girlfriend. Me, boyfriend.”
“Oh. Gah. Um. I guess so?” It was so not the conversation I’d thought we’d be having, and I hadn’t quite found my equilibrium. I mean, it was a good surprise, and I gave him a smile, but it felt Swiss cheesy—the holes punctured by his use of that four-letter L-word and this new “official” thing.
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Now that’s taken care of, you can get to class.”
“Yeah. Taken care of.” I was just a mumbling parrot at this point, so it was definitely time to make an exit. He rejoined the others clustered around the cast list. They greeted him like a returning hero. I waggled some fingers and then took off down the path as fast as my polka-dotted flats would carry me.
Hannah and Sera were sitting side by side on the stone wall that ringed the gardens and greenhouse. Sera’s leather sandal was wrapped casually around Hannah’s red Converse. Their legs swung as they chatted with their heads bent toward each other, Sera gesturing with her long slender fingers and Hannah nodding and weaving together blades of grass.
She noticed me first. “Hey, adoptee! Happy first Monday! Here, have a bracelet. Unless you’re a victim of allergy angst like Sera, in which case, don’t.” She held out a braided grass circle, which I happily slipped onto my wrist.
“Good morning.”
“Any questions for your wise Knight Lights?” asked Sera.
“Actually, yes!” Thank goodness for this program and that my mentor was not Toby. “I want the scoop on the Hero heroes. And the villains as we
ll, I guess.” Though Fielding had done a fairly excellent job of outing himself.
“Whom do you want to know about?” Sera asked, and I bit back a smile. Correct use of “whom”? She and Eliza were such kindred spirits.
“Um, how about Lance?” How many decoy guys did I need before I mentioned Monroe?
“He’s so pretty,” said Hannah.
“And so kind. One of the nicest guys you will ever meet, but . . .”
“Well, he helps us maintain a bell curve,” Hannah finished diplomatically.
“And the lacrosse team would be lost without him,” said Sera.
Hannah hopped off the wall and held her hands up to Sera. “Who else?” she asked. “That can’t be it.”
While I was curious about Fielding and while I trusted Hannah and Sera, I didn’t trust my luck. If things continued the way they’d gone so far, he’d show up just in time to hear the question and decide I was obsessed with him or something. Instead I asked, “How about Curtis?”
“There’s way more to him than he wants people to see,” said Sera. “Know the saying ‘still waters run deep’? He’s noisy and deep.”
I nodded and crossed my fingers. “What do you think of Monroe Stratford?”
Hannah snorted and Sera smacked her arm. “Better question: What do you think of him?”
“You knew? Already?”
“Oh, Merrilee,” said Sera. “We probably knew before you’d reapplied your lip gloss. Welcome to Hero High, where gossip moves faster than the internet.”
“And the new girl snagging one of the hottest upperclassmen on the first day? That’s tasty gossip.” Hannah turned to Sera. “We picked awesome people for our Knight Lights.”
“She doesn’t mean that how it sounds.” Sera rolled her eyes.
“I don’t. Okay, not much.” She wobbled a hand back and forth.
“But how did you hear about Monroe and me?” Eliza wouldn’t have told. Neither would Toby. And they were the only two . . . unless Monroe? Had he bragged about snagging some fresh meat? My stomach turned and I raised a hand to my mouth, not sure whether I should wipe off his kisses or hold fast to my evaporating happiness.
Bookish Boyfriends Page 9
