“All right then.” I yanked open the door. “Sorry about that. We’re ready now.”
I brushed past him out the door and headed down our steps to his car. I wasn’t a car person, but I’d been expecting something non-fancy, boring, reliable, favored by middle-age accountants. Instead, it was sleek. Silver. Not flashy, but elegant. I wanted to run my hands over the paint—which was doubly tempting since fingerprints would probably give Fielding hives. When I reached for the handle to the back door, Rory had already grasped it. “I know how much you like shotgun,” I hissed.
“No.” She hip-checked me and yanked the door open. “It’s all yours. I insist.”
“Fine.” I slid inside a car that was as immaculate as Fielding’s clothing. The red stitching on the black leather interior was a surprise. I traced it with my thumbnail before folding my hands in my lap. The car had a don’t muss me vibe, and I was feeling very muss-ish.
My phone was buzzing in my pocket. I glanced down. Toby. You okay? How’s life post-Monroe?
Which was sweet and thoughtful and oh-so-very Toby . . . except another thing that was oh-so-very Toby was forgetting to exit out of a group message and send me an individual one. And of the four people in this message group, there was only one who hadn’t heard this news.
Eliza’s individual message popped up instantly: What happened? Are you okay? And when I didn’t reply fast enough: I’ll wait outside Ms. Gregoire’s room.
I thumbed from the O to the K and hit send, adding Toby-Eliza rivalry and jealousies to the jumble in my stomach. I directed my irritation at my surroundings. At the driver who waited exactly two seconds at stop signs. At his rearview mirror and dashboard, which looked like they were polished daily. At the public radio that was barely eking out of his speakers—the hosts sounded like they were whispering secret news.
“So . . .” I’d never before heard Fielding hesitate while speaking. It was enough to make me quit my murderous staring contest with the windshield and turn toward him. He was white-knuckled, like having a conversation with me was physically painful. “Last night, with Monroe . . .”
Seriously? He couldn’t possibly be asking me to share feelings and talk about my breakup, right? We’d barely exchanged a few dozen words, and they’d all been antagonistic. I gave him my sunniest smile. “Everything’s totally fine.”
“I see.” Two words and a clenched jaw. It was a surprisingly satisfying reaction.
“Clueless.” Rory leaned forward and quietly singsonged the word, making my cheeks flush because I’d forgotten she was there. And while the word had been under her breath and in my ear, I wasn’t sure if it was for me or about me. Or just her being Rory and trying to rattle me. Regardless, I made a mental note to be equally supportive the next time she was riding in an enemy’s car, fresh off a breakup, and headed to a disciplinary meeting. And since I was the bigger—well, less tall, but definitely better—person than either of them, I spent the rest of the ride humming to myself and not saying all the things I would totally regret.
24
I knocked on Ms. Gregoire’s door. “It’s Merri. I’m here to be punished.”
“Now, that doesn’t sound like a very fun way to start your Wednesday.” Ms. Gregoire was smiling as she swung the door open, coffee mug in hand. I stared at it, waiting for it to go from brushed metal to magical rhinestone hypnosis, but it didn’t. Because magic wasn’t real and apparently neither was romance.
She stepped out of the way and gestured me inside, but I wasn’t sure where to go, and hesitating made every voice in my brain spiral into a louder panic. I sort of dashed over to my desk—sitting down and putting my bag beneath it like this was class.
Ms. Gregoire took Toby’s usual seat beside me. “If I reassure you we don’t use torture at Hero High, will you relax? Your shoulders look like they’re trying to invade your ears.”
I thought I was supposed to laugh, so I did, but the sound was thin and sickly. And my shoulders wouldn’t budge when I tried to pull them down.
“I’ve chosen the book for your punishment.”
“A book?” My shoulders dropped immediately. A book wasn’t punishment. Well, unless it was The Catcher in the Rye. Ugh. I hated Holden with a fiery rage.
“Well, yes.” Ms. Gregoire folded her hands on top of the desk. “What sort of punishment were you expecting?”
