But is helping her with the Navarre Prize really the direction I want to go?
I run my hand along the spines of the books in the very large Shakespeare section. There are a few gaps and my pulse picks up a bit. How many people are participating this year because of the new rules? I definitely don’t want to give Zara any more ammunition.
But my finger falls on the word “Paris” and I stop to pull out the book. I leaf through it quickly. It’s about how Shakespeare was introduced into French culture, and while it looks super boring, I get the feeling she might like it. She may have even read it already. She seems to know everything there is to know about France and the French language.
Today’s random French fact was that it’s the only language besides English to be spoken on all five continents. When I told her there were seven continents, she just rolled her eyes and muttered, “yet another thing Americans get wrong.” Or at least, I think that what she’d said. I’m getting better at French, sure, but when she goes off on her rants, it’s hard to understand. Still, there’s something very adorable about her insisting how great France is, compared to America.
I’m still holding the book when Bronx and Reggie appear at the end of the aisle.
“Are we still meeting?” asks Bronx, and I quickly drop my hand, so they don’t see what I’m holding. But Reggie spies it anyway.
“Is that for our competition piece?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to set it in France?”
I shake my head, and put the book back on the shelf, taking note of the call number. “Just something to pass the time while I was waiting for you guys. So, what are your ideas?”
We need to submit the final outline by the end of the week, and so far all I’ve gotten them to agree on is what book to retell. They don’t seem to like any of my ideas about what to do with it. We’ve been going back and forth for days and the only thing I’ve convinced them of is not to have it be about hot dogs in space.
I highly doubt their ideas will be much better today.
“We want to do the sonnets,” announces Bronx, pulling my attention back to the present.
“That’s not what we agreed last week,” I say, and start to walk out of the library. This is not a conversation I want to have in whispers. I make my way back to my room, and I don’t even look back to see if they’re following. They’re always following. Why would they pick now to decide to try to lead?
I get to my room and as soon as they’re inside, I slam the door.
“Why would we do the sonnets?” I say, crossing my arms. The two of them exchange glances, trying to decide who will be the one to speak up first. Bronx leans against the dresser while Reggie takes his usual spot on my bed.
“It just seems easier to adapt, you know?” Bronx says.
Reggie nods enthusiastically. “We can update the language, pick modern settings, make them more about Shelfbrooke. The judges will love it.”
“And you know what the judges want?” I laugh, short and hard. “Who’s been reading all of the entries since freshman year? Who’s been preparing for this for years? I think if anyone knows what the judges want, it’s me.”
They both look down, chastised, and I feel like a royal jerk. Wasn’t I the one who asked them to take the competition seriously? I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, but you guys know how important this is to me. Can’t you please just go along with me like you always do and not make this so hard for everyone?”
They exchange another glance, but this one I can’t read.
“Sure, Rex,” says Bronx, and comes to put his hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you need. We’re here for you.”
Chapter Eleven
Zara
“So how are things going?” Ines asks on a rainy Tuesday, a few weeks after our last conversation. At least she has the decency to call after classes were over and I’m safely back in my room.
All I can do is shrug. I pick at a loose thread on my blanket. Rosalie and Maria aren’t back from class yet.
“How’s the tutoring going?”
I whip my head up. “Who told you about that?”
“Rosalie posted something about the tutoring y’all are doing.”
I blink. “Did you just say ‘y’all?’”
She ignores my question. “So, you’re the royal tutor?”
“She did not post that.” My eyes go wide with panic. This is exactly why I hate social media. Who knows what’s being written about you behind your back?
“No, that last part wasn’t online,” says Ines. I breathe a sigh of relief. Of course Rosalie wouldn’t do that to me. “But she did send me a message.”
The traitor!
“She said you don’t think you can do it.” Ines raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think you speak French well enough to tutor someone?”
I flushed. “It was maman’s idea. Since you did it in England at your school.”
“Yes, but I wanted to be a teacher,” says Ines. Now she wants to be an actress, but who knows how long that will last. She could decide tomorrow to be an acrobat and my parents would find it charming and front the money for private lessons. Yet I asked for one summer class in circus performing when I was seven, and they practically threatened to disown me.
“Why is she making you do it?” Ines asks. “Do you want to be a teacher?”
Because our parents want me to be just like you, I want to say. Ines knows this, doesn’t she?
Instead of saying anything, I shrug again.
“Well, I assure you, you know French better than anyone else there,” she says, making it sound more like an insult to the school and less like a compliment to me.
I gobble it up anyway.
“Between the three of you, you’ll have the Americans speaking proper French in no time,” she says with a wide smile. “Our court shall be a little academe.”
I pucker my mouth and say nothing. She doesn’t have to quote Shakespeare to remind me how good she is at the language.
Rosalie and Maria appear at the door, and I don’t want to keep talking with them there. I know they’ll be disappointed because they love my sister, but they’re supposed to be here for me, not her. I tell Ines goodbye, and turn to my two best friends who have traveled across an ocean because I know I can’t do this on my own.
