The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I want to see a map of all the schools,” demanded Merri. “And let’s go ahead and eliminate any that are more than two hours away.”

  Trent’s eyes widened. He couldn’t tell if she was serious and looked to Lilly for guidance. I interrupted before this could become A Thing—“Once you’ve picked, will you buy me a law school sweatshirt? You know it’s the closest I’ll ever get to law school.” I tacked on a cheeky grin, and everyone laughed.

  But I wished they hadn’t. I wished someone had contradicted me. I could feel my shoulders pulling in, the pineapple burning on my tongue. If Toby were here, he’d make a comment like “Because you’ll be too busy trying to keep up with the demands of museums and collectors clamoring for your art.”

  I wasn’t guessing—I knew. There was fierce absoluteness to Toby’s protectiveness. Whether defending Merri against her own scatterbrained-genius reputation, or defending me, or even Eliza—he didn’t let the people he cared about be mocked, not even in self-deprecation. I wondered if he knew how grateful I was—and if he had anyone to do the same for him.

  After brunch Mom and Dad left for the store, Trent and Lilly got in his car and went to campaign headquarters, and Merri went back upstairs. I pulled out my phone to text Clara or Huck, then put it away and opened the front door instead. I did all sorts of second-guessing as my feet crossed the threshold—but I still turned down the walkway and headed across the lawn. I could do this. Friends hung out. Friends stopped by and complained of boredom. Friends told each other when they appreciated support—and until now I’d been worried he’d read the swooning subtext of any compliment I gave him. That needed to change.

  But friends also knew things about their friends, and Major May’s car was in their driveway. Seeing the Mercedes felt like an exhale. I’d have been even happier if the car were pulled into the garage like he was going to stay awhile, but at least he was home. I crossed my fingers and said a prayer that his tires would go flat, that his engine wouldn’t start, or that he’d realize how spectacular his son was and need no further excuse to stay and spend time with him.

  Without an excuse of my own, I went to my room and pulled out Little Women.

  “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents . . .”

  I snorted. One line in and this book was already more relevant than The Great Gatsby. Another character followed up with “It’s so dreadful to be poor!” and I felt goose bumps prickle across my skin. I settled onto my bed, propping a pillow between my shoulders and the wall. There were four sisters in the book: The oldest, Meg, was sweet. The second, Jo, was feisty. Beth, the third, was a little too saintly. And the youngest, Amy, was an artist—or at least she’d mentioned needing drawing pencils on the very first page.

  Unlike the March sisters, we weren’t poor. I got that. We had more than a lot of people had, and I was lucky, but sometimes it was hard to keep perspective when surrounded by classmates who lived like Gatsby. Who’d be getting new cars and designer wardrobes for the holidays. Not that I wanted or needed those things, but it would be weird to ask for anything after Mom and Dad’s disclaimers. I couldn’t think about the way they hadn’t met our eyes and the tight expressions they’d worn without wanting to curl under my covers.

  Maybe if I left Hero High, things would be easier for them. Maybe, depending on my math grade, leaving would be unavoidable. The idea sat sour in my stomach. I twisted my knees up toward my chest and opened the book again, ready to immerse myself in a different set of sisters’ problems and leave my own behind for a while.

  29

  “So?”

  I was clutching my test when I walked out of Mrs. Roberts’s classroom on Monday, and Toby’s sudden appearance in my personal space made my heart jump . . . then race. Because my heart is a traitorous traitor. “Dangit, Toby. You can’t spring out of nowhere like Batman lurking in the shadows.”

  “I’m like Batman?” Toby grinned. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. But tell me again later, right now I want to hear about this.” He plucked the exam from my hand and turned it around to read the score.

  People had to be staring, because Toby was whooping, but I didn’t know for sure because I had my head tucked against his collarbone. One—so I wouldn’t get sick, because his spinning hug was a lot like the teacup ride. Two—he smelled good. Three—I didn’t want to see the faces of anyone gawking. This was the sort of thing that happened to Merri all the time. People picking her up—just to prove they could. She hated it. Maybe I would too if it was a daily thing, but Toby hadn’t stopped saying how proud he was from the moment he scooped me into his arms.

