Bookish Boyfriends Page 12

  “Oh.” I watched this fact sink in. For once a guy hadn’t been overawed by her. For once my cute hadn’t played second fiddle to her beautiful.

  “Look, Eliza, I’m sorry if you think it’s too much, too soon, but that’s not the way the story goes.” I began to run again, faster this time. Frustration was apparently a pace booster.

  “The story?” She groaned. “Are you still fixated on that? Okay, let’s just pretend for a second you’re right—you’re not, but let’s pretend. Comparing your relationship to Romeo and Juliet and claiming it’s romantic—that’s the equivalent of saying that Macbeth is a play about finding your motivation. Or that The Tempest is about hurricane preparedness. Or King Lear makes a great gift for Father’s Day. I can keep going; Julius Caesar, that’s—”

  “Please don’t.”

  Eliza was the one who stopped running first this time. She fixed me with earnest eyes. “Just be careful. I know I’m no good at this romance stuff—but you have the best heart of anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t want him to hurt it.”

  I gave her a hug, and she let me, sweat and all.

  Then she added, “And drop the whole ‘we’re Romeo and Juliet’ thing. Monroe is not Romeo. This is not magic. Next you’ll be telling me Toby is Knightley because he lives next door. Or is he Laurie? Curtis is a clown . . . does that mean he’s Puck? Bottom? The dark-haired boy and the redhead from Latin class are dating—clearly that makes them Gilbert and Anne from Green Gables. Is Lance short for Lancelot? Who’s his Guinevere? Who are Sera and Hannah? Which fictional character will you reduce me to? If you’re going to commit to this, cast everyone. Or are you just special and the only one affected?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Just because you’re a super genius doesn’t mean you’re always right.” I ground a stupid tulip poplar leaf beneath my shoe. “You read your fancy science journals and think you’re so above all things romantic. You scoff at the books and movies I like and are critical of all my crushes. Well, this isn’t your area of expertise. It’s mine.”

  We didn’t talk the rest of our run or during the drive home—which was especially awkward since Nancy, the latest in a revolving door of doctoral students the Gordon-Ferguses hired as Eliza’s temporary guardians, didn’t do small talk or listen to the radio. Literally, the only words spoken were my “Hello, Nancy” and my “Thanks, Nancy. Let’s talk later, Eliza.”

  At least that last one got a soft sigh and a nod. And three minutes later, my phone buzzed with her apology. I was already stripped down and standing next to the running shower, so I quickly responded and conceded that maybe/definitely she’d made some valid points before I said we’d talk later. There was only so much hot water, and I wanted all of it to combat sore muscles and the trail mud striping my legs.

  Thirty—okay, forty-five—minutes later I was mud-free, moisturized, and relaxed.

  And Eliza and I were fine. I knew this because she’d texted, We’re fine, right? to which I’d put down my lotion to reply YES . . . and a bunch of random emojis. Which was really just to mess with her. Eliza may have been fluent in Spanish and the periodic table, but she didn’t speak emoji. I smiled when three minutes later she texted, I give up. Love + Bug + Coffee + Cake + Confetti + Volcano + Indonesian Flag + Train + Whale = what?

  It = I adore you!

  And I did. I adored the whole world right then. Well, with the exception of animal abusers and Fielding. How could I not? The sun was setting in Cheeto-flamingo colors out the bathroom window. The hair dryer was warm and the polish I’d just slapped on my toes was bright pink. I had the best best friends, a new school I liked, my family kicked butt . . .

  Plus Monroe. Now that I was over the initial mortification from Convocation, maybe it hadn’t been that bad. It was sort of sweet, right?

  “Sweetheart?” Mom knocked on the door.

  I pulled it open. “Almost done, I swear.”

  She gave me a tight smile, followed by the four worst words in the history of conversations: “We need to talk.”

  16

  Mom followed up with “When your father gets home.” Which, really, Mom? All the panic, none of the answers.

  “Is everyone okay?” I asked.

  “No one’s hurt. But why don’t you go start homework until he’s back from the store.”

