She looked stricken. “My objection to your relationship with Monroe was purely apolitical. I’ve encountered the younger Mr. Stratford at a few events . . . and, well, he seemed rather like an apple off his father’s tree. You deserve better than him, Merrilee.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said—but maybe I did mean to, because my voice was tight and my teeth were grinding. “But why do you even care?”
“Why—I like you. I love Lillian, but I really care for you and Aurora too.”
I raised an eyebrow. Fine, both eyebrows. Curse Eliza and her magical one-eyebrow dexterity.
“I know I come across as cool. I know my reputation is that of an ice queen.”
If my eyebrows kept climbing at their current rate, they’d be off my forehead before she ran out of startling revelations.
She sighed and studied her nails. They were shaped and filed, painted a half shade darker than nude, but something about their perfection made her frown. “Do you know that I’ve seen Senator Deacon cry five times? And Mike and Tom, and all the other representatives—I’ve seen them drunk, or weepy, or pissed-off, red-faced, cursing. But you don’t hear about any of this—or if you do, it’s spun in a way that’s positive. They’re ‘passionate’ or ‘fired up.’ I get bad press for frowning. In fact I get more lines in the papers for what I’m wearing, if I gain or lose five pounds, if I wait a week too long before getting my roots touched up, or if I run to the grocery store with minimal makeup than I ever do for the bills I sponsor or any of my political stances. Trent’s wedding seems to be far more interesting to my constituents than my platform.”
Well, of course it was—who wouldn’t pick vows over votes? Not that I told her this, because clearly this was only intermission in my lecture.
“Which is why I didn’t want you to be the maid of honor. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that sort of public scrutiny. D.C. is still a boys’ club, Merrilee. I’m there to do a real job, but so often they try and reduce me to a photo caption. The best way to fight that is to ignore it. To keep going. I’m not an unfeeling monster, but . . .”
“You just play one on TV?”
She laughed, and the sound startled me. I was expecting it to be a sharp bark or a high pitched “hee-hee-hee.” Instead it was warm and inviting. The kind that made me dissolve into giggles too. She stood and squeezed my arm. “I truly am sorry about your breakup. I hope the next person you date realizes just how lucky he is to have you. The best decision Trent ever made was to fall in love with your sister—though how could he help it? She’s extraordinary too.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to stop—because it was weird to see Senator Rhodes act warm and approachable—or tell me more. Instead I thought of Fielding. He was nothing like Monroe. He was a thousand times better, and if I ever had the chance to prove to him just how stupid and judgmental I’d been when I rejected him, I would. In the meantime, I’d take his advice. “Is there any way I could get involved or help out around here? I don’t know much about politics—but if it’s okay, I’d like to learn.”
Senator Rhodes smiled—it was different from the one in the photos on the wall. This one matched the photos on her desk, the ones where she was surrounded by family members. It was a little crooked, just like Trent’s. “I’d love that. Too many people think they’re suddenly blessed with political acumen when they blow out eighteen candles. But the best thing someone as intelligent, passionate, and creative as you can do is get informed, get involved. Your future will be shaped by the way your generation chooses to step up or step aside.”
It felt like a speech another woman I really admired would have given. “Do you remember Trent’s old English teacher Ms. Gregoire?”
She nodded. “Her class was transformative for him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you about it, but right now I really have to get on a conference call. Let’s talk soon.”
“I look forward to it.” And shockingly, I did. More shockingly, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have felt pressure to say so—somehow this office, this person I’d also judged so harshly, had become a haven where there was no use for pretend politeness. No use for apologies either—because while I normally would’ve said “sorry for interrupting,” I didn’t. I didn’t think she’d want me to. Like Eliza—and maybe like me now too—I bet the senator didn’t believe in women apologizing for existing. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Thanks for dropping in. I do hope you’ll come back.”
“I will. Could I maybe volunteer for your campaign?”
