Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I had just about decided to go be indecisive in Toby’s room, when there were footsteps on my balcony and a knock on that door.

  “I was just thinking about you,” I said as I pulled it open.

  “You were?”

  Oh, that was not Toby. That was so not Toby.

  Fielding looked as jittery as I immediately felt, and the only thing I could think to do was lie. “No. Not at all. I wasn’t—” I took a deep breath. “I was. So much.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m up here instead of at your door, but . . .”

  “But?” I prompted after several epic seconds of silence. “But!”

  “But did you tell my father—” He cleared his throat. “Did you tell him that it was none of his business if we dated and that he didn’t have the authority to tell you not to date me?”

  I nodded. That was a pretty accurate recitation of my words. Because how dare Headmaster Williams use his office or title to intimidate me about my social life? If he’d wanted to yell at me for breaking the rules and talking in detention, sure. But to tell me to stay away from his son, or end things when we hadn’t even started? That was out of line, and I wasn’t going to be bullied into agreeing. I’d squared my shoulders and met Headmaster Williams’s eyes when I said, “Well, you know, sir, I’m pretty obstinate. Some might even call me headstrong. And I’m not interested in your opinion on my love life.”

  Fielding hesitantly brushed a finger over the back of my hand. The gesture brought me back to this moment with a rush of electricity. “I thought I’d ruined any chance of us ever happening.” He took a step closer. “But I couldn’t help but think that if there was really no chance you’d ever consider me that way, why wouldn’t you have told my father? Why wouldn’t you have laughed in his face and said I was the last person on campus you’d ever want to date?”

  Wow. Headmaster Williams really was Catherine de Bourgh. This really was my Darcy moment. Every little Lizzy part of me had converged on my heart in one giant squish. But—I could pay attention to the bookish parallels and play that game, or I could pay attention to this moment and the handsome boy in front of me with his feelings up for offer. The handsome boy with beseeching eyes who’d asked me a question that I hadn’t bothered to answer. I chose now. I chose us.

  I licked my lips; my tongue was weighted with the implications of what I was about to say. “Because you’re not. Not the last. You’re the first.”

  He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, like it was his first taste of oxygen and it tasted like ice cream. When he opened them, they glowed. He glowed. Brighter than my twinkle lights as he followed me from the balcony into my room. “You really mean that?”

  “I do. Have you changed your mind? Are you sure I’m smart and . . .” I searched for the right word, and the closest I could come up with was “Boring? Proper? Enough for you? You’re not going to be embarrassed by me? Because this is me—hideous robe. Antics, hijinks. I’m an adventure.”

  I’d thought I was joking when I started speaking, but all the laughter had evaporated from my voice by the last squeaky word, and I was scrunching my toes against my rag rug, desperate for him to reassure me.

  “Merrilee . . .” He sighed and reached out toward me. “May I?”

  I wasn’t sure what I was giving permission for, but I was all for it. And the fact that he was the type of guy who asked—well, that was how it should be. “Sure.”

  He slid his fingers through my hair, cupping the back of my head as his thumbs stroked down my cheeks. I shivered—a whole-body shudder that probably proved the point I’d just made: I was highly embarrassing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I ever said otherwise. I was entirely wrong.”

  I tipped my face into his hand, luxuriating in his touch. “I have a feeling you don’t say that often. Should I have you repeat it so I can record it as your personalized ringtone?”

  He smiled. My smile. “How about this? I’ll take out an ad in the school paper raving about your brain?”

  I laughed.

  “Or I’ll stand on a bench in Convocation and proclaim your superiority.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Been there, done that. Bought the T-shirt—threw it in the trash.”

  “I’ll—” He groaned and exhaled slowly, sliding his fingers through my hair and letting them rest by his sides. “I’ll wear two different socks, and when people correctly point out that they don’t match, I’ll tell them my brilliant girlfriend says they’re not supposed to.”

  “That one!” I clapped my hands together and pointed at him. We were so close that the tips of my index fingers brushed against his shirt. “Oh, definitely that one. I pick option C. And I’ll pick out your socks too, if you let me.”

  “Really?” He crinkled his forehead like he was in pain, then laughed. “Oh, fine.”

  I threw my arms around his shoulders. He stiffened, then relaxed. At least a little bit. I had a feeling that even on my best posture day, I wouldn’t match Fielding on his worst. I pressed up on tiptoe so we were nose-to-nose. “Girlfriend, huh? So if I go with you to Fall Ball, am I going to get to see those slick dance moves you told me about?”

  He laughed again. “If I say yes, will you?”

  I inched closer to him and nodded. “Maybe you should kiss me and make it official.”

  “You are going to be my favorite adventure,” he whispered, bringing his mouth close to mine.

  “Shut up and kiss me,” I answered.

  “Yes, please.” Or really, it was more of a “yes, plea”—because that was absolutely the limit of my patience and I trapped the “-se” between our lips. This wasn’t a soft first kiss. Not gentle or tentative, slow or gradual. It wasn’t stiff or formal, or anything tame.

