“How dare they ask me? When they didn’t see how brilliant my piece was?
“Like I have time for this kind of thing when I have real work to do…
“I should do it, for once they’d actually have a judge who knows something about literature…”
They of course didn’t ask him to judge this year, since I’d be eligible to participate. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to win or lose until the day before term started. We were at dinner somewhere in the Village and I was happy to be out of the apartment. Sometime between the salad and the soup, he looked me right in the eye and said, “You have to win it, Rex.”
No pressure or anything.
So now here I am, the night before the first day of classes when most people are out enjoying the last bit of freedom, staring at my computer screen as the minutes tick by. The school promised an update “sometime this evening,” and I can only hope the topic will be less frustratingly vague than that.
I jot ideas down in a notebook, somehow my interaction with Zara becoming the outline for a story through my quick pen strokes. I glance up every now and then, not allowing myself to get completely sucked in the way I usually do when I’m drafting.
Finally, finally, an email pops up in my inbox. My hand is shaking a little as I click it open.
I stare at the screen and blink once, then twice, then full on rub my eyes like a cartoon character.
When I open them again, nothing has changed.
This year’s Navarre Prize will be awarded to a team of at least three, who will submit a project based on the retelling of one of the following works of classic literature…
A team?
What. The. Actual. Hell.
This has never happened before. In the nearly sixty years this prize has been going on, it’s always been awarded to a single person. Otherwise, what’s the point? The best writers work alone, without distraction. This school is fifty miles away from where Thoreau freaking built a cabin in the woods to escape the world and write.
If you’d like a more modern example, just look at my dad. When he’s deep into a project, he spends hours in his study, emerging only to eat. It was the reason my mom left him after his third novel hit the bestseller list. Genius can’t afford distractions like love and family.
This is a nightmare.
I storm out of my room and run smack into Bronx, with Reggie right behind.
“What is this crap?” I yell, and several heads in the hallway turn to look. I give them a glare and they run scurrying to their rooms.
“I guess you saw it already?” says Bronx, his face uncharacteristically somber.
I usher them both into my room, not eager to have this discussion out in the hall. I don’t need a Knight Watch post about how moody my no-girls rule is making me or something just as ridiculous.
“This is completely unfair,” I say, the urge to smash something growing by the minute. “Why would they change it? This year, of all years?”
Reggie, ever helpful, holds up a finger. “Maybe they’re worried about how divisive the school has gotten lately. I heard the teachers grumbling about the Snub Club the other day.”
I roll my eyes and flop onto my bed. “Like they weren’t a part of it back in the day.”
“I think it could be fun,” says Bronx from his perch on the corner of my desk. “Maybe I’ll ask the fair Rosalie if she’d like to be in my group.”
“No, this changes nothing about the vow,” I say, sitting up to glare at the two of them. I hadn’t gotten far enough past my anger to start strategizing, but I knew the one direction this absolutely couldn’t take. “Obviously the three of us will form a group. No one else.”
“Oh, come on, not even—”
“No.” I silence him with a wave of my hand. “Don’t even say it. It’ll be the three of us, just like it was for finals last year, and the year before that.”
“We do make a good team,” says Reggie. “Especially with you in the lead.”
“I’d rather have him lead us to a party,” grumbles Bronx. “I’ve already heard talk of two this weekend and had to tell people no.”
I can feel Bronx slipping away. He needs this, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. To be the only senior without college plans yet is stressing him out, and he’s just retreating into his bad habits. Just like I did at lunch, I need to regain control of the situation. Show them how it benefits them to stick with my plan.
“Guys, you know whatever I write will be great, and I’ll totally ask your input.” And promptly ignore it, of course. “This will be good. You’ll get a chance to win the prize, too.” They hadn’t had that chance before, surely they’d be excited about the prospect?
They both just shrug, however, and my hands clench at my sides. I take a deep calming breath and let it out slowly before speaking again.
“Come on, this is great. A shot at the biggest prize at school while doing only a third of the work?” Or more like none of it.
Reggie starts to nod, slowly, a grin spreading across his face. But Bronx still has his arms crossed as he leans against my desk. “It’ll go on your transcripts,” I say, knowing how many schools he’s still waiting to hear from. “Colleges like that.”
He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling.
“The girls will love it. Who wouldn’t want to be with the winner of the Navarre Prize?”
With that, a grin spreads across his face and I know I have him. Relief floods into my veins, pushing out the fear and anger that has been steadily building since I read the email.
“Great. Let’s get started.”
Chapter Six
Zara
I’m just leaving my second full day of classes when my phone buzzes. A teacher glances at me, and I duck into an alcove in the hallway. The rules laid out during our first visit were clear that they were to be kept in our rooms during class, but since classes are technically over for the day, she can’t say anything. I wonder briefly if getting kicked out of this school would mean I could go home right away, or if I’d be sent somewhere worse instead.
