Bookish Boyfriends Page 23

  “Oh. Only there?” Ms. Gregoire set down her cup and picked up a copy of the book. She paged through it until she reached that section, then hmmmed as she looked at me over the cover.

  I turned away from her piercing gaze, feeling my palms go sweaty. “Is that not far enough?” It’s not like it was chapter two or something; it was halfway through a four-hundred-page book.

  “Life here is just—it moves faster.” Ms. Gregoire was fanning the pages, looking at them and shaking her head just a little. “I don’t want you caught unprepared.”

  “Unprepared? How?” The parasols on her dress seemed to shimmer as she tapped the book against her knee. The fabric hadn’t looked metallic before. Maybe the sun was hitting it differently now? Because it almost looked like they were twirling. The movement was hypnotic. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “Is there some sort of Pride and Prejudice trivia contest coming up that I should know about?”

  “No, I’m not talking academics—” She hesitated and frowned. I could practically see her choosing her words with care—weighing the taste of them on her tongue before speaking. “I’m talking life. Your life. But I don’t want to overstep. I know you’ve already had a faculty member giving you lots of unsolicited advice this week.”

  I was torn between telling her “Overstep, please!” because hers was advice I’d actually welcome and listen to, and the shame of realizing that not only had the headmaster delivered that embarrassing lecture to me, but he’d talked to my teachers about it too. Shame won. I looked down as my cheeks heated. “I didn’t know he’d said anything to you. . . .”

  She reached over and squeezed my hand before sitting back and taking another sip from her mug. “Let’s just say I won’t be surprised if your next response journal is about Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

  My chin shot up and my lips parted, because the pages I’d just handed over were about Darcy’s aunt. I hadn’t made that real-life connection. Sure, I’d been angry at Headmaster Williams when I wrote it, but . . . had I subconsciously channeled that into my writing? I thought about the words that filled my pages:

  Lady Catherine gives out unwelcome advice like a Pez dispenser: with every regal nod of her head. Telling Lizzy how to be better at piano, that she should have had a governess, that her younger sisters shouldn’t be out in society attending balls before she and Jane are married. Telling Collins to marry and the sort of wife to find. Even her nephews aren’t immune to her “guidance.”

  But she harps on Lizzy especially, always trying to make her feel small under the guise of “help.” And how dare she? What gives her permission to make Lizzy a target? There’s such a power imbalance between the two of them, and I hate a bully. Lizzy’s pretty good at holding her own, using wit and confidence to prevent Lady Catherine’s words from affecting her. I wonder if I’d be that strong.

  I didn’t need to wonder. I’d lived this. It had upset me. I continued to stare openmouthed at Ms. Gregoire as dots connected in my head.

  “I—I—” I knew words. Lots of them. But none would come out of my mouth. I identified so strongly with Lizzy . . . and if Headmaster Williams was like Lady Catherine de Bourgh . . . Tingles spread up and down my back—the same way they had when Ms. Gregoire spoke about Romeo and Juliet being more than just a book. About us seeing ourselves in its pages. I threw my gaze on her coffee mug—waiting to see if it would shimmer and sparkle like it had that day. It didn’t, but her dress had. And the book’s cover had shocked me. My head felt dizzy, the room too stuffy. Ideas too oppressive. If I was Lizzy, if Headmaster Williams was Catherine de Bourgh, then who else . . .

  No. I wasn’t going there again. Absolutely not.

  Ms. Gregoire set the novel on the desk beside her and stroked its cover with one gray-painted nail. “I choose this novel for you for particular reasons. . . . I don’t want you to miss out on them.”

  “No.” This time I said it out loud. Because books were books. They weren’t real. They were words and pages and things that couldn’t change, couldn’t climb from between the covers. The whole Romeo and Juliet thing had just been first-day jitters plus my overactive imagination.

  The reason I had goose bumps up and down my arms, the reason my head spun and the cover image of a man and woman in silhouette suddenly seemed to pop like 3-D, the reason Ms. Gregoire was looking at me so intently and nodding her head . . . low blood sugar. I was hungry. I’d stayed up too late and needed to eat.

