By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

  “They would wander in circles?” Lydia asked. “For fun?”

  “It’s not like they had Netflix,” Arden reminded her. “Oh, look!”

  The exclamation suggested relief as much as surprise. With rapid steps, she cut through a group of tables, heading for one occupied by a lone young man in khakis and a navy polo with an embroidered crest to one side of the buttons.

  “Miles is here?” Lydia asked, though it was clear she meant, What is Miles doing here?

  Arden didn’t reply. She was intent on reaching Miles, who had risen from his seat. Now that he was standing, I saw that he was several inches shorter than Arden and half again as wide, with wire-rimmed glasses and a gently rounded belly. Would they kiss? Fly into each other’s arms? I’d never seen Arden in girlfriend mode, but she definitely tended toward the touchy-feely.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked Miles in an urgent undertone—not the most sentimental of greetings. “Did you guys drive separately?”

  His cheeks puffed as he exhaled. “About that.”

  “No.” Arden waited in vain for him to contradict her. “They didn’t. They wouldn’t.”

  “It’s the first tournament of the year. We’re not where we need to be.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Especially me, trying to break in a new partner.”

  Arden flinched. “Is it that big of a sacrifice, taking an hour off?”

  “It’s the timing—” he started to say, breaking off at the sight of the three of us hovering nearby. “Hey, Lydia.” He held up a hand to me and Terry. “I’m Miles.”

  Arden performed the introductions with a reasonable facsimile of her usual cheer, though I could tell she was making an effort.

  “Are you guys getting something to eat?” Miles cast a hopeful glance at a burger restaurant.

  Placing her hands on his cheeks, Arden gently turned his head away from temptation. “How’s your blood sugar?” He looked at his shoes. “That’s what I thought. You better go do your thing, because otherwise you’ll be stressed. And eat something healthy.”

  He leaned in for a quick kiss. “I’ll call you later.”

  “What was that about?” Lydia asked as soon as Miles was out of earshot.

  Arden lifted one shoulder. “He was supposed to bring some guys from the debate team to hang out with us.”

  “Like an ambush,” Lydia said.

  “No, like an iconic experience for Mary,” Arden corrected. “Flirting with guys at the mall. Only better, because they wouldn’t be total strangers.”

  “You still wouldn’t want to get into a car with them,” Terry said. “Never let them take you to a secondary location.”

  “Sure,” Arden agreed with an abstracted air. “Also, you know they’re capable of dressing up. If there ever happens to be an occasion where that might come in handy.”

  “Yeah, if we ever need a bunch of guys who look like they’re cosplaying their golfer grandpappies we’re all set.” Lydia pretended to tighten an invisible tie.

  “Mary happens to like the conservative look. You saw the way she was scoping out the guy upstairs, with the fancy shoes!” Arden cocked her head to one side. “Maybe he’s still here?”

  “Dude.” Lydia put a hand on her arm. “Relax. We had fun. I’m sorry it didn’t end up with a group wedding or whatever, but it’s all good. Right?”

  Terry and I made noises of assent.

  Somehow, Arden managed to smile and sigh at the same time. “So is this like something from a book? We can add it to the list of warning signs.”

  It took me a moment to look beyond the immediate environs of the food court—loud, greasy, and artificially bright—to the deeper issue. “There is a book where a girl accidentally goes to the wrong church on their wedding day, and her fiancé thinks he’s been stood up, so he takes up with another woman, only the one he was supposed to marry was pregnant and ends up dropping dead.”

  “What’s the lesson?” Terry asked.

  “Don’t freak out if your plans get messed up?” Lydia suggested. “All they had to do was try again the next day. Maybe get a better map. Work on their communication.”

  “There are other places we can go to practice our social skills,” Arden allowed.

  Lydia tapped the back of her hand. “I bet you have six or seven of them on your list.”

  “At least.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Lydia shouldered her bag. “Now let’s get out of here before this lighting gives me a stroke.”

  Dear Diary,

  If I ever become a writer like George Sand, with or without a nom de plume, I hope people remember me for my books, and not because I had an affair with a sickly pianist.

  Although it is romantic imagining Chopin trying to impress her with his beautiful playing while she concentrates on her novels. That’s what Arden would call a power couple.

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 12

  The next item on Arden’s list was destined to remain shrouded in mystery a little while longer. A merry-go-round of afterschool commitments kept my friends busy the rest of that week and well into the next, which was how I ended up walking home alone on a windy September afternoon, hefting both my backpack and Cam’s, since my sister had an away game that evening. At least the heat had abated, the first hints of yellow appearing on the trees like a promise of fall.

  “They have these things called e-readers,” someone said from behind me as I stepped from the school parking lot onto the sidewalk. I froze, which had the unintended consequence of allowing Alex Ritter to draw even with me. “That way you don’t have to carry the whole library with you.” He reached for the strap of Cam’s bag.

  “What are you doing?” I meant, Why are you stealing my sister’s backpack? but he blithely ignored my protest, slinging it over his own shoulder.

  “Taking a walk. What are you doing?”

