Fielding brushed some invisible dust off the sleeve of his shirt. Seriously—how did it stay so crisp, even at the end of a long day? Mine was a wrinkled mess. I watched his Adam’s apple bob, watched his chin lift to even higher heights. “Thank you for clarifying exactly how you feel. I understand perfectly, and I won’t bother you again.”
I wanted to throw a book at his retreating back. At his shoulders, which were still so straight and proud. But once he was out of sight, I gave in to my other urge—the one that suggested I slump down on the floor in front of my locker. I looked up and down the empty hallway, and since there was no one around, I pulled my knees to my chin, exposing my underwear to the dust bunnies. A move I was sure no proper Hero High girl would make. But I needed to just lower my head for a second. I needed to regroup and process what had happened.
I’d been planning on a rage-cardio power run, one where I spewed all the headmaster’s words on Eliza and let her indignation fix my hurt feelings. But now I just felt too raw, too exhausted. Instead of doubling my anger, that horror show of a conversation with Fielding had drained it. I wanted to curl up in my bed and escape into a book. And once I’d latched on to that thought, nothing else would do. I wanted hours and pages with the indomitable Lizzy Bennet. I wanted to watch her turn down suitors and scoff at invitations to dances. Take that, Collins! Take that, Darcy! Take that, everyone who told her or me that we weren’t good enough!
And since I was already messing up everything else, why not skip practice? I texted Eliza that I wouldn’t be showing up, then called Lilly and begged for a ride home.
29
I skipped downstairs the next morning after a night spent between pages—and not the ones in my textbooks. Sometimes you just need to blow off equations in favor of Austen. Latin wasn’t going anywhere. And, fine, maybe Pride and Prejudice wasn’t going anywhere either, but after a few hours with Lizzy Bennet, I felt much more equipped to face school. If she could head to Hunsford to stay with the creepy Mr. Collins after rejecting his proposal and put up with all the backward compliments and unwelcome advice of Darcy’s pretentious aunt, Lady Catherine, then I could handle a few judgmental Williams males. I’d channel my inner Lizzy and keep my chin high and sass strong. I couldn’t say that I’d ever derived any similar inspiration from conjugating Latin verbs.
Rory was already at the table when I bounded into the kitchen. I smiled at her. “Good—” She practically growled over her mug of tea. “Or not,” I amended. “Late night?”
“Stupid school with all its stupid homework. How does anyone have time to do anything but study?” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t answer that. We’re not all supernaturally smart.”
Clearly we were not in for a repeat of yesterday’s civil tutoring session. And it was probably best I didn’t share my homework strategies: two parts procrastination, one part flying through my math set while blow-drying my hair. Instead I poured myself a cup of juice and selected one of Dad’s poppy-seed muffins. I left an empty chair between us because I’d learned from years of experience that Rory’s toes and heel bones were particularly pointy. “Well, we’re not all artistic geniuses either.”
Apparently “artistic genius” was an insult this morning or something? Because her eyes only narrowed further, her lips pulling back into something that resembled the way Gatsby snarled when he got spooked by his own reflection, or an empty trash can, or the vacuum.
Not that I had any plans to tell her this comparison. Instead I picked up Mom’s tablet and logged in to my Hero High email. I hadn’t checked it in a few days, and there was quite the collection of school bulletins, club flyers, funny forwards from Lance, goofy links from Curtis, and book recommendations from Hannah. And at the top, a shiny new email from a Williams.
But not Sera. Not the one whose first name might as well be Headmaster. Nope.
So much for Fielding promising to leave me alone.
I squished my OJ from one cheek to the other and kicked at the table legs. Just seeing that email made me want to behave in as uncouth a manner as possible. Not that he was there to judge me, or for me to prove that I wasn’t affected by his judgment—but at least the behavior had the added benefit of annoying Rory, who rolled her eyes and stood. “I’m going to wait outside.”
I was left with silence, a glass of orange juice that now tasted sour, a muffin that no longer looked appealing, and an email that I absolutely didn’t want to read.