  “I’ll read faster,” I told Ms. Gregoire, because the sooner I was done with this book, the sooner I could stop searching for parallels to my life. “But I really need to get to lunch.” I really needed to get to Eliza, to her reassurances that this was just me being fanciful, because, after all, what did I have to go on? Practically nothing. And as long as I didn’t go looking for more connections, or acknowledge the ones I’d already experienced, then I could totally dismiss this as a by-product of my growling stomach.

  “Merrilee.” The urgency in Ms. Gregoire’s voice made me freeze partway out of my chair. “Your story—don’t let it scare you. You’re here at Hero High for a reason. You’re in this class for a reason. You have so much to contribute to this school, to your peers—don’t let anyone tell you that’s not true, or discourage you, or make you feel like you don’t belong.”

  So clearly Headmaster Williams had shared quite a bit about his lecture with her. I appreciated her pep talk. I needed to hear it. “Thank you.”

  She tipped her head and smiled knowingly. “Your ending here isn’t written yet—but I know it’s going to be a glorious one.”

  I mirrored her smile. “And hopefully not for another three years, at graduation.”

  “But”—she added as I approached the door—“don’t get bogged down in your own prejudices either. First impressions often don’t tell the whole story. Keep an open mind—an open heart. And finish the book. You’re about to get to one of my favorite parts.”

  I knew which part she meant. Now my smile was warped. My stomach was queasy. My farewell wave was a limp wiggling of fingers as I ran to the dining hall chased by those words and ideas.

  I shrugged off Toby’s “You okay?” and Curtis’s “In trouble again, short stack?”

  I ignored the scalpel-like glances Eliza aimed my way, probing and dissecting every word, gesture, and expression I contributed to our lunch table conversation. I’m not sure what conclusions she drew, because as I stood up, I couldn’t recall a single topic that had been discussed.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, what are you thinking about?” she finally demanded, having followed me from the table to the salad bar. I needed a breadstick, or soft pretzel, or really any carbs in stick form. “You’re clearly having some daydreamer crisis. Can you please tell me what it is?”

  With an invitation like that, she couldn’t possibly blame me for asking, “Do you think it’s possible that I’m some sort of Lizzy Bennet reincarnation?”

  She stopped still, her eyes and mouth screwing up into beautiful bafflement. “Wh-what?”

  “You know how with Monroe things were like Romeo and Juliet—or at least they were for a little while. Do you think I’m now Lizzy?”

  “No.” Eliza’s face went blank for a second as she processed what I’d said and hopefully did a mental review of the book. I’d been summarizing it for her daily—she knew all about Lizzy’s crew of sisters, the failed romance between Jane and Bingley—and haughty Darcy’s part in that failure—the trip to Hunsford to visit Mr. Collins and Charlotte, and all of Catherine de Bourgh’s lectures. But then she shook her head and the confusion returned. “No, I don’t. Where is this coming from?”

  I looked away from her, because I’d lied to Ms. Gregoire about how far I’d read. And there were two chapters I hadn’t yet recounted for Eliza. The one in which Darcy makes a shocking, out-of-the-blue, insult-infested declaration of love for Lizzy. And the one where he follows up her understandable rejection with a letter that gives backstory—explaining his feelings for her and Wickh
am’s malicious past. I hadn’t been ready to explore that in response journals yet. And I certainly wasn’t ready to get into it with Eliza, because I also hadn’t told her about Fielding’s declaration or email. It just felt too . . . personal. It didn’t feel fair to expose him like that. Especially not with what he’d revealed about me and Hero High. And if he was keeping my secrets, I’d keep his.

  Besides, that wasn’t even what I was thinking about when I’d asked about book-life parallels. I was purposely not thinking about that part of the plot. There was no point in thinking about that part of the plot . . . seeing as how he’d called me a mistake in his email. I shook my head and gnawed a hunk off my pretzel. “I’m not talking about the romance—I just mean, like, Lizzy and her family and Headmaster Williams.”

