A Novel Idea

by Aimee Friedman

  Standing in the kitchen, Mom looked at me over her glasses and sighed. “What wound? Norah, I don’t understand you at all.”

  “Tell me about it,” I replied, turning on my heel and storming out of the kitchen. Big surprise that my Mom didn’t get my metaphor; scientists are the most literal people on the planet, and it sucks when your parent happens to be one.

  Make that parents.

  My dad was in his recliner, grading papers, so of course his hair was standing straight up and he had pencil marks on his face. All I had to do was make my way past him without tripping over his ten-thousand-pound textbook on thermonuclear neurodynamic physics (or something) and I’d be safely upstairs, curling up with To Catch a Duke.

  Not in the cards.

  “My dear, would you do me a favor?” Dad asked as I was sneaking by.

  When my dad asks for a “favor,” it usually involves agreeing to some scary experiment where he attaches plugs to your head. “I have a lot of homework,” I replied, looking longingly up the stairs. That was true, but I wasn’t planning to spend much time on it.

  “I just need you to sprint up to the attic and pull my article on momentum out of last year’s file,” Dad said. “I’d do it myself, but the doctor told me to avoid the stairs as much as possible while I’m healing.”

  Okay, now I felt guilty. Last week in his seminar, Dad had thrown his back out after performing a headstand as a way of explaining the force of gravity. I supposed To Catch a Duke could wait a little longer.

  Practically everything in the attic was buried under piles of dust. Between sneezes, I opened Dad’s file cabinet and found a bulging folder labeled “Momentum”—which made me think of that great Aimee Mann song. I flipped through student exams but I stopped when I came to a glossy color photograph. A bunch of kids were standing in neat rows under a banner that read WINNERS OF THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY CITY-WIDE HIGH SCHOOL PHYSICS CONTEST. The winners’ names were listed on the bottom of the photo. I remembered my dad attending the awards ceremony last spring, and I grinned at the sight of him; he and his hair were in the back row with the other judges.

  Then, I spotted a face in the front row that made me gasp out loud.

  “Neil!” I exclaimed, leaning closer to make sure. The glasses-wearing boy in the cableknit pullover was definitely the same sci-fi-reading Neil I’d come to know and not love. He wasn’t bad-looking, I thought as I studied his face. All he needed were cooler frames and better social skills, and he might even qualify as a decent catch. Plus, he must have been a good student. My mom and dad dreamed that Stacey or I would win a physics contest, but that was about as likely as either one of us winning the pole vault in the summer Olympics.

  My heartbeat sped up as I began to wonder if James might have won the contest too. He didn’t strike me as the physics type, but since he and Neil seemed surgically attached … breathless, I scanned the captioned names on the bottom of the photo, looking for James’s. There was Neil Singh, Hart Crane High School … George Woo, Bronx High School of Science … Francesca Cantone, Hamilton Preparatory School … Sigrid Salinger, Stuyvesant High School. No James Roth.

  Wait. I did a double take on one name. Had I read that right? Francesca Cantone?

  The Francesca Cantone?

  Insanely curious, I started searching the photo for Francesca’s glossy hair and made-up face. When I spotted a tall, gawky girl in the next-to-last row, I squinted in disbelief. She had frizzy black hair pulled back in two barrettes, bushy eyebrows, and a slouchy posture. Round, chunky glasses perched on her nose, and she wore a white turtleneck under a frumpy navy blue cardigan. I mentally subtracted the clothes and the glasses, straightened and shortened the hair, plucked the brows …

  “What the hell?” I whispered.

  Clutching the photo in one hand, I found Dad’s momentum article in a flash, dashed it downstairs to him, and then locked myself in my room, already dialing Audre’s cell.

  “Get over here right now,” I said as soon as she answered.

  “I’m baking for my party!” Audre cried over the strains of her Alicia Keys CD and the roar of her electric mixer.

  Right. Audre was throwing her annual deluxe dessert party tomorrow. She always held her bash on the same night as Millay’s Spring Formal, as an alternative for people (like me and her) who couldn’t stand school dances. This was a touchy subject with Scott, who was actually organizing the dance this year. (The two of them had been competing over their respective events all week.) But Audre’s parties are always best at the dances, and, even better, her parents leave her the brownstone for the night, so some crazy stuff usually goes down. Last year, Audre found a drunken couple she didn’t even recognize making out in Langston’s bedroom at six in the morning—the sign of a truly spectacular social event.

  “Trust me, Aud,” I assured her. “This is worth taking a break for.” After all, I was putting off To Catch a Duke; Audre could part with her whipped cream.

  Fifteen minutes later, Audre and I were hunkered down on my bed with the photo, a magnifying lens, and some freshly made cupcakes Audre had brought for me to taste-test for the party.

  “Un-freaking-believable,” Audre murmured, holding the magnifying lens over the photo for the eleventh time. “It is her. The real Francesca.” My best friend was glowing.

  “The weirdest thing,” I said, pointing to Neil in the photo, “is that Mister Lord of the Rings won the same contest.”

