Bookish Boyfriends Read online

  I glanced back at Curtis, glad to have another piece of info to add to my nosy-girl dossier. There was no question he was attractive: golden skin, dark eyes, mascara-commercial lashes, dignified nose. And baked goods, well, that was the clichéd icing on the almond cake. Still . . . not interested. He was too tall. And while he was fun and nice, there was no spark.

  Plus, and this was really the only reason I needed: he was already smitten with Eliza. Didn’t matter if she reciprocated, he’d never be my Hero High hero.

  “Speaking of guys—” Rory chimed in. “The freshman class won’t stop talking about the headmaster’s son. Apparently he’s gorgeous and brilliant and super aloof.”

  “Oh, really?” I turned around to look at Eliza. “Aloof? Gorgeous? Sounds like my mystery boy.”

  “Yours?” asked Toby, breaking jerkily at a stop sign. “How?”

  “Not hers,” Eliza clarified. “Not anywhere but in her head.”

  “Do you know him, Toby?” asked Rory.

  “Fielding’s one of my best friends.”

  “Really?” That meant he was one of the parade of guys I’d seen swinging by Toby’s house before and after sports practices. Coming over for school projects and to shoot basketball in his driveway. That part of his life had always been so separate from our friendship. It was strange to think that now they overlapped. Stranger to think that I could’ve met mystery boy years sooner if I’d learned to dribble or gone to any of his games.

  “Will you introduce me?” asked Rory. “The other freshmen will be so jealous!”

  “Sure.” Toby laughed.

  “And me!” I added. “Side note: Fielding is an awesome name.”

  “I asked first,” said Rory.

  “So? I saw him first.” I sighed and relived the memory of dappled shade and dapper boy. “Being all dreamy and self-reflective.”

  Toby’s laugh faded. “I guess. He’s a junior, so we may not cross paths or anything.”

  I snickered. “Don’t be ridiculous. You just said he’s one of your best friends. Our paths will cross.” I leaned my head back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—since someone was poking me in Convocation—” Which had been just as boring as Toby promised. A mash-up of school assembly with announcements and Headmaster Williams’s welcome speech, while seated on hard wooden benches and fighting an urge to make the sign of the cross or sing “Amazing Grace,” because the Convocation hall looked remarkably like a church. There’d been Latin mottos and a school song—and, disappointingly, still no indications of a secret society. “Since I was up late with Blake, I need a power nap.”

  “Who?” asked Rory.

  “Blake?” asked Toby. “Who’s Blake?”

  Eliza was probably behind me plotting ways to steal the novel and replace it with a science journal. I’m positive she rolled her eyes.

  I shut mine and reclined my seat. “Wake me when we’re home.”

  7

  “Can you braid my hair like Ms. Gregoire’s?” I asked once Eliza and I had answered my parents’ avalanche of first-day-tell-me-everything questions and escaped behind my bedroom door.

  Eliza’s hair had the perfect amount of wave and texture for any hairstyle. It had so much glowy, angelic, look-at-me perfection when worn down. Naturally this meant she kept it in a ponytail.

  My brown hair occasionally achieved shampoo-commercial shine after a brushing, but Rory and I had gotten our dad’s hair genes, and the result was as stubborn as he was. Even NASA couldn’t create a product that would make it hold a curl.

  Rory had given up and cut hers into a chin-length bob that suited her heart-shaped face. Mine plus bob? I might as well buy pointy stick-on ears and start looking for a giant acorn to live in.

  “No,” said Eliza.

  “No, don’t cut my hair? I’m not. Wait, what were we talking about?”

  “No, I can’t style you like a teacher-clone. I’ll try, but I doubt it’ll stay.”

  “I wish you were coming.” Or I wished I were staying home and curling up with a book.

  “It’s a family thing. I’m not family.” Eliza’s shrug was a lie. With her parents sciencing all over the globe, we were the closest thing she had to a family. She should be invited. Toby and his father were equally non-blood, and they were coming.

  “Eh, I think in this case it’s a politics thing,” I corrected.