It’s my sister Ines, calling via video, so I slip in my earbuds to take the call.
“Did you call to gloat?” I say in French, and she clicks her tongue.
“Now, now, little sister, this is entirely your own fault,” she says in an English accent so perfect I want to scream. I scrunch into the alcove further to let the mass of students rush past. They all seem much too eager to get to the dining hall, considering what it has to offer. “If you’d only paid more attention to Ms. Smith last year, you’d be able to go with me to the opening of Ambroise’s show tonight.”
Her mention of our older brother sends a ripple of pain through my chest. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep the tears at bay. I miss my family so much, and it’s only been a few days. There’s no way I’ll survive an entire semester.
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly. I look around the hallway, but everyone seems more interested in their own affairs. “Ms. Smith was a terrible teacher.”
She shakes her head, every bit the imperious older sister. “Daddy did get you a tutor.”
“Who just stared at my chest the entire time, non merci.” I shiver. A first-year university student, he was more interested in me and what my family could do for his career than actually helping me improve my English.
“I’m sure the boys there are already staring.”
I choke back a laugh. “Yeah, at how much I stick out.” It had been another painful day in classes, always going over my words twice in my head before saying them. And I could practically feel everyone smirking at my hesitations.
“Half the fun of studying abroad is the boys,” she says, and I try not to roll my eyes. Maybe for her, with her raven locks and tiny nose. I’m a giant, gangly baby giraffe next to her, all freckles and sandy hair and large extremities.
“I’m not here to meet boys, I’m here to perfect la langue anglaise.” I imitate our mother’s voice at the end.
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“So find une langue anglaise to practice with,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“What are you, ten?” I say, scowling. But inside, I’m half laughing, half seething at her quick play on words. I’d of course been talking about “the English language” but she meant I should practice with “an English tongue.” She’s always been good at jokes like that. “Besides, there’s no one even sort of interesting here.”
And even if they were, I remind myself, I’m going back to France in a few months anyway, no matter what.
“That’s not what Rosalie’s posts say.” My sister raises her eyebrows.
“What’s she’s been saying?” I don’t do much on social media, preferring to keep my private life, well, private. Besides my family and actual friends, who else do I really need to know about?
“That the guys are incredible. And you’ve already met a king.”
“You mean Rex?” Great, now we’ve moved on to jokes in Latin. I’ll never be able to keep up. “He’s just some pompous jerk, who thinks he’s going to win this literary prize the whole school is obsessed with.”
“So you’re going to win it instead?”
“Of course,” I say with a smile that hides just how uncertain I am about it. I haven’t talked to Rosalie or Maria about it yet. But the email said a group of three. I’m beyond thrilled it’s a group project, and I’ll get to team up with my friends. I’d never consider working with anyone else.
Speaking of my friends, they suddenly appear in front of my alcove, relief etched in their faces. Relief floods through me. I hadn’t realized how alone I’d really felt all afternoon. I still find it improbable that it wasn’t possible for us to have any classes together.
“Thank goodness,” Maria says in French, smoothing back her hair. “We thought you’d run away.”
“Where would I run to?” I sigh. This place is in the middle of nowhere. I’m used to the endless fields and tiny towns of rural France, but at least there you always have a café open.
“Who’s there? The boys?” Rosalie’s eyes perk up at the words Ines has said loud enough to be heard through my earbuds. I take them out and the girls crowd around me to wave at Ines.
“No boys allowed, according to the princess.” Rosalie giggles, using a family nickname I very much thought had been left behind in France. “We need to win this silly literature prize.”
My heart swells. I didn’t even have to ask them, but of course it’s already a “we.”
“What’s the topic?” Ines asks. Rosalie goes into the details, ever the prepared one. Without her I probably would have forgotten to pack a winter coat. I know this area gets a lot of snow, but I had no idea New England could be so bleak.
Ines has her most serious look on her face, and I swallow down my unease. To hear Rosalie ramble on and the questions Ines is asking, maybe this competition will be harder than I realized. Am I setting myself up for even more failure? And this time, a public one. Reading whatever we write in front of the whole school sounds like the opposite of fun right now.
But staying any longer than I have to at Shelfbrooke sounds even worse.
Chapter Seven
Rex
I’m trying to write, but it’s hopeless. Having a private room is one of the perks I have here, one that I don’t mind my dad requesting. I need the space to write uninterrupted, and he gets that. He’s the only one that does.
However, tonight I wish I had someone to complain to. This is not how I pictured starting work on the Navarre Prize. Not only do I need to figure out how to do a novel retelling in two months, I need to make it look like Bronx and Reggie helped. There’s no way they can actually help, obviously. I’ve already laid out a set of group meetings, so that we’ll be seen talking about it around campus, but they never had any intention of entering this thing. Just like they never had any intention of actually following the no-girls rule, if yesterday’s library disaster is any indication. It’s been nothing but distractions all week and now that my schoolwork is finally done and I can concentrate on writing, nothing is coming out.
