Bookish Boyfriends Page 19

  “Merri—” Eliza grimaced like her next words were distasteful, but she said them anyway. “Could you ride with him? It’d get me home faster. I don’t want to miss this call.”

  Fielding didn’t even wait for me to concede with a bitter “Fine” before he was smugly picking up his enormous bag and adding, “I’m parked this way.”

  “Call me later,” I told Eliza. I shrugged when Hannah mouthed, “Sorry.”

  Fielding was already clearing his throat impatiently from the door to the gym and pointing to my cross-country bag. “Do you need me to carry that for you?”

  “What? No.” I shouldered my satchel and picked up the duffel, muttering, “Wish me luck,” as I waved good-bye to my friends and marched over to the world’s haughtiest chauffeur.

  He waited at his trunk for me to slide my bags beside his. Then waited for the click of my seat belt before starting the engine. He adjusted the mirrors—twice—looked over his shoulder, and slowly backed out of his space. Then he . . . drove. That’s it. No radio. Not even humming or drumming a finger on his leg. Hands at twelve and two, or six and nine, or whatever the heck time they’re supposed to be at according to the driver’s ed manual I hadn’t opened yet. But if that instructor were here, he’d be impressed. I was bored. I never thought I’d say “I miss Rory,” but I missed Rory. It’s not like she had fixed the awkwardness that morning, but at least then I hadn’t had to endure it alone.

  Fielding didn’t look affected. Not that he’d have noticed I was. He didn’t look my way—not even at stop signs. The silence hung so loud that when I squirmed, I wanted to shush the rasp of my clothing on the seat. Was this some new form of psychological torture? Well, I wasn’t giving in. I wouldn’t be the one to talk first. And fine. He’d gotten his way. For whatever reason, he wanted my sweaty butt in his passenger seat. Congratulations. I was seat belted and sealed inside his pristine car. I hoped he enjoyed the sweet scent of victory when it was mixed with five miles of perspiration and came with muddy shoes on his immaculate car mats.

  He didn’t look muddy or sweaty. Not soggy and drippy like Toby after practice. His gray Dri-Fit shirt didn’t have telltale armpit circles or grass stains. The only clues it shared were about his seriously fit body underneath. In fact, I wanted to sue the manufacturer, because holy hound dog, that should be illegal. Or maybe it was the maker of his blazers I’d be seeing in court, because how dare they obscure this? I’d been seriously missing out at my old all-girls’ school.

  No. No. Erase that thought. He should put the blazer on now, so he’d stop distracting me. He was probably doing it on purpose. I hated him.

  Had he even practiced? Or was he simply decoration, a lacrosse lawn ornament? A GQ mascot. I frowned at his profile—his hair was the slightest bit damp around his right ear. It curled just a little along his neck—a tiny rebellion I hoped majorly annoyed him. I shifted closer to the console to check out his shoes. Either he had mud on his sneakers, or he hadn’t worked out. Except his stupid long legs and knees were in the way. I couldn’t see his feet. And he smelled like paper. Like a library or a bookstore. But not the old crumbly section of a used store with incontinent cats. Like crisp pages and unbroken bindings. It was a delicious scent—one that was wasted on him. One that I leaned a little farther over the center console to take another whiff of.

  “Are you trying to smell me?” he asked.

  “No. Are you trying to smell me?” Which not only didn’t make sense, because he was keeping his nose on his half of the car, but it was a horrifying thing to have asked. Because what if he could? What if his answer was to grimace and say, “Unfortunately, I can smell you without trying”?

  While I surreptitiously tried to sniff myself—which was neither surreptitious nor pleasant—Fielding shook his head and shifted his grip on the wheel. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “weirdo.”

  And, okay, I was totally being a weirdo, but I’d also won. I’d made him speak first. Which meant it was fine to ask, “What was in that toddler-size bag you put in the trunk? Well, not sized for a toddler, but the size of one. I’d ask if it was the dismembered body of the last person you drove somewhere, but it clanked when you put it down.”

