Lilly blushed and turned toward her room. “If you finish early, come join me and Elf.”
Merri and I exchanged glances. We might have to tag team Trent tomorrow.
Trenton Rhodes had an impressive poker face. Merri had spent the whole morning suggesting books at him and he had not so much as twitched an eyebrow. That was the deal he had made when he arrived to accompany us to church—that if Merri guessed the book Ms. Gregoire had assigned him back in his Hero High days, he would confirm it.
“Anything by Shakespeare?” I asked when Merri paused to sip cocoa.
Trent wagged a finger and laughed. “That’s cheating, Aurora.”
“Othello, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Hamlet,” rattled off Merri after she’d swallowed.
“Those are all tragedies.” Trent laughed. “Is that how you picture my relationship with Lilly?”
“Don’t answer that,” interjected my oldest sister. “And get your coats on, or we’ll be late. I do not want to have to stand.”
Trent had driven a fancy two-seater to our house that morning. Merri swore he’d done it on purpose, even after I pointed out he hadn’t known he’d be facing a literary inquisition. She just huffed and googled lists of books on her phone. During the turn-and-greet-each-other portion, I heard her whisper (in her whisper-fail voice), “Dante’s Inferno, Frankenstein, Lord of the Flies, Dracula, Antigone.”
He laughed and shook both his head and her hand. When it was my turn, I said, “Merry Christmas?”
He gave me a hug. “You get as many law school sweatshirts as you want.”
Halfway through brunch, Mom shut her down. “Enough, Merrilee. Some of us would enjoy a conversation that doesn’t sound like a library list.”
During presents when Trent pulled out gorgeously wrapped packages from his family, Merri inspected hers. “If they’re books, are they the book?”
Trent shrugged. “I had nothing to do with the purchasing of these gifts. I’m just the messenger.”
Merri’s were autobiographies by politicians. Included was an early copy of the senator’s upcoming book. I’m not sure what was written inside the cover, but it made Merri’s eyes well and she threw her arms around a very startled Trent. “That hug’s for your mom. You just get to pass it along.”
My present was a truly amazing pair of boots. The note read:
Merry Christmas, Aurora!
Every New Yorker needs a fabulous pair of black shoes. We know you’re going to take the city by storm. And if you need anything, call Senator Delgado. I’ve passed along your name and enclosed his number below. Have fun, be safe.
The postscript below Senator Rhodes’s signature took my breath away.
Let’s talk about me commissioning a piece of art for my D.C. office when you get home—your painting of Lillian and Trenton was exquisite.
I folded the note and stuck it in the left boot. I’d have to rearrange the contents of my suitcase to make them fit, because there was no way I was leaving them behind—not with how Merri was already eyeing them.
When Lilly and Trent left to go have dinner with his parents, Merri pulled out her phone. Dad held out his hand. “You are not text-hassling them.”
She sighed and put it away. “How are we supposed to have board game night if Lilly isn’t even here?” Her protests were cut off by her pocket starting to ring. She beamed at the screen, so I knew it was Fielding even before she answered with “Did you read it? And Merry Christmas. Now tell me what you think!” while slipping up the stairs to her room.
“And then there was one,” said Mom, smiling at me. “I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow for a whole week.”
I gave her a weak smile and began to collect the scattered wrapping paper and ribbons. The closer we got to the trip, the more nervous I was. What if the other artists didn’t like me? What if Andrea Snipes didn’t? “I should probably finish packing.”
Dad took the pile of paper from my hands and kissed my head. He went to stand by Mom, slipping an arm around her waist. “And then there were none.”
47
I’d lied to my parents. I was packed. The only things I needed to add to my duffel bag were my new boots and a toothbrush. But I didn’t want to be the only one downstairs while Merri and Lilly were off being in love.
Some Christmases Toby stopped by. When we were little, it was so he could show off new toys. He and Merri would race remote-control cars around the family room or he and I would play new board games at the table. This year I knew he wouldn’t. Or if he did, it wouldn’t be a good thing. Major May had invited his girlfriend to join them for dinner. I’d been shooting glances at his house all day. Right now, I turned to my fishbowl and addressed Klee Five and Ariel Eight. “Do you think introductions are going well? I mean, how could anyone not love Toby?”