  “Merri—you realize this sounds insane. I’m not using that word as ignorant slang; you truly sound delusional.”

  “I just think—”

  “Fine, let’s try this out. Who am I in your fantasy? Where do I fit? And based on the way you’ve been describing them, if you say Mary or Lydia, you know I won’t forgive you.”

  That was easy—clearly Eliza was Lizzy’s oldest sister and best friend, Jane, the prettiest girl around. Except . . . Jane was known for always being good-natured. She saw the best in everything and was almost unendurably optimistic. And Eliza . . . notsomuch. Maybe Lilly was really more of a Jane. Eliza could be . . . hmm.

  Right now she was tapping her foot—a little smugly, I might add. When I shrugged, she pressed further. “And Toby? How would you cast him? Is he your Mr. Collins?”

  Mr. Collins, Lizzy’s awkward, intrusive, sycophantic cousin. The one she’d rejected. I turned the pretzel over in my hands, flinging salt everywhere. “That’s not fair. Just because you don’t get along with Toby, there’s no reason to be cruel.” And maybe Toby was my Jane—the whole injury thing had required me to take care of him like when Jane caught ill at Netherfield.

  “So, zero for two.” She propped a hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. “Still liking this theory?”

  “Maybe you’re not in this recast. Maybe it’s just me.” . . . And Headmaster Williams. Except that wasn’t much to build a theory on. And the longer we talked about it, the more ridiculous I felt. “Fine. I’m not Lizzy. It was just a stupid daydream. Happy now?”

  Eliza studied me some more. The wrinkle at the top of her nose meant she didn’t believe me. I braced myself for battle, setting my feet slightly wider and crossing my arms. But she only reached over and straightened my school tie. “I think you need more sleep.”

  That was it? She was going to let this go that easily? But she never let things go. I gave her a dubious smile as I said, “Probably.”

  “Can I just ask—”

  Ah-ha! I knew it was too good to be true. Eliza was like a bloodhound, and there was no way she’d drop a trail before she made it to her mark.

  I waved a hand. “Go ahead.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “The headmaster, mostly.” Almost entirely. If he could just say one thing that was supportive and without agenda, I’d drop the whole idea forever.

  Eliza pressed her lips together, flattening her eyebrows into a streak of disapproval. “He needs to back off you. If he doesn’t, and if you don’t say something to your parents, I will.”

  Except Eliza didn’t know my admission was a scam. At her parents’ insistence, her application to Hero High had been on file since last year. She’d been accepted as a freshman and deferred admission to stay at Woodcreek Charter with me. I’m sure she’d written the essay and gotten recommendation letters and all of that. She didn’t know that I’d unknowingly cheated and hadn’t earned the right to matriculate.

  “I’m fine.” I linked my arm through hers so we were side by side and she couldn’t read my face. Because while I wasn’t lying, this next line didn’t feel quite honest. “I didn’t want the book thing to be true anyway. Happy?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted as I paid and we made our way back to the table.

  “You okay?” Toby mouthed as I sat back down.

  I nodded and pasted on a grin, turning to see what new revolting concoction Lance and Curtis had created. “Yogurt, hot dog, and cheese doodles?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “Please, for the sake of everyone else at this table, do not eat that. I do not want to see that coming back up.”

  “I’ll second that motion,” said Sera.

  “First, you didn’t include the relish or the Pop Rocks. Second, you think a little concoction like this is going to best me? Please, I’ve got a stomach of steel.” Curtis grinned over the spoon he was raising to his mouth.

  “Is that supposed to be an accomplishment?” asked Eliza. “Overriding the evolutionary response to rid the body of food it judges to be harmful?”

  The spoon in Curtis’s hand wavered before his grin disappeared and he set it back down. “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  But I missed whether he decided to flirt with food poisoning or listen to Eliza. Because something else had snagged my attention: Ava.

  She had one of those look-at-me laughs, so even though she was seated across the cafeteria, I did. It would’ve been just a glancing glance—except she was standing with Fielding. I hadn’t responded to his email from this morning. Was I supposed to? I sucked in a breath and gripped the edge of the table. My first instinct was to duck beneath it, but he wasn’t paying any attention to me—he was entirely focused on her.

