A Novel Idea

by Aimee Friedman

  I snuck a peek at Audre, knowing she was loving that Griffin had called us his friends. She was trying not to smile, but her deep dimples gave her away. I grinned too.

  Griffin was the social butterfly of the Book Nook, chatting up everyone from hipster writers to paint-stained artists. And his NYU buddies—most of them crush-worthy, floppy-haired types—would sometimes drop by for free coffee. It was kind of flattering to be included in that circle, and I felt a sudden rush of confidence. If Griffin considered me a friend, there was no harm in asking him a few questions about getting into college. Maybe he would put my mind at ease after the Ms. Bliss fiasco.

  I cleared my throat and took off my glasses. “Griffin?” I began. “Did you, um, when you applied to NYU, did you do lots of—”

  “Drugs?” Griffin cut me off, his hazel eyes twinkling. He lazily rubbed a hand across the front of his worn blue T-shirt. “Dude, I must have been smoking something, because NYU is so not the right school for me.”

  “It’s not?” Audre set down her latte with a frown, most likely tortured by visions of Griffin transferring to another city.

  Griffin sighed. “It’s a dope place and all, but these New York winters bring me down. Back in Santa Monica, I’d hit the beach with my friends every afternoon. I know it’s messed up, but sometimes I miss high school. You know?”

  Audre and I glanced at each other in horrified disbelief.

  “You. Are. Crazy,” Audre pronounced, staring at Griffin as if he’d just sprouted another gorgeous head.

  “Don’t get us started on high school,” I jumped in, forgetting my nervousness. “Especially today. They played these disgusting love songs like ‘I Wanna Be With You’ over the PA system during lunch and—”

  “Our English teacher made us watch that lame Romeo and Juliet movie—not even the Claire-and-Leo one,” Audre groaned, rolling her eyes. I nodded emphatically. Audre and I have been finishing each other’s sentences since we met in the Prospect Park playground at age four. Griffin watched us with a small smirk, clearly amused.

  “Not like English class doesn’t suck on regular days,” I added, and pointed to the stack of shiny paperbacks on the table in front of us. “I mean, there are so many incredible books in the world, and we’re stuck reading dull, creepy stuff like Heart of Darkness.” English was a sore point for me; it’s usually my favorite subject, but our junior-year teacher, Mr. Whitmore, was a white-bearded snooze who sucked all the juiciness out of literature and droned on endlessly about grammar.

  Griffin chuckled and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you still get assigned boring reading in college.” Then his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Though you know what some of my friends have been into lately? Book groups.”

  “Book groups?” I echoed, feeling a pinprick of curiosity.

  “As in, like, Oprah?” Audre asked dubiously.

  “But more fun,” Griffin replied. “Just some friends getting together over beers once a month to chill and talk about, like, On the Road. It’s cool ’cause you get to pick the books, not some stodgy teacher.”

  Hmm. Book groups. I pictured Audre, Scott, and myself hanging out in Audre’s bedroom, drinking ciders that her older brother Langston would buy for us and debating the new Louise Rennison novel. True, Audre and Scott don’t love to read as much as I do, and we were all swamped with school and SAT prep. Plus, Audre had her baking class, while Scott juggled Art Club, Student Council, and a zillion other extracurriculars—

  Wait. That was it! I almost spilled my latte as I sat bolt upright. Start your own club, Ms. Bliss had said. A book group would count as a real activity, wouldn’t it? I’d need a teacher’s permission to make it official, but any sane adult would okay a club that was all about reading. And talk about showing colleges commitment and initiative. Take that, Ms. Bliss!

  “Who’s Ms. Bliss?” Griffin asked.

  Oh, God. My cheeks burned and I quickly drank more of my latte, hoping to disappear inside the giant mug. Had I spoken those last words out loud? One snicker from Audre confirmed my fear.

  “Our guidance counselor,” she explained casually. Then she elbowed me in the ribs. “And, Nors, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is a resounding no.”