  “I wish Trent had never asked me about my parents’ opinion on his mom. And it’s not like I lied. Her positions on the environment could be stronger. Yes, they’re stronger than Stratford’s, but come on, that’s a pretty low bar.”

  “The thing is, Eliza,” I began cautiously, “Trent didn’t ask you. You volunteered.”

  “Oh.” She blinked like she was fitting this new piece of information into her mental puzzle. “Well, it’s not like I said they wouldn’t vote for her. Of course they will—look at her opposition. Plus, she’s the first female senator from our state—I’m all about shattered ceilings, and I support ninety percent of her platform. She’s got an excellent track record of championing marginalized voices. But it doesn’t mean she’s above reproach.”

  My eyes started to glaze over. They did whenever people talked politics. Give me numbers, give me chemistry, give me history, give me computers . . . but politics, well, I associated that with Trent and his mom. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand and waited for her to finish ranting so I could ask, “Eliza, did something happen after Convocation? You’ve seemed . . . upset since then.”

  Her hand tightened on the tube of Apocalypse Gel (“You may not survive the apocalypse, but your hairstyle will!”). The amount of product she smushed onto my head might prove their slogan right.

  “It’s nothing.” Her fingers pulled and tugged as she braided and twisted.

  “Are you sure? Because it seems like you’re pretty angry. Like maybe you’ve forgotten there’s a head attached to the hair you’re ripping out—my head. Ow!”

  “Do you want it to stay up or not?” She was holding my hair so tightly I couldn’t even nod. “Then sit still.”

  Her fingers relaxed enough for me to hear her over the screaming pain of my scalp. “It’s just . . . Dr. Badawi stopped me after Convocation. My parents contacted her to ask how I’d performed in my first day of class.” She tried to sound bored, like she was commenting on a rom-com I’d forced her to watch, but I didn’t miss her hand shaking in the mirror.

  “Have they emailed or called you? To wish you luck on your first day?”

  Eliza laughed. Her laugh was one of my favorite things about her—it wasn’t beautiful or dainty; she snorted like a Canadian goose. But this bitter version didn’t make me smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. Luck’s not a real thing . . . and they’re busy.”

  “If they have time for your teachers, they have time for you.” Note to self—write a scathing look at your priorities email to the Gordon-Ferguses tomorrow.

  “There’s still plenty of time for them to check in.”

  I winced at the hope in her voice. “I’ll cross my fingers.”

  She patted my head. “And you’re done. No wild dancing, and this might actually stay.”

  “I don’t think the senator rolls with a wild-dancing crowd.” I looked in the mirror, and my jaw dropped. “You’re a miracle worker!” My crown of braids was perfect! Add in Eliza’s precision makeup application, and I looked more elegant than cute.

  She handed me the purse she’d packed, layered on one more coat of hairspray, and motioned for me to spin. I did, smoothing the demure halter top that tied in a flouncy bow and fluffing out the dress’s swishy skirt to maximize its twirlability.

  “You’re perfect,” she said.

  Eliza wasn’t big on hugs, but there were times I ignored this. Times I felt like she wanted me to ignore this. I threw my arms around her. She squeezed me back.

  I walked her out—using the trip down the hallway and stairs as a trial run for my ability to balance in heels. Eh, close enough. Maybe I’d stand sti
ll.

  Back upstairs, I passed Rory in the hall. I was about to say how much I liked her navy-and-teal strapless dress when she shrieked, “You can’t wear that!”

  I looked down. Nope, hadn’t sprouted any stains or tears yet. “Why not?”

  “Are you serious? Lillian!”

  My older sister stuck her head out of her bathroom. It never seemed fair that she got her own while Aurora and I had to share. Not that I hadn’t used hers while she was away at college, but now she was home till her wedding and working with Mom and Dad at the store until she started law school next fall. It was majorly inconvenient. “What?” she snapped.

  “Tell Merrilee she can’t wear white to your engagement party. You’re the bride, not her.”

  I checked off rebuttals on my fingers: “Technically, it’s ivory. It’s only four days after Labor Day. Style Magazine says that rule is outdated. Plus, this is not the wedding.”

