Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  For a while, the King and Queen were too busy arguing about bedspread colors to notice. But eventually Princess Chloe decided that she favored Ruff and would prefer him as a date to the big Barclays Center ball, where Jay-Z would perform before a gladiator battle (after which they would go eat organic hot dogs at Bark). Busy night!

  The Queen flipped out, to say the least. The woman lost her mind. Even the King was totally unreasonable. They could see it was too late to convince Princess Chloe to change her mind. She’d already been given her own voice by the magical Lady-in-Waiting. But they blamed Star and, so, to punish everyone involved, they (wrongly, if that’s not clear) acted like losers and banished her from the kingdom—especially from the corner vegetarian bakery.

  Star was not seen in the kingdom for some time. She went to live in Bath and had the amazing life she dreamed about with tons of beautiful, cool boyfriends, who were lead singers of super famous bands.

  Princess Chloe and Ruff had a ball at the ball. Even the King and Queen were happier, because they bonded over hating Star and stopped fighting so much, though they weren’t smart enough to know it. And they all lived happily ever after.

  THE END

  On the back, Belinda had scrawled:

  To The Coolest Tutor Ever,

  I’ll never forget you! I’m keeping your flip book story safe.

  Hopefully, you rubbed off on me a lot.

  LOVE, BELLY

  P.S. Do you like that I got “despondent” in there? Total vocab word!

  EPILOGUE

  Marjorie closed down her computer for the day, then rinsed her Zabar’s coffee mug in the communal kitchen sink. She dropped it back on her desk and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  She looked out over the open-floor-plan office, where the team’s graphic artists were still squinting at their screens, enacting last-minute changes to ads. A new tune by the National—Brooklyn’s favorite indie band—played from someone’s Spotify; somebody else hummed along. Far away at reception, the landline rang. Out the window was a view of the East River and, from the right spot, the Statue of Liberty.

  “You taking off?” asked Darren, Marjorie’s new boss, startling her. She hadn’t seen him standing nearby, his expression unreadable.

  “I was going to. I promised my best friend I’d meet her for an early drink before I see her band play.” She paused, bracing herself. “Is that okay? ’Cause I can stay.”

  “Totally okay.” He smiled. “Unless I have to go. I hate live music. Better you than me.”

  Marjorie laughed. “Then you’re off the hook.” She was going to have to get used to this whole sane boss thing. He was a tech type, stilted but sweet.

  “Hey, good work on the Gosling movie Twitter text,” he said while heading back to his office. “It looks great.”

  “Thanks, Darren. I’m so glad you liked it.”

  Outside, in Dumbo, as Marjorie walked past art galleries and converted lofts toward the subway, her phone rang.

  “Fredericka?”

  “Morningblatt!”

  Marjorie smiled. “I was just heading back to my place to drop off my work stuff, then come to you.”

  “Yeah, about that: change of plans.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Up? Nothing’s up. Can’t a girl change plans without something being up?”

  “Um. Fred?”

  “Okay, sorry. Just messing around. So, I have to meet now instead. There’s no time for you to drop your stuff off. And I’m not home. Do you mind meeting somewhere else?”

  “Sure. Is everything okay with the show?”

  “Yes! I just need you to meet me now. I’m nervous. I need you to distract me.”

  “Okay. Done. Where?”

  “The Maryland Monument in Prospect Park.”

  “Seriously? I don’t even know where that is.”

  “C’mon! It’s beautiful out and I need somewhere serene to relax. Hurry!”

  “Fine, fine, fine.”

  The train would take too long. Marjorie signaled and, at the corner, a cab slowed to a stop. She climbed in: “Fifteenth Street and Prospect Park West, please. And make it snappy.” She snorted. “Just kidding about that last part.”

  “You got it,” said the driver, Mo, who was in a much better mood now that his infant son was sleeping through the night. Plus, the Yankees looked likely to make it to the playoffs, Jorge Posada or not.