  “Good for you, Psychic Hotline,” I snapped, annoyed that she was so quick to burst my bubble. “So what if I want to start a book group? You’re saying you wouldn’t join?” That couldn’t happen; I suck at organizing anything, so I’d need both Audre’s and Scott’s support to get a club off the ground.

  Audre crossed her arms over her chest in her favorite you-are-not-changing-my-mind pose. “It’d be like having more homework.”

  “Not if you read good stuff,” Griffin pointed out. He eased up out of the chair and stretched his arms above his head, giving us a delicious glimpse of his bare olive stomach. “And hey, you could even hold your meetings here. I’d be happy to bring you guys drinks.”

  Aha! This time, without even looking at Audre, I knew her dimples were showing. If anything was going to convince my stubborn best friend to take part in the group, it would be the chance to see more of her crush.

  “I gotta hit the register before my boss finds me,” the object of Audre’s affection announced. “Norah, keep me posted ’bout this book group gig. I don’t have time to join, but a friend of mine might be interested.” When he looked my way, he grinned. Then, without warning, he strolled right up to me, crouched low, and leaned in toward my face.

  I froze, and then flushed all over. What was going on? Was Griffin going to kiss me? My very first kiss—here, in the Book Nook? Would Audre get mad? Thank God I’d taken off my glasses, but I wished I’d at least put some Burt’s Beeswax balm on my lips—

  “Foam,” Griffin said, wiping my upper lip with his warm thumb. “A danger of latte-drinking.” He winked, stood up, and shot Audre a quick salute. “Later, ladies.”

  We sat there in stunned silence for several seconds. Finally, I managed to turn to Audre and say, “He so likes you.”

  “Whatever,” Audre replied. “He’s a flirt. With me. With you. With everybody.” She picked up a copy of Fast Food Nation from the table and thumbed through it. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I’d be opposed to him serving me drinks….” She glanced at me, her light brown eyes dancing.

  Still shaky from the fake-out kiss, I barely dared believe my good luck. “At the book group?” I whispered. “You mean you’ll do it, Aud?” Quickly, I told her about my face-off with Ms. Bliss and how starting the group could be my last hope.

  “If it’ll help you with college stuff, I’m there,” Audre said firmly when I was finished. She squeezed my arm. “Consider me your second in command. I can even provide the snacks.” Then she grinned wickedly. “And maybe that friend Griffin mentioned can provide the extra eye candy.”

  My heart fluttered for an instant. Would one of Griffin’s NYU friends really join? That could be a nice bonus. I hadn’t considered that, in addition to scoring me points with Ms. Bliss, this new club might improve my love life.

  But, no. Good books and cute boys all at once?

  While I was still in high school?

  Not possible.

  Two

  “Oh … my … God! Mom! Help me, Mom, please!”

  When I walked into my brownstone, I heard my thirteen-year-old sister’s hysterical screams from upstairs. A stranger might think she’d injured herself, but I knew not to worry. I shut the door and noticed a note posted to the back, scrawled in my mother’s messy handwriting: Don’t forget to lock me in the morning.

  I should probably explain about my parents. They’re completely brilliant, and completely insane. My dad is a physics professor at Columbia University, and my mom is a research biologist. They’re forever misplacing things, forgetting to lock the door, and sometimes forgetting they have two daughters—who both suck at science.

  My sister, Stacey, careened down the stairs, almost colliding with me. Her curl
y dark hair was pinned up to her head, and she wore her fluffy bathrobe and platform flip-flops.

  “Norah! Where’s Mom?” she gasped. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders. “Have you seen my new satin-trimmed Aqua tank? Did you steal it?”

  “Yeah, Stace.” I shrugged out of her grasp. “All this time, I’ve been waiting for a chance to snatch your new top. Now I have it in my evil clutches and I’m never giving it back. Heh, heh, heh. “I rolled my eyes.

