Love Lessons

by Daphne James Huff

  “You haven’t said a word to them, huh?” I whisper-yell and slam the book in my hand back on the shelf.

  “Technically, a letter isn’t saying anything,” says Reggie, holding up a finger. I switch my glare to him, and he takes a step back. “Uh, not that I know anything about sending letters.”

  I cross my arms.

  “Is this why you guys wanted to do the sonnets?” They nod, and I sigh. “Can’t you see what a distraction this is from our real goal?”

  “Your goal,” mumbles Bronx.

  Anger flares through me. “We have to win this together, and we can’t do that if you’re off writing love poems instead of working on the research I need.”

  “But what did you think of the poem?” asks Bronx.

  I pull back, struck by his question. The lines of the poem run through my head again, and it’s clear he tried to imitate the famous sonnet 18. But he made it modern, and even adapted it to Shelfbrooke.

  “It wasn’t bad,” I say, and he beams.

  “Are you sure it wouldn’t be more fun to do the sonnets?” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “You could write one for Zara.”

  “I don’t want to—” I realize how loud my voice has gotten. “I don’t want to write anything to Zara,” I whisper, ignoring the fact not five minutes earlier I’d been thinking that exact thing. Thanking her for helping with me French is one thing, but I don’t want to write her a freaking love poem…Do I?

  “He totally wants to,” says Reggie, grinning now just as widely as Bronx.

  “I don’t think Mr. Marcade will let us change our topic,” I say, crossing my fingers mentally that it’s true. The rules about submitting topics and outlines is more to keep an eye on our progress, rather than a contract. Part of the judging is looking at the creative process, and the judges like to see slow progress over the weeks rather than a burst of writing in the very last week. Even if that’s always what happens anyway, at least it looks like they’re being fair.

  “But if he does? Will you do the sonnets?”

  “I’m not writing one for Zara,” I say. But the idea has burrowed into my head and won’t let go. I told her I wouldn’t say anything to her, and a letter was technically wouldn't break that rule. Plus, Don would never find out...

  “That doesn’t have to go into the project,” says Bronx, holding up his hands. “That can be totally on your own time.”

  “I’m not into her!” I whisper loud enough to catch the eye of a passing librarian. She tuts at us but continues on her way. “But if Mr. Marcade is okay with it…I guess it’s not a terrible idea.”

  They give each other a silent high five in celebration, and I put my hands over my face and groan.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zara

  “Why did you think this was a good idea?” asks Maria, shivering in her winter coat.

  We’re in Boston for the day, on the only street that looks like it has any good shops. It would be enormously enjoyable if it weren’t negative five degrees Celsius.

  “I needed to get out of that place,” I say, and I mean it. We’ve been working on the Navarre Prize every chance we get, and I need a break.

  “You mean away from Rex?” Maria smiles through chattering teeth.

  More like to be away from the other girls who seem so friendly with Rosalie and Maria. Someone even invited us to sit with them at lunch the other day. They looked at the other two when they asked though, not me. I faked a stomachache so the three of us ended up back in our room instead.

  I can’t do that every day, however, and I do need to be just with my friends for a few hours. Away from all of that. But away from Rex is a nice bonus, as well. Except my thoughts seem to linger on him more than they do on the windows of designer clothes in front of me.

  “He’s just been so…nice, lately,” I say, thinking of our last two tutoring sessions. His words echo in my brain whenever he’s close. I don’t see many faults. Could he really have been talking about me? He hasn’t said anything resembling flirting since then, and it’s been very French-focused. Yet somehow also undeniably charming, and unexpectedly funny. He seems to know a lot about food as well. Good food.

  But all this is not something I feel like sharing. “He seems really focused on learning French. He even found this book about Shakespeare and France that he brought along to show me.”

  I catch Rosalie and Maria exchanging a raised eyebrow.