  She was laughing with Fielding. Not at him. I did a double take. He was standing perpendicular to me. Almost as if he knew that four tables away, I’d be trying to see his face, so he’d made it impossible. The crisp line of his blazer held shoulders that were relaxed, not shoved stiffly backward—aka how he always stood when talking to me. And more interestingly, the corner of his mouth looked like . . . Could he be? Was it possible? I leaned to get a better view. Leaned a bit more, because it looked like—

  “Careful there, Rowboat, you’re going to end up in my . . . well, lap.” Toby laughed and steadied me.

  “Oh, your knee! Sorry.”

  “S’okay. I’m fine. Just don’t want you landing on your head. . . . What are you looking at anyway?” He followed my gaze across the room and stopped laughing. “Are you and Fielding fighting again? I have to say, of all my friends, I never expected he’d be the one you didn’t get along with. Ava, sure. Especially since she’s been infatuated with Monroe for years. But Fielding? And you? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s fine. He hasn’t done anything.” I said it quickly, breathlessly. He’d done nothing new except smile. At someone who wasn’t me. Which made me realize that he’d never smiled at me, or even around me. Like it was some big secret what his lips looked like when curved upward. Maybe his teeth were pointed like a vampire’s or a werewolf ’s. That would actually explain a lot. But I wanted to see it. I wanted to see what happened to all his edges and angles when he wasn’t actively scowling. Stupid Fielding and his stupid secret smile.

  If he’d only smiled at me instead of going into his recycling can lecture—maybe we would’ve had a different story. Maybe I’d be reading a different book for punishment. Or maybe I wouldn’t have been in a situation where I’d been punished at all.

  “What’s the deal with those two anyway?” I pointed with a piece of pretzel. Yesterday afternoon, he’d liked me; last night, I was mistake. Today . . . had he moved on to Ava? I dropped the rest of my pretzel on the table.

  “Deal? There isn’t one, as far as I know. He’s probably just dropping off a note from his dad or something.” Toby studied my face in a way that made me want to bury it in my yogurt cup. Instead I enacted a polite retreat: hiding behind my water bottle. But his eyes still narrowed in that I know you too well way. “Why? Want me to find out?”

  Hannah bumped into my other side. I hadn’t realized she’d scooted her chair so close, but she was practically nose–to–yogurt cup. “Oooh! Who are we talking abou
t? I can find out too!”

  “I got you covered,” said Curtis, leaning across the table and creating a drumroll with his fingers. “Her dad’s prez of the school board. His is the headmaster. Ergo, they end up waiting around for a lot of the same meetings and events.” He settled back in his seat and shrugged. “If she’s finally over Monroe, I could see them happening.”

  “Oh.” I may have sputtered a little bit of water onto the table. And inhaled some as well. I glued my eyes on our lunch debris as I choked and coughed, because I didn’t want to see if Hannah and Toby approved of an Ava-Fielding ship.

  Reaching below the table, I snaked a hand into my bag and stroked the cover of Pride and Prejudice. One thing was certain: I had to finish it as fast as possible—I needed to know how it ended.

  31

  Monroe’s suspension ended Wednesday, and so did the brief respite from his texts: I need to see you. We need to talk, love. Fine, I’ll find you. By lunch, I was either ready to join the spymaster ranks of Inspector Gadget and James Bond, or I was ready to have a double-O meltdown. I’d spent the past four hours attempting to peek around corners or creep in and out of classrooms.

  “What are you doing?” Eliza asked. “You’ve been weird all day.”

  “Skulking,” I answered, trying to keep my voice light even though my hands were shaking. “And skulduggery.”

  “Well, stop it. You’ve already gotten in more than your share of trouble.”

  I rolled my eyes at Eliza and they landed on him. Not Monroe him. Him him. The other person I wasn’t prepared to see. The person whose email had spent the past thirty-six hours cycling through my head like one of those scrolling billboards that bends around corners in Times Square.