  “I knew you could do it. We need to celebrate! What should we do? Eighty-freaking-three! I’m more excited about your math grade than my own.”

  When he put me down both of us stumbled a bit, clinging to each other to stay upright as the dizziness passed. And I laughed, a full sound that might have drawn more attention, but I didn’t care. I’d gotten an eighty-three, I’d been twirled around like a rom-com heroine, and the thing I was thinking throughout the twirl was how grateful I was for my friend—the one who’d worked so hard to help me get that score.

  “Thank you,” I said against his collar. “I wasn’t the easiest pupil, but you were an amazing tutor.”

  “Were?” Toby shook his head. “I’m not done with you, we’ve still got more than half a school year, Roar.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to—”

  “I want to.”

  I sniffed and focused on my breathing. “I know you’re Merri’s best friend, but you’re one of mine too. I want you to know I appreciate you.” Maybe it was stupid to bring her into it, and it sounded weirder and weaker than I wanted. I didn’t have her gift for words and my feelings made it harder to say what I meant—like, how to make “Thank you” convey all the sincerity and emotion I wanted to cram into those eight letters. How did I demonstrate that this “Thank you” was bigger than when he held a door for me or said “Bless you” to a sneeze?

  But maybe some of that gleamed in my eyes or glowed out of my radioactive-red skin, because he squeezed my shoulder. “Me too, Roar.”

  I blinked and blinked, but my stupid eyes wouldn’t stop glazing over.

  “So?!” Huck’s shout reached me before he skidded around the corner. “Why are you crying? Are those tears of joy or I-need-a-better-tutor?” He turned to Toby, who let go and took a step back. “No offense, man. I’m sure she’s an unruly pupil. I’ve seen the way she doodles on class notes.”

  I snuffled. “Tears of joy.”

  Huck swiped at his eyes. “Dangit, Campbell, you’re going to make me cry too.”

  “Well, she’s already got you saying ‘Dangit,’ so . . .” Toby muttered, kicking a pencil stub down the hallway.

  “On a scale of one to one hundred, how happy are we talking?” Huck thumbed to his calculator app. “What I’m really asking is, Snipes nomination, do you get to keep it?”

  I took his phone, glancing at the screen to see the rest of my quizzes and retest scores already inputted. I typed in eighty-three and handed it back over. I wasn’t going to be the one to hit equals because I didn’t ever trust math not to betray me. Huck took a deep breath and touched the screen. He exhaled and pulled me into a hug. “Clementine Campbear’s going to New York!” he hollered.

  “Um, haven’t been picked yet.” I laughed and turned to Toby to roll my eyes. Except Toby was now five feet away.

  He picked up my schoolbag and held it out. “We should get to Convocation. I bet we’re already late.”

  30

  Tuesday night I was climbing the walls. I’d tried sketching and rearranging my prints, but I couldn’t be in my room any longer—I couldn’t be in my head any longer. Not thinking about someone was way harder than thinking about him. I mean, them. Gender neutral, because I wasn’t thinking about him.

  I’d already voluntarily worked extra at the store—packing away Howl-ween costumes to make room for dog co
ats and boots. I’d done my homework. I’d done yoga. But we weren’t doing tutoring tonight because Toby’s piano teacher had invited him to dinner, and all I could think about was the fact I wouldn’t see him. Dangit.

  Lilly would’ve been a good distraction, but she was spending election night with Trent at his mom’s campaign headquarters. There’d already been photos of Lilly online from when she went to vote—seeing them had given her hives. She’d second-guessed every aspect of her outfit for tonight while I’d done her makeup, and the only thing that had gotten her out the door was my suggestion, “Trent needs you.”

  I raised a hand to knock on Merri’s door, but when I heard a massive crash from the other side, I skipped etiquette and swung it open, realizing midswing that it was possible she and Fielding were taking advantage of our parentless house and that might’ve been a make-out crash. Was that a thing? With Merri, it seemed like it could be.