  Marjorie opened the window and inhaled the crisp air, which smelled of fireplace, sautéed garlic, and damp leaves. The day was winding down but some sun still lingered. Unconsciously, she brought a hand to her neck, where her Tiffany graduation necklace used to lie. She’d decided to take it off for a while. It felt like time. Instead, she was wearing a beloved new bird toile cashmere scarf that Fred bought her at a vintage store.

  The taxi wove past Cobble Hill’s shops, over the ripe Gowanus Canal and into Park Slope, by Gatherers, then uphill toward the park. Marjorie sighed. She sometimes hoped to catch a glimpse of Belinda. In an envelope with no return address, Marjorie had sent her former tutee the DREAM bracelet she’d bought at the airport. She couldn’t risk including a note. Would Belinda know it was from her? Maybe; maybe not. It didn’t really matter. Marjorie just liked to picture her, sitting down to her homework at the kitchen table, over a dish of hummus and carrots, the bracelet dangling from her tiny wrist.

  Though so far September had been fraught, today felt hopeful. The election was heating up, tempers were testy, the promise of autumn rode in on the tips of shorter, dimmer days.

  Across the world, J. Christopher Stevens, the US ambassador to Libya, had been killed during terrorist attacks in Benghazi, the botched reaction to which sparked criticism of President Obama’s administration. The unemployed were angry. Mitt Romney kept putting his foot in his mouth. No one would let Paul Ryan forget his lie about his marathon running time. Both sides were sure that the wrong duo in power would spell the end of America.

  The Summer Olympics were over, but the women’s gymnastics team’s “Fierce Five” gold medalists continued to tour, looking toward a final exhibition at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center stadium. The Dark Knight’s box office numbers were disappointing thanks to the Aurora shooting, but they bounced back worldwide. Fall TV shows started up again; that put some people at ease. But this was to be the last season for favorites like The Office and 30 Rock. It was impossible not to feel, even as a new school year began, that something larger was drawing to a close. Change was near: an end, but also a beginning.

  No exception, Marjorie had walked around like a live wire, nerves exposed, knees bumping against the underside of restaurant tabletops. In her case, it was a good kind of adrenaline, as she stood on the precipice of something hard-earned. She was still working on her spec scripts, but—after getting the chance to write some humor recaps for a popular TV Web site—the editor had suggested Darren hire her as an ad copy and social media writer for his movie-marketing company. Her PR experience met her love of media and writing—for now, it was a perfect fit.

  Chipper’s health had fast improved. He returned to teaching, and Marjorie’s mother resumed work, along with reminding her daughter to wear blush. That was one of many factors that pushed Marjorie to move back to Brooklyn. She loved Carroll Gardens, but Vera had been right about one thing: A twenty-eight-year-old should have her own place. She found a sweet studio a few blocks from Fred. It was tiny, but it had its own garden. The pixie had already made some not very subtle suggestions about growing tomatoes; she could not be trusted.

  The exposé on Brianne hit stands and, although a bazillion people e-mailed Marjorie to commiserate, she avoided reading the story. She was as disgusted by Herb’s self-serving deception as she was at herself for wasting years at that job. And though she couldn’t help herself from flipping her old office building the bird each time she passed in a cab, she didn’t like to feel glee at Brianne’s misfortune. Admittedly, the one excerpt Pickles e-mailed her to read, about how Brianne threat
ened to beat Herb with her yoga mat, was pretty genius, though. Apparently doing tree pose now and then does not make you a good person. Namaste.

  Now, the cab sped up tree- and brownstone-lined 6th, 7th, and 8th Avenues and finally crossed grandiose Prospect Park West to meet leafy green. Marjorie paid, got out, and checked a posted map for directions.

  As she strolled past plush lawns, the breeze prickled her cheeks and she felt energized. Rounding the bend of a dirt path, she came upon the marble, granite, and copper monument, on a rise that served as the base of a steep hill. She looked around for Fred, then checked the time. Where was that girl? She was the one in a rush!

  A short fence surrounded the statue. In the meantime, Marjorie leaned over it to read the George Washington–attributed inscription: GOOD GOD! WHAT BRAVE FELLOWS I MUST THIS DAY LOSE. Then she lost her footing and almost fell over.

