As I waited in a chair outside Headmaster Williams’s office, there was a small guilty part of me that exhaled with relief. I wouldn’t have to run into Monroe on campus anymore. Wherever he ended up next, I hoped he was happier. And I hoped his parents finally started paying him attention or got him some help.
“Come in, Miss Campbell. Take a seat.” After thirty minutes of being parked in the world’s worst waiting room—without anything to read but the Reginald R. Hero High handbook—it was my turn to sit opposite Headmaster Williams’s desk. I was fully prepared for my sentence. Sure, it might be tough for my parents to be without Rory or me in the store for the next two Saturdays, but as long as Lilly was available, they could make it work.
“Merrilee, as you and my son kept emphasizing, Friday night, you weren’t attending the party.”
I wasn’t sure what sort of response this statement required, so I just shifted in the giant chair. There’d been no offerings of beverages today, and there was no veneer of politeness to cloak his condescension.
“Ergo, it doesn’t make sense for me to hand down the same punishment as the students who participated.”
Wait, that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. Spoilers, not surprises. Knowing what to expect had been the only thing keeping me vomit-free. My stomach somersaulted and I burped into my hand. “Excuse me.”
Headmaster Williams curled his lips in disgust. “One week of after-school detention. During which time you are suspended from all sports practices.”
Again, I wasn’t sure if a response was required. If it were my parents, I’d have tried to bargain—but Headmaster Williams didn’t look open to negotiation. I doubted he wanted my “That sounds fair” either. In fact, I was pretty sure my opinion was irrelevant, so I settled on an unsatisfying “Thank you, Headmaster.”
Apparently they were the right words, because he nodded. “I do hope that now that Mr. Stratford is no longer a Hero High student, we’ll see improvements in your behavior. If so, I’ll be willing to forget all your indiscretions and attribute them to youthful ignorance.” He paused again, but there was no way I was saying thank you for his insults. “But if your behavior continues to impact others, then you’ll soon be joining Mr. Stratford on the path out of Hero High. Understood?”
Finally! A question! A clear indication of the type of response he was looking for. I was so busy celebrating this fact that I almost forgot to answer. “Oh. Yes, sir. I understand.”
He gestured for me to stand. And while I hadn’t swallowed an etiquette book like his son, I was pretty sure politeness dictated that Headmaster Williams stand also. He didn’t. Instead he said, “Please send in the next student on your way out.”
I quashed my urge to bob a curtsy in his direction and instead gave a stiff nod before marching my gummy bear and dragon socks across the floor and out of his room. “You’re up,” I told the boy with messy hair sitting with his head bowed in the chair beside the door, “Don’t worry, it’s—”
But when the guy raised his head, I shut up and started worrying. Because Fielding looked wretched. Besides the uncharacteristically chaotic hair, he had under-eye circles that rivaled my own. And above them his eyes searched my face like a treasure map. He opened his mouth twice before asking, “Are you okay?”
There was so much to say, but no time. I looked at the closed door. Making the headmaster wait wouldn’t count as being a good influence. “I’m fine. But you should go talk to your dad.”
He stood, his body taut and tense as an unread book—and just as tempting. But he was a book I’d had to return to the library unread. I’d missed my chance.
“Merri, you have to hear me,” he begged. “I didn’t ask Ava for that text. She and I talked—way back over the summer—about how you and Rory shouldn’t have been admitted. Not since I got to know you. I swear. Believe me.”
“I do,” I answered, but his father’s warning about being a bad influence and Toby’s comments about Fielding never having been in trouble before echoed as loud as my relief. “I’m glad. But go see your dad.”
“Merri . . .” he said, raking a hand through his hair.
I shook my head. “Don’t make him wait. I’ll talk to you later.”
38
By “later” I had meant a general “time other than now.” But I should have assumed that if I received detentions for my role on Friday night, then Fielding would receive identical detentions for his identical role.
I hadn’t. And since I hadn’t, I did a double take when I walked in the small room off the library and found him already sitting at one of the two rows of tables. We both offered stiff waves and stiffer expressions as I took a seat at the table in front of his. The proctor—the only other person in this den of awkwardness—explained the rules: we could do homework, or read, or nap. No talking. No phones.
I didn’t know what Fielding was doing behind my back, but my shoulder blades were creeping in and up, as though I could form my own sort of turtle shell to hide inside.
The proctor, who I believe was also a math teacher, looked back and forth between us. “Well, I’m not going to have a problem with you two socializing, am I?”
“No, sir,” Fielding said instantly. I shook my head.
“Good, then I’m going to get coffee.”
Which made everything worse. Because now there was no excuse for not talking, and there was so much to say—so much potential—that I didn’t want to say anything at all. I’d rather live in this state of anticipation and hope—make it my permanent mailing address—than open my mouth and risk everything falling to pieces if we said the wrong words. Because he and I were so good at saying the wrong words to each other. But either Fielding was functioning on a whole different wavelength or he’d swallowed a porcupine, because he cleared his throat four times. And I could feel his gaze on my neck like a laser beam. I tried to ignore it, truly I did. I got out my math book, my notebook, flipped to the right page, and even copied out the first problem.