But I didn’t want to spend the morning guessing what it might say, so I took a deep breath and clicked.
Dear Merrilee,
Before you begin to worry, I do intend to honor my promise not to bother you anymore with talk about feelings for you. It was a mistake—
Oh, swell, it was written in pretentious mode. Also, just what every girl wants to hear, that she’s a mistake.
But there were a few things that you mentioned yesterday that have bothered me all night. I wanted to clear up any misconceptions that lingered between us.
As to your enrollment: you must know that Senator Rhodes used her considerable influence as an alumnus and as a politician to get you and your sister admitted to the school. There’s a strict enrollment cap on each grade level—which, until this year, has never been violated. You and Aurora are the “plus ones” of your respective grades. Typically these application proceedings are kept confidential, but everything about your applications caused such a division within the school board that details leaked out to a small circle of students. Your and Rory’s applications arrived months past the admissions deadline and didn’t include the prerequisite essays or recommendation letters. Your interviews were conducted as formalities—after the board had already assured Senator Rhodes of your both being granted positions in the school.
Essays? I’d never even heard mention of any essays. Senator Rhodes and Mom had taken care of filling out the applications. All Rory and I had done was sign them. I didn’t know that we’d been given some shortcut version. I didn’t like that I didn’t know this.
I don’t mean to imply that you’re not intelligent or capable or that your time at RRH Prep won’t be beneficial to you and the other students—but looking at this objectively, were you and your sister the most qualified candidates in the application pool? Is it fair that you got to skip the rigors of the process and were gifted openings that were created just for you? I don’t like the implication that the school board can be purchased with influence and sway.
Though, since it seems likely that this is all information you weren’t privy to, the fact that I’ve held you accountable for it has probably rankled.
“Rankled”? “Privy”? I wanted to know if he naturally wrote like that, or if this was a thesaurus-assisted email. I wanted to hear how he talked with Toby and Curtis when they were alone. When I wasn’t there to rankle him with my unearned presence.
I apologize and will keep in mind that, despite being the beneficiary of the senator’s actions, you weren’t the one behind the manipulations. I know your welcome to RRH Prep hasn’t been the warmest. I apologize for that as well, and while I’ll keep my word and keep my distance, please know that if our paths do cross, I’ll be kinder. As for why I like you—since you challenged that notion as well—you are passionate and funny. I spent much of the time we’ve been together trying not to laugh—with you, not at you. Except half your jokes are at my expense, and I don’t think you want me to find them humorous.
Also, your loyalty is so admirable. I’ve seen the way you stand up for your friends. Finally, your determination. Despite the lack of welcome you’ve received, you’ve won everyone over. I didn’t know that you were the very thing our school was missing until you arrived. I’m glad you’re here. I say all this not to sway your feelings—you were quite clear—but to answer your question. I hope I’ve done so to your satisfaction.
I knew those were compliments and I knew they were kind, but they sat in my stomach like a ball of thorns. I was so much more comfortable with our animosity.
Changing the rules—being sweet and stomach-fluttery when I wanted to be all fisticuffs and anger—was such a stupid, Fielding thing to do.
As for my father: you referred to a meeting with him. While I can only conjecture as to what it was about, I’m fairly certain I can make an accurate guess. Father takes his duties as headmaster a bit too seriously at times. His focus on the “ideal” student can be singular, and I’m hoping his words didn’t make you feel as though you don’t measure up. I know it’s not my place to apologize for him or make excuses for his actions, but I did want to assure you that his opinions are not my own. They are certainly not Sera’s. My sister has only the highest degree of fondness and admiration for you.