I stare at the blank screen of my computer—all my ideas sound totally dumb. I spend ten minutes just typing those exact words “this is dumb” to see if something sparks, but it’s a no go.
As much as I hate to leave my desk, I need some fresh air. I grab a notebook and room key and head to the gardens. They should be mostly deserted this time of evening, given it’s the middle of January and only slightly above freezing. I don’t mind the cold, however, hoping the empty rows of leafless trees will spark something.
I manage to avoid seeing anyone in the halls, and for that I’m grateful. With the way my mind is spinning in circles, it would only take a few seconds of idle chatter to distract me. Though the thought of running into Zara doesn’t seem to irritate me as much…
No. I shut that line of thinking down almost as soon as it pops up.
Of course, barely two feet away from the doors to the gardens, I run into Mr. Marcade, the English teacher. I spent all day trying to catch him in between classes to complain about the new rules, but he’d been suspiciously busy. To see him now, when I’m totally unprepared and have mostly resigned myself to my fate, leaves me flustered.
“Ah, Mr. Navarre,” he says, his hands behind his back. “Going somewhere? It’s nearly curfew.”
“Just to the gardens,” I say. I wait to see if he’ll bring up the contest first. When he just stands there smiling knowingly at me, I heave as tortured a sigh as I can manage and decide to break the ice. “I need to work on ideas for the Navarre Prize.”
“Without your teammates?” The quirk of his lips into a smile is infuriating.
“We’re working on ideas separately and will come together tomorrow to decide,” I lie, having no intention of asking their opinion. Mr. Marcade’s smile widens, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“You know, Rex, collaboration is an important skill for writers to learn.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The Navarre Prize isn’t about collaboration, it’s about being the best.
“I’m not sure my father would agree,” I say, knowing that the reminder of his name and our money won’t change anything at this point, but I need to say something about this. He can’t think I’m okay with this.
“Your father sounded very approving of the change.”
I drop my notebook and quickly duck to grab it, needing a moment to wipe the shock off of my face.
“He knew about the change?” And he didn’t tell me? I’m aching to get back to my room, to call him, even if it’s peak writing time for him; before eight and after eight. This is an emergency.
“He knows that it takes a team to get a book out into the world,” he says. How much has he been talking to my father lately? “Between the agent and the editor and the designers…It’s never just the author that’s involved.”
“But he writes it,” I say, irritated. Of course I know all the people my father works with. I’ve been introduced to them countless times, their own expectations for me weighing nearly as heavy as his. “The words are all his.”
“And is it the words that are the most important?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
Mr. Marcade tilts his head, his eyes suddenly softer.
“One of the reasons for the change is that the committee realized how much it was asking of students to focus on such a large task instead of their other schoolwork. Having collaborators should make the balance better between writing and your other…activities.”
I wonder if he’s heard about my no-girls rule. If I can figure out a balance, if I’m willing to make the sacrifice, then it’s not my fault if others haven’t.
“That’s very generous of the committee to lower their standards.”
Mr. Marcade closes his eyes and sighs.
“Rex, Shelfbrooke is about more than this prize. You have eight other classes besides English, and your grades need to be good in all of them
to graduate.”
“My grades are fine.” I’d reminded Bronx about colleges checking up on grades, I didn’t need Mr. Marcade to do the same for me.
“What about French?”
I make a face. “What about it? Pretty sure I’m writing in English, not French.”
Another sigh from Mr. Marcade. “A well-rounded education is part of why Shelfbrooke maintains its reputation.”
He’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite figure it out. Why bring up French? Why bring up my grades?
“What does this have to do with the Navarre Prize?” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too unsteady.
“Nothing,” he says, then fixes me with a penetrating stare. “Yet.”
I swallow, hard.
“For now, just please make sure your final names of those in your group are submitted by Friday.”
I nod and watch him walk down the hall. Writing won’t be happening tonight, not with the knot that’s suddenly formed in my stomach. Whatever other surprise the committee has in store probably isn’t going to be one that helps me.
Chapter Eight
Rex
I don’t have to wait long to find out just what Mr. Marcade and the committee have in mind.
French class has never been my favorite, and I’ve managed to schedule it so that I have it at the very end of the week. But it still ends up being my first class of the morning on Thursday. And according to the whiteboard in front, Madame Dupuis prepared a pop quiz to see how much we practiced over break.
Big surprise, I am not prepared.
Nor am I prepared for Zara to be sitting in my chair. The quick notes I jotted down after first seeing her and her friends eventually turned into a short story about actual angels, and I wrote nearly fifteen pages before I realized that it was useless. That it wasn’t the kind of story my father, or the Navarre Committee, wants to see. It’s now safely printed out and filed away in my secret sci-fi/fantasy folder in the very back of my closet, where I keep all the things that are just distracting me from my real goals.
Love Lessons Page 3