I didn’t have an answer for her because I hadn’t let myself expect. But sometimes the space around expectations was worse. Because sometimes that space was filled with so many possibilities and “what ifs” that it was impossible to focus. And sometimes when you’ve already started the day with the non-punishment punishment of driving with the headmaster’s son, it feels like any actual punishments might actually kill you.
“As I was saying, I’ve chosen your book. If I’ve interpreted your responses in class correctly, you’re feeling a bit disillusioned by Romeo and Juliet.”
“I am sooo over them. Like, can’t they hurry up and die already?” I’d call that a stress overshare and pretend it didn’t happen. Hopefully Ms. Gregoire would do the same. “I mean, it’s a beautiful play and I’m really enjoying our—”
Ms. Gregoire cut me off with a wry smile and a wave of her hand. “It’s not as romantic as you thought, is it?”
“No! It’s not romantic at all.” I grimaced as I thought back over the events of the night before. “I should’ve listened to Eliza. She’s almost always right.”
Ms. Gregoire took a sip of her coffee and shrugged my statement away. “You needed the experience of learning for yourself. But you were overidentifying with the play. That was not your story.”
I said, “Agreed,” but I was already replaying what she’d said and trying to remember which word she’d emphasized. That was not your story? Or That was not your story? Was her implication that I wasn’t Juliet—noted and thanking my stars—or that Romeo and Juliet wasn’t my story, but something else was?
Ms. Gregoire bent to rummage in her bag. “The book I’ve chosen for you is a romance. One of the greatest romances of all time.”
I groaned. “Can’t I have a stupid war book instead? I’m really not feeling the romance right now.”
She smiled wryly and shook her head. “You’ll thank me for this one day, I guarantee it. This is the perfect story for you, and reading it . . . well, it will be eye-opening. I have the feeling you’ll relate to it at a personal level, and it might even make you reconsider what you believe to be true.”
“You said the same thing about Romeo and Juliet . . . and that did not turn out well.”
“No.” She wagged a finger at me. “I didn’t. I told the whole class they would relate to the book. I told all of you that I’d learn about you from your reactions to it. But I didn’t say it was a book for you specifically.”
“You did!” I stood up, almost knocking over my chair. I was well aware I was being ridiculous, but it didn’t stop me from pointing at her mug. “You and your coffee and that stupid play have ruined everything.”
She shrugged and took another sip, totally unaffected by my tantrum. “I told you that you thought you knew the story. I told you I’d prove you wrong.”
“Why? Why make me go through all that.”
“One—it’s part of the sophomore English curriculum; not everything is about you, Merrilee. Two—you weren’t ready. While I don’t believe like Mr. Bennet—you’ll meet him soon—that ‘a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then,’ I do know that the girl who wrote me a love letter to Romeo and Juliet on the first day of school ”—she paused and raised her eyebrows at me—“was not ready for a nuanced and actual romance.”
I scowled just thinking about that letter and how simperingly silly I’d been. How shortsighted and idiotic and ignorant. Juliet should’ve burned her balcony and never looked back. I sat and dropped my head in my hands. “I don’t want a romance. I’m done with it.”
“No, you’re finally ready for it. As I told you before: when you
’re ready, you’ll find your book.”
I wondered if Ms. Gregoire had ever heard the term “oversell,” because that was a lot of pressure to put on a book. Plus, this whole conversation felt like confirmation of what I’d told Eliza—magic was real—but I was too tired to feel shocked or smug. “So I just read the book for punishment and whatever happens, happens?”
“You need to read it and write me reflection journals.”
“Fine.” Yeah, except no part of me felt fine. Every molecule between my hair and toenails felt like it was vibrating with expectation and anticipation and fear. “What is it?”
“One of my personal favorites.” Ms. Gregoire pulled out a fuschia hardcover. “Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Have you read it before?”
“No.” I’d attempted to make Toby watch the miniseries with me once. We’d had popcorn popped and our butts on the couch when he caught sight of the six-hour run time and issued a hard veto.