One last thing, and I’ll cease to bother you. You accused me of spreading slander about Monroe Stratford, and I can see why it would seem like my words were motivated by jealousy or pettiness. They were not. As you know, all students are required to sign an honor code at the time of their enrollment. For most of our classmates this is a formality, but Monroe saw it as a challenge. From the beginning of his freshman year, he’s made it his goal to break every standard listed there. It is my greatest embarrassment to have firsthand knowledge of this fact because for our freshman year, he and I were friends. To my shame, I didn’t report him to my father for purchasing papers online, copying off others’ tests, skipping class to meet with girls, or hosting parties where he had a checklist of illegal and off-limits substances.
While I knew these actions were wrong, I admired his charisma and ability to be well-liked—these traits don’t come easily to me. The final straw was on Admitted Students Day our freshman year, when the incoming class toured the campus. Listening to him charm and flirt with the eighth graders in attendance—then turn around and make lewd comments about them—was revolting. Especially when one of the girls he was discussing was my sister. He’d set up Corrupting the Headmaster’s Daughter as the ultimate challenge.
I confronted him and said that if he ever approached Sera or her friends, I’d go directly to my father with what I knew about his activities. And, until he met you, he’d kept his word and stayed far away from her circle. He and I no longer associate, but as far as I’m aware, the parties and reckless behavior have continued.
I hope you’ll understand that I’m telling you this in confidence, because I think you deserve to know—but it’s not just my story, and I’d rather Sera not hear about how she was disrespected and discussed.
I nodded at the computer screen. Of course I wouldn’t tell her. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course he could trust me. I didn’t know why he would, after the things we’d screeched at each other, but I would keep his secrets. The final paragraph contained more of the same apologies, followed by Fielding Williams, which was strangely unsatisfying, like I wanted to see his signature in his handwriting instead of the tablet’s default font.
The whole letter was perfectly polite. It made me want to beat something with an etiquette guide.
And if it was true? It had to be, right? Because those sorts of lies would be so easy to check. But Sera—sweet, eighth-grader Sera—the thought of her being the object of a bet made my stomach churn. Especially when the lips that had placed that bet had been pressed to mine last week. In our short time dating, he’d more than proven how little he respected or followed rules. How little he’d respected me.
Wait! Was I a similar challenge? Claim the new girl? The new girl who didn’t really deserve to be at the school?
“Rowboat?” I looked up from the tablet to see Toby standing in my kitchen, car keys in his hand and creases across his forehead. “Didn’t you hear me beeping? Or Rory ringing the doorbell? Or Gatsby going ballistic?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “Sorry.”
“You okay?” His eyes scanned the kitchen, coming to rest on the tablet, and then his expression relaxed into a grin. “Oh, you were reading. What’s today’s book about? Vampires? Were-elk? Pixies—of the manic dream girl or wooded variety?”
I closed the mail window and stuck my tongue out at him. “If you’re looking for a recommendation, I’m happy to make one.” It was an easy tease, and he laughed as he grabbed my bag and tossed me my coat from the hook by the door.
“You didn’t even notice.” He did a stiff jig in his knee brace. “Look, no crutches.”
“Wow.” I was still blinking out of a mental fog, like when a book or movie holds onto your thoughts with sticky fingers, making it so much harder for reality to feel real. Only Fielding’s email was part of my reality. Just not a welcome or comfortable part.
“Come on, bookworm. We’re going to be late.”
I stood, but my legs felt shaky. Like the words in that email had shifted the tiles beneath my feet. We were going to be late to a school where I’d cheated my way into admission. And my ex-boyfriend . . . “Toby—” I took a deep breath before asking him a question I already knew the answer to. Rory had provided it. “Does Monroe have big parties?”
“Yeah. They’re supposed to be wild. I’ve never been invited to one. Why? Are you and he back—” His shoulders slumped, my bag trailing inches closer to the ground.
“No!” The thought made my stomach clench like Toby’s fist. “Not at all.”
“Oh. Good. I mean—” He shrugged and played with his hair. “Let’s go before Rory hijacks my car.”
“Good plan.” But now we were both being falsely cheerful, and I just wanted to crawl back upstairs and hide beneath my covers.