  “Shut UP, Norah. Mom! MOM!” Stacey tore toward the kitchen just as our mother emerged carrying a pasta strainer and a pair of galoshes, as if the two items actually went together.

  “Stacey Bloom, your shrieking is liable to puncture somebody’s eardrums,” Mom said. Then she pushed her enormous glasses up to her forehead and glanced at me. “Oh, Norah. Have you been here all this time?”

  “I guess,” I said, gazing around our living room. Sometimes I can’t believe I live here. The only books on the shelves are science encyclopedias and medical journals. A photograph of Einstein sits above the fireplace. There are no novels or paintings in sight. If we Blooms didn’t all look alike, I’d swear Stacey and I were adopted—from different families, of course.

  I know I shouldn’t complain. Scott’s parents are divorced, and, even though that gives him a lot of freedom, he says it kind of sucks that they’re never around.

  But sometimes I think if would be okay if my family was a little less … around.

  “What’s the big deal about this top, anyway?” I asked Stacey.

  She turned on me, and I noticed that her face was perfectly made up—raspberry lip gloss, sparkly blue eyeshadow, rosy blusher. Typical. I barely know how to use a mascara wand, and my baby sister is a mini makeup maven.

  “I’m going to the movies with Dylan. In, like, ten minutes. He hasn’t seen me in this tank yet. Plus, I need to wear pink because it’s Valentine’s Day—”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said wearily.

  “You don’t have a date?” Stacey narrowed her big brown eyes at me and said what Ms. Bliss must have been thinking: “Ew, Norah, you are so pathetic.”

  Before I could reach for her throat, my dad stumbled out of the kitchen, trying to tamp down his mane of silver hair. Audre calls my dad’s hair “The Thing.” It really does have a life of its own. And it’s really embarrassing.

  “Hi, dear,” Dad said to me. “Did you have fun at the movies?”

  “I’m the one going to the movies, Daddy,” Stacey cried, shoving past me. “And I can’t find my new satin-trimmed tank top!”

  “Oh,” Dad said, raising his bushy eyebrows. “Was it pink?”

  “Yes …,” Stacey said, drawing a deep breath so she could prepare for a really good scream. Seeing what was coming, I started for the staircase.

  “Gosh, Stace. I’m sorry,” Dad said. “I saw it in the laundry basket the other day so I lent it to my friend Hal, you know, the chemist? He needed to burn some material for an experiment—”

  “BURN?” Stacey wailed.

  “There’s no need to make such a fuss about the spaghetti sauce,” Mom said, coming back from whatever planet she’d been on.

  I took the stairs two at a time, sprinted into my room, and locked the door behind me.

  Ahh.

  My room is a little rectangle of heaven. The wall above my bed is covered in blackand-white photos I’ve taken of Audre and Scott, colorful spreads I’ve clipped from Time Out New York, and an abstract blue painting that Tuesday Levine, a friend from my Blank Canvas days, made me for my birthday. The wall across from my bed has built-in shelves that are stuffed with novels, kind of like my own mini Book Nook.

  I unzipped my hoodie, flung it on my blue velour armchair, and skimmed my shelves. It’s a ritual: The first thing I do when I get home is read. Earlier, I’d been craving Weetzie Bat, but, after my hectic afternoon, I wanted something fluffier.

  Speak? Too depressing. Sense and Sensibility? Too old-fashioned.

  The choice was clear: I’d have to turn to my hidden stash.

  I knelt down and looked under my bed. There they were. In a pile. Waiting for me.

  Here’s a secret: I love trashy paperback romances. Please don’t mock me until you hear me out.

  Yes, they’re completely cheesy and have embarrassing titles like Ravaged by Love and A Pirate’s Passion. The covers alone make me blush: women spilling out of their gowns, bare-chested guys with flowing hair, candles, canopy beds, ruffles. So not me. Of course, I hadn’t told a soul—except for Audre—about my habit; it would kind of ruin my reputation as Literary Girl among my friends.

  Not to mention my whole I-hate-romance stance.