  “You have terrible balance,” said a voice from behind her. Marjorie turned, her heart thumping. There stood Gus—tall, tan, straight-faced, looking back at her steadily.

  “It’s you.” An uncomfortable silence bloomed between them. “I’m supposed to meet Fred.”

  “Yeah. She’s not coming.”

  Marjorie scanned the area. “You didn’t kidnap her, did you? Because she gets really cranky without her daily Flintstone vitamins.”

  “I did not.” He examined his shoes like a bashful kid. “I may have coerced her into helping me get you here.”

  Marjorie was taken aback. “I’m so dumb. She’s the worst liar.”

  “Ah, well. It was my best bet. You know Fred. She wanted to help. She loves anything covert. And she loves both of us.”

  “That damn pixie!”

  “Don’t blame her. I called, fishing. She said you’ve been working on some scripts?”

  Marjorie was still having trouble believing that Gus stood in front of her, in the flesh. She thought about him all the time. “Yeah. I’ve been writing TV specs.”

  Gus smiled. “That’s really good. I bet they’re fantastic.”

  “But, Gus, why call Fred? Why not … call me?” She still felt hurt.

  He rubbed the back of his neck; she realized how much she had missed seeing him do that. “I didn’t think you’d talk to me after I waited this long. I wanted to see you in person to explain.”

  “Should we sit?” she asked. “You seem squirrelly.”

  “Yeah, well, you make me nervous.”

  “I make you nervous?”

  “I was hoping we could climb the hill. I’ve heard there’s a great view. Maybe we could walk and talk? If you can swing it without your workout gear.”

  She laughed. “I think I can handle it.” They started up the path.

  “First, I want to say I’m sorry,” he began. “I shouldn’t have made any decision about the job without asking you, but I honestly believed it was what you wanted.”

  “Why would I have wanted that?”

  “We couldn’t be together if you worked for me. I thought if you liked me as much as I liked you…” He trailed off. To their left, an enthusiastic sheepdog knocked over its owner, then ran laps around him. Gus shook his head, laughed. She loved that sound.

  “But why didn’t you call and explain?”

  “Marjorie, you ran like a spooked herd of wildebeest.”

  “An entire herd?”

  He looked her up and down. “Maybe a few more wildebeest than the last time I saw you.”

  “Gus!” She hit him on the arm.

  “No, you look perfect. The most beautiful wildebeest of all the wildebeests.”

  “Gus.”

  “What? Right. When you got so damn spooked, I realized I was out of my mind. You have a boyfriend.”

  “I—!” Marjorie tripped on a tree root.

  Gus caught her elbow to steady her, then shook his head. “Such a spaz.”

  “That’s ‘Train Wreck’ to you.”

  He held on to her arm. Neither moved.

  “What was I saying?”

  She grinned. “I think you were talking about how much you like me.”

  Gus cleared his throat. “Um, no. I was saying that you have a boyfriend, and not only did that seem wrong, I figured you were also panicking about moving in with him. I was just a test.”

  Marjorie could smell Gus’s mint gum, that same flavor, and the soap on his skin, could see behind his stubble, where that laugh line was emerging, making his smile more pronounced. Stay focused.

  He continued: “And I was pissed at you for leaving so quickly. I was hurt.” He looked at the ground, then back up to her face, meeting her eyes. “Plus, I can’t be around you without wanting to kiss you, especially after the towel episode. I wasn’t sure how to be friends.”

  They stood quietly for a moment, as that information settled. Marjorie felt a rising glee that threatened to burst out, embarrassing and obvious, if she didn’t speak up soon. “I guess Fred told you that Mac and I broke up.”

  Gus’s gaze was steady. “Oh. I’m so—oh, fuck it. I was going to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but we’re past that, I think.”

  “It was my decision. It wasn’t right. Plus,” she said, nudging his knee with her own, edging closer to him, “I was distracted by someone else.”

  “Oh, really? Who?”

  “Someone grumpier and much more difficult. He’s kind of a huge pain in the ass.”

  “Hmm. That guy sounds awesome.” Gus leaned in close to her ear, so she could almost feel his lips on her skin. “So you’re available?”

