Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Hello to you too.” Rory’s voice was set at snark level ten. “I’m doing a new window display, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Oh. Right. And hi.” I gave a limp wave. “Are you hungry? I’ve still got some . . .” I gestured down at the crumbs of my chicken potpie, not that she ate chicken. Whoops. “I think I have a fig bar in my bag?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” She went into the back room and came out wearing a spattered smock and carrying her bucket of brushes and paints.

  “Hey, Rory. When did you get here?” Lilly had been carrying a load of cardboard to the Dumpster behind the store. “Perfect timing, because I was just going to tease Merri about the boy in her room last night—and no one teases Merri as well as you.”

  I’d been frantically making every shut up gesture known to man, but by the time Rory set down her paint and turned around, I’d resorted to covering half my face. “Really, Lilly? Have you met our sister? Rory’s catchphrase is ‘I’m telling.’ If she were a super villain, her name would be the Tattler.”

  “Geez, wonder why,” Rory muttered. “Maybe if you two ever actually included me instead of treating me like I’m six—”

  “Maybe if you didn’t act like you were six, we’d actually include you.”

  “Maybe you should both hit the pause button.” Lilly jutted out her jaw and propped her hands on her hips. “Neither of you is too old for me to send to time-out.”

  I turned to Rory. “Remember how she used to do that whenever she babysat?”

  Rory smiled. “We spent more time in time-out than out of it.”

  “Remember going through Lill’s dresser?” It was one of the few times when Rory and I got along and had a united goal. That goal was figuring out how to slingshot cereal from Lilly’s bras.

  Rory doubled over with giggles. “That was the best.”

  Lilly took her hands off her hips and smiled. “Are you done fighting, then? Because I’ve got good gossips on Merri.”

  Rory had put down all her brushes, but she was wringing a paint rag between her hands as she walked over to join us by the counter. “Fine, I won’t say anything to Mom and Dad.” Her mouth was twisted like she’d tasted something sour. “What were you and Toby doing last night?”

  “Toby?” Lilly laughed. “Why would she need to hide Toby?”

  “You’re both wrong.” I waved a hand. “No one was in my room last night. Just speakerphone.” I raised my eyebrows and attempted a nonchalant voice. “But other nights . . .”

  “No way.” Rory gasped. “Monroe?”

  We had to take a conversational pause because Mrs. Makris came in with my all-time favorite customer, eleven-year-old Christina, and my all-time favorite dog patron, Marcie. Christina was blond-haired, gray-eyed mischief, still in her soccer uniform with a dripping vanilla ice-cream cone in her hand. Marcie was a German shepherd—whip smart and the world’s biggest marshmallow.

  “Merri! You have got to read this book!” Christina was tall for a fifth grader and a voracious reader. More than once, customers had thought we were the same age when we stood around chatting about books. Today she was waving a copy of Raina Telgemeier’s latest graphic novel, which I’d loved. Marcie licked my knee impatiently while Christina and I flipped pages—and let’s be honest, the pup wasn’t the only impatient one. Rory’s sighs echoed off the glass and her paintbrush tapped out her annoyance as I maybe/possibly/ definitely dragged out my conversation with Christina to avoid the one I knew would be happening after the Makrises left. Ten minutes, a twenty-pound bag of dog food, and two indestructible toys later, the chimes rang on the closing door, and Rory and Lilly pounced.

  “Fine. Monroe came over after the engagement party. You can’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  “Obviously,” sniffed Rory.

  “Also, I want to clarify—it’s not like I invited him; he just showed up.”

  “Really?” Lilly frowned. “How do you feel about that?”

  I bent over and began fixing a basket of neckerchiefs that Marcie had upset with her tail, because I had bucketfuls of feelings but not the fun, gossipy kind.

  “Merri!” Lilly took the basket from my hands. “Spill!”

  Rory was kneeling on the floor opening jars and spreading out a drop cloth. “I need to paint and talk, otherwise Mom and Dad aren’t going to pay me. But I’ve been asking around about Monroe. I heard he throws great parties. Invite only. Very exclusive.”

