The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Merri’s face creased. “Oh, that’s right, day before Halloween. I knew that—How did I forget?”

  Great work, Eliza. Merri looked closer to tears than before. “I didn’t expect you to remember,” said Eliza dismissively. “However, it means I have my license test today. If I pass—”

  “Of course you’ll pass,” interrupted Merri.

  “When I pass, I’m allowed one passenger for the first six months.”

  “We know,” snapped Toby, because Eliza had been enlightening us on the rules of driving since school started. Critiquing Toby’s hand and mirror positions and offering bits of instruction like he hadn’t had his license for seven months.

  “My point is, Merri, would you consider becoming my copilot for a while? Not that I expect you to navigate.”

  “Yes!”

  Normally Toby would’ve fought this. It would’ve been Merri-tug-of-war and she would’ve committed to some ridiculous shared custody plan.

  Now he nodded. “Good idea.” He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like it’ll be me and you, Roar. You’ll get what you always wanted.”

  I almost choked on my tongue. “Excuse me?”

  “Shotgun? It’s yours.” If there’d been any bitterness or cruelty in his voice, I would’ve rejected him in an instant. I’d been used as a pawn by Monroe to hurt Merri and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. But Toby just sounded tired. He tried to offer me a rearview mirror smile, but it wouldn’t stick to his face. “Unless you’d rather go with someone else too. Or walk?”

  What would it take for me to walk away from him? I wasn’t sure I could. But staying couldn’t be healthy either. I wasn’t going to be a Gatsby, chasing disaster. I stared out the window at the rainy day—the sky had darkened and the air felt thick. Weather as uncomfortable as all our moods. “Well, at least not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Cheeky, no-good brat.”

  It was a joke, but he only pretended to smile and I didn’t bother.

  22

  My history exam was fifth period, which meant all those dates and wars and names had to stay in my head until then, hopefully not dislodging any verb conjugations for tomorrow’s French test or formulas for Friday’s math. Most everyone on campus was sitting by their locker or in the library or a classroom cramming last-minute notes. I should’ve been joining them, but my feet brought me through the rain to the humanities building, and I raised a damp hand to knock without any plan for when Ms. Gregoire answered.

  She took one look at me—pale skin, dark circles, dripping hair—and nodded. “Just as I predicted. It’s time.”

  “Time for what?” I took a step backward, because the lights in the room had flickered, and for a moment she’d been outlined from behind—her red hair down and curly, her dress long and black, ruffled in ways that caught the eye when she moved. It was the first time I’d seen her not in colors or prints. It could’ve been a couture mourning gown—if English teachers grieved for fictional characters. But it was Halloween and I’d seen enough Merri-movies to know about plots with witches and spells that were supposed to fix people’s lives. Ms. Gregoire looked like she’d stepped right off one of those sets. If she’d replaced her desk with a cauldron, I was out of there. Except maybe I’d do the opposite—maybe it’d be nice to drink a potion or accept a spell and have someone else steer my life for a while. Since the only way I knew how to drive was to crash.

  “Come in.” She gestured with a hand heavy with gold rings that glittered with stones I didn’t recognize. “It’s time for you to be done with Daisy—” She paused to shut the door behind me. “And Gatsby and Nick and the rest.”

  “Aren’t we already done with him, er, The Great Gatsby?” I’d submitted my paper via the class Dropbox last night.

  “Yes, but don’t think I didn’t hear the sarcasm on the word ‘great’ there.” She smiled and spun a ring on her finger. “What I meant was that you are done with that story. You need to let it go.”

  My heart sank. If Merri was right about Ms. Gregoire being teacher-magical—and millions of romantic reminders about how she’d fixed up Merri with Fielding via a book implied that she was—and if I was right about The Great Gatsby, then I was also right about Toby. It was time to move on.

  “But I can’t let you move on—” The lights flickered again as she spoke.

  “What?” I gasped. My knees felt weak, so I sat. The unnatural darkness outside made the classroom shadowy and sinister.