  “I am.”

  “Interesting. Maybe I could take you on a date sometime.”

  “Sure. You wanna take me to a wedding?”

  “That seems kind of fast, but okay. You’re cute, for a wildebeest. I guess I’ll marry you.”

  “Not our wedding, dummy. Michael and Celeste’s, next month.”

  “Hmm. You don’t have anything sooner?”

  “Nope. No professions of love on my calendar until then.”

  “Maybe we can muster one up.”

  Gus moved to kiss Marjorie, but she stopped him just before their lips met.

  “But what about the distance? You live in LA, I’m in New York.”

  “I’m sure we can rectify that.”

  “Really? You would move to New York?”

  “Nope.” He grinned. She opened her mouth to protest. “Oh, shut up, Marjorie Plum.” He winked. “We’ll work it out later.”

  Gus pressed his lips against Marjorie’s own, and they lost all sense of propriety.

  At the sound of a polite clearing of the throat, they looked up to see an older couple strolling past them down the hill. The man grumbled something about “getting a room,” while, behind his back, the woman gave them a thumbs-up. Marjorie and Gus laughed.

  They walked the rest of the way to the top, where they were rewarded with views of changing leaves all the way to Coney Island. People were like ants, biking, pushing strollers, jogging, rushing. Gus put an arm around Marjorie’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  “What is this place?” she asked, breathless from the quick walk.

  “Lookout Hill. Seemed appropriate.”

  Oddly, in this blissful moment, Marjorie was reminded of a Maharishi Mahesh quotation that Brianne kept framed on her desk, left over from one of her failed self-improvement phases: “The important thing is this: to be able, at any moment, to sacrifice what we are for what we could become.”

  In a few months’ time, President Barack Obama, the country’s first African American leader, would win his second term in office, a landslide relative to expectations. Congress remained Republican controlled in what spelled another four years of warring between the extremist factions of both parties, particularly the Tea Party fringe. All was not necessarily right with the world. But, in this instant, Marjorie was just fine.

  To preserve the moment in her memory, she oriented herself: This is the view from a lookout; not a peak. This is the smell of trees and wind; this is a guy, with flaws
, but maybe the right guy, standing beside me. This is my life: my nose cold, a blister on my heel, nerves about my new job and what’s to come. This is awake. This is now.

  Marjorie Plum was the most popular girl in school, but it had been over a decade since anyone cared, least of all her.

  Flip, flip, flip and then she was whole.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Shortly after relocating from LA, I wrote Will You Won’t You Want Me? while seated at a tiny kitchen table in an equally tiny, but very sweet, apartment in Park Slope. So, first and foremost, I am thankful to Brooklyn for that same charm at which I sometimes poke fun.

  I am forever indebted to my agent, Anne Bohner, of Pen & Ink Literary, for her attentiveness, rigorous standards, and taste; and to my editor, Vicki Lame, at St. Martin’s Press, for her apparently boundless patience, faith, and enthusiasm.

  I have not been a preteen for quite some time, so I sought insight—and slang—from a few brilliant young women. Thank you to Sandy Radin, Lily Weisberg, and my beautiful cousins, Noa Elliott, Eden Elliott, and Georgia Eggers.

  Reading an entire rough manuscript can be onerous. So I must thank my sister, Claudia, for wading through the first draft and for being the only person who truly understands my obsession with bodega beverages. Also, to my fellow writers Pete Soldinger and Laura Tremaine: I am beyond appreciative of the time you took out of your busy lives to offer invaluable notes.

  To my mother, Lynn Zelevansky, on whom I can always count for honest feedback (she knows no other way): Thank you for teaching me to write during marathon essay-editing sessions throughout my formative years.

  Thank you to my father, Paul Zelevansky, for his thought-provoking questions, dislike of adverbs, and his unusual perspective. (That is not code.)

  Thank you to the Weiners and the Tabers, for all their love and support. And to my very best friends, for helping me be my “best Nora.”

  Last, thank you to my husband, Andrew, for helping me find my ending and, most important, for giving me our beautiful, troublemaking monkey, Estella Rose.