“Have a good day,” she trilled.
Grumbling under my breath and ignoring the nosy glances of my classmates, I unfolded the slip of paper: Headmaster Williams would like to see you immediately after Convocation.
Either the headmaster wrote in the third person and very swirly script, or he’d taken the time to dictate this message for someone else to transcribe. Which couldn’t possibly be more efficient, but I guess that was his way of proving just how important and powerful he was? I mashed the note into a ball before passing it to Eliza.
She smoothed it. “Why?” she asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Well, you can’t be in trouble.” She said this emphatically and wiped her hands on her skirt like that idea was discarded. “You haven’t done anything new. I’ve been watching.”
I shrugged and shoved my things into my bag.
“Wait!” She studied my face. “Did I miss something?”
“No.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “At least I don’t think so?”
“Then don’t worry,” said Eliza. “If you didn’t do anything, you can’t be in trouble. It’s probably just . . .” But she couldn’t finish that sentence, and I couldn’t not worry.
Instead of listening to announcements, whisper-gossiping with Hannah, counting Curtis’s furtive admiring glances at Eliza, or napping, I spent all Convocation trying to unlock the mysteries of Headmaster Williams’s imperious expressions. The topic of his lecture today was spider safety. Or maybe campus safety? Driver safety?
Whatever, it was something about safety. But I was too distracted to pay attention. Gah! Which meant I wouldn’t be prepared to answer any questions if he brought it up in our meeting. That was probably his plan all along—distract me with the cursive note, then nail me for not paying obsessive attention to his lecture on cooking safety or . . .?
I grabbed a pen from my bag and scrawled Ask Eliza on my hand, then faced forward, determined to be totally in the zone for the rest of Convocation.
“—and I think you’ll agree with me that this is a topic of utmost importance. One that hopefully you have a much better grasp on after this past hour.” The headmaster paused to absorb the polite applause of my classmates, then cleared his throat and added, “Please rise and join me for the singing of the school song.”
“Come in. Sit down.” The words were orders, but the head-master’s tone was all genteel hospitality. He rose from his chair and ushered me to a seat, taking my satchel and placing it on a small side table. “Can I get you anything? Some water?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I shifted on the slippery leather of the seat, trying to find a sophisticated way to stay perched when my feet didn’t quite hit the floor. I wanted to fold my hands in my lap, but instead I clutched the arms of the chair to steady myself.
“Hmm,” said Headmaster Williams. It was a noncommittal sound that probably meant something super important, but I had no idea how to interpret it. I followed his gaze to my hand. Ask Eliza—the crooked letters I’d scrawled practically screamed “ragamuffin.” People who sat in this chair in this office were not supposed to use their skin as a notepad.
They must teach them in headmaster school about how to make stressful situations worse, I thought to myself, until innocent girls forget what they were been planning to ask their best friends, and are sitting in an office that smells of furniture polish and decorum, and are tempted to lick the ink off their hands out of sheer embarrassment.
I refrained.
“Um, good talk today,” I said. “In Convocation.”
He puffed up. “Well, yes. Cyber safety is an important and relevant topic to today’s youths.”
Cyber safety! That made so much more sense than cooking or spider.
“If you change your mind and get thirsty, don’t hesitate to ask.” Headmaster Williams took his own seat on the opposite side of his barge-like mahogany desk. He rolled in closer so his elbows could rest on the leather blotter. It was surrounded by fancy inscribed paperweights of crystal and brass. Awards—just like the framed certificates on the wall behind him—that proclaimed what a great school Hero High was and what a great leader helmed it. “So, I bet you’re wondering why I’ve called you in here today.”
“A bit, sir.” “Sir” still felt like an act. Like I was a character from a Dickens novel. But everyone else used it—even Sera. And if his own daughter felt the need to “sir” him, it wasn’t optional for me.