  “What?” I say, then grimace as a blast of cold air rushes down the street and seems to pass directly through my coat. “Wait, before you tell me, let’s go somewhere warm.”

  We’ve long passed the Chanel and Valentino stores that my sister promised me would be here. I only ever went to those kinds of stores with my family, and even that small reminder of home feels like too much. I spot a few more American-looking brands and choose a shoe store that looks interesting enough. I don’t really need anything new. But I need to do something that feels like my life back in Paris, even if just for an afternoon.

  The last thing I expect to see when I walk in is other students from Shelfbrooke, but there’s a group of girls I recognize browsing the aisles of shoes. But not ones who’s ever said so much as hello to any of us. I don’t see Bette or Izzy, or any of the other friendlier ones. But I hesitate for a second at the door when I spot Jackie from the pizza place. And the poem.

  I look to Rosalie to see what she wants to do. She gives me a tiny one-shouldered shrug, so we walk in, ignore the other girls, and focus on the shoes. It’s all sandals and sneakers for spring and summer, and it’s a nice break from the wintry mess outside. In just a few months, I’ll be somewhere warm, far away from everyone in Massachusetts.

  A brief flash of Rex’s smiling face, however, stops me in my tracks.

  “What did you guys mean earlier?” I say softly, in French, as we each pick out a few pairs of sandals and sit down on a bench out of earshot from the girls. “About Rex?”

  “Only that you seem surprised he’s being nice,” says Maria, slipping on a pair of gorgeous espadrilles that I could never pull off. “When it’s pretty obvious he’s into you.”

  Rosalie nods her head in agreement.

  “No, he’s not.” I duck to unzip my boots to hide my face. “He seems totally disinterested in me outside of French class.”

  “It’s that silly ban they put on themselves,” says Rosalie. “He’s always staring at you. At lunch. In the hallway.”

  I scrunch up my face, not willing to admit anything is there. It would complicate things too much. But the little butterflies who’ve taken up residence in my chest seem to disagree.

  “Well what about Bronx?” I say, turning the attention back to Rosalie.

  She inhales sharply. “Well, it’s not like he could say anything, even if he was.”

  “Rex isn’t the only one staring,” says Maria with a grin.

  Just as Rosalie opens her mouth to answer, Jackie comes over. I think of the letter Rosalie still has in her pocket. We never figured out how to get it to its intended recipient without things being super awkward. I suggested slipping it under her door, but Maria worried someone would see us and think we were playing a joke on her. It was, after all, a spectacularly bad poem. We agreed we were saving her from love with a terrible poet by keeping it to ourselves.

  “Hey, you’re Rosalie, right?” Jackie asks. My best friend nods once, her eyes narrowed. I shift slightly, ready to…well, I’m not sure what exactly. Attack Jackie if she’s mean to Rosalie? That seems a little extreme, given the location. Though the stilettos would be perfect to fend off any irate Barbie dolls.

  Jackie pulls something out of her pocket. “I think this is for you. It must have ended up in the wrong coat at the pizza place the other night.”

  Rosalie’s eyes light up, but she takes the note slowly “Thanks.” She holds it away from her, like it doesn’t mean anything. With a quick glance at me and Maria, she reaches into her pocket wi
th the other hand. “I think yours ended up in my coat.”

  Rosalie holds out the note, and Jackie snatches it up, a smug grin on her face.

  “I knew it,” she whispers, then looks up and clears her throat. “I mean, thanks.”

  She turns and scurries off to a girl I think is named Marion, and we can hear her squeals from the other side of the store. Rosalie is much more poised in her letter reading, and opens it carefully while Maria and I watch, holding our breaths.

  The change on her face is subtle, but remarkable. A hot flash of envy goes through me as the joy radiates from her. I have to remind myself that I don’t want a note from Rex—or anyone. I’m not here for that.

  But then she holds it out for us to read and I start to melt.

  Bronx has it bad for Rosalie.