  “She can wear pajamas for all I care, as long as you’re both in the car in—” Lilly glanced at the hall clock and paled. “Four minutes. We cannot be late. Punctuality is the senator’s thing.”

  I didn’t mean to shoot Rory an I-told-you-so look; it just slipped onto my face, possibly accompanied by a twirl so she could get the full effect of the swishy skirt. She huffed and stomped downstairs. I stayed put, counting in my head.

  At eighteen seconds, Lilly yelled, “Merrilee!” and popped back into the hall. “You know I’m not serious about pajamas, right? You cannot wear pajamas.”

  “I know.”

  “But we really can’t be late. I don’t even know three-fourths of the guest list. FYI—your new headmaster’s family will be there.”

  “Really?” I did a little shimmy, because that meant my mystery boy would be too. And this time Eliza wouldn’t be there to stop me from decoding him.

  “Really.” Lilly smiled at my dance and added, “You look lovely, by the way.”

  I twirled while I said, “Thanks,” then straightened the collar of her lilac silk dress and touched the blueberry-size pearls on the necklace Trent had given her as an engagement present. Lilly had curves like a slalom course, and this dress highlighted them all. “You look beautiful.”

  “I hope so.” She started to pick at the fresh manicure on her nails, then folded them behind her back. “And let’s be clear: you can wear white today, but not at the wedding.”

  “Won’t you pick my dress color? I’m a bridesmaid, right? So you get to dress me as ridiculously as you want.”

  Lilly laughed. “I think I’m supposed to ask you, but yes. Be my maid of honor?”

  We were still hugging when Rory called up the stairs with a thirty-second warning.

  Who cared? It’s not like they could start the party without the bride and maid of honor.

  My excitement and power trip over my title lasted the fifteen-minute car ride to the Rhodes’s country club. I also got the pleasure of seeing Rory pout when she heard my maid-of-honor news—dude, last week she’d hassled Lilly about every page she’d flagged in Bride Magazine, calling them “the embodiment of generic wedding.” Did she really think she was MoH material?

  But apparently I wasn’t the senator’s choice for the role. And when Mom made the mistake of using me as an explanation for our three-minute—three-minute!—tardiness, her reaction to the news was a bit cold. Like, the Gordon-Ferguses could leave the South Pole and come study this iciness.

  “That’s a lot of responsibility, and Merrilee is a child. I was thinking Trenton’s cousin Gloria would be maid of honor,” Senator Rhodes said stiffly. Everything about her was stiff, so this wasn’t unusual. And since when did the mother of the groom have any say in the bridal party? I wasn’t an expert on Senate stuff, but I knew how to recognize an ego-tripping control freak.

  To Lilly’s credit, she refused to budge, and Senator Rhodes declared, “This isn’t the time for this discussion. You and Trenton need to mingle.”

  I wanted to mingle too! I wanted to link my elbow with Toby’s and compliment his black suit and the olive-green tie that brought out the dark undertones in his skin and made his eyes pop. That boy was made for dressing up and wearing as arm candy. Preferably while gossiping, pranking, or acting as his wingwoman. While I had always preferred book boyfriends to real ones, Toby was fluent in flirt. He was a master class in dating dynamics, and one of these days, the lessons I learned from watching him and his adoring fangirls might stick. One of these days, I might even meet someone I wanted to give my first kiss to.

  Instead the senator trapped me in a corner of the ballroom. It was me and a ficus—and I think the plant cared more about the senator’s rules of decorum than I did. “A lady never points, or crosses her legs at the knees—ankles only. At any bridal functions, the maid of honor will not curse or wear anything that exposes her naval or cleavage. Always assume there are photographers. And that anyone asking questions is a reporter. If so, you do not answer them.”

  I nodded and tuned her out, daydreaming about Fall with Me and its hero, Blake—where do you live when your soul mate is a half angel caught in a battle between heaven and hell and you’re a British actor who’s always on set? Star-crossed love stories were the best kind. No wonder we were studying Romeo and Juliet hundreds of years later. I couldn’t wait to spend some quality time curled up with Romeo. Too bad book boyfriends gave paper cuts when you tried to snuggle.

