Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Toby would agree with me,” I said.

  Her face went ashy as she whipped around to glare at me. “I don’t need your leftovers. I don’t need you discussing me with our teachers. I don’t need your life, or your friends.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” Though maybe I had implied it a little.

  “I’ve made my own.” She lifted her chin. “In fact, I’m sleeping over Clara’s house tonight.”

  “Clara’s? You promise? And promise that you won’t go near Monroe.”

  “I’m sleeping over Clara’s house,” she repeated. “Which means you’re going to have to cover my shift at the store tomorrow.”

  Normally I’d protest. Or I’d like to think that normally I’d protest. But not when faced with whisper-anger. Not when I’d just really insulted her. “Fine. But you owe me next time I need you to cover.”

  “Whatever.” Rory yanked on my arm again, and this time I let her budge me. “Some of us actually do have plans.”

  I exhaled. Her plans were for gossipy girl time. Not to run away with Monroe/Wickham and throw the family into an uproar. Leaving Lizzy crying and Darcy wretched. And then . . . I didn’t know. I had to read the rest first.

  “I’ve got plans too!” I called after her. “Important ones.” Ones that involved cream soda, snacks, comfy PJs, a certain book, and finding out just what happened next.

  34

  Rory didn’t say good-bye before leaving. Not that I would’ve looked up from my book to acknowledge her. I only took a break for dinner and when Gatsby went full howl-protest because he wanted a walk. Even then, I told him, “Make this quick,” as I knotted my bathrobe over PJs, jammed my socked feet into flip-flops, and clipped his leash.

  Gatsby, however, would not be hurried. He was doing a close inspection of every shrub on our block and being tinkle-indecisive. “Come on, boy!” I urged. “I just need to know if they ever find Wickham and Lydia.” Somewhere between Mrs. Bennet’s panic and Mr. Bennet’s trip to search for his youngest daughter, I’d realized Rory hadn’t promised me about Clara’s house or staying away from Monroe. Which, of course, had me whipping out my phone to demand a vow, but she didn’t answer my first two calls. It went straight to voice mail on the third.

  “Merrilee?”

  I jumped and whirled around with my finger on the trigger of the pepper spray attached to the leash. Gatsby whirled too—yanking me in the direction of the voice so that I was a pepper-spray wielding projectile before I realized that, as usual, it was me: mess; Fielding: witness.

  “Oh. Hi. Sorry I almost Maced you.”

  He shrugged stiffly. “No harm done. It’s good that you’re prepared.”

  I tilted my head and wanted to push him beneath a streetlamp, because I didn’t detect any sarcasm in his voice, but we lived in the sleepiest town in the world, so he must’ve been mocking. I only carried the spray because Eliza had made me promise. But once upon a stupid idea, Toby and I had tested it on ourselves, and yeah, Fielding would not be teasing if I’d pulled the trigger.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I promise you, I don’t need a ride anywhere.”

  “Right, because my sole reason for being in your neighborhood is to function as your taxi service?” But even this was lighter—like it might be accompanied by a nudge and a wink if he were the type to do those things. “I was dropping off Toby’s lacrosse equipment. It was still all in his locker, and Lance thought it was starting to stink.”

  I laughed. “You had a game tonight, right? Did you win?”

  “Nope. It’s hard when your top scorer is out for the season.”

  “Poor Toby.” I glanced over at his window. His lights were on, but the door was shut. Likely he was headphones-deep in keyboard composing.

  Fielding nodded, and then we were quiet except for Gatsby’s snuffles. Gats sniffed in circles as he searched for just the right spot, wrapping his leash around us both.

  “So, did you need something?” I stepped over the leash again and pushed Gatsby away.

  “Oh.” Fielding faltered, and the hand he’d been using to scratch Gatsby’s ears dropped. “No. Not really. I just saw you and thought I should say hi. Especially after you ran off earlier.”