  “Which explains why he asked if he knew her on the first day.” Audre nodded. “But why did she ignore him?”

  “Obviously she’s ashamed of her geeky past. Wouldn’t you be?” I reached for another cupcake. “Anyway, this explains so much: her going to Dartmouth, how she slipped up about that sci-fi book, why she’s always so defensive….”

  Plus, I realized, Hamilton Prep is this snooty private school on the Upper West Side. Suddenly I remembered Francesca telling Scott that she went to school “uptown,” but not offering more info. That, too, added up.

  Audre was flashing her dimples uncontrollably. “I almost feel bad for how I’ve treated her. Imagine the stress of hiding a secret like that … not to mention all the painful eyebrow tweezing.” She giggled, then glanced at me. “Oh my God! Do you think Griffin knows?”

  “Probably not. Didn’t she say they met this past fall? By then she must have fabuloused herself up. I mean, he did say she was smart, but come on—Griffin wouldn’t go for her in that turtleneck, would he?”

  Audre flapped the photo in the air. “I’m not one for blackmail, but—”

  “Audre Antonia Legrand!” I threw a pillow at her.

  “Joking,” she said, tossing the photo down. “The mere knowledge of this puppy will make me so happy when I see her at the party tomorrow night.”

  “I can’t believe you invited the whole group,” I groaned. “I’m not emotionally prepared to see … well, you know.”

  Audre rolled her eyes. “Nors, you’re being silly. Just call James up and ask him out. Say ‘I’d really like to get to know you better.’ Or tell him you like him! Anything! Be proactive, baby.” She leaned back against my pillows, still casting smiles down at the Francesca photo.

  I let Audre’s advice sink in. This was a novel idea for me. Telling the boy I liked that I … liked him? Madness! I’d never in a million years do it. Audre, on the other hand, is all about seizing the day. Except she doesn’t always take her own advice. “Well, why don’t you do something about Griffin?” I shot back.

  Audre’s cheeks reddened. “It’s different. He’s in college and all. And there’s the whole is-he-or-isr’t-he? with Francesca. But James is this, like, reality, Nors. He’s kind of sexy—in a dorky way—he’s practically your soul mate, and he clearly has some feelings for you—”

  “Wrong on two counts,” I cut in. “Maybe we connected over books, but that does not make him my soul mate.” I knew I was lying even as I spoke. “Besides, I don’t believe in that gushy stuff.”

  “Blah, blah, bl
ah,” Audre said.

  “And he doesn’t like me, Audre. I mean, he could’ve kissed me after Philippa left, right? Or e-mailed me. He had his chances.” I sighed, my previous excitement about Francesca morphing into misery. “It’s hopeless.”

  Audre snatched an uneaten cupcake from my hand. “I need that for tomorrow,” she chided, then slung an arm around me. “Nors, believe me,” she insisted. “You’re making a mistake if you don’t at least try to pursue James.”

  I knew she had a point; I wasn’t going to get over James any time soon, and I was fed up with always pining after boys—with zero results.

  “But I’m a total coward,” I admitted with a shrug. “I won’t make the first move. And I’m awful at flirting. So what am I supposed to do if I want to get him?”

  After Audre left and I’d slogged through my homework, I washed up, changed into my pj’s, and, at long last, climbed into bed with To Catch a Duke.

  I lay back against my pillows and admired the cover: In a fancy ballroom, a dark-eyed girl with flowing brown hair, wearing a cream-colored gown, gazes into the intense blue eyes of a gentleman in riding breeches and a vest. I’m such a sucker for this stuff it worries me. Still, I’ll take these books over The Devil Wears Prada any day. I’d read that earlier in the week, and had found it pretty vapid and shallow—the perfect choice for (the “new”) Francesca.

  Without wasting another second, I took a breath, opened To Catch a Duke, and dug in.

  Dark-haired, slender Rosamund Billingsworth whirled about, tears pricking her amber-brown eyes. “It’s not fair, Mother!” she cried in anguish. “Why should I suffer at the hands of love only because we are poor?”

  “Yes, why?” I whispered, snuggling deeper under the covers, reading away.

  The story went like this: Rosamund met Lorenzo, a hot blue-eyed Italian duke, at a neighbor’s winter ball. They danced, flirted, and almost made out—but then Lorenzo blew her off big-time. A heart-broken Rosamund knew it was because of her pathetic social standing. So she decided to make Lorenzo fall hopelessly in love with her … by pretending to be the most desirable woman in all of England. Gripped by suspense, I read on as Rosamund concocted a range of ingenious man-getting schemes. But even as I was getting close to the end (and the clock was getting close to 4 a.m.), nothing seemed to be working—until Lorenzo discovered that Rosamund was pursuing his friend, Count Alberto:

  “Oh, Rosamund,” Lorenzo murmured, striding toward her with the same bold, manly confidence that had first caught her eye. His black hair glimmered in the sunlight and his piercing azure eyes burned. “If you love Alberto, I shall surely perish, for then there will be no hope in my universe.”

  “I do not love Alberto,” Rosamund whispered, trembling at Lorenzo’s impassioned words. “Nor any of the other men you have seen me with in town. It was all pretense.”