  “Maybe the last person I drove was a cyborg.”

  “Um, maybe?” I couldn’t tell if that was his attempt at a joke, but if so, judging by his furrowed brow and wince, even he hadn’t found it funny.

  “It’s my fencing gear. I’m headed to my club after Toby’s.”

  “Fencing?” I didn’t know if I was delighted or disgusted by this new piece of strangeness. I liked the idea of him in a suit—complete with face mask so I wouldn’t have to see him looking at me like he was shocked I knew how to use words. “Like, with real swords?”

  “Points and all.”

  “How . . . posh.” It was kinder than “strange,” yet equally true. “Do you play polo too?”

  “Horses or water?”

  “Oh, um . . .” I trailed off and played with the window, but two ups and downs later, he was still waiting for an answer, and I wasn’t sure I knew the difference. The only “polo” I’d ever played was Marco. “Either? Both?”

  He shifted his grip on the wheel, probably imagining tightening those long, elegant fingers around my neck. “No.”

  I swallowed a grunt of annoyance and turned to face the windshield. Clearly he’d wanted me in this seat so he could mock me. Well, if I didn’t say a word for the last three minutes, then he wouldn’t have anything to mock.

  He waited until the street before mine. Until the silence around us felt as rough and hard as rawhide dog treats. Then he cleared his throat. I watched his neck muscles move as he swallowed before asking, “So, how do you like Hero High so far?”

  Oh, I had thoughts for him. But since this question felt like it came from Headmaster Williams and would be reported back to him, I went for the subtle subtext of: “Some parts are way more welcoming than others.”

  “I see,” he answered, but I didn’t think he did at all. Not that it mattered. He could stay as oblivious as he wanted up on his high horse, so long as he didn’t trample me or make me ride with him again. After another long pause, he added, “Perhaps that’s because your enrollment was so dependent on your connection with Senator Rhodes.”

  I scrunched my eyebrows. Was his hatred just political? If so, he’d be thrilled to know how little the senator and I got along. Though Monroe had said his dad would hate me too. . . . Maybe I was just politicians’ anathema? Wait. I needed a response. “I take it your family is voting Stratford?”

  Fielding recoiled like I’d slapped him or fed him slugs. “Of course not.”

  “But if your big issue is with Senator Rhodes—”

  “My big issue is with nepotism.”

  I scoffed. “I’m not related to the senator. Not even tangentially—not yet.”

  “Fine. Not nepotism.” I watched the bones of his jaw shift sideways. “But her influence. You’re here to make the trustees and alumni happy.”

  Something in my chest felt pinched, but I gritted my teeth and responded, “Funny, I thought I was here to get an education.” I squirmed in my seat. “Well, not here. I’m here because you wouldn’t let Eliza drive me home.” And, dear dachshunds and all things furry, why was he taking a left at this fork? In what universe did it make sense to take the long way home?

  He was still grinding his teeth, and between them came the faintest near-growl sound. It was kind of cute, actually. Like when a bull terrier puppy is trying to be ferocious but fails. I grinned. “But you’re not voting Stratford?”

  “I’m not voting—period. I’m seventeen. But even if I was eleven months older—of course I wouldn’t vote Stratford.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  I thought his jaw was going to dislocate from the way he clenched it as his face turned redder and his nostrils flared and he finally opened his mouth and exploded. “Because I’m not morally bankrupt!”

  “
Oh.” I shrank back toward the window. “That’s a good reason.” Maybe I should’ve looked beyond the cute family photos and bio section of Patrick Stratford’s website. I knew Eliza wasn’t a fan. Despite his dad’s support, Toby wasn’t either. My parents had voted Rhodes in the last election—which was before Trent was in Lilly’s life. What exactly did Monroe’s father stand for? And what did Senator Rhodes? Maybe that was a good question for Trent at this Sunday’s brunch. Lilly would be thrilled if I made an effort to talk to him. Come to think of it, Trent would be too, since anything that made Lilly smile made him beam. And, fine, that was sort of adorable.