“Well, you aren’t in trouble; so if you’ve been worried, get that thought right out of your head.” He laughed and gave me what I’m sure was meant to be a genial smile, except . . . I had been worried, and clearly he knew I would worry. So if I didn’t need to worry, why hadn’t he added something to that effect in his note?
“May I ask why I am here, sir?” I could’ve stopped there, but since all my self-control was tied up in keeping my hands from reaching out and leaving smudgy fingerprints on his gleaming awards, I went ahead and added, “Because I’m supposed to be at cross-country practice, and I don’t want to miss warm-ups if you don’t need me.”
“I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to follow up and see how you feel you’re fitting in here at Hero High. Offer a little advice, if I may.”
No, you may not didn’t feel like an acceptable response, so I didn’t bother to give one.
“I hear from Ms. Gregoire that she’s assigned you an extra reading project as consequence for the messaging incident.”
“Yes, sir. Pride and Prejudice.”
“Ah, a classic. And I understand that your work on it has been exemplary so far.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Had you studied it before?” The tilt of his head made it clear he was expecting a certain answer. “Maybe in your old school? Or seen the movie?”
“No. I haven’t read it or watched it.”
The way he sat back in his chair made it clear this was not the response he’d anticipated. With another person, I might have explained my rule about not seeing a movie before reading a book. With another person, I might’ve elaborated on my reaction to the story so far—how I didn’t understand how Pride and Prejudice was billed as this great romance, because while I adored Lizzy and Jane, all the guys so far seemed like slime. Except possibly the charming Wickham. But I’d barely met him.
“I’ve heard from your other teachers that you’ve had a surprisingly successful first week academically.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up at “surprisingly successful”—had he not looked at my transcripts from my old school? I kept my voice level as I said, “My classes have been interesting.” Which was a total overstatement, but what was I supposed to say: Thanks for thinking I’m an idiot; I’ll enjoy proving you wrong? Actually, that was tempting. . . .
“So all that truly remains is to integrate you into Hero High’s student population. And luckily, you’ve got quite the team here to support you.” He leaned forward like he was about to impart some ancient wisdom, maintaining eye contact and silence for five seconds beyond uncomfortable. “Merrilee, we’re all here to help.”
“Noted. Thanks,” I answered, which might not have been exactly the apex of the manners or whatever else he was hoping I’d absorb while sharing his oxygen and wisdom.
“Well, yes.” He straightened up, displaying posture that rivaled his son’s for rigidity. “I understand that my daughter, Seraphina, has graciously offered you entry into her peer group. It’s made up of reliable and respectable Hero High students. The type who everyone enrolled should aspire to be like.”
My mind immediately rewound to media class, where Sera and Hannah had been writing Darwin-meets-Dracula fanfiction instead of completing the assignment on famous alumni. Or lunch, where Toby, Lance, and Curtis dared one another to eat increasingly revolting combinations—today Curtis had won with mustard, yogurt, and Nutella, but he hadn’t turned green until Eliza announced that their behavior was “disgusting.” Just thinking about it made me want to gag—or
laugh—but Headmaster Williams was watching me, waiting me out. Clearly this was the portion of the lecture where my participation was required. “Yes, sir. They’re all quite . . . impressive.”
“I know you’re not accustomed to an environment like this: the academic rigor, the trust and freedoms we gift our students, and the value we place on our honor code and school reputation. But with some concerted effort and dedication, I believe that you’ll eventually adapt and be able to assimilate into the student body.”
In other words: I lacked the smarts, morals, and social graces, but maybe if I tried real hard, I could be trained. Just like the clueless puppies at the store’s obedience classes—supercute, but at any given moment, they might just pee on the floor or nip someone. “How generous of you.” I bit my words into sharpened syllables, not that he noticed.
Headmaster Williams nodded magnanimously—a word I’m certain he assumed I didn’t know, but one that perfectly described his supercilious manner. “I encourage you to make the most of this privilege. Observe and emulate Sera and her friends. Ask yourself, ‘What would they do?’ before acting. And if you’re unsure of the answer—consult with your Knight Light. Hannah is a great girl. You should be honored that she selected you to mentor. Seek to truly benefit from the opportunity to learn from her.”