Her eyes widened and softened. She blinked and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.” And for a moment, I thought she might want me to hug her—but I wasn’t sure we were there yet. Maybe we’d start at a handshake and work up through fist bump first.
I grinned at her. “I’ll have my people call your people.”
And in the smile she returned, I caught a hint of the feisty pixie that she used to be. Or maybe still was.
40
“How awful is it?” Curtis asked at lunch on Tuesday.
I looked up from my yogurt to find them all staring, so clearly this was aimed at me. “How awful is what?”
“Detention,” prompted Hannah.
“I’ve heard it’s just you and Fielding. I still don’t get how you ended up in his car Friday night . . .” Curtis paused, but if he was waiting for me to spill, he’d be waiting a long time. “Since you two are like cats and dogs, want me to get detention so I can play referee? I’m good at it.”
“Getting detention, or refereeing?” Lance asked.
“Both.” Curtis shrugged, and I got angry for a moment, thinking he was picking on Fielding . . . but then I realized he wasn’t choosing sides so much as seeking gossip. And he was wrong. We were both dog people, thank you very much.
Eliza rolled her eyes at Curtis, then turned back to me. “You’ve been strangely quiet about it. Is it terrible?”
Sera looked like she was holding her breath for my answer. I attributed it to the awkwardness of it being her “awful” father who’d assigned the punishment and her brother whom everyone assumed I’d hate being alone with.
If they only knew.
My cheeks felt hot as I answered. “It’s fine. No big deal.” It’s not like I’d spent half the night watching the Pride and Prejudice miniseries and mentally replacing Colin Firth’s face with Fielding’s. No, nothing like that. I yawned.
It was closer to two-thirds of the night.
I was the first to arrive at detention, which meant I had to do all the high-pressure things, like: pick where to sit and wait for Fielding to arrive. Since I’d finished Pride and Prejudice and my last response journal, I didn’t even have those to distract me. Or any homework, since I’d done it all during media. But I did have my laptop, and I did have Ms. Gregoire’s words in my head, the ones she’d said when I handed in my last journal.
“Keep writing, Merrilee. Just write, whether or not you choose to join the lit magazine. A story, a poem, an essay, a novel. Put your words on paper or a screen—see what you can create. I bet it’ll be wonderful.”
And I was. I had been writing even before she gave me the pep talk. I’d been up at night and up early in the morning, pressing keys and filling pages. Because I’d found it. My yearning. The thing I wanted to do. The thing that made skipping sleep worthwhile and made me even spacier than usual. I was going to write.
And when another distraction—in the form of a tall, devastatingly beautiful boy—made his way into detention and into the seat beside mine, I smiled my hello, and I got back to work.
Or at least I tried to. I was starting to think that detention was a psychological experiment. Put two people with epic amounts of tension in a room, tell them they can’t talk—and leave. Because it was only ten minutes, ten of the longest minutes in the history of minutes, before today’s proctor, art teacher Mrs. Mundhenk, stood and exited the room. She didn’t even give us a heads up about making a coffee run or wh
atever, so I had no clue how long until she’d be back.
I looked at Fielding. He was already looking at me. He nudged a scrap of paper across the table. What are you writing?
I dug a pen out of my bag and scribbled back: A story.
His eyes widened and a hint of a smile flickered on his face—appearing just long enough for me to miss it when it was gone. Just long enough for me to think about what Senator Rhodes had said yesterday, to think about the plot of Pride and Prejudice, to think that maybe I didn’t need to be Lizzy-like when it came to waiting for her Darcy. That maybe I could be the one to initiate.
While I’d been lost in my head, Fielding had torn another scrap out of his notebook. He slid it down the table. Can I read it?
My anxiety made an appearance like a pop-up book. Turn the page, and look! There it was! Only instead of puppy holding a heart or a dump truck, mine was sweaty hands and a dry throat. I took a deep breath and tilted the screen toward him, like a poker player revealing all her cards—which was maybe exactly what I was doing. His slid his chair closer, and closer still.