  “Oh—kay?” I stretched the word as thin as my patience and crept down the hall as slowly as possible, but she didn’t crack. Which was probably just as well, since Mom did discipline and Dad did “one more chance” and “Oh, don’t give me the sad puppy-dog eyes.” There was a reason that Byron and Gatsby sat under his chair at dinner—he had “pushover” written all over his pullover sweaters.

  But whatever it was we needed to talk about, it was churning into a panicked stomach as I pulled on a pair of purple-and-green-striped leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.

  What had I done this time? I was no stranger to my parents in lecture mode, but I usually knew why. Did they hear about Convocation? And if so, would they care or would they Awwww? I still wasn’t sure which side I fell on or what trouble Monroe had gotten into.

  I grabbed Brontësaurus Rex, the stuffed dinosaur I’d had since I was eight, and mashed her beneath my chin as I paced my room. I wanted answers. I’d wanted Monroe to be an answer. The solution to that awful vacant feeling I’d described to Eliza. But it was still there, and gnawing beside it were Ms. Gregoire’s words from class, Monroe’s from Convocation, Eliza’s from our run, and Mom’s from two minutes ago.

  I used the next ten minutes to take the laziest stab at math homework. I wrote the problems on the page, did some calculations, and even solved a couple. But, yeah—focus and I weren’t friends. And when my phone rang, I didn’t just answer it, I pounced on it like Gatsby on a chew stick. “Hello?”

  Technically, last year Mom and Dad had implemented a No Cell Phones During Homework policy—which was really more of a Rory policy than a me one. Because Eliza wouldn’t dream of texting or talking on the phone while she was studying, and Toby . . . well, he just climbed over, no phone necessary.

  The policy was on the honor system, but the consequences of being dishonorable were severe—losing our phones for a whole week. Rory had been in cellular jail at least once a month last year. I’d only been caught one time—but I had a feeling Monroe was going to make being obedient tricky.

  “Hey, love. I’ve missed you.”

  “Oh. Thanks?” It had only been three hours . . . which was more than the total time we’d spent together. I flopped on my bed and bit my lip before asking, “How much trouble did you get in for Convocation?”

  He laughed. “Williams is useless. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Um, okay?” He hadn’t seemed useless when I was interviewing. He’d seemed intimidating and intense. And exactly like the type of uptight, pretentious authoritarian who’d have a child like Fielding. Clearly Sera was a changeling who’d been left with the wrong family. Or the jerk genes carried through the male branches of the Williams family tree.

  Monroe groaned. “Rehearsal was endless. The director wants us all off-book, like, yesterday. I’m not complaining, but I do have the most lines in the play. Six hundred and fifteen. Even Juliet has only five hundred something.”

  That was another parallel between the play and us—more proof Ms. Gregoire was right and Eliza was wrong—because he definitely did more of the talking.

  “So,” Monroe continued, “when can you sneak out? Because I can’t wait till morning to kiss you again.”

  “Um—” But I was saved from answering by a knock on my door. “I’vegottogobye.”

  “Merrilee? Can we come in?”

  It’s a good thing I had ninja-like reflexes, because apparently Mom’s question was rhetorical. As I shoved my phone in my sweatshirt pocket, she opened the door and entered with Dad. “Hi, pumpkin.”

  Mom sat on my desk chair and then heel-walked it over to where my books were spread out on my bed. Dad moved my math book and sat down
.

  I flicked my phone over to silent. “What’s up?”

  “Mom made you chocolate milk.” Dad held out a Snoopy glass with a bendy straw.

  Pouring milk and adding chocolate syrup was about the limit of Mom’s culinary skills. She also made a mean bowl of cereal and could rock a plate of cheese and crackers. And mac ’n’ cheese, if you liked it on the gummy/rubbery side of edible. But her gesture didn’t feel comforting or like it heralded a quick conversation.

  I took the glass and sat on my rag rug. “What’s going on?” I tugged the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands. It had been Toby’s back before a growth spurt, but I’d notched the collar and swapped his chewed drawstrings for ribbons, so it was irrevocably mine now.