But I’m a little mad at Rosalie.
“I can’t believe you told my sister about the tutoring,” I say, and fling myself onto my bed. The sheets that came with the room were awful, and I had my parents send over something better. They finally arrived and are a reminder just how terrible things are here. “I’m nervous enough as it is. He’s just so…”
“Gorgeous?” Maria supplies. “Him and his friends are kind of incredible. Such a shame about the silly ‘avoiding girls’ thing they’re doing right now.”
“No, he’s not—I mean, he is but that’s not—” I take a deep breath. “I just think he would do better with one of you, that’s all.”
“Zara, you’re going to be amazing, like always,” says Rosalie, coming to sit at my feet. “You just need a little confidence. I only told Ines because I thought she might have tips for you.”
I inhale. Of course she has tips. Tips for English, for teaching French, for how to style my hair, and how to best wear eyeliner. If there’s at least one positive thing to be gotten out of this banishment is that at least I don’t have to deal with her daily suggestions on how to make my life just as perfect as hers.
And then there are my parents who insist on video calling me practically every day that I’m here.
I send maman a quick text to let her know the school has rules about using cell phones, and that they have to stop calling before 6p.m. Hopefully this will get them all off my back at least for a few days.
As much as I hate their pestering, it feels weird to not be near them, to actually see or talk directly to them. The six-hour time difference and 5000 kilometers separating us may as well be a million. I’ve never gone so long without seeing my
parents or someone in my family.
At least I have my friends. I look around the room, my heart bursting with gratitude. These girls are everything to me. What would I do without them?
“Should we venture out into the hallways to mingle with the heathens?” I ask, trying to distract Rosalie from talking about the tutoring any longer.
She purses her lips, so I know she realizes what I’m doing, but Maria jumps up, ready to explore.
“What about the gardens? They look nice.”
I glance out the window that’s been dark since 4p.m. “Um, what are we going to see in the garden?”
She shrugs but the corners of her mouth lift up in a smile. “The stars?”
I roll my eyes but grab my coat. A little fresh air wouldn’t hurt. “After dinner, though,” I say. “I don’t think I can handle the cold on an empty stomach.”
We head down to the dining hall, discussing the literary prize. Despite what I told Rex about picking our topic, Rosalie isn’t totally convinced it’s the one we should do.
“But Shakespeare is the only English name from the list I’m familiar with,” I say, as we round the corner to the dining hall. “I don’t have time to read an entire book that’s not part of our curriculum here.”
“So just look up the summary online. They have entire sites for that,” she says. I know she’ll do whatever I’m comfortable with, but I do want to hear her out. Her opinion matters a lot to me.
“Madame Bovary and Candide are on the list,” says Maria.
“I don’t want to do something French,” I say, grabbing a tray with a frown. “How is that going to prove to my parents that I speak English?”
She nods and grabs an apple. We’ve stopped our experiments with the giant pastries and excessive amounts of pasta for the moment. I fill up my plate with salad and head to the counter where someone is cutting off slices of meat. This way I can ask for a reasonable serving size.
Dinner is enjoyable, for once, most likely because Rex and his friends are nowhere to be seen. They must be off writing, I realize, and a familiar tingle of nerves travels up my arms. We need to get down to work if we have any hope of coming close to winning.
We skip dessert and head to the gardens for a quick walk, still discussing what retelling to pick. I wish I could better explain why Shakespeare is the only one I want to do. It’s not just because he’s a familiar name, like I told them. Maybe because he’s the ultimate familiar name, and for my parents to know I wrote something inspired by him just feels right.
As we turn a corner in the garden, we come face to face—or rather, face to back—with Rex and his friends. They’re sitting on the ground, dressed in long-sleeved athletic shirts and thick hats, but their legs are bare stretched out in front of them.
Shorts. In this weather!
We quickly step back behind the trees. Or rather, I step back and pull the girls with me. I shush their sudden giggling.
“Let’s leave them alone,” I say. “They probably reek.”
“It’s so cold to run outside,” says Maria, peering around the trees. “They’re very brave.”
“Or stupid,” I grumble, but can’t help but look, too. Their labored breaths rise above them in little white clouds, and small groans escape their lips as they stretch their legs.
“They’re dedicated,” says Rosalie with a small smile. “It’s very impressive.”
I sigh and turn back to the school, leaving them to swoon. Considering how grumpy Rex is, it’ll take a little more than a run in winter weather to impress me.
He did look good in those shorts though.
Chapter Twelve
Rex
A pounding at my door pulls me out of what are surely the best lines I’ve ever written.
“What?” I open my door with a violent yank to see Reggie and Bronx grinning at me.
“There’s a party in Kingsbere,” says Bronx, his eyes glinting in a too-familiar way.
“I’m writing,” I say, and try to close the door, but they push through. The noise in the hall tumbles in after them, the dorm abuzz with Saturday night plans.