  Thought he should. Not wanted to. Gatsby was nudging Fielding’s palm with his snout, trying to get those feel-good scratches back. I knew how he felt, because part of me wanted to poke at him and see if I could ever possibly revive some of his interest. I didn’t want to be a should. Or a mistake.

  We were both ignoring Gatsby at this point. I was too busy looking at the stars and blinking in attempts to keep my eyes dry. We’d had such a good moment that afternoon. Then I went and ruined it with weirdness. In the book, when Lizzy had said good-bye to Darcy in the Lambton inn, she “felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality.” I felt the same way; Fielding and I had missed our chance at friendship or more. The day had just been a sad preview of what I couldn’t have.

  Except instead of leaving, he stepped closer. “Merrilee—”

  “Wait,” I interrupted, because I still had eighty pages left in the book. I hadn’t found out if Lydia got rescued or Lizzy got kissed—but the intense look on Fielding’s face wasn’t one he’d give to someone who was a casual acquaintance, or even “just” a friend. “I know you said I was a mistake. But . . . put me out of my misery. Am I reading this wrong?”

  “What?” His eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about?”

  “In your email. You said this”—I gestured between us—“was a mistake.”

  “No.” Fielding shook his head emphatically. “Not you. Never you. How I went about telling you how I feel was a mistake. You are . . .”

  My phone chimed and buzzed in my pocket, shattering the moment and Fielding’s statement.

  I am . . . ? I am what? I wanted to shake him until he spit out a word. Hopefully a complimentary one. But feel was present tense, not past. The emotion in my chest was a lot like hope. My phone vibrated and beeped again. And again. And again. Rory!

  “Hold that thought,” I said. As I reached for my phone, Gatsby’s leash hit the back of my knees. Before I could nudge it down low enough to step over, he’d lapped me again—this time at thigh height. “Stop it, Gatsby!” My next two words were “sit” and “heel,” but he must’ve heard “squirrel” or “lunge like there’s free steaks”—because he yanked forward, pulling me with him. I only traveled the space of eighteen inches before I was halted by a collision with a hard object. Fielding’s chest.

  His hands shot up to steady me, then he reached back and grabbed Gatsby’s collar. “Stay!”

  I was planning on it. With my cheek against his chest and my hands fully Velcroed to his pecs, I had no intention of moving. But once my brain stopped being clouded by pheromones, I realized that the order had been for the dog, not me. With much reluctance, I peeled myself from him and looked at my phone screen.

  Whatever Curtis had texted me about five times had better be dang important.

  Hey short stack—Khalil just sent me these photos.

  You might want to call your sister.

  Monroe’s parties are always wild. No way that’s not getting busted.

  There were pictures in the last two texts, but from their thumbnails, all I could see was a dark room filled with people. I tapped to zoom in, and there was Rory in full Lydia-esque glory, sitting beside Monroe on the edge of a stage. In the second photo, she was laughing and standing between Styrofoam columns. “I knew she was lying!” I grumbled as I texted back Do you have an address?

  “That’s the theater. Hero High’s theater.” I hadn’t realized Fielding was so close until I heard his voice over my shoulder, his breath ghosting across my cheek as he studied the photo on my phone. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t suppose they’re supposed to be there?”

  “No. The theater should be locked. There wasn’t even rehearsal today. Someone sto
le all the costumes last night, so the director canceled practice. They’d have to have broken in. Who’d be stupid enough to go to a party at the school?”

  Curtis’s response came then—the answer filling my screen. Here’s what Khalil sent:

  It was a screenshot of text followed by five pictures. The two with my sister, then one of the stage with Monroe front and center, and two group shots of smiling people holding red cups. Above them read: Party of the year is going on now @ Hero High theater. Romeo was a rebel. Are you? #RogueRomeo

  “Who’s stupid enough? All these people. And my sister apparently. Plus Monroe. Do I have great taste in exes or what?” And, really, was it necessary for Rory to go so literal with her Lydia impersonation—running off with Monroe/Wickham and putting herself in a compromising position? I mean, I guess not compromising like Lydia’s was compromising—it’s not like she agreed to elope with a man who had no intention of marrying her—but nothing about this was smart. I’d have accused her of reading the book and doing it on purpose, except Rory never read anything without a grade to her head.