  “Really?” No one had mentioned that to me, not that he and my new friends seemed to travel in the same circles. And I guess Lance had made that “party girl” comment in Convocation the day before. But wait, how did Rory know? “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My friend Clara has an older brother who’s a junior, and he told her and she told me. Plus, this guy Byron in my advanced painting class.”

  “Byron? Like Mom and Dad’s dog? Wait—you’re in advanced painting? I thought that was for upperclassmen.” Though it took one glance at the lines Rory had sketched onto the store’s front window to understand why they’d made an exception. Even at the most basic level of curves and lines and angles, it was clear she had a plan for the space—and that it would be gorgeous. Worthy of canvas and keeping instead of window paint and washing.

  “It is upperclassmen. Well, mostly. There’s one other freshman.”

  “Congratulations!” Lilly swooped in for a hug. “That’s so great!”

  “It is,” I agreed. “But why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Um, no one asked?” Whoops. And there was that gut punch. No one did left-out guilt as well as Rory. She spun back toward her window, where pink and purple lines were shaping into the curls of a poodle. If I wasn’t wrong, that blue-and-green outline would be Marcie. “But anyway, Monroe’s parties! You have to bring me.”

  This whole scene was a demonstration of how different we were. I couldn’t draw a straight line; she only had least favorite dogs. I would rather curl up in my bed with a book—she wanted in to the upperclassman party scene. “No.”

  Rory scowled, and Lilly threw up her hands. “You guys were getting along for ten whole minutes. I give up.”

  “It has nothing to do with you, Rory.” But her scowl didn’t fade. “It’s because A) I’m grounded and B) I’m about to break up with Monroe, so I doubt I’ll be invited.”

  “Wait, what? Why?” I couldn’t tell if the spatter of yellow across the window was intentional or not, but Rory’s eyes were wide.

  “I’m ready for my balcony to be a little less trafficky. Well, except for Toby. If you know what I mean.” And for all Monroe’s messages and texts to disappear. Despite all the time he spent talking, he didn’t actually say anything. I mean, he still hadn’t told me about the half sister that Google had definitely confirmed existed.

  “No, I don’t know what you mean!” The smudge of green she’d wiped by her temple—that couldn’t be on purpose. And I tried not to be offended by the high-pitched urgency of her declaration. I mean, parties are cool and all—I guess? For people who aren’t me—but shouldn’t she be a little less hysterical about my breakup and her loss of party connections? She rubbed her hands on her apron and demanded, “Are you saying there’s someone else?”

  I laughed. “Between Monroe’s visits and texts—I’ve had zero time to meet anyone new.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not a no.”

  Lilly clapped her hands, making us jump and look at her. She’d be an excellent kindergarten teacher if the lawyer thing didn’t pan out. “Rory, what we say when someone’s going through a breakup is: ‘Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?’”

  Rory lifted her chin—and for a second I thought of Fielding and his pretty, pretty haughtiness. She gritted out, “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, thank you,” I said to Rory’s annoyance and Lilly’s “Are you sure?” dismay. But I’d talked enough and thought about it exhaustively. All I needed now was to tell him “We’re done.”

&n
bsp; I waited for Rory to retaliate, but instead she added a third dog to the window display. One that looked uncannily like my Gatsby. It was the Roryest of supportive gestures—an artistic show of camaraderie. And while neither of us would ever acknowledge it verbally, we did trade smiles before we got back to work.

  22

  After closing, I was going to do some homework (maybe), take a shower (definitely), then read a book. Though not Blake’s story, because I was taking a break from romance in both real life and in novels. I told this plan to Lilly and Rory on the drive home. “Seriously, the shower is mine, don’t fight me on it.”

  “Um, have you smelled yourself?” Rory asked. “Don’t worry, we won’t.”

  Before I grabbed my bathrobe and PJs, I picked out a book from the stack Hannah had loaned me. One with spaceships on the cover and no mention of lovey-doveyness on the back. I propped it on my pillow before treating myself to the longest, hottest shower our water heater would allow, using all Lilly’s fancy scrubs and lotions.