  And I might have it bad for Rex.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rex

  It’s still totally freezing outside, but I’m tired of running on the treadmills inside. I wake Bronx and Reggie up at 6a.m. for a run before our first class.

  I figure it’s the least they can do now that, somehow, they’ve convinced me to reject a perfectly good plan and write freaking love poems for the most important competition of my life.

  No, not love poems. Sonnets. Sonnets are perfectly respectable, and there can be some fun storytelling woven in. While I don’t think Shakespeare was a spy sending secret messages in his poems, or torn between two different loves, there’s definitely a thread of something in the sonnets linking them. My mind has been churning away thinking about how to translate it to 21st century New England, but so far, nothing feels right. I don’t want to submit the idea to Mr. Marcade until it’s fleshed out a little better.

  Running is great for this. It totally clears my head and is a welcome break from sitting all day in class and then all night in front of my computer.

  Plus, on the early morning runs, we don’t bother talking much. It’s just the sounds of our breaths and the swish of our clothes in the cold morning light.

  They turn back after a few miles, but I keep going, needing a little more time to think. My thoughts soon turn from the poems to Zara, however.

  Tutoring has been surprisingly fun lately. I have the check myself every few minutes to keep things friendly instead of flirty, but it’s actually really easy to talk to her. About anything. Even in French. If my latest quiz scores are any indication, I’m no longer in danger of being disqualified from entering the Navarre Prize.

  And now I’m back to the poems, but all I can think of are sonnets I’d like to write for Zara, which is supremely unhelpful. I decide it’s a sign to give up. She’s sneaking her way into my thoughts more and more often lately, and no amount of running will get rid of her.

  Maybe I should ask Madame Dupuis if my grades are good enough to stop tutoring. Then I'd only see her in class, and I wouldn't have to talk to her. And I'd get back two hours a week to work on the sonnets.

  None of which will be for her, of course.

  I feel pretty pleased with this new plan, enough to ignore the twinge in my chest at the thought of not seeing Zara as much. As I round the corner to take the long way back through the gardens, I hear voices ahead. It’s Don and Jules. Normally I’d have tried to avoid them, but I hear the name Rosalie and stop. I inch closer, staying hidden behind a huge shrub.

  “How could you mix up the notes? Who has the one I wrote for Jackie?” Don sounds pissed.

  The panic in Jules’ voice rings through the trees. “It must have gone into the coat of one of the French girls, Rosalie.”

  This must be what happened at the pizza place. Bronx admitted he’d given his note to Jules as well, to slip into Rosalie’s coat. Jules Costard isn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he’s a decent guy. Loyal to a fault, though unfortunately his loyalty is to the toolbox Don.

  “No! Rex said to stay away from them. He’s going to kill me.”

  I smirk. Don really doesn’t want people to know about him and Jackie. I’ve never had much use for gossip, until now, and wonder what opportunities I’d missed out on by avoiding the Knight Watch for so many years.

  “How will Rex know it’s you?” Jules sounds confused. “You didn’t sign it.”

  “Wait, how do you know that? Did you read it?”

  “Um, no, I just glanced at it as you were folding—”

  “Just forget it. You always ruin everything. I haven’t even worked on the Navarre thing all week since I’ve been so pissed about this.”

  This is news. Don’s never talked about entering the competition before. This new rule about having groups must mean more people are entering than I had planned. I decide right then to submit the sonnet idea to Mr. Marcade that afternoon, no matter what. It was well past time for me to get started writing seriously.

  “I thought we were working on it together?” says Jules, his voice cracking a little.

  Don laughs, short and hard. “Why would I let you work on actual stuff when you can’t even deliver a note correctly? You’re such an idiot. I’m doing it myself and you’ll just sign off on it.”

  The air leaves my lungs at the harshness of his words. Jules comes around the corner, and I sink into the shadows so he won’t see me. I catch the glint of tears in his eyes though.

  A rush of anger at Don whips through me, followed closely by sympathy for Jules.