  Fielding glanced at me at every stop sign. Sometimes a full head turn, sometimes just a shift of his eyes. Each pause felt like it held potential, and each time my pulse surged. But then he’d switch his attention back to the road and press the gas pedal.

  Finally, after the most circuitous route and five lifetimes’ worth of awkward silences, Fielding pulled up in front of Toby’s house.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I was out of the car as soon as he moved the gearshift into park. I grabbed my bags from the trunk. And now I was the one pausing, looking at him as he emerged from the car, sunlight glinting off the sunglasses he’d put on after turning onto my street. In the car I’d only seen them from the side; from the front—gah, they suited him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  My gaze fell to the ground like it wanted to stop, drop, and roll. “Like what?” I asked innocently, searching my brain for any answer that didn’t involve objectifying him or drool.

  He shook his head. “Forget it. Are you coming?” He pointed at the Mays’ house, but I took a step backward, off their driveway and onto the grass.

  “No.” Another step, and another, till I’d crossed the threshold between the brighter green of the Mays’ lawn service landscaping and my own patchy grass. “Tell Toby I’ll be over later, but I’ve got to get to work.”

  It was an excuse, not a lie. I snuck one last look at Fielding, still standing by his car door. Still watching me. Then I turned and darted up my front steps faster than I’d run at practice.

  While I might not have been a liar, I was most definitely a coward.

  26

  There was an unspoken agreement that Rory and I didn’t fight when we were the only two working at the store. Actually, that rule seemed to hold up pretty well when we were the only two anywhere. It was like any other person was a catalyst—or was it an accelerant?—who made the two of us react. Eliza would know the right chemistry word, but if she showed up, she’d also assume that role. Maybe I should’ve used a mathematical analogy. On our own, Rory and I were rational numbers; we could do all sorts of calculations together and come up with solutions. But any third party was like pi—add them into our equation and the answer became irrational.

  Rory had brought us dinner tonight—cheese quesadillas—but like anything she made, they were art. The sprinkle of chili powder, the arrangement of salsa and guacamole and sour cream along the side of the plates in strategic dollops.

  “It almost looks too pretty to eat,” I said. “Except I’m hungry.” This was the same logic we used for eating at the counter, instead of the back room like we were supposed to.

  She smiled and bit into her own—which I’m sure had vegan cheese and yogurt instead of sour cream, because Rory was on a health kick. Except maybe it couldn’t be called a kick if it’d lasted more than a year? Regardless, I appreciated that she didn’t try and foist it on the rest of us. I liked my cheese in cheese form, and don’t get me started on the time I accidentally chomped into a meatless hot dog.

  “Do you think the front window needs more pumpkins?” she asked, tilting her head to consider it.

  “Not unless you feel like painting them.”

  She shrugged. “Not really, but I hate rainy nights when no one comes in.” She wandered into the back room and fetched our school bags.

  I had all sorts of biology I could catch up on and a precalc problem set that Toby had texted me was “killer.” But it was the book from Ms. Gregoire I pulled out. Not Romeo and Juliet, even though I was supposed to be finishing the play tonight—no need: everyone dies and blah, blah, blah, good riddance. This was the fuschia-covered copy of Pride and Prejudice. I ran my fingers over the embossed title, feeling the blood rush beneath my skin as I flipped it open.

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged . . .”

  I was ten minutes into my introduction to the Bennet family and their meddling mother when Rory shoved her math book away. I peeked over the cover. “Want some help?”

  But she’d already picked up a felt-tip pen and was doodling on a store bag, so I felt no guilt about turning the next page when she said, “No. It’s fine.”

  The most exciting moment of the night was Mr. Stuhltrager’s reaction to the sketch Rory had done of his bichon frise, Charlie, while the two of them prowled around the store. And while I wanted them to hurry up and walk their six legs out the door so I could get back to Lizzy Bennet and her four (four!) sisters, I had to admit the sketch was good enough to warrant Mr. Stuhltrager’s “I can’t believe you did that—just now! On a brown paper bag. I would frame this. I wonder if I still can trim it down and do that. You should offer this as a service. People would pay big bucks. I would pay big bucks! Here, take this as a tip.”

