Holding Court

by K. C. Held

  “Wait, what? What was me?” I ask, but she’s already running down the path away from me.

  I’m still sitting there trying to figure it out when Grayson appears in all his romance-cover glory.

  “Hey, Buttercup,” he says, giving me an awkward wave.

  “Hey,” I say, and wish the numb feeling would come back.

  “Bree said you were over here.”

  “Yup.” Just sitting here about to ugly-cry over this guy I’m in love with who probably already has another girlfriend.

  “That’s some dress. Where’s the nun habit?”

  “I thought I’d try the princess look for a change.” When I was picking out dry clothes in the Great Wardrobe I happened to find a sumptuous Tudor gown that gave me fabulous cleavage. Well, as fabulous as mine gets, anyway.

  “Oh, so it’s Princess Buttercup now? Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “No, go ahead.” Oh God. I like him so much my heart feels like it’s going to explode right out of my minimal cleavage.

  “You found Sarah.”

  “Yeah. Turns out she really was dead.”

  “I believed you, you know.”

  I don’t know how to respond.

  “Are you okay, Jules?”

  “No, not really.” I will not ugly-cry in front of Grayson. I will not ugly-cry in front of Grayson.

  Grayson takes a deep breath. “Bree said she told you about Kaitlyn.”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  Our eyes lock, and I have to look away. My heart feels like a calving glacier, pieces of it breaking off and sliding away. Because there’s no way he’s in love with me, Jules Verity, the freak with the blurting disorder.

  “Can I tell you a story?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “I have this friend. When he was in sixth grade his family moved to a new town and he found himself assigned a desk next to the most beautiful girl he’d ever met and he was instantly smitten. He told her he wanted to marry her and she agreed to let him be in love with her. They became best friends and he constantly hoped that someday she would fall madly in love with him, but though she loved him, she wasn’t in love with him and the boy decided that, for the time being, that was enough.

  “Then one day this girl told the boy that she now knew she could never be his one true love, that she was in love with someone else. The boy’s heart was broken. But then the girl confessed that she knew that this new love would never be able to be more than a friend to her. It was a vicious irony and they both were very sad. But they decided to stay best friends and everyone else assumed that they were also dating.

  “And the girl continued to love her impossible love from afar and one day the boy found himself falling in love with this impossible love as well. And he too knew he could never be with this impossible love because it would break his best friend’s heart. And so he loved this new love from afar, too.

  “And eventually, the girl grew tired of despairing over unrequited love and decided she would find a love that wasn’t so impossible. But the boy continued to love the impossible new love from afar. Until one day he discovered that the impossible might actually be possible.”

  “Um, Grayson? That’s a nice story, but why are you telling me all this?”

  “I just…I wanted to explain. I was hoping… Did she tell you it was you?”

  “What?” My heart is suddenly booming.

  “I lied. That story wasn’t about my friend. The girl Bree was in love with? She was constantly talking about her and how smart and beautiful and funny she was, and at first it was annoying because I wanted her to be in love with me, but somewhere along the way I realized she was right. And then I was completely torn, because how horrible would it be to break up with your faux girlfriend because you were in love with the girl she was in love with and could never be with? I couldn’t do that to Bree. And then when you thought she had something to do with the murders she freaked out and—”

  “Stop! What did you just say?”

  “That Bree didn’t have anything to do with the murders?”

  “No, the part before that. What was me?” My heart is beating so fast I think I might be having a heart attack, and I can’t die without knowing the answer to this question.

  “The girl Bree was in love with before Kaitlyn? It was you, Jules.”

  Brain officially blown. How could someone as perfect as Bree Blair be in love with me? Wait. If Bree was in love with me that means… Suddenly I’m convinced I’m not having a heart attack, I’m having a brain aneurysm. Because if Grayson was in love with the girl Bree was in love with… Except there’s no way the two most perfect people in the world could be in love with me. Smart, beautiful, and funny? Me? “Uh, I’m really, really confused,” I finally say.