  Lorenzo stopped before her, and lightly brushed a finger across her ruby-red lips. “For whose benefit?” he asked, his voice smooth as satin.

  “Yours,” Rosamund confessed, her bosom heaving.

  “And this,” Lorenzo replied, sliding a strong arm about Rosamund’s slim waist, “is for your benefit.”

  He lowered his head and ravaged her mouth with a kiss so fiery Rosamund was certain she would melt. She returned his kiss, relishing the feel of his lips and his tongue, and the firm touch of his hands as they slid up and down her supple body. She wrapped herself around him as their kisses grew wilder, their hands more wanton.

  Lorenzo reluctantly drew back, his breathing ragged. He caressed Rosamund’s face, his eyes aflame with tenderness.

  “Dear Rosamund,” he whispered. “I cannot bear to see you with another man.”

  “There is no other man I want,” Rosamund cried, “if you will have me—poor as I am.”

  “I care not a whit about your poverty or your name,” Lorenzo declared, drawing her close. “Your beauty, your fierce spirit is worth all the wealth in the world. I love you, Rosamund. I will love you for all eternity.”

  “And I love you, Lorenzo,” Rosamund sighed, collapsing in his arms once more.

  “Marry me?” Lorenzo asked, holding her tightly.

  “Today, if you wish,” Rosamund murmured against his lips.

  “Well,” Lorenzo chuckled. “If that can’t be arranged, perhaps you’ll settle for an early honeymoon?”

  And, under the sheltering branches of the leafy green trees, Lorenzo laid Rosamund against a soft blanket of grass. The lovers kissed and caressed as if they were ravenous, and finally consummated the pulsing desire that had simmered between them for so long.

  I shut the book and fell back against my pillow, letting out a satisfied sigh. What an ending! Sure, the writing was a little flowery, but who cared? Rosamund was an awesome character—I totally admired her persistence when it came to going after the guy she wanted.

  I sat up in bed, my heart thudding. The guy she wanted. James. Audre’s words came back to me: Be proactive, baby. She was right. It was time to act. I’d been looking for the best way to pursue James, right? Now I had it, spelled out for me step-by-step by Irene O’Dell! Jealousy is powerful. All I had to do was convince James that I was the most wanted girl in New York City—and next time, he’d be sure to follow through on that kiss.

  In a way, I realized, my skin flushing with inspiration, Mrs. Ferber may have helped me out by mentioning other boyfriends. James hadn’t known she was talking about Stacey, so maybe he already suspected that I juggled twenty different boys.

  Now I just had to confirm that suspicion.

  Grabbing my journal, I stretched across my bed and took careful notes on each of Rosamund’s stunts. They were as follows:

  1) Before a lavish tea party, she wrote herself a love letter, disguising her handwriting (Darling Rosamund, I must possess you). At the party, Rosamund “accidentally” let the note fall out of her book of Shakespeare sonnets and onto Lorenzo3’s expensive shoe.

  2) When her pushy parents invited Lorenzo to dine at their manor (I love how in these books, even the poor people live in mansions), Rosamund secretly arranged to have a lavish bouquet from an “admirer” delivered to her door.

  3) While strolling in town with her brother-in-law, Rosamund ran into Lorenzo—and pretended said brother-in-law was really a suitor.

  4) And finally, the icing on the cake: pretending to love Alberto.

  Lying on my stomach, I chewed my pen cap, thinking hard. Weirdly enough, Rosamund’s first step was practically already in place for me. Audre’s dessert party tomorrow (well, today) was almost like a tea party. James would be there. I would be there. What better opportunity to let a love letter carelessly flutter to the ground?

  And, best of all, since I didn’t live in 1812, I wouldn’t even have to disguise my sloppy handwriting. All I had to do was type!

  My skin tingly, I slipped out of bed, bound my hair up in a messy bun, opened my iBook, and started writing.

  Dearest, darling Norah—

  Suddenly, I heard heavy footsteps thumping toward the bathroom in the hall and froze. It was Stacey; for someone so dainty, my sister walks like a baby elephant. I wondered if she’d seen the light on in my room, and for a second I felt like a criminal. An insane criminal. Who in their right mind wrote themselves a love letter?

  Well, whatever. It worked for Rosamund.

  When I heard Stacey return to her room, I let out a breath and went back to work.

  Dearest, darling Norah,

  How often have I admired your elegance and grace. I long for you deeply—

  No. Horrible. I needed to stop channeling Irene O’Dell and make the letter sound like it came from a normal boy.

  Hey N,

  You might not know me, but I think you’re smoking. Your ass looked so hot in those jeans today I almost—

  Okay, but not a gross boy. Someone who’d actually go for me.

  Norah,

  This is kind of embarrassing, but I think you’re one of the coolest girls I’ve eve
r known. And you’re really cute, too.

  I smiled, blushing. This was a nice self-esteem boost.

  Figuring my made-up admirer should go to Millay, I added: I’m in history class with you. That sounded good; English would be too obvious. I kept going, feeling inspired.