By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

  A slow grin spread across his face. “That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

  I swallowed, unsure where to direct my gaze. The force of his attention was like standing in a spotlight. “It is?”

  “Essay test next period.”

  “How could you not finish Jane Eyre? It’s so . . . juicy.” I had been on the point of saying romantic, but pulled back in time.

  “Busy week,” he replied, with the insouciant air of someone accustomed to charming his way out of trouble. “I got to the part where that creepy family takes her in. Seemed obvious she was going to marry the boring preacher guy and settle in with the sister-wives for a life of tea and embroidery.”

  “That is so incredibly wrong.”

  “I know.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur. “Thanks to you.”

  Heat simmered beneath my skin, a red tide of outraged sensibilities. His laissez-faire attitude—in literature and love—offended me almost as much as the fact that I’d been unwittingly embroiled in his cheating.

  “Wait,” I said, as he turned to go. “Don’t you want to know about the very end?”

  He raised his brows in question.

  “There’s an epilogue. It turns out Bertha—the homicidal first wife—isn’t really dead.”

  “After jumping off the roof?”

  “She’s pretty messed up,” I improvised. “Extremely bedraggled. And she’s kind of . . . singed. And limping.”

  “Sounds twisted.”

  “It is. Especially when she breaks into their house at night—Rochester and Jane’s. And then there’s a big fight, but since Rochester is still mostly blind it’s up to Jane to save the day.”

  “And does she?”

  I nodded. “Nobody messes with Jane. She stabs Bertha. With a kind of . . . dagger.” Though I was tempted to embellish the description, it seemed wiser not to push my luck.

  “Wow.” He looked back at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Hopefully it wasn’t suspicion. “I guess I should have kept reading.”

  “Mm-hm,” I agreed, smiling sweetly.

  * * *

  “Finally!” Arden exclaimed when I made it to lunch. Before I could explain the nature of the delay, she nudged her phone across the table, watching me with barely contained glee. “Check it out.”

  A patchwork of pictures filled the screen, but my eye went to the words unfurling in ornate script across the top. “Bad Guys from Books?” I read aloud.

  “It’s a working title. I’m open to suggestions.” Arden flashed me a tentative smile. “What do you think?”

  I studied the images more closely. They were black-and-white, or nearly so, with hazy effects near the edges, but all featured the same, vaguely familiar subject: a young man in formal dress with an intense expression.

  “It’s him,” Arden informed me. “From the movie. Scroll down.”

  Farther down the page, in a smaller font, another line of text appeared: Is Your Guy a Vronsky?

  “You made this?” I asked.

  Arden nodded, biting her lip.

  “It looks very professional.”

  She waved off the praise, though I could tell she was pleased. “I had some time last night, and I thought it might be a good idea to share what we’ve learned. Like a public service.”

  “We could call it the Loser List.” Lydia took a meditative bite of carrot stick. “Or the D-bag Dictionary. Encyclopedia of Creepers?”

  “Dangerous Dudes?” offered Terry.

  Arden’s lips pursed in thought. “If you had to summarize why a certain party, who wanted to date Terry even though he already had a girlfriend, was bad news, what’s a word for that?”

  “Irresponsible?” I was thinking of his reading habits, among other things. “Feckless? Or maybe libertine? Rogue? Scoundrel?”

  “Ooh, scoundrel. I like that.” Arden’s thumbs danced across her phone. “Let’s call it ‘The Scoundrel Survival Guide.’ Okay.” She looked up at us. “What’s rule number one?”

  Terry raised her hand. “Always check for a criminal record?”

  “I was thinking more specific to the type,” Arden said diplomatically. “But that’s a great general principle.”

  “Never trust a guy who has better hair than you?” Lydia suggested.

  Arden looked entreatingly at me.

  What was the crux of the issue? You couldn’t really say too attractive, because the way Alex Ritter looked wasn’t entirely his fault. “Watch out for guys who are too charming? And flirt with everything that moves? And fall in love at the drop of a hat?”