  “I’m going home.” Mentally I kicked myself for falling into the Little Red Riding Hood trap. But that was silly. It wasn’t as though he had any intention of following me through the woods. Or neighborhood, in this case.

  “Great,” he said, falling into step at my side. “Aren’t you going to ask how I did on my test?”

  I bit my lip. The jig was up. He knew I’d invented an action-hero finale for Jane Eyre.

  “A ninety-six.” He paused, watching me for a reaction. “Also, ‘Excellent, exclamation point.’ Ms. Milano even read some of it to the class. She particularly liked my revisionist slant.”

  Was I a tiny bit impressed? Perhaps. But I had no intention of telling him that. “Imagine how well you could have done if you’d read the whole book.”

  He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “But I like the way you tell it.”

  Even though I recognized this as the type of remark he must use with anyone of the female persuasion, it almost caused a fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I’m going this way,” I said, pointing toward downtown.

  “What a coincidence. So am I.”

  “Don’t you have places to go? People to see?” It would have been one thing to tease me in passing, but we were way off school property now.

  “Where else would I go? Who would I rather be with than you?”

  I pretended to think it over. “I don’t know, maybe Phoebe?”

  “Eh.” He lifted a hand, dismissing the idea. “I see plenty of her.” My eyes widened. It was impossible to tell whether he was being risqué or merely callous. “Where are your friends today?” he asked, unflappable as ever.

  “Here and there.”

  His eyes flashed with amusement. “Are they robbing a bank? Because that sounded pretty suspicious. Take it from someone who’s talked his way out of a lot of sticky situations.”

  I had no doubt what sort of situation he meant. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I turned to face him. This had gone on long enough. “Listen. Alex.”

  “So serious,” he murmured.

  “If this is about Terry—” I paused, hoping he
might betray his true feelings, but he merely lifted his brows, waiting for me to go on. “Then you should know it’s futile.”

  “What is?”

  “Using me to get to her. It’s never going to work. She’s not interested. In going out with you, I mean.” I held my breath.

  Alex shrugged. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. You don’t see me following her home.”

  I was still digesting that piece of impertinence when a loud ahem sounded from my left. Absorbed in the exchange with Alex Ritter, I hadn’t noticed we were standing outside Toil & Trouble, from which Noreen had emerged, spray bottle in hand. The cheery tropical print of her shirt stood in stark contrast to her menacing demeanor.

  “Are you bringing your date in or what?” she asked, scowling at both of us.

  “He’s not—we just—no,” I stammered.

  “You see how she is?” Alex shook his head sadly.

  For the first time in my life, Noreen looked at me with something like approval. “Make him bleed,” she said, before scuttling back inside.

  Alex blinked at the closed door. “She seems fun.”

  I had no desire to discuss Noreen, or anything untoward she might have implied. “About what you were saying—”

  “Before you turned me down cold?”

  I sighed to show I wasn’t amused. “You seem okay about it.” Although we both knew he had at least one other girlfriend, I’d expected pouting at the very least.

  “I’m crying on the inside.” He drew a finger down his cheek. “Quite contrary of you, Mary.”

  There was a joke I’d never heard. “I was talking about Terry.”

  “Maybe I was a little surprised.” He’d started walking again, tossing the words over his shoulder.

  I hurried to catch up. “Why, because no one ever turned you down before?”

  “No, because that wasn’t the message she was sending.”

  We stopped at the corner to wait for the Walk signal. “You can’t possibly think she was encouraging your advances.”

  “Then what was all this?” Alex ducked his chin, sending me a sidelong look through fluttering lashes.

  The impression was annoyingly on point. If one didn’t know better, I could see how some of Terry’s mannerisms might read as coy. “She’s shy.”

  “Is that why she didn’t tell me herself?”

  “She was working up to it. Anyway, it was strongly implied.” The light changed, and I hurried into the crosswalk.

  “What was it?” he asked when we were safely across.

  “What was what?”

  “That she didn’t like about me.”

  My shoulders tensed. What was the diplomatic response? It’s not you, it’s her. She took a vow of chastity. Her parents have already arranged marriage to a Carpathian prince. Meanwhile, the truth lodged in my throat: I told her not to date you.

  “You’re not her type,” I finally managed. It seemed that wasn’t enough of an answer, because he continued to regard me expectantly. “She’s a very quiet person. Whereas you’re more”—I circled a hand in the air, trying to conjure a better word than promiscuous. “Friendly.”

  “Friendly?”

  “Yes. You know, sociable. Free with your attentions.”

  He reached out to grasp me lightly by the elbow. Reluctantly, I turned to face him. “You think I should sew an A on my shirt?”

  Staring at the point above his heart indicated by a fingertip, I struggled to follow his train of thought. “Like a monogram?”

  “As in The Scarlet Letter.”

  Again with the unexpected literary references, though there was no guarantee he’d read to the end of this one either. “I’m just trying to be helpful,” I said primly. “Prevent any misunderstandings.”

  Alex shook his head. “I think you just slut-shamed me.”

  “No!” I looked around in alarm. “And I hate that word.”