  Mom frowned at my math homework. She drew asterisks beside the problems I hadn’t finished, just like she had when I was little and wrote threes backward. She looked up and said, “You didn’t tell us Monroe was a Stratford.”

  “Um, he introduced himself to you as Monroe Stratford. So what?”

  “The senator’s not happy about it. Monroe’s the son of her rival.”

  “Wait. You went into parental DEFCON mode because the senator doesn’t like my boyfriend’s father?” I laughed and waited for them to join in. They didn’t.

  My pocket began to vibrate. My phone screen lit up through the fabric. “Eliza,” I said with a fake smile so big my teeth felt dry. “I’ll call her back after my homework’s done.”

  “Is she okay?” Dad’s brows furrowed. “It’s not right—her alone in that big house with just a grad student while her parents—”

  “I like this latest grad student.” Someone mark this date on the calendar, because it was the first and last time I’d ever defend Eliza’s mom and dad. But it was also true. “Nancy’s way better than the last couple.”

  Dad frowned. “Eliza knows that if she needs something, she can come to us, right? I worry about her.” Normally I loved how he considered her his fourth daughter, but not right now, when he was holding out his hand for my cell, which was buzzing again. “You know what, answer the phone. I should tell her myself.”

  I powered it off. “She’s fine. Just impatient to compare math answers. So let’s get this over with so I can do them. You were saying something about the senate campaigns?”

  Mom pressed her lips together. “They haven’t exactly been friendly. All the objectification of the senator. The attack ads are toxic.”

  “And?” I shrugged. Wasn’t politics always toxic? “Am I going to have to start avoiding everyone who isn’t a Rhodes voter? Are we going to ban anyone wearing a Stratford pin from the store? Toby’s father supports Mr. Stratford. Are the Mays uninvited to the wedding?”

  “Of course not; Toby’s practically family.” Dad had arranged my eclectic collection of throw pillows in neat rows. They were all shapes and sizes, made from handkerchiefs and cloth placemats I’d bought at yard sales during my sewing phase.

  I snatched up Brontësaurus and fiddled with her spikes. “So, you won’t tell me who I can be friends with—just who I can date?”

  “We’re not doing that either.” Mom wheeled over to my desk and was capping pens and putting them in a mug from the local bookshop.

  “What are you doing? Because when I left this morning you were practically designing Team Monroe T-shirts, and now you’re . . . this!”

  Dad’s mouth quirked till Mom shot him a look. Normally I thought it was adorably, obnoxiously, cheesily romantic that they had such perfect ESP. For an old-people couple, my parents were pretty cute—I wanted that someday. The love notes on my bathroom mirror and steering wheel. The butt pinches in the kitchen when he thought no one was looking. The hand holding in the grocery store while discussing prices and coupons. Someday many years from now, I wanted to be sitting in my future daughter’s bedroom, giving my future husband a pointed look that said, “your turn to be bad cop.”

  But first I wanted wild romance and passionate kisses, big gestures and racing-heart excitement. Roses on my balcony, declarations in Convocation, sneaking in and out, phone calls under covers, and a love story worthy of the best-seller list. I wanted the butterfly feelings and moonlight rendezvous. Monroe was a willing partner in crime, so the only obstacle was the pair of scowls lecture-cleaning my room . . . and the fact that these gestures were way more appealing in my imagination than they were in reality.

  Dad cleared his throat. “We’re not trying to give you mixed messages, but . . . the senator raised some valid concerns.” He moved from organizing my pillows to the contents of my book bag that I’d dumped on the bed, but he paused and turned toward me, don’t disappoint me eyes lit up like high beams. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”

  “Like?” I squeaked. My head was spinning with all sorts of off-limits ways of answering my own question: Like, the senator’s a complete control freak. Like, she’s going all Capulet-Montague, and we know how that turns out. Like, your little girl is currently contemplating her boyfriend’s request to sneak out and make out.

  Oh, definitely not that last one.

  Dad’s eyes dimmed, and I felt it like a gut punch. I’d failed this test enough times to know I’d missed the chance he was giving me to fess up and come clean. And I would’ve—I usually did—but this time I truly didn’t know about what.