“Rex, come one, we’ve been working like crazy all week,” says Reggie, sprawling on my bed. “We got our outline approved by Mr. Marcade. There’s nothing else we can do on it tonight. We should celebrate.”
“It’s the Snub Club. Everyone will expect us to be there.” Bronx runs his hands along the books on my shelf. “Hey, is this your dad’s new one? Can I borrow it?” I nod, knowing “borrow” for Bronx means keep, and possibly give away to a girl, once the ban is lifted.
“I’m pretty sure we agreed on three months, not three weeks.” I cross my arms, refusing to back down on this. “No parties. Not even for the Snub Club.” I don’t mention that I kind of hate their parties, ever since I overheard Don say some snide remark about Reggie’s hair.
“Can we please do something else besides sit here and talk about books?”
I take in Bronx’s exaggerated eye roll with a heavy sigh. “Fine, we can go to the pizza place. But we’re getting salads. Remember, creative minds need healthy bodies. And no talking to girls while we’re there.”
“Of course not,” Bronx says, eyes wide and innocent. “But if they talk to me, I mean, I can’t be rude now, can I?”
He walks out with Reggie laughing behind him. I count silently to ten before grabbing my jacket and following them out.
The only reason that I agree is because most people who have cars will be at the Snub Club party, and everyone else will be hiding from the cold. I don’t expect to see anyone at the pizza place tonight.
Of course, I spot Zara and her friends seated at a corner booth within ten seconds of arriving.
Bronx and Reggie notice too, but after a quick glance my way, they practically twist their heads off trying to avoid looking at them.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” I say, as we’re led to a booth that gives us a perfect view of them. I’d ask to change seats, but the restaurant is surprisingly full tonight. No one else from Shelfbrooke, luckily, mostly adults.
“We won’t talk to them, I promise,” says Bronx, his eyes sparkling.
“Not a word spoken directly to them,” says Reggie, nodding along solemnly.
Ignoring their roving eyes, I grab a menu and throw it open, despite knowing perfectly well we’ll get the salad.
I can’t help but wonder if the girls are looking at us, however. I glance their way, but it requires turning my head, and Bronx is quick to notice.
“We can always say hello,” he says. “It seems like the polite thing to do.”
Lucky for me—or unluckily for Reggie and Bronx—Don walks in with some of his friends, and I shake my head. As far as anyone knows, the no-girls rule has not been broken. Other than that first session in the senior’s sitting room—where we had to sit practically on top of one another (not that I’d noticed)—the tutoring has been in the French classroom, so that no one will see me with her. Even if talking to girls in the context of schoolwork is totally allowed, I’d rather not have everyone know I need extra help.
I can see Don and his guys—Jules Costard, Will Brooke, and Alex Stoke—looking over at Zara and her friends, and resist the urge to kick them out of the restaurant. But apparently Don took my threat seriously and spread the word to stay away from her, since no one approaches the girls. They don’t seem to notice, however, and keep chatting away quietly. Even if you couldn’t hear what they’re saying, it’s obvious they’re not from here. Their Shelfbrooke uniforms hang gracefully on their bodies, and their hair is shimmery in a way that I’ve never seen before.
As if to prove my point at how outstanding they are, Jackie Netta and her friends walk in, all fake, dyed hair and overly done up faces. The difference is like going from a classic Audrey Hepburn movie to a bad ’80s teen comedy.
“The Snub Club party must have broken up early or something,” Bronx says, an eyebrow raised. “There’s no way Jackie and Marion would be here if there
were bigger wallets out there to hunt.”
Reggie laughs at his joke, but my eyes are on Don, who can’t stop looking at Jackie. He nudges Jules and whispers something to him.
Interesting. Whatever quiet night I was hoping for has now been replaced with what promises to be excellent teen drama. I take out a notebook, ready to jot down whatever ideas this sparks for me.
My attention is drawn away by the server, however, who arrives carrying a tray of bowls to Zara’s table. I try to take a closer look at what he’s serving them, but I catch Don staring at me and turn my head back to Bronx. Through my observations (purely for literary purposes, of course) I know Zara barely eats half of the stuff that Shelfbrooke serves. I keep meaning to ask her about it during tutoring but keep forgetting to look up the right words beforehand, and refuse to ask something so personal in English, as if I were interested in her. Because I’m not.
I can see the look of surprise on her face and her mouth moving as she questions the server. He laughs, and her cheeks turn bright red. I look around to see who else may have noticed. Don and Jules are still staring at Jackie, so it looks like whatever embarrassing thing Zara is going through will stay private.
“The girls look upset,” says Reggie. “We should probably go offer some comfort.”
Well, kind of private.
“They’re probably just complaining that the cheese isn’t brie or something,” I say, turning away from them. Our own order is arriving, and I kind of wish it was our regular—one large everything pizza with extra sausage. But the rules call for easy eating, too, so it’s grilled chicken salads for all of us.
Love Lessons Page 5