  It was a fierce thing, a wild thing, a please-let-this-be-real and please-don’t-change-your-mind melding of mouths, and lips drinking, parting, tongues skating, pulses soaring, hands on faces, and clutching shoulders. Elbows in tight points and bodies so close molecules couldn’t fit between us.

  We stepped apart and stood there. Chests heaving from breaths skipped and not missed until now. I reached for his hand, tying his fingers in mine. He eased me back against my desk, lifting me to sit on top so our heights were more evenly matched. Like, even in this moment of breathlessness and tingles and anticipation, he still wanted to make sure I didn’t end up with a strained neck or cramped calves. How very Fielding. I grabbed his collar, crumpling it horribly, and pulled him back to me.

  And then, because Fielding would always, always be Fielding, just like I was always going to be me—he pulled his lips off mine and stepped back. If I was his adventure, he’d be my anchor—um, in the holding-me-steady way, not that he’d be dragging me down.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, because I was more than willing to spend all night on my desk or even my tiptoes. Heck, I’d turn ballerina and borrow a pair of Sera’s pointe shoes if it meant fusing my mouth with his.

  “While I’m very much enjoying this”—he paused to give me a thorough demonstration of what this was, then broke away again, this time placing a chair between us and gripping on to the back of it with white knuckles—“I refuse to be some creep who’s sneaking into your bedroom with your parents down the hall.” He let go of the chair, but not to reach for me. Instead he grasped the doorknob that lead back out to the balcony. “Meet me downstairs? I’d like to reintroduce myself to your parents and try and mitigate the damage my father and I did to the name of Williams last time I was here.”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes—but my toes were curling in giddy little C’s. This was the move of someone who wasn’t here for just a day. This was the move of someone who recognized how important my parents were to me—and who respected them.

  Still . . . “Yay, manners and all that, but I don’t want to play family meeting or Spanish Inquisition. I want to be alone.”

  He smiled at me, and concertos could have been written for that smile.
Sonnets could have been penned about it. It was possible that global warming could have been solely attributed to the way it lit up the room. “After I meet them, maybe we could take Gatsby for a walk.”

  And just when I thought he couldn’t get any better, he had to go and invoke my favorite four-legged creature. I beamed at him. “You remember his name?”

  “Of course I do. You shrieked it when he trussed us up with his leash last week.”

  “I didn’t shriek it.” I paused to consider. “Okay, I did.” “Have I mentioned that was my favorite part of the night and I really, really like your dog?”

  “Have I mentioned that you’re my favorite part of this night, and I really, really like you?”

  I crooked a finger at him and he groaned. “Play fair, Merrilee. I’m trying to be a good guy here.”

  “What if we set a timer for five minutes,” I suggested. “You can be a good guy—the best guy in the world—once it goes off?”

  “Deal.” He crossed my room faster than I thought possible, his mouth on my neck in the perfect type of distraction as I fumbled with my phone’s timer.

  I set it for seven.

  42

  Much, much later, we said good-bye for the night. But first we sat down for a mug of tea with my parents—okay, mine was cocoa. Then we took Gatsby on a romp through several neighborhoods, with several stops for sidewalk kisses—each interrupted by a wet nose. After saying good-bye, we texted good night. Then I sat at my computer and typed the whole thing up so I wouldn’t forget a single swoony moment.

  I hit save on the file and ventured downstairs to say sweet dreams to my parents. Back upstairs, Lilly pulled me into her room and confessed, “I totally eavesdropped when he was meeting Mom and Dad. I really like Fielding.”

  I grinned and hugged her, squealing, “Me too.”

  “Manicure tomorrow so you can fill me in?” Lilly suggested. “My treat.”

  I wiggled my chipped nails at her. “Sounds perfect. Good night.”

  On my way back to my room, I made an impulsive detour and knocked on Rory’s door. I expected her to be painting or sketching, but when I opened the door she was glaring at a textbook. “Hey,” I said cautiously. “Lilly and I are going for manicures tomorrow—want to come?”

  She rubbed her forehead and blinked at me in surprise. “Um, yeah. Sure. If that’s okay.”

  “Yup.” I glanced over her shoulder at her notebook and had to fight a wince. There would be many redo asterisks if Mom got her hands on that page. “So, um, do you want any help with that?”

  I braced myself for her defensive response, but she just sighed and ducked her head. “Yes, please.”

  I grabbed a pencil and moved a sketchpad so I could sit down next to her. “So you’re going to start by changing these to decimals . . .” And, because tonight was made of miracles and magic, we worked through the rest of her problem set without any bickering. Well, barely any.

  After all this, I was still too starry-eyed to sleep, so I grabbed the blanket from the foot of my bed and walked out on my balcony. I tossed it up on my roof, monkeyed my way up after it, spread it beneath me, then wrapped the extra around me, burrito style. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but before I dialed, I glanced at the dark bedroom of the boy next door. I’d have to tell him soon. Fielding had already mentioned it on our walk—only he seemed to think Toby would feel some sort of matchmaker pride. Um, notsomuch. But I’d let him sleep tonight. Maybe tomorrow we’d have that conversation. Maybe while sitting right here. Maybe it’d even go well.

  But right now I had a different person to tell. I pressed send.