“Wait. Breakfast. Do you want to bring it?” Toby pointed to the muffin I’d plated before getting sucked into Fielding’s confessional.
I shook my head. Food and I were not friends right now. The three sips of OJ I’d managed were planning a tsunami in my stomach. I’d been so wrong. About myself. About Monroe. And maybe/probably/likely . . . about Fielding, too.
30
My stomach had been rumbling for a full five minutes by the time the bell rang for lunch, but it did a quick one-eighty into churning when Ms. Gregoire stopped by my desk. “Merrilee, can I keep you after class a moment?” She turned to Eliza and smiled. “She’s not in trouble, I promise.”
Eliza dropped her watchdog posture and raised her eyebrows at me. I knew exactly what she was thinking: that this was the type of reassurance Headmaster Williams should’ve included with his meeting request yesterday. “I’ll grab your lunch and books from your locker so you can head straight to the cafeteria.”
“Thanks.” I pulled my English notebook out of my satchel, then handed her the bag. “Will you drop this off?” Just because I’d skipped cross-country the day before didn’t mean I needed the extra workout of hauling around that massive thing.
“Sure.” She eyed Ms. Gregoire, who had drifted over to the window, where she was watering the row of potted ivy that grew gracefully along the ledge. Eliza’s scrutiny was repaid with an open smile and a wave.
“I promise to send her along soon.”
Eliza nodded, turning to the only other student still lingering: Curtis. He was waiting to hold the door for her. Had probably been waiting this whole conversation, and had earned a scowl for his trouble. I bet they’d bicker the whole walk to the lockers. I bet I’d get to hear all about how infuriating he was during cross-country. I bet she’d smack me if I shared my theory about her protesting just a bit too much about how obnoxious she found him. Well, not literally smack me, but the verbal-takedown equivalent.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t right.
Ms. Gregoire cleared her throat, and I turned away from the door. The dress she was wearing today was peach with teal parasols. I’m not sure why I was so sure they were parasols, not umbrellas, but I was a hundred percent convinced. She crossed one dark purple ankle boot over the other and smiled at me. She smiled a lot, but when it was at you, it just felt different. Authentic. Sincere. It was more than a facial expression, it was a gift, telling you she had all the time in the world for you and you had all her attention. I exhaled any lingering te
nsion and sank back into my seat.
“Merrilee, I’ve been loving your journals. Have you considered joining the school literary magazine?”
“Not really?” But Hannah had suggested it too, after she’d squealed over the guest post I’d written for her blog. The club fair was coming up next Friday—maybe I’d stop at the booth? “But I’ve had fun writing these journals. I finished another one last night . . . but I didn’t know if it was too early to give it to you.”
“Please do.” Ms. Gregoire waited while I fished it out of my notebook, then she hugged it to her chest. “Your writing has verve and voice, and your perspective on Pride and Prejudice is fresh and unique.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then, because I felt the need to add this disclaimer almost anytime I talked about the book: “Though I still don’t get why it’s considered this ‘great romance.’”
“None of them are your . . . cup of tea?” Ms. Gregoire reached for her travel mug and winked at me over its lid.
“No. I guess for a millisecond I thought Wickham wasn’t too bad, but . . .” But I’d had my fill of charming guys who came on too strong in real life with Monroe. As for Darcy . . . he just upset and confused me. Thinking about him made my head ache, so I avoided it as much as possible. I hadn’t even included his name in my last journal, and I definitely wasn’t going to talk about him as a romantic interest right now.
“Wickham? Blech.” Ms. Gregoire wrinkled her nose. “Where are you in the plot now?”
I hesitated a moment while deciding what answer to give. “Um, Lizzy is still visiting Mr. Collins and her friend Charlotte. I still can’t believe poor Charlotte married that weirdo!” Though I understood that she hadn’t had the luxury of choosing love over stability. “Darcy and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam are visiting his aunt next door. And the colonel just accidentally revealed to Lizzy that it was Darcy who ruined Bingley and Jane’s relationship. What a jerk.”
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