I’d certainly tried, and I’d failed miserably. I took out my phone half a dozen times to text him for an update, but he’d picked Merri last night. I didn’t know what he’d brought her over to his room to talk about—some reprisal of his earlier declaration? It clearly hadn’t worked, since Merri was currently gushing to Fielding.
My fish blew bubbles in response and I sighed and flopped onto my bed, landing on the hard corners of the book I’d fallen asleep reading last night. I flipped it open.
Beth falls ill with scarlet fever and Amy is sent away. Laurie is the one who comes to visit Amy every day when she’s scared and lonely. But his chapters with her are boring compared to his chapters with Jo. With Jo, he’s pranks and scamps and mischief. With Amy, he tries not to laugh at her and falls asleep.
I tried to steer my thoughts differently, but my eyes watered and my throat itched. Merri was rooftops and balconies and dressing up for movie nights. I was front doors and tutoring and talking.
I read until it was Christmas again—in the book. In real life it was only eight o’clock. Dad was probably making a leftovers sandwich, and since I hadn’t heard her bedroom door open, Merri was probably tethered to the wall, charging her phone while continuing her conversation. I kept reading until the end of the first volume. The last scene was supposed to be one that made the reader sigh with contentment and feel like things had been wrapped up neatly, happily. It made me grit my teeth and grab a sketch pad.
I drew the scene as described, Mr. and Mrs. March coupled up, happy he’s home from war. Meg and Laurie’s tutor, John, newly engaged and all shy smiles. Beth, who’d sorta recovered from being sick, lying on the couch and talking with Laurie’s curmudgeonly grandfather. Jo sitting in a chair with Laurie leaning on the back as the two of them chatted.
Amy . . . she was by herself. The only character in the scene who was flying solo. But she—like me—had her sketch pad for company, and I guess that was supposed to be good enough.
I smudged in shadows between the family and Amy, creating an actual dark barrier that separated her from their domestic bliss. Dramatic? Sure. But it was how I was responding, and Ms. Gregoire had asked for response art. I snapped a picture and attached it to an email, typing up the requisite paragraph with hasty fingers: Amy’s sent away while Beth’s near dying and the only one who seems to care is Laurie. But his compassion feels like pity, the sort of pity you give the neighborhood kid who has no friends so you stop and listen to his stupid knock-knock jokes or watch his stupid magic tricks, when all you want to do is leave.
I knew I needed a final beat of personal reaction—something that aligned my own feelings with those of a character. But they were knotted so tightly in my chest that if I exposed them on paper, it felt like I’d bleed to death from vulnerability.
I hit send and turned the page.
Three years could skip in an instant in a book; I wished the same were true in real life. If so, I’d almost be done with high school. Lilly would be past her wedding panic and finishing up law school. And Merri and Toby—I didn’t know where they’d be for college or in their friendship, but it wouldn’t be in front of my face anymore.
The three years in the book weren’
t as satisfying as I’d hoped. Laurie tells Jo she’ll be the next one married and agrees with his grandfather that he should marry one of the March sisters. Then he goes off to school. Amy tries different types of art and fails—I’m sure it was supposed to be comic relief, but it didn’t feel funny the night before I left on my own art adventure.
Clara called from her dad’s as I reached chapter twenty-nine—we were opposites this week. She was leaving the city as I was arriving. Her voice was a much-needed break from Alcott’s, her words an even more needed pep talk.
“All I ask is that you don’t let some fancy New York art school recruit you. I mean, if it’s truly better for you in the long run, I’ll act selfless and say I’m happy for you, but I need you at Hero High. Who else is going to doodle on my notes or laugh at my jokes? Because I know I’m not funny.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I promise.”
“So I can throw away these New York school brochures I’ve been collecting?”