  “You’re not moving on to Wright. I mean, you’ll read that too; but we need to do something about that grade of yours. I’d hate to see you put on academic probation and miss out on Fall Ball, or the Candlelight Concert . . . the Snipes workshop. You need to pull these grades up.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burned. Of course she wasn’t psychic. What was wrong with me? I steadied myself by placing my hands flat on the desk. “Right.”

  “Now, I’ve read your paper . . .” She brought a hand to her heart. “It made me cry.”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t add, “Me too.”

  “It’s a good start, but we still need some GPA repair, and you need this assignment for other reasons too.” She winked and spun her rings again. They were catching the light in dizzying ways, then disappearing into her palm. “Sometimes students need a book that’s not part of the general curriculum. A book that’s just for them.”

  Fear rose in my throat like a burp. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Some extra credit.” She bent to rummage through her desk drawer. “I’ve been keeping it here until you were ready.”

  “You already picked out a book for me?” That was how Merri said it started—Ms. Gregoire chose a book for her . . . and the plot details bled over into her life. My eyes were drawn to the windows again—forked lightning streaked across the sky, making everything a sickly green.

  “No, the book picked you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to present it.” She plucked up a novel with a sunny yellow cover and held it out on two palms.

  The book was massive, the type that could be used as a doorstop or hammer or bug killer. “You want me to read that on top of schoolwork?”

  “There’s no rush. I want you to set your own pace with this one.” She bobbled her hands, making the book dance between them. “So, are you ready to see what it is? Any guesses?”

  She was so excited, and I was so . . . not. We were in rip-off-the-bandage territory. I wasn’t going to be able to fake enthusiasm, so the faster the charade ended, the better. I plucked the book from her hands and turned it over.

  “Little Women.” The title and four silhouettes were embossed on the cover in orange. When I brushed my hand across them, they were cool to the touch—except, Ow! The fourth one, the smallest girl, was scalding hot. It made no sense, but my fingertip was bright red.

  But Ms. Gregoire had had the book cover down on her palm and she didn’t appear to be in any pain as she clapped her hands together. It was the same moment the thunder caught up—making her clap supersonic. The reverberations pounded in my chest. “This is going to be good for you, Rory.”

  I looked from her eager face, to the book, to the creepy weather—touched the cover again: cool, cool, cool, ow!

  I shifted my grip so I was only touching the corners. I wanted oven mitts or a hazard suit . . . or an explanation. But everything about this scene was surreal, and when I opened my mouth to ask, the words that came out surprised me. “What do I need to do?”

  “Let’s make a deal,” Ms. Gregoire said, and an eerie note began to fill the classroom. It stretched into a melody that belonged on the score of any horror movie, full of suspense and quickening heartbeats. I held my breath as she reached in her drawer—

  And turned off her cell phone.

  “Sorry about that.” I wanted to laugh or ask about her creeptacular ringtone, but my tongue still wasn’t cooperating. She continued. “You can submit artwork instead of response journals—as long as you include a brief wr
itten explanation of each piece.”

  “Oh, I can do that.”

  She laughed. “I know you can. Aurora—” She paused as lightning flashed again, this time the thunder following immediately. “You’re going to surprise yourself with what you’re capable of—and I can’t wait to see where the book takes you and what you find once you’re there.”

  23

  The book fell out of my bag at lunch. I kept meaning to leave it in my locker, but every time I got in front of that stupid dial, I forgot.

  “Are you reading Little Women?” Clara scooped it up and hugged it to her chest.

  I nodded. “You’ve read it?”

  “Oh my stars, I loved this book—” I tried to decide if her endorsement was a good thing. She hadn’t hated Gatsby. Clara turned to the rest of the table and held it out. “Elinor, Gems, Iris—remember Little Women?”

  Iris, a petite blonde who gave Merri a run for her money in cuteness factor, squealed. “The best! We were all obsessed.”

  Okay, that made me feel better about the assignment. “Remember how Mr. D kept threatening to confiscate our copies?” Gemma had the faintest trace of her mother’s British accent. Her brown cheeks stretched in a wide smile as she reached for the book and thumbed through the pages.