  “I should warn you that communication apparently isn’t my strong suit.”

  “Yeah. You’re talking to the girl with the involuntary blurting disorder. I think I win the awkward communication award. So, um, that was a great story, but, just so we’re clear, this new love you were talking about? What’s her name?”

  Grayson smiles that dimpled smile that makes my heart feel like it’s going to Zumba right out of my chest. “Juliet.”

  I gulp. It’s really hard to think clearly with an exploded brain. “Oh. And um, just to make it perfectly, absolutely, 100 percent clear, what’s her last name?”

  “Verity.”

  “And, um, where does she live?”

  “Lunevale, California.”

  “So, again, in the interest of clarity, you were in love with this impossible new love, or you still are?”

  “I still am. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “It turns out it’s not so impossible.” He leans closer. “Jules, I—”

  “No, wait!” I hold my hand up, and Grayson looks like I’ve just zapped him with my Hot Lips stun gun. “I have to tell you something. I’m a terrible person. I wanted to think those horrible things about Bree because she’s always seemed so unattainably perfect and for as long as I can remember I’ve been madly in love with her boyfriend.” I pause. “Who, it turns out, is not her boyfriend.”

  “Wait. What?” Grayson says.

  “Never mind. I just wanted to apologize. I was so completely wrong it isn’t even funny.”

  “You’re madly in love with Bree Blair’s boyfriend?”

  “Ex-boyfriend. Or…best friend. I don’t know, it’s all very confusing. All I know is he makes my heart feel like it’s going to explode out of my chest and he probably thinks I’m the biggest moron in the world and there’s no way I’d ever have a chance with him even if I hadn’t accused his girlfriend of murder. Ex-girlfriend. Best friend. Whatever.”

  “Let’s make this absolutely clear, because I want to make sure I know exactly what we’re talking about right now. This guy you mentioned, what’s his name?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Grayson Chandler,” I whisper.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, and leans toward me.

  My heart is screaming, Kiss him! Kiss him! KISS HIM!! and my head is screaming, No way! No way! NO WAY!! and I have no idea what to do next so of course I blurt something ridiculous. “Where do the noses go?”

  Grayson laughs, and those abs, those abs I’ve been dreaming about for years, are so close I could just reach out and touch them, and then I notice his lips are even closer and he’s kissing me and oh, wow, it’s a million times better than I’d ever imagined it would be. Somehow I’ve gone from a lovesick nun searching for a dead body in a dungeon to a princess kissing her knight in shining armor in a castle garden. Okay, maybe he’s only a squight, but still. It’s Grayson Chandler and he’s kissing me. Me, Jules Verity, who might not be so cursed after all.

  “Wow,” Grayson says when we finally stop kissing.

  “We’re much better at that than the whole talking thing,” I say.

  “Definitely. But I still think we should work on both.”

  “Definitel
y,” I say. “And we should probably get to work right away. Lost time and all that.” And I kiss him again.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m indebted to a number of marvelous people for making all the words that came before these possible. My agent, Kathleen Rushall, who, as Gran would say, is the bomb-diggity. My editor, Alycia Tornetta, for getting my story (and my sense of humor), and the entire crew at Entangled Teen for being my champions. Ellen Hopkins and Suzanne Morgan Williams, who are responsible for bringing my fairy godmentor, Emma Dryden, and the whole Mentish tribe, into my life through the incomparable Nevada SCBWI Mentor Program. The Splinters, for knowing when to hold my hand and when to kick my butt, and doing both. My sistren: Amy Allgeyer, Donna Cooner, Julie Dillard, Sue Fliess, Beth Hull, Katherine Longshore (who gets a special shout-out for all things Tudor), Sarah McGuire, Hazel Mitchell, Heather Petty, Veronica Rossi, and Talia Vance for being genius writers, readers and friends. LYLP! My sister, Corinne, for being a rock when I need one, and for loving books as much as I do. My mom, Donna, to whom I owe so much more than 10 percent. My dad, Bill, whose prose is purple on purpose, for imparting a profound passion for playing with words. And lastly, to Dan and the L’s, who believe in magic, and me.

