Neil cleared this throat, held the note to his face, and began: “‘Norah, this is kind of embarrassing, but I think you’re one of the coolest girls I’ve ever known. And you’re pretty cute, too.’” He paused to chuckle. I cringed at the words I’d written in the privacy of my room—words meant for James’s eyes only. Audre had been right. This was all going so, so wrong. Laughter and whispers buzzed around me. “It’s a secret admirer!” someone said, and somebody else turned off the music, the better for Neil to perform. And Neil kept performing, reading in a loud, clear voice, adding gestures for emphasis, obviously loving the spotlight. I’d always thought Neil was shy, but now that he had this chance to mortify me, he seemed to be blossoming right before my eyes.
The bastard.
By the time he got to the classic “girls like you are never single” line, most of the party was squished into the living room and I was enjoying a very pleasant out-of-body experience. I floated somewhere above the crowd, feeling very, very sorry for the dumb girl in the green dress and cowboy boots.
“Excuse me—let me through—what’s going on here?—this is my party!”
I turned around, practically fainting with relief at the sound of Audre’s voice.
My peeved-looking best friend was elbowing her way through the crush of people. When she saw me, and Neil holding the letter, and the crowd, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She gave me a look that was half I’m so sorry and half I told you so.
“Norah, who do you think it s from?” Olivia was crying from the other side of the room. “Maybe he’s here tonight!”
“Yeah!” Ha-Jin called out. “Hey, if you’re Norah’s secret lover, raise your beer!” There was more laughter.
“This is ludicrous,” Audre sputtered, storming up to Neil and yanking the letter from his hand. “Neil, I think the bus to the local kindergarten is waiting outside for you,” she snapped. Then, rolling her eyes, she turned to the rest of the crowd and made a shoo! motion with her floury hands. “Show’s over, peeps. Would someone please turn the music back on so we can return to our regularly scheduled party?”
What would I do without this girl? The crowd thinned out. Mimi and Jorge started kissing again. The Futureheads CD came back on. My love letter was forgotten—at least for the moment. I threw my arms gratefully around Andre. She hugged me back, hard, stuffing the doomed love letter into my hand.
“It’s over,” she said firmly, pulling away.
“Where were you?” I asked, still shaking.
Audre frowned. “Recovering from Griffin. He came up to me in the kitchen with this weird girl who refused to speak, and then he just left. He gave me a hug good-bye and told me he had to go study da Vinci.”
Then Audre glanced over my shoulder and her face lit up. Is Griffin back? Still a little unsteady, I turned around and saw Scott walking through the door, looking sheepish in his confetti-sprinkled, wrinkled tux. Of course. I knew he’d choose Audre’s bash over the Spring Formal eventually.
“So,” Audre said, crossing her arms over her chest in triumph as Scott loped over. “Look who the cat dragged in.”
Scott grinned and wrapped his arm around my waist. “All right, all right. You win. I couldn’t bear to be apart from my girls for too long. Besides,” he sighed. “Despite my endless hours of planning, the formal was a total letdown. Think, like, Usher slow jams, tasteless fruit punch, and Plum and her cronies in matching Trina Turk dresses.” Then he paused, clearly noticing the traumatized expression on my face. “Oh, God. What did I miss here?”
By now, Scott was more than aware of my James crush, but didn’t yet know the Rosamund details. I started to tell him—maybe he’d be able to give me a helpful boy perspective—when Audre suddenly glanced over my shoulder again and promptly grabbed Scott’s arm. Yanking him away, she told me, “Norah, we have to go. See you later.”
And then she and Scott darted off past me.
My heart sank. Why were my best friends abandoning me in my time of need?
“You guys, come back!” I cried, spinning around.
And I found myself face-to-face with James.
Okay, that was why they’d left.
“Um, hi,” James said, hands in his pockets, hair in his eyes, as always. My pulse spiked. “Listen, I’m sorry about what Neil just did. He can be—” James shrugged. “Immature.” At James’s words, I glanced around and saw Neil back at the food table, talking to Francesca and Theo. “He’s not a bad guy, though,” James added.
I nodded, loving James even more. So he was sweet, somewhere underneath that aloof attitude.
“Oh, whatever. It was funny,” I lied, crumpling up the letter in my fist as if it were garbage.
James studied the carpet, his ears red. “So … who do you think gave it to you?” he asked. Then he looked up and flashed his crooked grin.
I almost gasped. After all that humiliation, had the stupid letter actually … done its job? I barely dared believe it, but James seemed intrigued—by me! Irene O’Dell was a goddess!
I tried to bat my lashes—I’d never done it before so I may have messed it up—and said, “Hmm. I’m not sure. I got it in school this morning, so really, it might be lots of guys …”
Rosamund herself couldn’t have said it better.
James nodded, and it looked for a second like he wanted to laugh—but not in a mean way. Still, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I told James I needed to get a drink—which I did kind of need right then—and headed toward the kitchen. I also needed to find Audre and tell her that things hadn’t gone so wrong after all.
And I needed to figure out what kind of bouquet to send myself for when I next saw James.