  “What are you doing?” we asked at the same time. Her because I was standing in the doorway with my eyes squeezed shut, and me because I was asking if it was safe to open them.

  “Can I come in?” I clarified.

  “Sure, watch where you step.” It sounded like permission to open my eyes. No Fielding, but books everywhere. Like a library had projectile-vomited on every flat surface. “Waiting on the election results is the worst. I offered to come to headquarters, but Senator Rhodes and I decided my anxiety might feed hers.”

  I bit back a smile. Merri and the senator had the oddest friendship. Personally, I was never going to get over the time she’d caught me bored-sketching her. She’d loved the drawing—done in blue ballpoint pen because it was the only thing within reach—and it was all over her final round of ads. Every time I saw it on a poster or mailer or commercial, I wanted to pry up the carpet and hide underneath. Not that it was bad or unflattering—but my thoughts while drawing it had been. I’d been so annoyed by her need to give a long speech welcoming our family to hers and stressed by the unavoidable small talk afterward. The fact that she liked me and my art made me the worst type of awkward in all interactions.

  “Fielding suggested I find an outlet for my stress,” Merri continued. “So I’m rearranging my bookshelves by color.”

  “How were they arranged before?” I asked.

  “They weren’t.” She turned her laptop to face me and pointed to the image search on the screen. “But look at all these rainbow libraries. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  That was an aesthetic I could get behind. I bent to sort the pile closest to me. “Let’s separate the mattes from the glossies, then integrate them strategically.”

  Merri raised her hands. “You are now the boss. I bow to your superior artsy intelligence. Keep me away from the New York Times election reporting needle, and I’ll do whatever you say.”

  I waited for her to add “Don’t let this go to your head” or “For the next hour” or whatever snarky disclaimer made it clear we were only bonding within her parameters.

  “Oh,” she said, and my stomach clenched. “And can we listen to Christmas music? Fielding has a rule that we have to wait until after Thanksgiving, but that’s still two weeks away.”

  My insides shifted from nerves to bubbling laughter. Shotgun privileges in Toby’s car came with two radio buttons of my own. I’d programmed one to the all-Christmas-song station. Most days we listened to film scores, but on Friday Toby had joined me in singing along. Mariah Carey better watch out; he did a mean “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I bit my lip to keep from grinning. “As long as it’s not the Chipmunks Christmas on repeat.”

  “I was eight.” I raised an eyebrow and Merri rolled her eyes. “And fine, nine through twelve too, but it’s a quality album.”

  I laughed and waited for her to begin a non-Chipmunks playlist, then picked my way over to the books heaped on her bed. “Let’s start with whites.”

  It was eleven by the time we’d finished. I called up a streaming news channel on Merri’s laptop and we watched the camera pan over Lilly’s tear-streaked face. “Happy tears or sad tears?” Merri demanded. “HAPPY TEARS OR SAD?”

  “Indoor voice,” I said. “And, newsflash, Lilly can’t hear you. But, look—” I pointed to the scrolling banner: Senator Rhodes wins in landslide election. The two of us sank down on the bed, arms tired from lifting and bones weak with relief.

  “I’m so proud of her and the voters. Really of our whole state.” Merri was now the one crying happy tears. “I know I’m ridiculous since I can’t even vote—”

  I cut her off. “You’re not ridiculous. Don’t call yourself that.” I hated when she bought into what others said. It was easy for people to focus on her size and smile and enthusiasm and miss the brain behind them. “You worked hard on that campaign, you should be proud.”

  “They’re still using your drawing.” Merri pointed to the graphic on a screen behind the podium as balloons and confetti fell. Then she started to boo. For a second I was insulted until I read the new information scrolling across the screen. Despite fifteen-point margins, Stratford refuses to concede the election and demands a recount. “I’m so happy he lost. And so, so happy for the senator.”

  She stood and jumped on the bed, making me bounce. “Plus, look at these bookshelves. Rory, they’re gorgeous! Thank you, thank you!” She punctuated each word with a jump until I groaned and rolled onto the floor mumbling, “Remember the teacups.”