  I put on my ice-cream sundae pajama pants with my “I don’t care who dies in the book as long as the dog lives” T-shirt. Next, I wrapped a towel around my hair and tied the sash on the robe Rory called “too ugly to exist.” In my opinion, it was the most comfortable piece of tie-dyed orange-and-navy chenille that had ever been stitched into a sack-like shape.

  I daubed on my pee-yellow zit cream that smelled worse than stinkbugs. . . . The only thing that made it tolerable was how well it worked. Actually, I’d read that toothpaste worked too, so I used Crest on the last few troublesome spots on my forehead. Eliza would be so impressed by my experiment—or, more likely, she’d laugh. Since I already looked polka-dot ridiculous, I added some diaper cream to the faint mark Monroe had left on my neck. I wanted all traces of him gone, and Mom swore diaper cream worked on anything.

  “Mom, Dad, I’m going to bed,” I called from the top of the stairs so I’d have their attention. Then I struck a dramatic, hands-up, hip-cocked, ta-da! pose at the bottom.

  “Such a beauty, folks,” Dad said to an imaginary audience. “The line starts to the left.”

  “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to put your good-night kiss with all these spots.” Mom chuckled, then planted one above my left eyebrow.

  Dad chose my left cheek. “I’ve got barbecue sauce in the fridge that would cover up that stink and add some nice red to the collection you’ve got going on. Want me to go get it?”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Or let me grab my pen.” He yanked one out of his crossword puzzle book. “Let’s play connect the dots.”

  “When you’re old and drooling, I’m not going to wipe your chin,” I threatened.

  “That’s why I’ve got three of you. So I can tease one, annoy another, and still have a spare for my drool-wiping needs.”

  “It’s good to know you’ve got a plan,” I said. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Sleep sweet, little dreamer,” they chorused.

  “And good job in the race today,” Dad added, while Mom said, “I’m glad to see you’re taking the grounding so well.”

  “Yeah, well, you know, I’m getting more mature and stuff.” I hummed and headed upstairs, thinking about the book on my bed. I hoped there was space fashion. I had a weird obsession with books that described futuristic clothing and space suits.

  I opened my door to a room that glowed like a forest fire. There was a guy at the center of the blaze, his smug smile illuminated in the flickering light.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed. I shut my door and looked around, taking in the dozens and dozens of candles on every horizontal surface. “What is this?”

  “This”—Monroe swooped across the room and flung his arms around me—“is romance. ‘She doth teach the torches to burn bright.’”

  He attempted to dip me, which caused my towel to drop from my head, landing dangerously close to a candle. “No. This,” I hissed, “is a fire hazard.”

  I pulled out of his grip and bent to blow out the one that was leaking wax onto my rag rug. Then the one dripping onto my bio homework, the one on the cover of my Latin book, and the one perched precariously on a pile of magazines. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  He brushed off my comment, tracing his hands down the sleeves of my bathrobe. “Your dad said I was welcome any time.”

  I jerked away from him. “He did not mean late night in my bedroom. Plus, I told you—”

  “Shhh.” He put a finger to my lips, and, my hand to God, I almost bit it. He leaned down for a kiss. I turned away. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “Something’s burning!”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s peppermint and . . . vinegar?” But across the room, a candle on my dresser was blackening the edge of a photo stuck in my mirror. The paper was curling, the image darkening, starting to glow in a thin line of red.

  I ran to grab it. Dropped it on the floor and stomped it out.

  He hadn’t even noticed. “It smells like sulfur. Did you change your shampoo?”

  “Monroe!” I pointed to the ashy remains of the photo on my floor. It was Toby and me on Catalina two summers ago. We had been laughing, all open mouths and sun-kissed skin on the deck of his mom’s sailboat. Now all that was left was a scrap of white sail and soot. I began blowing out all the candles. When the room dimmed, I reached over and flipped the lights on.

  He gasped. “Your face!”