  The senator droned on. “I’ll need to vet your speeches for the shower and reception, so make sure you get copies to me at least a week prior.”

  Seriously? I was much more let’s wing it than speechwriter.

  “As a member of this wedding party, you represent my family and my reelection campaign—do not do anything that will reflect poorly on either.”

  I nodded like some dizzy bobblehead, but man, Lilly owed me BIG TIME. Like, way more than just the pair of boots I wasn’t going to tell her I’d ruined.

  The senator concluded with a disorientingly warm “Welcome to the team. Trenton and Lillian are lucky to have you as part of their special day.”

  I looked around. Had she been body snatched while I’d daydreamed? Had I missed the part where she decided to like me? I mumbled, “Thanks” and tottered away—but really that stumble was on her, not me or the heels.

  All I wanted was Toby, a crab cake, or anything wrapped in bacon or puff pastry—and to avoid Rory, since she was carrying a glass of something red and looking menacingly at my dress. Ideally I’d find Toby, overload a plate with appetizers, and we’d sneak away to a porch to eat them while plotting ways to thwart the senator. Plotting and subverting were Toby’s specialties—and when I spotted his back in the bar alcove and saw he was double-fisting plates, I wondered if he’d psychically known to prep for these exact tasks.

  I swept toward him, admiring the way my skirt swished and the magical qualities of this hair gel. I paused just before the bar alcove. Toby’s back was toward me, and he was talking to someone. It would be entirely inappropriate to spring at him, cover his eyes, and make him guess who. Which made it all the more appealing.

  Before I could pounce he said, “Oh, there’s the senator. Hero High alumni at its finest.” I froze. Yeah, I was done with the senator portion of the night. Toby continued, “That means Merri finally escaped. I’m going to find her. Come with me, I’ll introduce you. She’s the best.”

  Why, thank you, Mayday. I did a mental curtsy. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d needed to hear that—how much the day’s nonstop newness and the senator’s criticism had rubbed me raw, made whatever I was yearning for rise to the surface.

  Except whoever he was talking to responded, “No, thank you.”

  Toby laughed. “Do you even know who I’m talking about? Middle sister of the bride and new Hero High student. White dress. Brown hair. Normally it’s down, but tonight she’s got it up in loopy things.”

  Ivory! Why was everyone having such a hard time distinguishing ivory from white? And “loopy things”? I knew Toby and
his dad lived in an all-male household, but were braids really that foreign a concept? Of course, he once made Rory cry by describing her hair as “nice and frizzy” after she’d spent the night sleeping in foam rollers. In his mind, “loopy” was probably a similar compliment.

  “She’s gorgeous. You’ve got to meet her,” Toby finished in a voice that knocked the laughter from my throat and made me stumble on my heels. Eavesdropping time was more than over. I stepped around the corner.

  “Yeah. I know the person you mean. I’m not tempted. But don’t let me stop you.”

  My eyes flew to my insulter—a handsome guy in a suit. Like, paranormal hero handsome. Then I recognized him and cringed. This was technically the second time he’d refused to meet me. The first was when I’d extended a germy hand and a smile in his direction near the trash—nay, recycling—can. He was even more handsome than he’d been in his uniform. Normally I found basic black suits boring, but not on him. The glowing white of his shirt made his skin flawless in a way that shouldn’t be allowed on any teenager. It made me want to ask what sort of detergent and face wash he used. And the Windsor knot of his gray pinstriped tie was too perfect to have been done on the first try. He looked too perfect for this ballroom, like he’d stepped out of a Bond movie or was about to step into one.

  Except then he’d be charming, not insulting. I pivoted away before either of them saw me. I’d catch up with Toby once he’d found better company. And speaking of, why was that snob bait at Lilly’s party?

  Not tempted. Like I wanted to tempt him. Like he had even crossed my mind or would ever cross my mind. Who cared if he didn’t want to meet me? I didn’t want to meet him either. He could go back to marching around campus like he owned the place, like everyone should need his permission to breathe or attend class or whatever. I’d find much better people to fill my time.