  “No, it wasn’t Mr. D—it was Mr. Khan. Sixth grade, not seventh,” corrected Clara.

  Clara was all about precise details, so of course she was right—but I stopped listening to their conversation about copies hidden in desks and rereading until pages fell out. Sixth grade? Is that the reading level Ms. Gregoire thought I was on, since Gatsby was too hard for me? I snatched the book from Gemma, making everyone at the table stop talking and turn.

  “Sorry.” I crammed it in my bag and stood. “I forgot . . . something in the art room.” I turned and ran out of the cafeteria.

  Clara cornered me in the hall before math. “What was that about?” she demanded.

  “The history test?” I’d known when it was in front of me, but any information I had retained was now dumped into a blue test booklet, leaving my head empty and the rest of me exhausted.

  “No, not the history test. You. In the cafeteria. You know you left your lunch there?”

  “Oh.” I spun toward the door. “I did?”

  Clara grabbed my sleeve. “I packed it up and it’s in your locker, but you must be starving. I have a protein bar in my bag—want it? Are you okay?”

  “Test anxiety,” I fibbed. “Wait, how’d you get my locker combination?” I flipped over the bar she’d shoved in my hand to scan for dairy and to make sure it didn’t have candy-bar levels of sugar. The last thing I needed was a surge and crash in math. I ripped the corner open. “Thanks.”

  “I ran into lover boy. Our Knight Lights have our locker combinations, remember? Hasn’t he left you any exam prep presents?”

  I stiffened, and I’m sure the bar didn’t actually taste like cardboard and rotting leaves, but the bite in my mouth had become unchewable and my throat and stomach vetoed the idea of swallowing. Darting across the hallway to the trash can, I did my best to subtly spit the bite into my hand before tossing it in.

  “You weren’t joking about test anxiety, were you?” Clara’s eyes were wide. “Want me to take you to the nurse?”

  “I’m fine. It’s not that. It’s just . . .” I couldn’t tolerate her calling Toby anything other than his name. Not “dreamboat,” not “stud muffin,” not “Captain Sizzlepants”—all of which she’d used in the last week. Actually, I couldn’t tolerate her saying his name either. Our friendship needed to be a Toby-free zone. “I’m over him. I’m not wasting any more time thinking of him that way.”

  There. Maybe if I said that often enough, it might come true.

  Clara staggered against the wall. “You can’t give up on him. What about true love?”

  I shrugged, but my muscles resisted the movement as much as my heart did, and the words that followed tasted like soap. “I guess it wasn’t.”

  “But . . .” She was quiet. Her hands scrabbled at the poster hanging behind her back: Fall Ball—Get your tickets today! I’d drawn the art last week at lunch as a favor for Mrs. Mundhenk, who was an adviser for the student council, and Clara, who was the freshman class rep. “What are we going to talk about now?”

  I snorted. “If stalking Toby was the glue to our friendship, that doesn’t say a whole lot about us.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t mean it that way. We will always have me trying to recruit you for committees and your doodles making Convocation tolerable and us both wishing I could dognap your pupper without it causing my literal death by hives. And—”

  The bell rang, cutting off her list, and Mrs. Roberts leaned her head in the hall. “Miss Campbell, Miss Highbury, come join us.”

  “Apologies, Mrs. Roberts.” Clara smiled at her. “Just having a mini strategy session. You know how it is during exams.”

  Mrs. Roberts opened the door wider. “I promise you’ll find the study session inside the classroom more productive.”

  I foolishly hoped the subject was closed with the classroom door, but five minutes into the review Clara kicked the back of my chair. This wasn’t an entry on the super-secret answer code—I knew that because she’d taught me after my birthday party. “Rory, psst. Rory.”

  I wanted to put my head down on my desk until I had the patience to deal with whatever came out of her mouth next. Instead I stared at a poster that graphed Places you’ll go against Willingness to try.