  I couldn’t see the number on the bill he pressed into Rory’s hand, but I don’t think that mattered to her as much as the words, which had made her cheeks bright red and her mouth squirmy as she fought the urge to beam.

  “You should offer that,” I told her afterward. “Call it Pup Portraits or something.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged and entered her code into the cash register, swapping the twenty in her hand for two tens and offering me one.

  I waved her off. “That’s all yours. I can’t draw a stick figure. But seriously, talk to Mom and Dad. They’ll be here to get us in like ten minutes. I think it’s a good idea.”

  If they chatted about it on the way home, I didn’t hear. I was too busy reading in the backseat about the eldest Bennet daughter, Jane, falling in love with the charming and rich Mr. Bingley. I liked Jane, and I was totally cheering for her and Bingley—but I didn’t relate to her. They were both too sweet. Too well-behaved. Too quiet and hesitant and gentle. I was all about the main character, Lizzy, and her sass and books and Lizzyness. When that awful Mr. Darcy snubbed her, I gasped.

  “You okay back there, Merri?” Dad asked from behind the steering wheel. I realized belatedly that we were home and parked and Rory was already out of the car, whereas I hadn’t even unbuckled.

  “Oh, right.” I flicked off the overhead light I’d been using to see the pages and blinked at the night as I got out of the car. Toby’s bedroom was still glowing, and I could hear the faint strains of his keyboard through the crack in his balcony door. “I’m going to go check on the patient.”

  Mom nodded. “Poor guy. Want us to take your backpack?”

  “I’ve got it. There was talk of doing math homework.” When I turned thirteen, my parents had sat me down and asked me how I felt about Toby. They checked in again every year or so. Since I’d never wavered from “platonic” or given them a reason to doubt me, they didn’t restrict our visits. It was a gift of trust I appreciated, especially since they were exactly the type to indulge in boy-next-door fantasies about me and him.

  “Don’t stay too late,” added Dad. “But in case you do, sleep sweet, little dreamer.”

  Mom stamped a kiss on my cheek. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Toby was sitting at his keyboard with his bad knee propped on a laundry basket. He had the volume turned down, but the fact that he didn’t have headphones plugged in indicated his dad wasn’t home. Mr. May was a big supporter of the arts—as long as they were performed by people other than his son.

  “Look at you, up and about.” I set my bag on the floor and took a seat in his twirly desk chair.
“Feeling better?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the pain meds, but maybe? They don’t think anything’s torn, just sprained.” Toby switched the keyboard off and carefully edged his knee brace around the legs of its stand. He stood on one foot and hopped across the room to his bed.

  “If you’re not going to use your crutches, you should at least let me help.”

  “Help me by checking my math,” he countered. “Or by entertaining me. I’m so bored.”

  “Movie?” I suggested, reaching for the trunk of cosplay pieces that sat in the corner of his room. I understand that most people don’t put on costumes to watch a movie, but most people aren’t as fun as Toby and me. Donning a top hat or bandolier or fake mustache or cape before pressing play was part of our routine. And after the awkward way we’d left things the night before, I really wanted routine.

  But Toby shook his head. “I watched disgusting amounts of TV today. Tell me about school. Anything good happen?”

  “Not really? It was pretty much school—a little less quarrelsome because the you half of the Eliza-and-Toby bickering squad was absent, but—”

  “Hey, you survived the rides with Fielding. See, he’s nice.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You think everyone—except Eliza—is nice. I bet you even like Ava.”

  He shrugged. “She’s fine.”

  “Point made.” He was totally like Lizzy’s older sister, Jane. Pretty, kind, and way too trusting. Of course that also described my actual older sister. And she had the bland boyfriend too. Trent was definitely a Bingley. Speaking of Austen . . . “Want me to read to you?” That would be two birds with one stone. Toby nodded, but before I could reach in my backpack for the novel, he picked up a comic book from his bedside table.