  “Do you have a better one? How about ‘strumpet’?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Casanova, maybe. Or louche, though he would probably think it was a compliment. He raised his eyebrows, letting me know he was still waiting for a response.

  “She’s a Cecile, okay? Not a Marquise de Merteuil. From Dangerous Liaisons,” I added helpfully. “By Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. They made a movie out of it.”

  “For people like me who struggle with big words?”

  “No!” Who knew scoundrels were so sensitive? “I just don’t assume people like the same things I do.”

  “What do you like, Mary?” In an instant, his tone turned playful and intimate, as though he’d flipped some internal switch reverting to his default setting. I might have been fatally unnerved had I not noticed we were about to turn onto my street.

  “Oh, you know,” I said vaguely, holding out a hand for Cam’s bag.

  He made no move to relinquish it. “I don’t know, which is why I asked. I think we should finish our conversation. You can say more foreign words.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is where our paths diverge.” I shaped a V in the air between us, pressing the heels of my hands together.

  “I’ll walk you to your door.”

  I started to decline, but then the full meaning of his words hit. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

  “I’m considering branching into some light stalking. I thought I might put you on my route.” He paused to examine his thumbnail before grinning at my gobsmacked expression. “Phoebe had me drop her off once. For ‘rehearsal.’”

  He gave me a significant look, as though we shared some secret understanding, but my mind was otherwise engaged. “And you just decided to walk home with me?”

  His hand closed around the strap of Cam’s bag. “It looked like you could use the help. And since you were so generous with my English assignment, it only seemed fair.”

  I flushed, shifting guiltily. “You know what they say. All’s well that ends well.”

  “I thought it was ‘all’s fair in love and war’?” He grinned at my discomfiture before glancing past me, in the direction of my house. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Um,” I began, grasping for a polite denial. He had carried Cam’s heavy bag all this way, not to mention taking a sporting view of my Jane Eyre sabotage.

  “I’m kidding,” he said, throwing me off-balance yet again. “My piano teacher lives over there.” His thumb indicated the yellow house on the corner.

  I knew Mrs. Madden taught piano, but it had never occurred to me that someone like Alex Ritter might be coming to her house every week. On my street. It was hard to believe I hadn’t felt the crackle in the air that signaled his presence. If the windows were open, I could have listened to him banging out stormy sonatas while long white curtains billowed in the breeze.

  I shook off the image. Probably I was giving him too much credit. “Are you any good?”

  “That’s a very personal question, but I should be used to that by now, coming from you.” He let me squirm a few seconds. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I do a mean ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ if I’m feeling ambitious. But my favorite”—he lowered his voice—“is ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’”

  I shook my head. “You’re messing with me.”

  “Tempting, but I have a lesson in five minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “Make that two.”

  “Oh.” How foolish to have believed he was angling for an invitation to come over. It was another of his little games, nothing more. “Well, have fun.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll try.”

  Our hands brushed as he passed me Cam’s bag. I flinched, which made me want to kick myself—especially since Alex probably hadn’t noticed the contact at all.

  * * *

  Later that evening I was in my room, alternating twenty minutes of algebra with ten of reading. It took longer overall but increased the odds of retaining my sanity. When the phone rang, I leaned back in my ch
air, rubbing my eyes. For a moment I listened in vain, hoping to hear my name called. Then I decided to go downstairs anyway and make myself a cup of tea.

  Jasper was leaning against the side of the refrigerator with the receiver cradled against his face. He spoke in a confidential murmur, as though I had any interest in eavesdropping. After filling the kettle with fresh water, I set it on the stove and turned on the burner.

  “Hold on a sec,” I heard Jasper say as I rummaged through the tea cupboard. “Mary. It’s for you.”

  I turned to stare at him. “Are you serious?”

  He cupped a hand over the receiver. “It’s Arden.”

  There was no time to ask how or when the two of them had come to be on a first-name basis. I was too busy choking on the sudden fear that Arden somehow knew I’d walked home with Alex Ritter.

  Jasper waved the phone in my face. “Earth to Mary. Time is money.”

  I held it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey!” said Arden’s voice. “Oh my gosh, I am so excited. Not to toot my own horn, but I have seriously outdone myself this time. Hashtag nailed it. Prepare to have your mind blown.”

  A long silence ensued, during which I waited for her to share the explosive tidings. “I’m ready,” I said at last.

  “I meant on Friday,” Arden explained. “That’s when it’s going down—the next big event.”

  “What is it?” For some reason I whispered the question, though Jasper had departed, jumbo bag of white cheddar popcorn in hand.

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise. This is just a heads-up so you can start planning your look.”

  “I need a special outfit?” My mind leaped to the formalwear section at the mall.

  “No, no. Just dress to impress.”

  “You mean literally a dress?”

  “Mm, I wouldn’t. Think weekend chic. Classy, but comfortable. Something that makes you think, ‘Damn, I have it going ON’ when you check yourself out.”

  “Oh. Right.” I couldn’t actually summon a memory of that feeling, but I knew exactly who to ask for advice.