  But when I’m alone in my room, I love to indulge. The sweet, simple story lines are just yummy and comforting—like eating pistachio ice cream in a hot, bubbly bath. And, yeah, the sex scenes aren’t bad either. Jane Austen is awesome, but nobody ever gets it on in her books. I tried to tell myself that when—or if—I finally got a boyfriend, I’d magically get over my secret addiction.

  Until then, there was really no point in resisting.

  I reached under my bed and pulled out an old reliable: Dangerous Embraces, by my favorite romance author, Irene O’Dell. She is—according to the photo inside the book—a glamorous old lady dripping in diamonds and wrapped in fur. I don’t know how Irene does it, but she comes out with a brilliant new book every two months. Dangerous Embraces was a tale of forbidden desire between a milkmaid named Elsabetha and a count named Antonio. I sat cross-legged on my shag rug and was devouring the first line—Elsabetha, a striking green-eyed beauty, had never known true love—when my cell phone rang. It was Scott.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, around a mouthful of what had to be Veggie Booty—he lives on the stuff.

  “Ha,” I snorted in response, glancing across my room to the full-length mirror. Explain to me how gangly limbs, fair skin, nearly-black eyes, and even darker hair add up to gorgeous. But ever since I met Scott in freshman-year algebra, he’s acted as my professional confidence booster. It’s probably because he has so much self-esteem, he feels the need to spread some of it around. He’s always telling me and Audre that he doesn’t understand how such sexy mamas as ourselves could possibly be single.

  Really, it’s too bad that he’s gay.

  “Are you holding up okay?” I asked him, leaning against my bed and peeking into Dangerous Embraces.

  Scott’s boyfriend, Chad (whom Audre and I secretly nicknamed “Cheekbones” because, honestly, those were his only good features) cruelly dumped him one week before V-Day, after they’d been together for six months. Instead of slumping into suicidal depression, as I surely would have, Scott threw himself into more activities, like volunteering to organize the upcoming Spring Formal. That morning, catching me and Audre in the hall before class, he’d declared that he was officially “taking a break from love.” Scott has used this expression before, and his “break” usually lasts no more than, oh, two days. But this time, he seemed serious. I’d told him I fully supported the plan, since I was taking a break myself—a sixteen-year-long one.

  “Naturally,” Scott replied, chomping away. “As long as I have you and Audre, events to plan, a steady supply of Veggie Booty, and copious amounts of alcohol, I’m golden.” He paused. “I was kidding about the alcohol part.”

  I giggled. “God, I wish you lived in Brooklyn.” Like most Manhattanites, Scott rarely treks over to Park Slope; he sees all the outer boroughs as odd foreign lands—which Audre and I think is hilarious.

  “Speaking of Brooklyn!” Scott exclaimed. “I hear it’s going to be the setting for a certain fabulous book group.”

  “Why am I not surprised you know this?” I brushed a piece of lint off my black CBGB T-shirt. Scott is involved in every club known to man, so he gets the dirt on people before they’ve even done anything gossip-worthy. Still, despite Scott’s popularity, he shuns the Plums of Millay and prefers to hang with Audre, me, and our cluster of low-key, artsy frie
nds. I knew he’d be into the idea of a book group.

  In fact, Scott told me, not only was he into the book group—which he’d heard about from Audre earlier that evening—but he’d already gotten Tuesday Levine and another friend of ours, Olivia Ramirez, to sign up. He’d created fifteen flyers, posted the news on Friendster, and drafted a permission statement for Mr. Whitmore to sign in the morning.

  This is why I love Scott: He’s crazy, but he gets things done. I was totally relieved that he’d taken care of all the messy details, and told him so.

  “Oh, and I hope you don’t mind,” he added breezily. “I decided on a date: February twenty-fourth. Cool?”

  “Uh, not so cool,” I said, my stomach tightening. Suddenly, the whole thing felt all too real. “Scott, that’s ten days away! I still need to—”