It was time for step two.
Nine
“Good morning, Park Slope Florist. How may I help you?”
“I’m just calling to—ouch—confirm a delivery,” I said as an empty can of oatmeal landed on my foot. My hands were full, so I tossed To Catch a Duke down on the counter. “A bouquet of roses for Norah Bloom? Today at eleven thirty?”
“Got it,” the woman chirped. “Bloom, Eighth Street. We’ll be there.”
“Thanks!” I said, clicking off and almost spilling a box of stale Cheerios all over myself. I was on a step stool, hunting through our kitchen cabinets for stuff to feed the book group.
A week ago Griffin had e-mailed us to say that there was a reading at the Book Nook on the same day as our The Devil Wears Prada meeting, so the café would be closedto the public, and Griffin had to work double shifts. Seeing an incredible opportunity for my second Rosamund plan, I invited the group to my house for a Saturday brunch. Plus, since I had that week off for spring break—which Audre and I, boringly, spent going shopping, renting cheesy romantic comedies, and studying for our SATs—I’d had time to review my Rosamund notes, order my secret-admirer flowers, and beg Stacey and my parents that they stay out of my hair while the group was here.
But I’d forgotten about the minor detail of food. I am so not like Audre.
I glanced at my watch: It was ten o’clock, and the meeting was supposed to start at eleven. There was plenty of time to run out to the corner deli and pick up a few things.
Twenty harried minutes later I was on line, waiting to pay for my bagels, cream cheese, and cherry tomatoes, when I noticed a familiar figure ahead of me. Spiky bleached hair, tattoos, torn overalls, combat boots. My breath caught.
“Philippa!” I whispered. Again! What were the chances? I looked around at the other customers; no one else in the store seemed to notice that a famous writer was standing about two feet away. I rose up on my tiptoes and tried to peek into her food basket; what did Philippa Askance eat? I wondered if she was a vegetarian like me, and I grinned at the thought.
But I couldn’t make out her purchases, because by then she was paying. I felt a stab of panic; I didn’t want her to leave yet! If I could get Philippa’s attention now, this might be my big chance to redeem myself for that last embarrassing encounter i
n front of her house. And if I actually spoke to her, it would make a great story for James—and the others.
Clutching her bags, Philippa headed out the electronic doors. Without thinking too much about it, I dumped my basket on a crate—I could come back later—and tore out of the store. Feeling like a stalker, I trailed the punk poet down Seventh Avenue.
I could tell, from the fast, almost nervous way she walked, that Philippa Askance was insanely shy; I almost saw a bit of myself in her. Her shyness would explain why she was such a hermit, even if it didn’t match the fearless and raw voice in Bitter Ironies. Maybe writers’ personalities don’t always fit with how you imagine them from their books.
That’s it, I realized. Bitter Ironies—that was how I could get Philippa to talk to me! I’m always less timid when I can start off talking about books; somehow I sensed Philippa would be the same.
I walked faster until I was right behind her and forced myself to speak. “‘Under the lemon moon / So bitter / I hide in the shadows / Haunted by memory,’” I quoted, remembering a few of my favorite lines from her book. This was maybe the bravest—and stupidest—thing I’d ever done. Not counting the fake love letter, of course.
Philippa stopped walking, turned around, and snapped off her shades. Her eyes were so dark blue they were almost purple, and she blinked them at me. I froze, wishing I’d thrown on something funkier than torn jeans and a Brooklyn Dodgers T-shirt. It was too bad Audre and I had chickened out when we went to get our noses pierced in the East Village last summer; maybe Philippa would think I was cooler if I had some face jewelry.
To my surprise, Philippa smiled at me. “Thanks,” she whispered. “I like that part a lot.”
“Me too. Well, I like the whole book.” I laughed nervously. “I, um, can’t wait for the next one.” I am talking to Philippa Askance!
She studied me for a second. “I know you,” she said quietly.
“You do?” I gulped.
Philippa nodded. “You and a boy were sitting outside my house about a month ago. You tried to talk to me?” She shook her head, biting her pierced bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I get weird about stuff like that. I’m more of a one-on-one person, you know?”
“I can relate,” I said, then I shook my head. “I mean, I’m not famous or anything so I can’t really….” I blushed, telling myself to shut up.
Philippa smiled again, her dark blue eyes thoughtful. “I understand.” She shifted her bags to her other arm. “So what did you guys want to say?” she asked, sounding curious. I was surprised at how much this felt like talking to a friend. Quickly, I explained about our book group’s mission, and how we’d been in touch with her agent, and she nodded.
“I remember now,” Philippa murmured. “My agent e-mailed me. The high school book group. The end of May, at the Book Nook. Just a reading, right?”
“Actually,” I said, getting a crazy idea. (What can I say? I’m known for those.) “Maybe you could also, like, guest-star at our meeting! You know, we’d have the reading, and then the book group could meet afterward to discuss Bitter Ironies? And you’d be there to answer our questions!” I nodded, proud of my amazing initiative. Ms. Bliss would be so impressed.