“Yes!” I laughed. “I’m staying at Hero High.” The statement didn’t make my stomach turn like it once would’ve.
“Good!” She exhaled loudly. “Then I should get back to my dad. Have a fun week. We’ll talk soon.”
I went downstairs to say my good nights before I climbed back in bed and reopened the book. I cringed as Amy experienced her own version of Isn’t that your sister? when she and Jo went on social calls. Clearly Alcott wanted the reader to sympathize with Jo for rejecting superficial social rules, but my heart went out to Amy, because Jo doing her own thing was humiliating to her sister. One good thing did come of it though—Jo’s careless remarks to her aunts meant they picked Amy to accompany them to Europe . . . where she’d get to study art. I glanced at my own bags stacked by the door and at the time stamp on my phone. Which was more important—sleep or a heads-up on Amy’s adventures?
I fell asleep on the book as Amy hugged Laurie. He is the one who lingers longest at goodbyes and he promises he’ll come to her if anything bad happens. In my dreams, it was Toby and my dad waving goodbye, not Laurie and Mr. March. They were standing at a train station, not a boat dock, and I waved out the window feeling an oil-and-vinegar mixture of love and apprehension. It was the type of dream that clung like a memory when I woke the next morning. I’d planned to leave the book behind, but I shoved it in my bag instead.
48
I rode in Toby’s car every school day morning, but on December 26, we weren’t driving to Hero High, so I felt awkward perched on his leather seat. And I sounded like someone’s stiff great aunt when I asked, “How was your Christmas?”
“Fine. Dad’s girlfriend, Monica, is actually pretty cool. She’s funny. I don’t think he gets half of her jokes, which I found hilarious. Yours?”
“Fine. Quiet.” Which made me nostalgic for those remote-control car days of him being the fourth person jumping around in the wreckage of toy boxes and wrapping paper. “Mom and Dad and everyone missed you. I’m not sure how they roped you into it, but thanks for taking me to the train.”
“I volunteered.” Toby took a sip from his travel mug. “I figured it was an all-hands-on-deck retail day.”
I shook my head. “Only Dad’s at the store.” He’d kissed me goodbye and reminded me to call or text at least four times a day. Mom had given me a written list of rules that made me wonder why she was letting me go if she thought I needed to be reminded: Don’t wander off from the group. Don’t get in cars with strangers. Don’t go down dark alleys. Remember you have asthma; stay away from smokers and subway steam. I wasn’t even sure that last one was a thing. I kicked the bag where I’d buried the list. “Lilly has a dress fitting, so Mom and Merri are with her. Then they’re going bridesmaids shoe shopping.”
Toby frowned. “Without you? Aren’t you a bridesmaid?”
“Come on.” I slumped down in my seat, angry he was going to make me own this rejection. “You’ve met my sisters—the fabulous Campbell duo! Are you even surprised?”
“Do they know you’re upset?” Toby asked. “Because when you shrug and get snarky, it’s hard to tell if you care.”
I winced, because that felt a lot like blame and I was sick of being the bad guy in our trio. A week ago we’d been all rahrah Team Campbell Sisters, but this morning Lilly had said, “Since you hate shopping, I figured I’d save you the ordeal.”
But it wasn’t an ordeal. I would’ve wobbled in as many heels as she wanted. Instead I’d said, “Don’t do the dyed-to-match thing; it’s tacky.”
Fine. Toby was right. But if he wanted me to be honest, then I’d start with him.
“You hurt me. Christmas Eve, when you blew off our plans to do stuff with Merri.” I curled my arms around the tote bag in my lap.
He was silent for a block, then two. “Sorry. I thought we’d hang out after. Then the story thing happened—I thought it was better if I got out of the way so you two could fix things.”
I sighed. “It probably was.” But that didn’t change the fact he’d prioritized her over me, or that I was the one whose plans were canceled.
“Have I told you I think this trip is brave?” He changed the topic with a flick of his blinker.
I slumped deeper into my coat, not wanting the focus on me when I was still simmering in so many hurts. “You could do something similar. I’m sure there are composer camps.”