  “Yes,” Arden said as she transcribed.

  I peered at the screen of her phone. “Is this going to be online? For anyone to see?”

  “It’s totally anonymous,” Arden assured me. “Like a blind item in a gossip column.”

  “We’re okay in terms of libel laws,” Lydia added. “Technically we’re not even talking about anyone real.”

  “Exactly. It’s about guys in books who happen to suck in ways we can all relate to.” Setting her phone to one side, Arden picked up her bag of chips. “Who are some others, Mary?”

  “Scoundrels?”

  She nodded. “The really famous ones. Super skeevy.”

  I took a bite of leftover spring roll, chewing as I reflected. Where to start? “There was a man who claimed to love this woman because she was such a free spirit, passionate and intelligent and not afraid to speak her mind, but when push came to shove, he was like, ‘Sorry, I’m going to marry your passive-aggressive cousin instead because she’s better at faking it to fit in.’”

  Arden smacked Lydia in the arm. “Remember Jimmy, Morrison’s friend? He used to date this girl Maggie, who was completely wild, in a totally adorable way. So funny, you never knew what was going to come out of her mouth. But then he dumped her senior year for this girl who basically never laughed. Ever. I don’t even know if she had teeth. Seriously, wouldn’t you rather be embarrassed a couple of times than bored out of your mind every single day?”

  I nodded sadly. It was rare to find someone who truly valued the unique or original. Most people wanted to have what everyone else wanted, as if forming their own opinions was too mentally taxing. “There’s a famous one where a guy is mad at this other guy for calling him on his bad behavior, so the first guy dates the second one’s way younger sister and tries to get her to elope.”

  “Revenge dating,” Lydia said at once. “I’ve heard of that.”

  “What about murderers?” Terry asked.

  “Well,” I began, thinking fast. “There’s the person who was obsessed with his adopted sister, and they basically ran wild together until one day he overheard her saying something unflattering about him and he had a hissy fit and ran away. When he finally came back, he was so furious that she’d married their namby-pamby neighbor, he went and married the wussy guy’s sister. And then he was so horrible to everyone they basically died of sheer misery.”

  Arden stared at me wide-eyed.

  “I know. And there are people who think Wuthering Heights is a classic romance, even though the so-called hero has the emotional maturity of a two-year-old.”

  “But somebody takes him down in the end, right?” Lydia asked.

  “His childhood love comes back to haunt him after she bites it.” I gave a grudging shrug. “That part is actually pretty cool. But I don’t know if it relates to anyone here.”

  Arden patted my hand. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get out there and meet more people very soon. In fact, I thought we might tackle another item on my list this afternoon. Add a little more seasoning to your life. If you get what I’m saying.”

  Lydia placed the cover on her lunchbox, snapping the corners into place. “What are we in for this time? I need to mentally prepare myself.”

  “It’s a totally fundamental experience. Fanciness, luxury, and excitement, all under one roof!”

  “For the record,” Lydia announced, “I am not getting m
y eyebrows waxed. Or anything else.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” Arden self-consciously smoothed her own slender brows.

  “The DMV,” Lydia guessed.

  “No, we’re not taking Lady Mary to wait in a really long line.” A smidgen of testiness had crept into Arden’s voice. “It’s way better than that.”

  Lydia turned to Terry. “Help me out here. What am I missing?”

  “Black-market organ smuggling?”

  Not even Arden had a response to that one.

  “I saw it on an episode of Underground Forensics. This girl went to a party at a warehouse, and she thought the drinks tasted a little funny. When she woke up the next day she felt rough stitches in her lower back.” Terry pressed a hand to one side of her spine. “It turned out they’d stolen one of her kidneys.”

  Lydia nodded as if this were a possibility that merited consideration.

  “They say people pay more for young organs.” Terry’s already soft voice trailed off when she saw the look on Arden’s face.

  “The mall,” Arden said through gritted teeth. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but I’ll just tell you. No one’s getting cut open. We’re going to the freaking mall!”