Oh, I couldn’t look. I couldn’t watch as he read the feelings and thoughts I’d poured onto that page. I hadn’t even read it myself. I hadn’t even hit spell check. What would he think of my complete inability to spell the word “appreciate” without trying to stick in an h? I probably would’ve descended into pure panic, the kind that involves lip chewing and rocking and unconscious humming. Oh, wait. I was already lip chewing and humming. Rocking would’ve been next if his shoulder hadn’t grazed mine. I thought it was an accident. The type of accident that made every cell in my shoulder buzz and made every cell in the rest of my body jealous. But it happened again—blazer against blouse—and this time his shoulder stayed against mine as he scrolled down.
He leaned closer, his breath and voice warm in my ear. “This is really quite good.” The room had been silent for so long, his whisper felt explosive. It made my heart jump and race.
I turned to reply, but he hadn’t moved, so now we were shoulders touching and noses touching, and all the oxygen had disappeared from the atmosphere, because I straight up felt like I was drowning—if drowning was a form of euphoria.
“What is going on in here?”
That wasn’t Mrs. Mundhenk, not unless she’d filled her travel mug with something that made her voice drop several octaves. Fielding reacted first, spinning away from me and sliding his chair back. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Get your things, Fielding. You can finish this detention in my office.” He turned, and for a moment, I thought I was off the hook. That this humiliation—which, granted, felt like plenty—was going to be all that was served up that day. But after his son had ducked by him through the door, Headmaster Williams turned back to me. “I want you to stop by my office when you finish your detention. We need to talk.”
If he’d had a villain’s cape, I’m sure he would’ve flung it dramatically over his shoulder as he swooped out the door. Instead he clicked his heels loudly on the floor as he stormed off.
“What was that about?” asked Mrs. Mundhenk, who’d returned from her wherever break about two minutes too late to be helpful.
I was going to shrug and offer a noncommittal answer, but maybe it was time to stop worrying about polite and start worrying about myself. “He doesn’t like me. He resents that Senator Rhodes used her influence to get my sister and me enrolled. Especially since we’re here on financial aid.”
“Oh. Oh.” I could practically see the Rube Goldberg machine going on in her mind as she made these connections. “Well, I hope that’s not true.”
I deflated like a fluffy dog dunked in water. I’d taken a risk and stood up for myself. And I hadn’t been believed.
“But . . .” she continued. “If that’s the case, then the very best revenge would be for you and Rory to excel here. You’re certainly intelligent and talented enough. I’ve heard about you from several teachers already. They’re impressed.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And I don’t need to tell you how artistically gifted Rory is. The two of you should thrive here—make Headmaster Williams regret every ounce of grief he directs your way.”
“I’ll do my best.” No pressure there.
“Good. Now run along. And I’ll see you around campus.”
I ran, literally, because I wanted a pee break before the headmaster’s office. That interaction was going to be uncomfortable enough without adding in a full bladder. The bathroom was near Ms. Gregoire’s room, and when I exited, her classroom door was open and my little sister was sitting across from her.
I always forgot she was Rory’s teacher too. Probably because Rory had done nothing but complain about hating her class, and I just didn’t even see how that was possible. But seeing her scrunched in a chair, red-cheeked and miserable as a shaggy Newfoundland on a hundred-degree day made it all pretty clear. And brought to mind the academic warning I’d accidentally kept secret the previous weekend because I’d been too distracted by our potential expulsion.
I paused at the doorway, not sure if I should intrude but also not wanting Rory to show up to the detention hall and think I ditched her. “Excuse me?”
Ms. Gregoire smiled at me. “Well, if it isn’t the school’s most creative Austen scholar. Before my meeting with your sister, I was just finishing up your last response journal.” She squeezed her hands together and pulled them in to her chest. “You have made this story your own in a wonderful way.”