He snorted. “Now, where have I heard that before? Let’s see . . . your sister.”
“No.” I kicked at the floor and hardened my voice. “This is not the same. Merri bullies and teases you to take your music more seriously. I’m not doing that. There’s no point.”
“I’m pointless?” He snorted. “Thanks.”
“Not what I’m saying. Just—the arts are hard. No one is going to hand you success. If you want it—if you really want it and want to work for it—the only thing holding you back is you. I know your dad’s not supportive, but he’s not actively stopping you. Maybe if you took your music seriously, he would too.”
“You think I could?” We’d braked at a stop sign for much longer than two seconds, but I let the moment stretch—his brown eyes searching mine to read the sincerity behind my words.
I turned my whole body toward him. “You have the talent, but do you want to?”
He looked away and began to drive. “I don’t know.”
I touched his arm, and we both jumped like it was a bee sting. “That’s a good place to start.”
Toby cleared his throat. “I’m surprised Huck didn’t come along to say goodbye.” He addressed his words to the windshield. They felt as icy as the frost at its edges. “Or is he meeting you at the station or something?”
I clicked the top on and off my lip balm. “He’s going to New York with his brother later in the week. I’ll see him then.”
“Oh. Right.”
My lip balm slipped from my fingers, but it lived on the floor of his car now, because there was no way I was picking it up until I figured out why Toby’s face suddenly looked like he wanted to punch someone. I didn’t want to hope. After the Christmas Eve brush-off it would be safer for me to jump from this moving vehicle than it would be for me to allow my heart to lie and say there might be jealous subtext behind his gruffness.
“I know what my mom keeps saying, but Huck and I . . . we’re not dating.”
“But you could be?”
I shook my head. “It’s not like that with us.”
He pulled over and slammed the car into park. His eyes blazed, but his voice was gentle. “Like it’s not like that with us? We’ve been ‘not like that’ for a long time. But . . .”
I prayed for him to finish that sentence, to share whatever was hanging on the end of his sigh. I wanted to tell him the truth, confess all the things I’d refused to put in my Gatsby papers and pry out my feelings like splinters that had burrowed so deep beneath my skin.
He studied me with the same intensity as in our childhood staring contests, but the heat behind his eyes felt tot
ally different. My breathing had gone shallow and my mouth dry. A train blasted by, shaking the car and making me jump and realize we were at the station.
“Were you drawing last night?” Toby asked. “You’ve got a smudge of charcoal—” He didn’t point or indicate where on his own head. Instead his fingers traced along my temple and I shut my eyes at the electricity in his touch. His hand danced down my cheekbones, pausing to slide my hair back before gliding his thumb along my jawline. If my breathing was shallow before, it had gone nonexistent now.
I shivered when his left hand joined the right, cupping my face, two thumbs gently lifting my chin, and in the moment before I dared to open my eyes or guess what his expression would be like, his breath ghosted over my lips—followed immediately by the shock of his mouth against mine.
You know those moments in comic books where the heroes first receive their powers and their bodies literally glow from the transformation? I felt like that. Like every cell in my body was waking up in flashes of lightning and glory. My skin sparked where he was touching my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, his fingers caressing my face and sliding into my hair. This was everything I wanted in a kiss. In a guy. And the urge to lean in, to get closer by kneeling on the seat or straddling the center console was overwhelming. My hands itched by my sides, fighting the need to grip his coat, touch his face, grasp his shoulders. But Christmas Eve had confirmed it: I was his second choice. His standby because my sister was taken. My eyes were already filling when I raised my hands—not to pull him closer but to push him away. “Stop!”
“Roar.” Toby jerked his hand off my neck immediately and ran it through his hair, looking up at the ceiling instead of at me—but at least he was saying my name, not hers. “I thought—”
“I’m not the one you want to be kissing.”
“No.” He groaned. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. And it’s not fair. I ha-hate that you did that to me.” And I hated that my voice had broken and my lip was quivering. “Merri’s the one you write songs about.”
The Boy Next Story Page 27