  “Merrilee? Is this an emergency?” I pictured her jack-in-the-boxing up in bed, hair askew, cheeks drowsy red. “Merri? What’s going on? Spit it out.”

  “Fielding kissed me.”

  “What? What?” Funny how I’d wanted those exact words as a reaction, but I’d wanted her to dip them in confetti; I wanted a parade, a skywriter. Instead she was giving me anger and disgust. “Have you called the headmaster and reported it? Or if you don’t feel comfortable talking to him about his son’s egregious behavior, we can call the school board or talk to a teacher. Are you okay?”

  “No, no. No!”

  “Right. Of course you’re not okay. Do you need me to come over? I—”

  “No, I mean I’m not not-okay. Er, I am okay. I’m not reporting it. I participated in it. Encouraged it. I might have even instigated it.”

  “Merrilee, it’s one a.m. My pulse is racing and I’m fairly sure it’s currently pumping excessive adrenaline and cortisol through my bloodstream, which is making it hard to concentrate or sit still. Could you please explain what’s going on in a manner that makes sense to people other than you?”

  “I really, truly am okay. This is good news.” I could hear her exhaling against the phone as she calmed down. “Remember how I said boys are better in books?”

  “Yes. ‘So much better,’” she quoted dutifully.

  I took a deep breath and prepared to share my secrets with her and the stars. To thank the universe for all the dots that had connected to get me where I was right now—cozy and warm beneath the constellations, with a fiercely loyal best friend sacrificing sleep and paperwork to hear this story, and a boyfriend across town who was probably dozing with perfect posture in starched pajamas. The thought made me giggle.

  “Eliza, I was wrong. . . . While I’m definitely a Darcy fangirl—Team Fitzzy, Lizzwilliam? forever—boys are much, much better in real life.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that no writer creates in a vacuum. Or . . . at least this writer doesn’t. I hope you’ve no objection to hearing my loud shouts of gratitude, because I want to tell you.

  Let’s get the biggies out of the way first: Thank you, William Shakespeare and Jane Austen. Not only would Bookish Boyfriends not exist without you, but my world has been made so much brighter by your characters and stories. You will forever own places on my bookshelves and in my imagination.

  Thank you to my parents, who let me have free run of the town library (shout out to Stevens Memorial Library!), helped haul home stacks of books (then hunt them down when I misplaced them), and didn’t blink when I switched back and forth between the Baby-Sitters Club and the Brontës.

  To my teachers—many of whose names appear within this book—you have inspired and encouraged me more than you know. The same appreciation goes to all the librarians who steered me toward the classics and taught me the power of interlibrary loans and old-book smells. To my real Mrs. Gregoire, your class was a game changer in my life. I suspect many students feel the same way. Thank you.

  And to my dearest Anne Heltzel, an editor by any other name wouldn’t have been as perfect for this book! Thank you for championing it for so long. To Andrew Smith, Susan Van Metre, Masha Gunic, Alyssa Nassner, Samantha Hoback, and everyone at Abrams! I’m so lucky to have you behind Bookish Boyfriends. Thank you for everything you do!

  Barry, you have been beyond heroic when it came to this book. If I could spell out THANK YOU with cookies on your stairs every morning, I would. I’d bake a second mammoth batch for everyone in the Goldblatt agency community because you all are my favorite corner of this industry.

  To Courtney Summers, Emily Hainsworth, Annie Gaughen, Patricia Riley, Tricia Ready, K. M. Walton, Elisa Ludwig, Kelly Jensen, Nancy Keim Comley, Jen Zelesko, Stacey Yiengst, Claire Legrand, Heather Hebert, Jenn Stuhltrager, Kristin Wilson, Jessica Spotswood, Lauren Spieller, and Bess Cozby—you are the reason I understand the power of strong female friendships. Seriously, if I could create my own Bennet sisters girl gang, you would all be in it.

  St. Matt, you are Darcy, Gilbert, Knightley, Laurie, and Tilney rolled up in one handsome package. But the swooniest thing about you is how much you believe in me. I love you.

  To the twins—thank you for tolerating hours of Romeo and Juliet and Pride and Prejudice on audiobook. Thank you more for making me laugh with you
r interpretations of Shakespearian and Austen quotes. “Sad hours feel long” will always be better than “Are we there yet?”

  To my very Bookish Baby, who was born on Shakespeare’s birthday and snuggled in my arms for most of this book’s last draft, I love you, Rascal. Please learn to sleep soon.

  Thank you to every reader, blogger, teacher, librarian, and bookseller who has cracked this cover or passed this story along to a friend. You are the reason I get to continue in my dream job. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I appreciate you!

  And finally, thank you, Leonardo DiCaprio, for peering broodily through a fish tank, and Colin Firth, for diving in that lake.

  TIFFANY SCHMIDT

  Tiffany Schmidt grew up in Massachusetts, where she split her childhood between the library and the time-out chair. She is the author of several popular young adult novels, including Send Me a Sign, Bright Before Sunrise, and the Once Upon a Crime Family series. A former sixth-grade teacher, she lives in Pennsylvania with her impish twin sons, their rascally baby brother, a pair of spoiled puggles, and her very saintly husband.

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