  “That’s cool,” said Lydia. “I need a new sports bra.”

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve never been to Italy, but I feel like I’ve gotten a taste of it in books, like traveling to Florence with Lucy Honeychurch in A Room with a View. Someday I’ll visit places like that in real life—touch the ancient stones of famous buildings, eat amazing food, wander the glorious countryside.

  Just the thought of the great big world waiting out there makes me excited to grow up and have thrilling adventures in exotic locales.

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 11

  Technically this wasn’t my first trip to Gatewood Mall. I’d tagged along once or twice when Cam needed equipment from the sporting goods store. Our mother vociferously opposed further incursions into the sprawling emporium on the grounds that we should support smaller merchants in Millville—and also because the mall was “a soul-sucking hellhole.”

  I didn’t mention that part to Arden, who seemed anxious for everyone to have fun. She began the tour by narrating the parking options, with recommendations according to both weather and shopping priorities. Because the early September afternoon was sticky with heat, we opted for a covered lot near one of the fancy department stores.

  Stepping inside the gleaming interior, with its glass-fronted displays and expensively dressed mannequins, I felt a frisson of panic. Forget visiting the village milliner to buy a new ribbon for your bonnet; there was no way I could afford so much as a barrette in this place. My only source of pocket money was pet-sitting for Bo’s family during their travels, and I’d already spent most of last summer’s earnings on snack runs.

  “This is more of a grown-up-lady store,” Arden whispered, linking her elbow through mine. “We’re just doing a stroll-through, to soak up the atmosphere, though it is excellent for special occasions.”

  My neck muscles released some of their tension. Living beyond one’s means was a frequently fatal condition for young women in classic literature, on par with malicious gossip or falling in love with the wrong person.

  We traveled up an escalator, past the children’s department, and into the thick of women’s wear. The stretchy sheen of what Arden called athleisure soon gave way to an entire section of ball gowns.

  “Oh wow.” Arden had stopped in front of a mannequin wearing a blindingly red dress. Sequined flowers climbed all over the bodice. She spun to face us. “Do you guys want to try things on? Just for fun.”

  Lydia checked the price tag. “No.”

  Ignoring this, Arden appealed to me. “Which one do you like, Mary?”

  “The blue one is pretty.” I pointed at a misty confection of silky skirts with a gauze overlay.

  “Totally.” Arden slid two off the adjacent rack and handed the hangers to me. “Sometimes the sizing is wonky for gowns, so you’re better off trying a couple of different ones.” She narrowed her eyes, studying the other displays. “Let’s see. For Lydia, I’m thinking—”

  “Dusty rose,” Lydia interrupted, raising her arm to point. “That one.”

  We followed her deeper into the formalwear section, where she grabbed a flouncy pink dress with a bow. “I’m only trying this on because I already have the bra for it.”

  “Very practical,” Arden agreed. “Now, Terry can probably rock anything, but if you want my opinion”—she paused, giving Terry time to nod—“I think purple is your color.”

  As we weaved in and out of the racks in search of a purple dress, Arden trailed the tips of her fingers along the diaphanous fabrics. “I bet they got to wear dresses like this all the time in the olden days,” she said dreamily.

  Not exactly like this, I thought, contemplating the exposed midriffs and thigh-high slits.

  When the four of us assembled in front of the triptych of mirrors in all our finery, the results weren’t quite as transform­ative as I’d hoped. The hem of Terry’s dress pooled around her feet. Lydia’s was the right length, but the straps didn’t fit over her shoulders. The waist of the blue dress hit me mid–rib cage, as if I’d grabbed a child’s size by accident.

  “Anton would pass out if he saw this.” I made a futile attempt to smooth the waterfall of fabric shooting out half a foot above my hips.

  “Too bad we didn’t get to meet him,” Arden said, pouncing on the mention of Anton. “Have you known each other long?”

  “A couple of years.”

  “And is he dark-haired or blond—”

  “Just ask her,” Lydia cut in, before Arden could finish. “Mary, are you into this guy or what?”