  Thank goodness I’m not like that with my friends.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zara

  Somehow, Madame Dupuis has convinced me to get involved in the French Club. She asked my first week, but I’d resisted, telling her I needed time to adjust to the rhythm of schoolwork. But apparently, she thinks four weeks is plenty of time to adjust, and corners me before class to ask again.

  “It would be such a big help to have a few native speakers in the group,” she says. “The three of you are doing so well with the tutoring, it would be a shame to not have more students benefit from the exciting cultural exchange.”

  I try not to roll my eyes at this. There are at least five other cultures present in the room besides American that the school could spend their time encouraging, rather than just French. Maria could be speaking Portuguese with them, but apparently Shelfbrooke considers dead languages like Latin and Greek more important.

  “I’m not sure I have the time,” I say with a smile, thinking of the Navarre competition. It’s harder than I thought, even with Rosalie and Maria working alongside me. Every time we go to the library to work on it, I see the Shakespeare and classic literature sections growing emptier, and more and more clusters of small groups with their heads bent over a single laptop screen. My hands go damp at the thought of how many people must be working on it.

  “Nonsense,” Madame Dupuis says with a wave of her hand. “It won’t take much time at all. It’s just a weekly meeting to prepare for the fête de Carnaval in a few weeks.”

  I hesitate. That does sound like fun. It’s always been my favorite holiday. Dressing up and partying with my friends. Watching the parades in whatever city we’ve convinced our parents to send us to. While it won’t be quite the same, and will definitely take up tons of time, maybe there’s a way to make it a little more fun.

  “That sounds great,” I say with a big smile. “I think Rex would benefit from it too.”

  I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because I know it’ll be more time away from writing for him, and it seems only fair that we should both be in the same situation. Whatever I felt when I read Bronx’s poem to Rosalie has been tempered by my growing nerves about the competition.

  Or maybe I suggest it because he’s all I can think about.

  Madame Dupuis claps her hands. “Wonderful idea! We shall add it to the tutoring requirements, oui? I expect to see you both there tomorrow during lunch.”

  The smile drops from my face. The petty, jealous part of me was looking forward to seeing him squirm as Madame Dupuis made the request. He’d never be able to say no to her. I’m not s
o sure the same applies to me.

  I look for him in the classroom, and spot him in the back, his usual spot. Since that first day when he accused me of stealing it, I haven’t approached him in class. The other girls, however, usually spend the hour glancing at him through lowered lids. I’ve heard the chatter in the girl’s dorm; his girls ban has disappointed some more than others. The sudden realization that he could probably have any girl at school if he wanted hits me like a punch in the chest.

  I tell myself he’s just another big-headed guy who needs to be put back in his place. I try to forget all about how fun tutoring has been lately, and those sweet words I still can’t believe he spoke a few weeks ago. Taking a deep breath, I venture to the back and slide into the seat next to him.

  Every nerve in my body comes alive.

  This is not good.

  “What are you doing?” He glances at me, his voice hard, but his eyes are soft and full of—dare I hope it?—longing.

  “I’m pretty sure you can talk to me in class,” I say. “Your virtue is safe under the watchful eyes of Madame Dupuis.”

  “I’m not worried about my virtue,” he says with a sly grin. “It’s yours you should be worried about.”

  “Oh?” I raise an eyebrow and try to ignore all the eyes that have turned our way. “I didn’t know you had such a reputation.”

  Not that anyone here would bother telling me about it if he did. I’m still walking back to the dorm alone every night, while Rosalie and Maria come in fresh off gossiping with girls from their classes.

  “I’m known for a lot of things,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

  The urge to smack the smirk off of his face helps me ignore what it’s doing to my pulse.

  “Like writing?” I say, and he nods. “How’s it going, by the way?”

  A flicker of uncertainty passes across his face so quickly, I’m sure I must have imagined it. He’s nothing if not totally confident. And super secret about his project.