  Merri stilled. “You’re not actually going to get sick, are you?”

  “Maybe?” From my spot on her rag rug, I saw a book we’d missed wedged beneath the shelf. I pulled it out and snorted. Her copy had a red cover but was as thick as the yellow one in my room. “Have you read this?”

  “Little Women!” Merri squealed in a pitch that made Gatsby howl downstairs. “That was my favorite book when I was ten.” Ten, as in half a decade younger than I was. As in the age when she still believed in Santa and slept with a night-light. I was reading a Santa-believer’s book. “Didn’t you love it? Ugh, I’m never forgiving Amy for that burnt manuscript. And Demi is the cutest. And Beth! How hard did you cry over Beth?”

  “Um, I’m on page ten.”

  “Oh. Whoops. Well, you will. You’re not completely heartless.”

  “Thanks.” Merri either didn’t hear or chose to ignore my sarcasm. “Ms. Gregoire assigned it to me for extra credit.”

  “She did?” Merri’s jaw dropped. “You know what that means, right? She picks you a book and it changes everything.”

  I’d heard this before. Merri loved Ms. Gregoire. If she could give her credit for solar power and sliced bread she would. But then again . . . the book had burned me. I still couldn’t touch it without tingles.

  “Don’t roll your eyes!” Merri pointed a finger in my face. “Fielding and I wouldn’t have happened without Pride and Prejudice. And Trent totally implied he and Lilly were the result of a Gregoirean book pairing. He won’t tell me which book though.”

  I raised an eyebrow, because Lilly hadn’t gone to Hero High and hadn’t met Trent until college. Right? I was going to join my sister in nudging for that story. “Well, I got Little Women—so what’s that mean?”

  Merri chewed her bottom lip. “It depends. That book is the original sorting hat. Only instead of a Hogwarts house you get a girl. I’m a Jo, obviously. Lilly’s a Meg. Eliza refuses to be any of them. She’s probably an Aunt March if we’re honest. You’re an Amy—tell me you know you’re an Amy.”

  I glowered at her. In ten seconds, she’d summarized the reaction paper I’d spent two hours drafting. One I’d thought was so original and clever. “Yes, I know I’m an Amy.”

  Merri glanced over her shoulder and out her balcony doors. I followed her gaze because I’d take any excuse to look at Toby’s room. It was lit up bright, but his balcony doors were shut. Merri rubbed her hands together in glee. “I’ve got a hunch, but I cannot wait to see how this plays out.”

  31

  On the Wednesday of Thanksgiving break, Tren
t drove me home after work, teasing, “You might be the only teenager I know who isn’t glued to their phone.”

  “Do you spend lots of time with teens who aren’t me and Merri?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “Just you two and my cousin, Quinn, who’ll be a Hero High freshman next year.”

  I nodded and leaned against the seat. Nodded again when he suggested, “True crime podcast? Funny one?”

  I knew there were texts waiting on my cell—Clara requesting my schedule for the next couple of days so she could make plans; Huck’s comedic and desperate updates from his eight-hour car trip; a picture from Byron of his latest drawing with a note: Something’s not working. What? But I was too exhausted to respond to any of them. The store had been packed since Dad unlocked the door this morning, and everyone had been chatty. I was in introvert overload long before my shift ended at three. Trent’s podcast was background noise I could ignore, not even curious why the words I caught included: “blood spatter,” “anxiety,” “vintage housedresses,” and “cats.”

  “Hey, sleeping beauty—oh wait! I take that back. I just meant . . . because you were asleep. I wasn’t making a joke about your name. Lilly says you hate that.”

  I cracked open my eyes to see Trent frowning. “Forgiven.” I yawned. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem. But actually—can you do me a favor?” He got out, then opened the door behind his and picked up an enormous vase of lilies. They were pure white in their centers and on the tip of each petal, but in between they were a purple so dark it resembled black. I wanted to draw one immediately. “Can you put this in Lillian’s room?”

  “If I can carry it?” I looked dubiously at the fancy vase—was it crystal? How big a deal would it be if I dropped it? “Did you buy every lily they had in the store?”