He.
Cleared.
His.
Throat.
Again.
“Do you need a cough drop?” I asked without turning around. “I don’t have one, but I bet you could go to the nurse.”
“No.” He sounded sheepish. “Merrilee . . .”
I turned halfway and met his gaze. And maybe he was just practicing my name, because he didn’t follow up with anything else or look away. I couldn’t either. But had I missed the part where I signed up for a high-intensity staring contest? One with no prize except stomach knots and sweaty palms?
I blinked. Then turned before I could get ensnared in that eye trap again. “Do you think you could turn down the volume on your glower? I’m trying to do math, and it’s my hardest class.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He tapped his hands a few times on the edge of his table—the first time I’d ever seen him fidget. “Well, I’ll just be back here.”
If I could have any superpower it would be perfect comebacks. Well, speed-reading, then comebacks. Since my brain was ignoring all my demands that it Be clever and quippy! Do it NOW! I didn’t say anything. Just did my best imitation of ignoring him while getting cozy with precalc.
I knew he was hunched forward on his table—could feel him so close behind me—but I wasn’t sure why since I was absolutely, absolutely not turning around to look. But after the detention proctor popped in and looked us over and offered a thumbs-up before popping back out, Fielding climbed over the table to the seat beside mine. He tapped a pencil on my math notebook. “Those are actually—they’re all correct.”
I snatched the notebook away and then smoothed out the wrinkle that the snatching had created. “I said it was my ‘hardest class,’ not that I’m bad at it.”
“You are very clearly not bad at it.”
The surprise in his voice felt like a cheese grater on my confidence. He looked again at the paper in my hand and shook his head. Like, if he hadn’t witnessed the miracle of me writing dow
n numbers, he wouldn’t have believed it could’ve occurred. Clearly he didn’t even need to use words to insult. I’d thought we were past this.
I ground my teeth and slapped my notebook down on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I’m going to pull this card, but—do you know what I scored on my entrance exam? I mean, you seem to know everything else about me, so did you look in my file? Do you know my IQ? Because the evaluator told me that it was ‘so high that it would make all the so-called genius-dotcom code junkies cry into their matcha lattes.’”
His mouth twitched. “I’m pretty sure those weren’t his exact words. But please do use that quote on your college apps or future business cards.”
I glared at him.
He . . . smiled. Which was my own form of kryptonite. It froze me in place, and all I wanted to do was memorize that expression and live in the glowing feeling it created in my chest. “Merri, I didn’t mean it as an insult, I promise. I was impressed. I barely managed a B in that class—by the skin of my teeth and with a few begged-for retests. It’s not just your hardest class; it’s the hardest class on campus.”
“Oh.” I offered him a tentative smile of my own and shifted my chair to the side so I could face him.
“I know you’re smart, Merrilee. You can lump me in with the dot-com code junkies—because clearly you blow me away too.”
“I didn’t mean—I mean, I don’t care about IQs and stuff like that. At all. I shouldn’t have—”
“Do you believe me about Ava?” Fielding in interrupting mode was both startling and intense. I felt my eyes widen at the solemnity in his. “I swear the only conversation we had about you and Rory was back before the school year started. And we were wrong. I shouldn’t have ever implied that you weren’t intelligent enough to come here. I don’t even know what a matcha latte is.”
“Well, maybe after—” But my invitation was interrupted by the door opening. By the proctor blustering in with all the indignation in the world on his face and a boatload of spittle on his “Shhhhhush.”
I needed a distraction, something that could actually pry my attention off the boy beside me and his sunshine smile. There was only one thing in my bag that could provide that, and it had about thirty unread pages. I pulled out Pride and Prejudice and settled in, tucking my feet up on the chair as I sank into the story—the vile Lady Catherine had just showed up uninvited at Lizzy’s house, demanding that Lizzy assure her that she and Darcy weren’t an item. Lizzy refused—out of stubbornness and dislike for his aunt, sadly not because she and Darcy had anything going on. But Lizzy’s refusal set off a chain reaction—Lady Catherine then turned to Darcy to refute the news. And Darcy? He clung to this opening and went to see Lizzy—demanding to hear if her feelings had changed. Could she, would she return his love?
It’s possible I sighed and swooned aloud as I reveled in pages where Lizzy and Darcy surrendered their prejudice and their respective pride, realized how false their first impressions were, and finally got together. In the movie in my mind, Lizzy wore the face I saw in the mirror every morning. And Darcy—he smiled like the guy beside me when Lizzy promised to be his.
They didn’t even kiss. There was nothing actually steamy in their nineteenth-century courtship. Except there was. This was way more romantic, way more goose bumps and tingles and swoony than anything Blake and co. had ever done. Romeo didn’t even belong in the same library as Darcy. But Fielding did.
Fielding deserved his own shelf or card catalog, because he was like Darcy, like I was like Lizzy—except, more.
Better. Truer. Realer.
And by the time our hour had run out, so had my confidence. My hands were sweaty. My throat was parched. My cheeks were sunburn red and eye contact with Fielding was out of the question, because what if he could guess what I’d just been imagining—about him? Instead of asking him to come try matcha with me, I ducked my head and wiggled a couple of weak fingers in his direction, squeaked out a “bye,” and fled.