  “Let’s go,” said Fielding. When he pointed to his car, I didn’t hesitate to load Gatsby in the backseat and grab shotgun. I knew my parents wouldn’t worry. They’d assume Gats and I had run into Toby on our walk.

  I thought of my copy of Pride and Prejudice, patiently waiting on my pillow. I guess finding out whether or not book-Lydia got rescued would have to wait until we’d saved the real-life one.

  35

  Sometimes Gatsby got carsick. My pup was like me—he had a delicate stomach. Luckily he seemed content to rest his head on top of Fielding’s seat and pant heavily. I was turning around from checking on him when Fielding’s phone pinged in the cup holder. I wasn’t planning on text-peeping, but once I did glance (involuntarily) at the screen and saw that it was a picture of Rory, all bets were off. (Other people’s privacy didn’t exist when it came to my sisters’ well-being.) I grabbed his phone—it was a close-up of Rory, which made me wonder how many people were actually at this party if all the pictures were of my sister. In this one, she was holding a paintbrush. And the black and yellow smudges on her face, arms, and shirt—my shirt!—made it pretty clear that she’d actually been using it.

  Vandalism. We’ve got her. She’s totally kicked out. Goodbye interlopers.

  It didn’t matter who’d sent it—okay, it did. Ava. But it definitely mattered that she was sending this message-photo combo to the headmaster’s son. That she assumed there was a “we” between them and they had a common goal of getting my sister—and I’m sure me as well—out. It mattered that just three minutes ago I’d thought a different “we” might be possible: me plus Fielding.

  I may not have been a mistake, but I’d certainly made one.

  “Stop the car!” I yelled.

  “Merri?”

  It was the first time he’d gone nickname on me, and I would’ve been delighted if ten seconds prior I hadn’t decided to hate him again. “Stop the car, I’m getting out.”

  “But it’s closer to the theater if I park by the gym. We’re barely even on campus.”

  “Fine, don’t stop, but I’m still getting out.” I reached for the handle, and he swore, applying a tyrannosaurus stomp to the brakes. In the backseat, Gatsby yelped as he slid along the seat, claws scrabbling and drool slinging.

  I shoved Fielding’s phone at his chest, willing myself not to feel the sparks when his fingers closed over mine. “Was it all some sort of trick?” I demanded. “Make me fall for you or trust you so that you could get us kicked out?”

  I didn’t wait for his answer, just yanked my hand from beneath his and then threw the door open and myself out into the night. Gatsby leapt over the console and followed.

  “Merrilee! Merri! Wait!”

  Nope. No way. I didn’t follow orders from backstabbers.

  Campus at night was weird. The avenue of trees, which looked so dignified in the day, was spooky instead of stately. The branches all felt like they were reaching down to grab at me instead of guiding me down the road to classes. Gatsby barked at every shadow. The sound of it made things skitter away in the dark.

  I ran. And while I was grateful to cross-country for new speed and endurance, I was less grateful to past-Merri for thinking it was a smart idea to take Gatsby out in her bathrobe because It’s not like anyone will see me. And even less grateful for past-Merri tying that bathrobe over a tank top and sleep shorts. Short sleep shorts. And just a tank. While I wasn’t as curvy as Lilly, it was less than comfortable to be running across campus without a bra.

  I was going to kill Rory when I found her. In fact, I had a whole list of people I wanted to kill. It started with Fielding, but Monroe and Rory were on there too. And past-Merri as well, since flip-flops with socks were not comfortable or appropriate footwear for this adventure.

  “Merrilee!” Fielding caught up. He reached out like he might grasp my arm, but then pulled back without touching me. “Please stop. You’ve got it wrong.”