She twinkle-eye smiled as she passed over the book. When my fingers made contact with the pages, I jolted like I’d been given the world’s strongest static shock. Except paper doesn’t conduct static electricity—does it? I’d have to ask Eliza. It made the hair on my arms stand up, and the world spun in front of my eyes. I put the book down on my desk, and it stopped. I picked it up, and it hummed between my fingers, vibrating on some very high frequency. I put it down. Nothing. Creeping my fingers along my desk, I place two on its cover—tingles.
Realizing I must look bananas conducting these experiments—realizing I might be, since books were not supposed to be a form of electroshock therapy—I looked up at Ms. Gregoire.
“Don’t be intimidated,” she said. “This is going to be good for you. You’ll find it edifying and eye-opening.”
“Intimidated?” I repeated, continuing to touch the book. It was like when you had a cut in your mouth and you couldn’t keep your tongue away: Still hurt? Yes. Still hurt? Yes. Only this wasn’t painful, it was sort of thrilling. I pressed a hand flat to the center of the cover.
“I’m really looking forward to reading your journals and seeing what you have to say and all the ways you’re connecting to the story. You’re ready for this, Merrilee. Give it a chance.” She winked at me. “And if the headmaster asks, I’ve given you a grueling, time-intensive assignment that’s made you feel completely repentant.”
“Oh, I do. I am.” I scooped the book off my desk and hugged it to my chest, a warm glow flooding my system. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “Good. I’ll see you in class.”
I waved a few fingers and echoed her good-bye.
When Eliza had said she’d wait outside Ms. Gregoire’s room, she meant right outside it. I almost caromed into her when I opened the door.
“Hey, you,” I said cautiously, not quite sure where she was on the Toby-jealousy spectrum. “Hey, best friend.”
“Are you okay? I’m sorry.”
This didn’t feel like an expression of sympathy. This wasn’t an I’m sorry this happened to you. It made me quirk my mouth, because Eliza didn’t apologize easily or often. “Why?”
“Because so much happens late at night and I’m never available. You can’t just call or text me.” She looked down at her shoes and then up at my face. “I feel like your first breakup is a milestone I should’ve been there for. What if you needed advice?”
“You gave me some before the race.” I started walking. Not necessarily toward something, like our lockers or bio class, but away from the noise of campus filling up with classmates and chatter. “And I had plenty more. Lilly, Rory, and the random customers Rory polled at the store. Then there was the audience of Toby and Fielding. It was quite the spectacle.”
She scrunched her nose. Elegantly. Picturesquely. And nose-scrunching should be neither of those things. Gah, if I didn’t love her, I’d be toxically envious. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was. Did I mention I was in my bathrobe?”
“The hideous one I keep trying to smuggle into the trash?”
“That’d be the one.” I paused beside the Reginald R. Hero statue, leaning against his bronze arm to prop myself up. Yeah, I was penciling in a Convocation nap.
“Are you okay?”
I considered this. I wanted ice cream, cookie dough, movies, pajamas, and to stay in bed—but these clichés weren’t breakup dependent—I always wanted them. It helped that Monroe was suspended and I wouldn’t have to see him for a week. “I’m okay. And the fact that I’m fine proves what you said all along—Monroe was way too serious, too fast. I was smitten with being smitten—not with him. But I appreciate you not saying ‘I told you so.’”
“Oh.” She smiled. “I’m thinking it.”
I laughed and gave her a sideways hug. “I know you are.” I shut my eyes and stretched my arms out, trying to mentally insert myself into movie montages of heroines on the verge of life-changing accomplishments. But the images fell flat, and I dropped my arms and looked at Eliza. “I wanted him to be my thing.”
“Your ‘thing’?”
“Like we talked about on the first day of school—how everyone else has a thing. Remember? I was having the Disney Princess pre-adventure moment? Well, still having it.”
“Why can’t books be your thing?”
“Because I don’t do anything with them. I just read them. Even Hannah has a blog. I don’t . . . do anything. I want more.”
“Oh, Merri—” Concern dented her forehead.
“I know. I don’t actually need you to give me a lecture—I’m pretty sure I can give it myself. People can’t be things. If I want a thing—I should be going to the club fair and signing up and trying stuff out.” I hugged the book from Ms. Gregoire a little tighter. It no longer felt like it was vibrating or humming, but it was a book, and they brought me comfort. “How’d I do?”