But Philippa didn’t seem too impressed. She seemed … scared. She cleared her throat, hesitating, and even took a few steps back from me.
Damn. I’d probably gone overboard. “Um,” I covered. “I guess we can think about that part. But you will be able to come to the reading, right?” I held my breath, worried Philippa would change her mind.
She slipped her shades back on and tilted her head to the side, back in mystery mode. “I’ll be there in some form,” she replied softly. “I promise.”
Huh?
“I should go,” Philippa said. She took a couple more steps back, and raised one hand. “I need to run home and write.”
Of course—her writing! I imagined Philippa returning to her brownstone and walking upstairs with her groceries. Maybe she’d pet Kafka and then settle down at her gigantic desk, open her laptop with a flourish, and begin typing her new masterpiece. That was the last thing I wanted to keep Philippa Askance from. So, still feeling surreal after our talk, I nodded, waved back, and turned to go.
“Hey, wait,” Philippa called after me. “Are you still with that boy?”
I looked over my shoulder, confused. “What bo—” I began, and then realized. James. Philippa Askance thought I was … with James. She’d seen us together and assumed we were a couple! That had to mean something, didn’t it? (True, Mrs. Ferber had assumed the same thing, but whatever.)
“Oh, that boy? We’re not together,” I replied truthfully, gazing sadly at the sidewalk.
Philippa sighed. “Really? You guys were … adorable. You both gave off this vibe of—” She paused and I could tell she was trying to think up the perfect words like I did sometimes. “Innocent abandon.”
Innocent abandon? I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded very poetic. And it was about me and James!
Suddenly, I remembered James, my Rosamund flower delivery, and the book group. I glanced at my watch—it was almost eleven; I’d never have time to pick up the food from the grocery store now. I needed to bid Philippa adieu and race home as quickly as possible.
But when I looked up to tell the mysterious poetess good-bye, she was already gone.
I arrived at my brownstone, with a stitch in my side and my ponytail unraveling, to find the whole book group waiting on my stoop, looking impatient.
My parents were both working that day, and Stacey was upstairs, sleeping off the screaming match she’d had with her boyfriend the night before, so nobody had answered the doorbell. Apologizing—and trying not to think the words “innocent abandon” every time I looked at James—I unlocked the door and ushered the group inside.
Audre and Scott, who were as tight as ever now that the Spring Formal was over, walked in side by side, looking stressed. At school last week, I’d finally given Scott the whole Rosamund rundown, and he’d been super-supportive, not even remembering to mock me for my secret romance novel passion. Both he and Audre were well aware of today’s planned flower fake-out. In fact, I’d asked that both my friends play a role in the scheme, and, last night, we’d even rehearsed our lines over three-way calling. This time, I’d decided, there was going to be no messing up.
Francesca sauntered into my house with barely a hello, sporting giant sunglasses, a silky draped top, slim Bermuda shorts and wedge-heeled espadrilles—clearly, she was getting into fashionable character for her big The Devil Wears Prada moment. I still couldn’t help wanting to shout: I know the truth! at her, but, right then, I was too busy with my own dramas.
James and Neil were the last to enter, and they both observed my living room with interest, staring at the science textbooks on the shelves. “Whoa,” Neil whispered, obviously impressed—it occurred to me that my parents would love him—while James ran a hand through his hair and murmured a more thoughtful, “Wow.”
“What?” I asked James, feeling slightly defensive, while the rest of the group headed for the kitchen.
James turned toward me, half-shrugging as we cut across the living room together. “Well, it’s just that—you’re really different from your parents, right?”
You think?
I grinned, flattered that James had bothered to notice, and was about to agree wholeheartedly when I noticed him do a double take at something on the cluttered coffee table. Following his gaze, I felt my skin freeze.
No!
There, on top of a stack of old newspapers, sat To Catch a Duke.
That morning, before calling the florist, I’d thumbed through the book while standing in the kitchen—rereading Rosamund’s bouquet scene for inspiration. Then, while dashing out the door to the grocery store, I’d absentmindedly tossed the book onto the coffee table, figuring I’d spirit it up to my room when I returned. Of course, that hadn’t happened, so my gigantic secret was lying there, in plain view, f
or the whole world—and James—to see.
I was getting ready to snatch the book off the table—or explain myself somehow—but, to, my relief, James glanced away and continued toward the kitchen, unruffled.
I made myself breathe steadily. In. Out. In. Out. So James had seen a romance novel in my living room. Big deal. He didn’t have to automatically assume it belonged to me. And, most importantly, he had no way of knowing that I was taking serious love advice from said book.
Still, I’d have to make sure to stash Rosamund and Co. back upstairs as soon as humanly possible.
In the kitchen, I laid out my humble food offerings—dry cereal, peanut butter, and toast—to the grumbles of “Oh, man, that’s it?” and “I knew we should’ve gone to a diner” and “Norah, have I taught you nothing?” (that was Audre, of course). But I didn’t feel too guilty—I had the mother of all excuses.
A Novel Idea Page 8