  “Because I’m too dumb to understand your nefarious plan?” I glanced at his feet. No flip-flop sock-toe wedgies for him. He was wearing sneakers, but not with uniform khakis. With jeans. I hadn’t noticed the jeans before. And I refused to notice them now. I definitely didn’t want to buy a Ouija board just to call up the spirit of Levi Strauss and thank him for inventing denim. “How long have you been colluding with Ava to get us kicked out?”

  “Merri—”

  I was whispering. He was not. And while my whispers didn’t quite qualify as actual whispers—Toby said my volume only ever turned down to a five—I was still quieter than him. “Would you mind shutting up and disappearing so I can go find my sister?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “No—” I had a feeling we could stand there all night going back and forth. Voices edging up and toes inching toward each other until we were nose-to-nose and my cells were all crackling with a euphoric warning. I shook my head to clear the image. And turned down the path to the theater. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just stay out of my way.”

  I reached for the door to the theater, and that’s when I saw it:

  Rogue Romeo

  The paint on the sign was still wet, but I’d recognize the lettering anywhere. It was the same handwriting that graced the store’s windows. Only instead of puppies and pumpkins, this sign had balconies and a curly-haired boy.

  The only thing missing was a Juliet.

  And I was dang sure not letting my sister be trapped in that character, or Lydia Bennet, or any role but herself.

  36

  When Toby and I had gone through our movie-making phase in middle school, we’d been obsessed with green-screen technology. We’d film ourselves in superhero costumes, then change the background so we were under the sea, or on the moon, or behind news desks. The scene that greeted me when I opened the doors to Hero High’s theater reminded me a lot of that.

  It had all the trappings of any teen party from any teen movie: kids with cups and cell phones in laughing clusters. A couple kissing in a corner. A trio tossing a football. An idiot doing a stupid stunt for attention. But it all felt superimposed onto a theater background. The football toss was taking place across aisles. The kissing couple were leaning against the door to the ticket booth. The groups of revelers were standing and sitting around auditorium seats. And the idiot? He was trying to climb the stage curtains.

  The major difference, however, was what was taking place onstage. And while most people weren’t paying attention, there was a small clump of partygoers who were focused on the drama going down at center stage, where my sister and Monroe stood like gunslingers in a duel. She was armed with a paint cup. He had a bound script, which he was mangling in his clenched fist.

  “Fine. We’ll skip ahead,” he seethed. He wasn’t enunciating for an audience, but I’d joined the group around the front row and could hear him fine.
“See if you can manage this: Act two! Scene two! Your line is ‘Ay me!’” Monroe thrust the script in her direction.

  “Get away from me! That’s not my line,” Rory snapped, taking a step backward. “I have no lines. I’m not doing this.”

  “Yes, you are. Why else do you think I invited you and your freshman friends?” Monroe edged into her space again and shook the script in her face. “Who needs the school play. Or Merri. If I can’t have your sister, you will be my Juliet.”

  I winced. That wasn’t subtle or kind. No girl wants to hear she’s a consolation prize—I doubted even Wickham had told Lydia that she was a substitute Lizzy.

  But my kid sister wasn’t as flighty as Lydia, wasn’t as easily flattered or conned. She was not a girl who’d fall for the empty charm and persuasion of a Wickham. Or succumb to the pressure and insults from the jerk in front of her. And with a surge of pride, I realized she’d never be a Juliet either—never tie her identity so tightly with some boy who seemed like her only reason for living. I didn’t just have a good role model above me in birth order—my little sister was pretty impressive too.

  It occurred to me I should actually tell her as much—after we’d gotten out of here and I’d given her an epic lecture on being stupid enough to attend this party in the first place.

  I watched as she snatched the script from his hand and chucked it offstage. It landed on the floor by the front row—right where Ava was sitting, her eyes glued on my ex. Not that I wasted any time glaring at her or looking around to see if Fielding had spotted her yet. No, my attention was pretty much riveted on the stage, where Rory had followed up her game of script-toss by flinging the contents of her paint cup over the boy invading her personal space.