  About the Author

  K.C. Held was born and raised in California with stopovers in Honduras, Mexico, and France. Married to her high school sweetheart, and mom to two avid bookworms, she holds an MFA in costume design and has worked as a freelance costumer in opera, theater, film, and television. Although she once spent a summer working in a castle, there were no dead bodies involved.

  www.kcheld.com

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  Chapter One

  Only God and the vendors at Haymarket wake early on Saturday mornings. The bloated clouds spattered rain against my faded red umbrella. I strangled the wobbly handle and dodged shoppers along the tiny makeshift aisle of Boston’s famous outdoor produce market. The site, just off the North End, was totally packed and stinky. The fruits and vegetables for sale were rejects from nearby supermarkets—basically, they were cheap and somewhat edible. The briny decay of flesh wafted in the air around the fishmongers.

  Gah! I cupped my hand over my nose, rushing past their stands.

  My sandals slapped puddles on the sidewalk. Rain slobbered on my legs, making them slick and cold, sending shivers across my skin. I skittered around a group of slow-moving tourists, cursing Afton for insisting I get up early and wear a skirt today.

  Finally breaking through the crowd, I charged up the street to the Haymarket entrance to the T.

  Under a black umbrella across the street, a beautiful girl with cocoa skin and dark curls huddled next to a guy with equally dark hair and an olive complexion—my two best friends. Nick held the handle while Afton leaned against him to avoid getting wet. Nick’s full-face smile told me he enjoyed sharing an umbrella with her.

  “Hey, Gia!” Afton yelled over the swooshing of tires across the wet pavement and the insistent honking of aggravated motorists.

  I waited for the traffic to clear, missing several opportunities to cross the street. I swallowed hard and took a step down. You can do this, Gia. No one is going to run you over. Intentionally. A car turned onto the street, and I quickly hopped back onto the curb. I’d never gotten over my old fears. When the street cleared enough for an elderly person to cross in a walker, I wiped my clammy palms on my skirt and
sprinted to the center of the street.

  “You have to get over your phobia,” Nick called to me. “You live in Boston! Traffic is everywhere!”

  “It’s okay!” Afton elbowed Nick. “Take your time!”

  I took a deep breath and raced across to them.

  “Nice. I’m impressed. You actually wore a skirt instead of jeans,” Nick said, inspecting my bare legs.

  My face warmed. “Wait. Did you just give me a compliment?”

  “Well, except…” He hesitated. “You walk like a boy.”

  “Never mind him. With legs like that, it doesn’t matter how you walk. Come on.” Afton hooked her arm around mine. “I can’t wait for you to see the Athenæum. It’s so amazing. You’re going to love it.”

  I groaned and let her drag me down the steps after Nick. “I’d probably love it just as much later in the day.”

  As we approached the platform, the train squealed to a stop. We squeezed into its belly with the other passengers and then grasped the nearest bars as the car jolted down the rails. Several minutes later, the train coasted into the Park Street Station. We followed the flow of people up the stairs and to the Boston Common, stopping in Afton’s favorite café for lattes and scones. Lost in gossip and our plans for the summer, nearly two hours went by before we headed for the library.

  When we reached Beacon Street, excitement—or maybe the two cups of coffee I had downed before leaving the café—hit me. We weren’t going to just any library. We were going to the Boston Athenæum, an exclusive library with a pricey annual fee. Afton’s father got her a membership at the start of summer. It’s a good thing her membership allows tagalongs, since my pop would never splurge like that, not when the public library is free. Which I didn’t get, because it wasn’t that expensive and would totally be worth it.

  “We’re here,” Afton said. “Ten and a half Beacon Street. Isn’t it beautiful? The facade is Neoclassical.”