“You did perfect,” she said. “And I’ll come with you to the club fair.”
“Thank you.” But that was aimed at the first part of her statement; I wasn’t so sure about the second. Not that I didn’t want Eliza with me. But she already had things. I was going to find mine. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share. Or to go with someone who knew my whole history of flubs. Who’d be standing in front of the photo club remembering the time I exposed a whole class’s negatives by getting tangled in the dark room’s blackout curtain. Or at baking club gagging at the thought of my everything cookies.
“Can I do anything else?” she asked.
“Help me with my bio homework? Mine was a victim of candle-wax drowning.” Eliza raised an eyebrow, but I shook my head when she opened her mouth. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do so,” she insisted. “And you’ll tell me later, but I’ll let you finish the homework first.” As she sorted through her bag for her notebook, I flipped open the cover of Pride and Prejudice, tracing my fingers over the first words: “It is a truth universally acknowledged . . .”
What were my universal truths?
My family rocked.
Eliza and Toby had my back.
Dogs were better than cats.
Socks didn’t have to match.
Cream soda trumped cola.
And maybe—despite what had happened with Monroe and Romeo—I’d always be a romantic.
25
“Ready to leave?”
I’d been in the middle of dissecting a series for Hannah while playing with the thumbholes of my running shirt. Telling her how book one of Apocalypse Chasers had been so strong, but two felt like total setup for the series. And book three? It mashed up every cliché and trope and served them like pre-chewed salad. A boring, pre-chewed salad, just iceberg lettuce and shriveled, tasteless tomatoes. Hannah was doubled over, hands on her shin guards. She stood and wiped her eyes. But she didn’t repeat her plea for me to type up my rant for her blog. Instead she looked over my shoulder. “Is Fielding talking to you?”
“What?” I glanced at where he was leaning against the side of the bleachers a few feet f
rom us, a long black bag at his feet. “No.”
He caught my eye and lifted his chin in a gesture that almost felt like acknowledgment but probably was just him showing off his jawline. “Merrilee? Ready?” he called.
“Oh. Maybe so? But I don’t know why. . . . Hang on.” I drifted from the doorway of the girls’ locker room over to where he waited. “I don’t need a ride. I’ll go home with Eliza.”
“I’m headed to Toby’s house anyway.”
“You don’t need to. I can bring his schoolwork.” I reached for the familiar backpack sitting on the bottom bleacher. Toby had used this faded red style for years. When one wore out, he replaced it with a clone. I’m sure he had at least two backups in his closet.
Fielding snatched it up before my fingers could close around the top strap. He slung it onto his own shoulder and frowned. “I’m headed that way already.”
“But—”
His frown deepened. He added a jaw clench when Eliza and Hannah wandered over. Eliza’s eyes were bright, her cheeks red in a way that I didn’t think had anything to do with our run. “We’ve got to go, Merri,” Eliza said. “Nancy’s here, and she said my parents told her they’d be calling.”
“That’s so good!” I squashed my urge to hug her by bouncing on my toes and grabbing her arm. “Later, Hannah. And . . .” I looked at Fielding. “Bye?”
“I’m literally going to be driving next door.” He held up one palm, placing one, then two fingers on top of it—a pantomime to show me what “next door” meant. “You don’t want a ride?”
I could play charades too. I’d act out heck no—arms in a giant X, head shaking, maybe a palm out like a stop sign. Oh, the options.
“You’re going to the Mays’? Tell Toby we miss him.” Hannah’s eyes glittered as she looked from Fielding to me. “And, for reals, Merri, just go with him.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, not sure if it was some sort of misplaced gesture on Sera’s behalf, or just her love for drama and gossip. Whatever the reason, she could kiss that guest blog post good-bye. Regardless of my obsession with the series, I wasn’t an apocalypse chaser in real life. And me getting in a car with only Fielding McSnobpants was asking for disaster.
Bookish Boyfriends Page 18