39
It was Lilly and Trent who picked me up. He told me about his own first detention—for speaking exclusively in pig latin for a whole day on a dare. A surprising, un-Trent-ish story, which made Lilly giggle. It made me like him more, especially when she said, “Say something in it,” and he touched her face and responded, “Ouyay areyay ymay orldway.”
And while he wasn’t standing on benches in Convocation or sneaking into her bedroom to commit decorative-candle arson—he was romantic. Way more romantic, because his gesture was for Lilly, not for show.
This story might make its way into my MoH toast. But his detention story had reminded me of the Rhodes’s connections with the school. I leaned forward from the backseat, interrupting the lingering red-light swoony-glance thing they had going on. “Change of plans. I need to stop at your mom’s office.”
“My mom?” asked Trent. “Do you mean your mom? The store?”
“Nope. Your mom. I need to talk to her.”
“But—”
Lilly interrupted him with a hand on his arm. “She’s got her stubborn face on; you might as well give in.”
He did. And Lilly went on a coffee run while Trent sweet-talked his mom’s assistant into squeezing me into her double-booked schedule. He turned around and smiled. “You’re in.”
I gave him an impulsive hug. “Trent, you are such a Bingley!”
He coughed and patted my back awkwardly. “I’m—I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
I pulled back and almost upended a table full of campaign buttons. “Oh, it is. I mean, maybe you’re a Darcy to Lilly, but in my story, you’re a Bingley, and he’s a really good guy—just like you.”
Trent beamed, and for the first time, I noticed it wasn’t quite a plastic Ken doll grin. When he smiled big—smiled genuinely—it was a little crooked. I liked him better for it.
A freckled woman in a dark suit stepped around the corner. “The senator’s ready for you now.”
I took a deep breath and stood up, knitting my fingers together to keep from fidgeting or knocking anything else over.
“Wait,” Trent said, and I paused, expecting something cheesy or sentimental. Instead he tipped his head. “You said—‘in your story.’ You’ve got Ms. Gregoire this year, don’t you?”
I nodded.
He grinned again and gave a small nod of comprehension. “She’s the best—we’ll have to share stories sometime. I never would’ve met your sister if it weren’t for her.”
“But . . .” He and Lilly hadn’t met in high school. Had they? And his emphasis on “stories”—did he mean that like I thought?
The assistant cleared her throat and tapped her watch. It might not have been subtle, but it was effective. I shot down the hallway after her.
Senator Rhodes was on the phone when I walked in. She nodded in acknowledgment and held up a finger for “one minute.” I studied the walls while she finished her call. They were covered in photos and awards from local businesses, schools, scout troops, and politicians. Lots of people sure did like her, Fielding included. Had I ever even given her a chance?
“Merri. Hello. What can I do for you?” I wondered if she expected everyone who walked through her door to make a demand. How awful. Though I guess I was just as bad if it was a demand for info. She was looking at me with eyes that practically had the second hand ticking. Time was money or votes or something. And I didn’t have the first or the eligibility for the second.
“Hi. I wanted to ask you something.”
She spread her hands in a “go ahead” gesture.
“Could I have gotten into Hero High without you?”
I appreciated that she didn’t answer right away. She took her time weighing the question—like it was as important to her as it was to me. Finally she rested her hands on her desk and met my eyes. “No.”
I deflated a little. I’d assumed as much, but I hadn’t truly wanted to hear it.
“Your scores, your entrance interview, all of your paperwork was outstanding.
Those alone should have granted you entry, and in a fair world they would’ve. But no, if I hadn’t interceded, you and Rory would not have been admitted.”
“Both of us?” Rory was a ridiculously gifted artist. There weren’t many fourteen-year-olds who’d won art awards and had their work shown in fancy places I would be able to name if I was a better sister.
“The financials didn’t work. When I went to the finance commitee and said that they would find the money—I had meant that I would endow you myself. They didn’t take it that way, and they scraped together their aid packages, but I’m sure that’s caused some resentment. Especially since you’re girls.”
There were so many things I needed to question, but that last one seemed oddest of all. “Because we’re girls?”
“Financial aid is disproportionately awarded to males. When I saw they were actually going to support the entry of two wonderful young women without my intercession, I let it stand. But I’m sorry if that’s been a problem.”
“Why would you have paid for us?” This was perhaps most baffling of all. She hadn’t even wanted me to be maid of honor, but she wanted to fund my tuition?
“You remind me of me.”
I might have recoiled, but she just laughed. “Not in personality; I was never as much fun as you. But because I see in you something I saw in myself. You’re special, Merrilee. Girls like you are going to change the world someday.”
“I’m not going to be a politician.” At least I didn’t plan on it, but since I didn’t have a plan for something I would do, maybe I shouldn’t rule any option out. “And how can you sit there and act like you support me—you told me I wasn’t even fit to be maid of honor and meddled in my love life.”
“You may not believe this, but I’m sorry to hear you had a breakup.”
“You’re right,” I said coolly. “I don’t believe it.”
Bookish Boyfriends Page 28