  “Um, no. He’s like a big brother. Who is also gay. And he was in the Peace Corps before college, so he’s pretty old. As in twenty-four.”

  “Gross,” Lydia grunted, holding up the top of her dress as she strode back down the carpeted aisle. “It would be like hooking up with Gandalf. Not that Gandalf is a scoundrel. I’m sure he’s great if you’re super old and don’t mind being left alone a lot. The elves are a whole other story,” she called through the dressing room door. “Those bitches need to be taken down a few pegs.”

  “Okay. I get it.” Arden rolled her eyes. “Just trying to keep an open mind.”

  “Your dress looks great,” I told her, both because it was true and as a sop to her pride.

  “Yeah?” She took a few selfies from different angles before checking the time on her phone—something she’d been doing at regular intervals since our arrival.

  “Are we done here?” Lydia called over the door of her changing room.

  Arden sighed. “Fine. It’s just nice to look ahead sometimes. Think about the future. You never know when a special occasion is going to present itself. A little pre-shopping can go a long way.”

  It sounded awfully specific for a general rule of thumb, but then again Arden often spoke that way.

  Terry emerged from behind her own swinging door in record time. It probably helped that she’d kept her jeans and shoes on under the dress. “Where to next?”

  Arden checked the time on her phone again. “Let’s start making our way to the food court.”

  Once we emerged onto the second floor of the mall proper, storefronts stretched to infinity ahead of us, with annexes branching in multiple directions. It felt a little like I imagined one of those really tall hedge mazes on a country estate, only without the fresh air and natural light to ease the sense of entrapment. We made a slow circuit of the upstairs, looking into the stores we passed but never entering. All the while, Arden kept surreptitiously glancing at her phone.

  “Why are we going so slow?” Lydia asked from behind me. “I think those mall walkers just lapped us.”

  “Mary needs time to soak up the atmosphere,” Arden scolded.

  Actually, I was afraid that much more time spent under the onslaught of artificial
scents and distorted echoes of sound would reduce me to a quivering bundle of nerves, but I couldn’t tell Arden that. It was easier to focus on the people: grownups pushing strollers, ladies in work clothes, a noisy tangle of boys Jasper’s age, all clutching jumbo paper cups that seemed in imminent danger of spilling their lurid contents onto the floor.

  That was probably why I noticed him, the young man sitting on a nearby plastic bench, eyes narrowed as he watched the junior hooligans tussle and guffaw. He was pale and sharp-featured, though part of that might have been the expression of distaste pulling his cheekbones into relief. I wasn’t exactly an expert on men’s fashion, but his clothes seemed to convey an air of sophistication, or at least expensiveness.

  Arden’s hand tightened on my arm. “The people watching is pretty good around here, am I right?” As we drew even with the bench, she stole a glance at the well-groomed stranger. “Note to self,” she murmured. “Mary likes them clean-cut. Good to know.”

  I worried she might be bold enough to drag us over and strike up a conversation. Then her phone buzzed, and we were triple-timing it away from the stranger, toward destinations unknown.

  * * *

  “Voilà,” Arden said, two escalator rides later. “The food court.”

  Although there wasn’t so much as a fountain in sight, something about the humid, chemically perfumed air made me think I was standing near a pool.

  “Are we eating?” Lydia asked, peering at a display of dried-out pizza slices.

  “In a minute,” Arden replied, pulling me along beside her. She was scanning the mauve and turquoise seating area with methodical focus.

  “There’s plenty of room,” Terry pointed out.

  “Oh, I know.” Arden’s laugh was not entirely convincing. “I’m just looking for the perfect spot.”

  Lydia squinted at her. “Something’s going on. What did you do?”

  “I told you, we’re having the complete mall experience.” Arden avoided Lydia’s gaze.

  “People used to do this in old books all the time,” I said. “Not the fast food, obviously, but promenading around so they could look at each other. At the park, or sometimes just in the drawing room after dinner.”