  “Rory.” Clara leaned forward until her mouth was at my ear. “I have a great idea. Let’s set you up with Huck! You guys could just switch from faking to real.”

  I turned so fast I almost bashed my head against hers. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “But he’s sweet and you guys get along,” Clara insisted.

  “Not interested.”

  “So we’re back to Toby?”

  “No!”

  “Aurora? Did you have a question?” asked Mrs. Roberts. Frankly I was surprised it had taken us so long to get caught, but that didn’t make it any less humiliating to have the entire class look at me. All those eyes on my bright red face. Could they see my throat and lungs tightening? Because I had no oxygen in me, which meant I could get no words out.

  “We’re a little lost on that last problem. Could you go over the second part again?” Clara effortlessly used her smart-girl privilege. There was no shame in admitting you were confused when you were confident you wouldn’t always be. Or admitting you were wrong when you were usually right. If I stopped class each time I got lost, we’d make no actual progress. My tutoring sessions with Toby helped, but it was like once I stepped back in this room, my brain decided to prove all the You can do it posters wrong.

  24

  There was one hour between me and a drive home where I’d get to practice mentally friend-zoning someone who had friend-zoned me a lifetime ago. Then my bedroom. A nap. Some sketching. French flash cards. Dinner. French flash cards. Bed.

  Except, dangit! I had to work at Haute Dog. Scratch the nap and sketching. French flash cards would take place between customers. Hopefully the store would be quiet. How many people needed dog supplies on a rainy Halloween evening?

  Huck and Clara sandwiched me on the walk into the Convocation Hall. One of these days, I was going to find time to get in there and sketch. I didn’t usually go for buildings, but this one was all angles and arches, huge stained-glass windows of flowers and books and maps. It had all the ornamentation of a church without any actual religion, though I’m sure students had spent time on these benches praying for passing grades and reciprocal crushes and athletic wins. I could count myself in the first two categories.

  Normally the headmaster spoke at Convocation. Sometimes coaches or club advisers. Monday, the nurse had given flu prevention tips and demonstrated handwashing techniques. Two weeks ago, we’d had student government speeches; last week, the winners had talked about the Fall Ball.

&n
bsp; I sat and pretended not to notice the concerned looks from Clara and Huck. Between leaving math and lining up to enter the hall, Clara had found Huck and informed him, “Rory is claiming to be over Toby.”

  “It is true?” Huck scratched the back of his head and frowned.

  I nodded and prayed they would let it go or Headmaster Williams would hurry up and begin. Before he could, there was a commotion up front.

  “Isn’t that your sister?” asked Clara.

  Isn’t that your sister? Those were the words I’d heard before Merri cannonballed off the high dive at the town pool for the first time. We were five and six, and she hadn’t passed the swim test but had “borrowed” the deep-end bracelet off someone’s picnic blanket. Toby had dared her. They were the same words I’d heard in fourth grade when Merri decided to go rogue in her fifth-grade chorus concert—“Because ‘Jingle Bells’ is more fun as a mash-up.” And in seventh grade, when eighth-grade Merri decided to protest the cafeteria’s use of nonrecyclable cups by wearing an outfit made from them—not realizing how quickly Styrofoam would crumble.

  Nothing good ever followed the words Isn’t that your sister? I tracked Clara’s pointing finger across the aisle and up a few rows to where—yup, my sister—was standing on a bench. A hush had fallen over the room, because who doesn’t want to witness a good scandal? I slumped down and added a new prayer: That since I was largely invisible on campus, no one knew she was related to me.

  “Fielding”—for someone so tiny, Merri could project—“you asked me this once, and I was stupid enough to say no to you. This time I want everyone to witness me asking you—” Her boyfriend’s shoulders were stiff, and his brows raised, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he had both hands up, preparing for the inevitability of her slipping.

  Reaching out, she clasped one of those hands between both of hers. “Will you make me the happiest girl on campus and go to Fall Ball with me?” She did a little nervous dance when his stunned silence stretched. Adding with an impish grin, “Or you could humiliate me in front of everyone by saying no—that’s an option too.”