It was a good thing I already liked Sera and Hannah—and that I’d met them before his sales pitch. Every contrary part of my soul wanted me to reject them just on principle. I wanted to take every particle of Headmaster Williams’s advice and do the exact opposite.
Since I wasn’t quite that self-destructive, I simply kicked my foot and said, “Sir, you’ve made your point. I’d rather not tie up any more of your valuable time; may I be excused to head to cross-country practice?”
He leaned farther forward in his seat. His eyebrows and voice lowered as he asked, “Do you know my favorite part from Pride and Prejudice?”
“I—” I looked around his office for the crystal ball he must have thought I’d consulted. “I can’t begin to guess, sir.”
“There’s a scene in which one character—a young lady—greatly oversteps the boundaries of propriety. And another character justifiably calls her an ‘obstinate, headstrong girl.’ I find it to be one of the most satisfying lines in the whole of the literary canon.”
I knew this was a thinly veiled insult. Emphasis on “thinly.” But I just nodded politely. “I’m only on chapter twenty-two, sir. I don’t think I’ve gotten to that part yet, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“You do that.” We exchanged the fakest and weakest of smiles and sat for a silent count of six with our expressions getting tighter and tighter. “I’ll let you get to practice now. Cross-country is a sport of endurance and mental discipline. Stick with that, and you’ll go far—both literally and metaphorically.”
He was still laughing at his joke when I snatched up my bag and shut his office door behind me.
I stormed across campus, muttering under my breath. But there wasn’t really anyone around to care if I combined “headmaster” with “moron” and “pompous windbag” and “overinflated ego that I’d love to pop with a very sharp pin.” I was glad I’d worn my patent-leather flats today. They made satisfying clacking sounds as I stomped to my destination. Except, when I arrived, there was a new, obnoxious obstacle in the way.
“That’s my locker,” I said.
“I’m aware. I’ve been waiting for you.”
How was it possible that Fielding’s posture and voice made it seem like I was the one who was imposing on him—as in, how dare I not appear immediately when he wanted me? Next time he’d have to coordinate a bit better with his father.
“Seriously? Are you guys going to do some sort of Hero High Christmas Carol? The ghosts of private school past, present, and future?” I swallowed as a bitter thought threatened to gag me. “Is Sera next? Please tell me she’s not involved and does actually like me.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” He dropped his chin, but not his voice. “As usual.”
I gritted my teeth, because he was such a waste of good looks. Such a waste of good tailoring, good posture, good diction, good dental hygiene. “Well, if you’re done guarding my locker, can I get in it?”
He stepped back and I pounced on my lock, spinning the dial with hasty, indiscriminate fingers. But he didn’t go away. Instead he inhaled deeply and said, “You baffle me.”
The words were rich with emotion, a rarity from someone so starched and measured. I glanced at him, at his brown eyes that seemed wide and searching, like I was the word that stood between him and crossword puzzle mastery.
For a moment I hesitated, considered saying something soft and kind—but then I remembered his father’s lecture. All the ways I’d just been insulted with politeness and circumspection. This had to be the setup for another account of all my failings. “I baffle you? And that’s my problem because . . . ?”
“No.” Fielding shook his head—that stubborn piece of hair falling down and bisecting his eyebrow. Making him look less polished, making the frustration in his expression seem more human. “It’s not. That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . I want to figure you out. I’m trying to. You’re worth the effort. You’re worth . . . everything.”
I was screening these words, trying to find the hidden agenda. Then, since nothing I came up with made sense, I felt the urge to escape.
“I’ve got to go,” I told him, my mouth dry. “I’m late.”
“Please.” He put a hand on my arm, and we both jerked away from the spark of static that jumped between our skin. “I’ve thought of nothing else all weekend. You have to hear me. Give me a chance to tell you how I feel about you.”