Rory slumped down even farther in her chair. The tips of her ears and nose were bright red—the way they got when she was trying not to cry. I wanted to ask if she was okay. To push my teacher out the door and close it behind her—trapping Rory in until I got some answers. If she were Eliza, I’d have been able to do the whole BFF ESP thing—but Rory and I had never really been tuned in to the same channel.
Instead I gave her space, turning to Ms. Gregoire and responding to her compliments with a crinkled nose. “I wish. Instead of getting a Darcy, I’ve got detention and now another meeting with the headmaster.” I turned to my sister. “So I’m going to be later than I thought. Sorry.”
Rory blinked at me with glassy eyes. “But . . . I’m done now.” She jumped out of her seat, knocking a book off the corner of Ms. Gregoire’s desk. “You know what, I’ll go wait with you by the office.”
“Oh, you don’t have . . .”
I trailed off, because Rory had bent over to pick up the book, but the second her hand touched the cover, she yelped and dropped it again. She blinked down at it, looked at her hand and the book. She slid her sleeve over her fingers, then picked it up again. Before she could place it back on the desk, Ms. Gregoire intercepted it and flipped it over to reveal the front cover.
“Little Women. Hmm . . . interesting.”
Rory didn’t answer. Her face had gone white, and she was staring, unblinking at the book in our teacher’s hand. We all jumped at the knock on the door. I let out a nervous laugh when I saw it was just Toby standing there.
“Hey,” he said. “I just finished practice and I’m heading out. I wanted to see if either of my favorite little ladies . . . er, women, right? That’s what Eliza’s always saying I should call you? I wanted to see if either of you wanted a ride home.”
“Me, please.” My sister did yoga and meditation, not sports that required speed, but if it had been a race to the other side of the room, she would’ve won.
“Lose the diminutive and you’d get Eliza’s approval,” I said. “Women, not little women.”
Ms. Gregoire hummed to herself and flipped the book over in her hands. She drummed her fingers on the cover. “Interesting. Rory, you should go with Toby.” She put that book down and picked up a duplicate of the fuschia-covered novel that had consumed my past two weeks. “And you, my dear, should get to your meeting with the headmaster.”
“Oh. Right.” I’d managed to forget about that for half a minute, but now anxiety was stom
ping around in my stomach again. Making me wonder if maybe I shouldn’t make another pit stop in the bathroom to vomit before heading into the office of polished furniture, plaques, and pretension. “Time for a showdown.” But unlike Lizzy and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I didn’t feel at all confident I’d come out of this triumphant . . . or even tear-free.
“It’s not over yet, Merri.” Ms. Gregoire curled the book between her fingers and pointed them both at me. “And when you go in there, be assertive, be brave. Be you.”
41
I wasn’t sure if following Ms. Gregoire’s advice had been the best decision. If the goal had been to make Headmaster Williams shout and turn clown-nose red, then mission accomplished. The goal certainly couldn’t have been to make him like me—but why did I need him to? Why was that my default? It wasn’t his role to be my buddy, so why should it be mine to worry about if he thought I was nice or good enough? I hadn’t been disrespectful.
But I hadn’t capitulated either. When he asked questions, I answered them with honest directness. And when he’d roared and blustered, I’d shrugged.
The only thing I was regretting as I hummed and made my way across campus to where Mom was waiting in the car was that I hadn’t finished that moment with Fielding. And because my future detentions were to be solo ones, I wouldn’t have that chance.
Since my homework was done, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself after dinner. I could go bug Toby and see if he wanted to watch a movie. I could write another guest blog post for Hannah, or keep poking at the story I’d started. I could do another pass through the club fair flyer—though with cross-country, my job, lit magazine, volunteering for Senator Rhodes, and homework, I wasn’t quite sure what else I could squeeze in. I could read, but none of the other books cramming my shelves felt right.
What I really wanted was a Pride and Prejudice sequel. Humbled and Open-minded? I wanted to know what happened next. I wanted to know how Lizzy and Darcy lived out their happily ever after. I wanted a road map for my own.
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