  I’m sure I turned a lovely shade of red beneath my yellow, blue, and white dots and shower-snarled hair. I crossed my arms . . . in my robe. My too-ugly-to-exist robe. But he wasn’t supposed to be here, he’d practically lit my room on fire, he wasn’t listening to me, and he had the audacity to critique my appearance?

  “It’s cute—the pajamas too—it just surprised me,” he said with a winning smile. “‘Beauty too rich for use—’”

  I waved a hand to cut him off. “Cute.” Ugh. That word.

  I scowled over the top of two more wicks. Seriously, had he bought stock in a candle factory? And how could he possibly smell my face cream over the smorgasbord of candle scents? “It’s time for you to go.”

  “No. You cost me the role of Romeo. You owe me.”

  “I owe you what? My participation in a relationship I want nothing to do with? That sounds super fun.” I wasn’t sure if his words were intentionally threatening, but I wasn’t backing down. “I asked you not to come. I was really clear about not wanting to see you.”

  Monroe grinned. “You said that, but I know you. Really you want—”

  Oh, I’d seen this logic in romance novels—the hero going against the heroine’s wishes because he knew what she really wanted. It was supposed to be swoony. Nope. Just infuriating. I pointed to the balcony doors.

  “Leave. Is that clear enough?”

  “But I’m your Romeo.” He shook his head. “I’m supposed to show up on your balcony.”

  “You’re not supposed to do anything after I say no. . . .” I paused. “And I said no. And I said leave. And, in case you’ve missed the subtext: now I’m saying we’re breaking up.”

  Monroe stomped out onto my balcony, and even though it was big enough for at least four people, he absorbed all the space. All the air. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what I can do to fix this. I’m getting my role in the play back, and I’m getting you back.”

  “Good luck with the play, but we’re over.”

  Monroe absorbed my words slowly. He shook his head. Said, “Merri, no.” Punched the side of my house. Kicked a trio of candles on the floor. Really? Out here too?

  But I was done. I wasn’t going to provide an audience for his temper tantrum. “You need to leave, or I’ll call my parents. Or better yet, yours.”

  His head shot up, and his eyes were round with shock and betrayal. “But why?”

  I told him the truth in the simplest words I could find: “I don’t want this.”

  Back
lit by the night sky, his hair looked inky, a striking contrast to his eyes, which glowed bright with hurt. “You don’t want me?”

  “I don’t know you!” I tugged my hair, making the shower snarls stand out straight. “I liked the idea of you. And I tried, but you never let me in, and now I’m not interested.”

  “Don’t say that!” Monroe went full emo when he added, “‘Be merciful, say “death”.’”

  I’d felt a lot of things about the play, but right then, when Monroe Wouldn’t. Stop. Quoting. It . . . I wanted to go Fahrenheit 451 on every copy ever printed. I picked up my phone. “If I dial your dad’s office, will someone be able to patch me through? Because I’ve said everything I have to say to you—maybe it’s time I call him.”

  The color drained from Monroe’s skin and he scrambled over the railing. I hated that I’d had to resort to I’m tattling, but I hated even more that he had entered my bedroom without my permission, then refused to hear me. It was such an invasion, such a violation, such a lack of respect for me and my boundaries. Oh, wait. Eliza had said that earlier and I’d meant to parrot it to him. Whoops.

  But since he was finally leaving, I wasn’t going to stop him and restart the conversation. Instead, I followed him over the balcony and across the lawn, stopping at the edge of the flower bed so I could make sure he truly left. A car was pulling into Toby’s driveway as Monroe opened his door, but I kept my focus in front of me, on the boy raising a hand to wave sadly out his window before he pulled into the street. I watched his headlights shrink, then disappear.

  My cheeks were wet. My chin. The corner of my mouth was salty when I licked my lips. It may have ended quickly and awfully, but he’d still been my first kiss, my first boyfriend.

  He’d still broken my heart. Not in the sense of love lost; but I had lost something—my naive first-kiss-equals-happily-ever-after daydreams. Those merited a tear or twelve—even if it smeared everything on my face and made me more of a mess.