“How you feel about me?” I squinted, as though it would make things go back to normal, because Fielding didn’t sound like himself. All that swallowing hard and pausing, the desperation making his words rushed and blurred. He didn’t look like himself either. He was pale. His fingers were fidgeting in infinite knots. And was he—was that actual sweat along his hairline?
“I’ve been trying—doing everything I can to not feel anything about you. But you’ve captivated me. I mean, you and your sister’s admission to the school exploited the worst form of nepotism. Neither of you is the caliber of student who’d get selected from general admissions. And since you’ve been here, you’ve done nothing but cause trouble.”
He was practically muttering to himself, totally unaware of the temper brewing beneath my skin—totally unaware of me in general. I mean, why bother looking at the person you’re insulting?
He gulped in a deep breath and finally turned from the tile floor, pinning me with those deep brown eyes. “But that doesn’t matter. I wish it did, but it doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about you. And not just the ways you’re going to be the sort of alumna the school will want to disavow. Or how you picked the absolute worst possible Hero High student as your boyfriend. Or how your socks never match, you refuse to use a door and stairs to exit your room, you can’t differentiate recycling from trash cans, and I never understand half of what you’re saying. Despite this, I can’t stop thinking about dating you—kissing you. Figuring you out. And since no matter how I try and force you from my head, everything is failing—”
He paused to inhale again, and I watched his chest rise and fall beneath the stark white of his shirt. I realized then that my jaw was wide open—giving me, I’m sure, all the attractive qualities of a gaping fish.
“Merrilee, I don’t see any other choice but to bring you as my date to the Fall Ball.”
His chest was heaving, like he had completed a run. But other than that, his expression seemed calmer. As though his monologue had drained him of anxiety, and now the rest of the conversation could be a formality. This smug attitude only made my cheeks burn hotter. I turned my back on him and forced my stiff fingers to open my locker, select random books, and slide them into my bag. In my head I was counting. It wa
s another of Eliza’s recommendations: counting before responding. Since doing so in English didn’t touch the temper-tempest that was brewing in my mind, I tried Latin.
Fielding cleared his throat. “Merrilee?”
“You like me? Is there something wrong with you?” I shook my head—that hadn’t come out the way I’d meant. “How is that even possible? I’m barely civil to you. We can barely tolerate being around each other. What could you possibly like about me?”
He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand and shook my head. “No, don’t answer that, because it doesn’t matter. This”—I pointed a finger between us—“is never going to happen. My answer is no.”
“No?”
“Not that you actually asked me a question—but the answer is still no. I won’t go to the dance with you. Not ‘no thank you.’ Not ‘I’m sorry but I can’t’ or ‘I wish I could.’ I’m not giving you any of the usual polite excuses.”
Fielding’s jaw hardened. And I mentally added jawline and throat to the list of attractive pieces that had been wasted on him. “May I ask why you can’t even bother to be polite?”
“Why should I be polite when you weren’t? You just went out of your way to insult me, my family, and my ex-boyfriend. I’m an embarrassment to the school? My family doesn’t belong here? We’re not the right caliber of people? My taste in boyfriends is awful? . . . Well then, find some comfort in the fact that you are the last guy I’d ever want to date.”
His posture went from straight to stiff. “I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do. For someone so obsessed with the Hero High student population and whether or not they measure up to your exacting standards, you are the biggest jerk of all.” My words were embers and sparks; I couldn’t spit them out fast enough, but they still burned. I took a step forward into his space, expecting him to back up, but he held his ground, and it only made my heart beat faster. “How dare you judge me? How dare you tell me I’m not good enough to be here? You know nothing about my intelligence or Rory’s giftedness. Who are you to slander Monroe? And nepotism? That’s quite the accusation coming from the son of the headmaster—would you be enrolled here if he wasn’t your dad? If there’s anyone at this school who’s a lower-caliber human—it’s you.”
Bookish Boyfriends Page 21