  Mom frowned. “Your sister’s party? You lied to us. You stood there and lied to us about the fire alarm.”

  “Ohhh.” It was less word, more gasp. The sound you make when bitten by a mosquito or when stepping in dog poop.

  “That,” said Dad, “is what has us so conflicted right now. You like this boy, and that’s important. But . . . the first thing you did after kissing him was lie to us.”

  “Technically, I never said I didn’t do it.” I gave my best attempt at a don’t ground me smile, but it probably looked more like a post-Novocain grimace.

  “Merrilee!” warned Mom. “Know how we found out? Senator Rhodes has the security footage from the club. She called to let me know you’d pulled the alarm while making out.”

  I cringed so hard-core that I think even my molecules shuddered. “First, please don’t ever say the words ‘making out’ again. Gross. Also, the senator saw it?” My stomach was twisted in more loops than my bendy straw. “Did she tell you it was an accident? Because it was.”

  “You lied to us,” said Mom, in that disappointed voice that always made Byron pee and Gatsby tuck his tail between his legs and slink away. If I could’ve followed his example and fled, I would’ve.

  Instead, I squeaked, “I’m really sorry. And you should know, it’s not Monroe’s fault. It was mine.” I had no doubt they’d believe this. Mom always said my middle name should be “Instigator.”

  “Not your best move, kiddo. But . . .” Dad squeezed a throw pillow shaped like a Sriracha bottle. “We were young once too—”

  Normally I loved these stories. Proof that way back in the day, he and Mom had had their own epic hijinks, but right now, I just wanted them to leave so I could call Monroe. I needed someone to cringe with me.

  Dad kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. His voice faded into a chuckle that sounded slightly sniffly. “I can’t believe our little dreamer is dating. I was starting to think no real boy would ever be able to compete with your book crushes.”

  My eyebrows shot up, because I was dating Romeo, so clearly books and boyfriends didn’t have to be separate.

  “This is your one pass, Merri,” said Mom. “And you’re lucky Mr. Rhodes is on the country club board, and they voted not to add any fines on top of the fire department’s.”

  My mind had wandered back to English class, to imagining my parents’ reactions if I repeated Ms. Gregoire’s words and told them, This story lives and breathes. We know them. They’re us. You’re them.

  “Huh?” I snapped back to the here and now. “Fines?”

  “It costs money to respond to false alarms. All the fire trucks and man-hours. Who do you think pay
s for that?” Mom kneaded the back of her neck and sighed. “And with the wedding and school expenses . . . Really, this was the last thing we needed.”

  I swallowed around a guilt-shaped lump. “How much?”

  Dad shook his head. “We don’t have the bill yet.”

  I fiddled with Brontësaurus’s floppy, stuffingless neck. “You can take it out of my paychecks.”

  “No doubt you’ll help, but until we see a dollar figure . . . It could be significant,” said Dad.

  “In the meantime, Merri, just . . . think.” Mom patted my hand. “I know you’re our impulsive little imp, but better judgment and decision making, please.”

  “And since you can’t do either of those things on an empty belly, what do you want for dinner? Your sisters scrounged leftovers, but I can whip up something,” offered Dad. “Stir fry?”

  “Not hungry. Thanks.” I stood and opened my door. “If we’re done, I need to do homework.” Or have a panic attack, or pretend that none of this was happening, or call my boyfriend. If that was multiple choice, I was all about option D.

  17

  Even though I’d just promised to behave and make better choices, and I doubted that my parents had even reached the stairs yet, I pulled out and powered up my phone, bypassing the new texts (seventeen) and voice mails (eight) to dial the boy who’d left them all.

  “There’s my girl.” His words were like stepping into a hot tub. I needed to feel warm and wanted after that lecture. “Finally. So, what time can you leave without getting caught? I can be on your street in eight minutes.”

  Inexplicably, I thought of Fielding. Of his expression when he’d judged me from across the parking lot—like somehow by standing there dripping wet and looking idiotic, I’d confirmed some deep-seated conclusion he’d already drawn about me.