“What’s up?” Darius’s voice brings me back to my present, and one look into his eyes reminds me of exactly what I’m doing.
“I wanted to see whether you’d like to get some coffee after school today.” I say this loud enough to make sure everyone can hear me. Switch. Flipped.
He grins. “Sure.”
“Okay, then. See you at Cuppa’s.” I feel twenty-three sets of eyes following me as I walk back up the aisle toward my desk. With each step, doubt creeps back in. I know what they’re all thinking. It’s the same thing I thought when I first saw Darius’s name on Brie’s cell screen. A major step down. The Anti-Ty.
Ignore them, Alicea. This isn’t about them.
As I take my seat, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Darius: Your chai’s on me.
I smile. This isn’t about them at all.
“Congratulations!” Maggs hops up from her seat at the lunch table and gives Brie a hug.
“Well, it’s not MIT,” Brie says, glancing my way. “But it is my second choice, after Virginia, of course, which I probably won’t get into and which my parents can’t exactly afford. Still, I’ll be an hour closer to UVA, so … James Madison, here I come.” She pumps her fist in the air. “Go Duke Dogs.”
Maggs clasps her hands together, her eyes misty. “I can’t believe this time next year we’ll all be separated.”
I shrug. “That’s what FaceTime is for.”
“I know, but it won’t be the same. Who’s going to give me a hard time every morning about putting butter in my coffee?”
“At St. John’s?” Brie asks. “Probably no one. In fact, all your counter-culture comrades may be drinking it right along with you. Or even weirder stuff.”
“It’s not weird. It boosts energy,” Maggs says.
“Right.” We’ve heard this many times before. Something about the wonders of Tibetan yak butter tea, never mind the fact that (a) we’re in America, (b) she’s using cow butter, and (c) it’s coffee.
“It does,” she insists. “And besides, just because I’m going to a liberal arts college doesn’t mean everyone there will be weird.”
“It kind of does,” Brie says. “They’ll all be philosophy and lit weird, as opposed to wherever Alicea is going, where they’ll all be computer-geek weird.” She holds up her hands as we glare. “Both of which are awesome kinds of weird. You know I love you.”
“What makes you think you’re the arbiter of normal?” I say.
“I’m not. I’m weird, too, in fact. I’m … weird-friends weird.” She laughs and ducks as Maggs throws a granola bar and I toss a carrot stick at her. “Kidding. Kidding.”
I toss another one at her for good measure. To be honest, I’m so relieved things are back to normal with us, she could call me weird all day long and I wouldn’t mind.
“Speaking of computer-geek weird.” Maggs turns to me. “Did you get your MIT application in?”
I nod and hold up crossed fingers. “Finished it this weekend. I hope my essay was good enough.”
“I’m sure it was great. Because Libby is great.”
“What was that?” I cup my hand to my ear. “Could you say that again? Did you just call Libby great?”
Maggs laughs. “Don’t get too excited. I still don’t think a computer can calculate true love. But yes, she’s great. She’s brilliant. Because you’re brilliant.”
Yeah, well. Based on how you were acting around Aiden the other day, maybe she’s better than you think. I’m dying to say it, but I don’t. If Maggs knew Aiden was her match, she might sabotage whatever they’ve got going simply to prove a point. Instead, I take a deep breath. Time to tell Maggs and Brie about what happened in calc.
“So guess what I did this… whoa.” I stop and nod toward Ty’s lunch table. “Do you see what I see?”
Maggs and Brie follow my gaze.
“What?”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You mean Ty? What about him?” Maggs squints. “Did he get his hair cut?”
“No. He’s sans Becca. And today is a B Day.” I stand and scan the room, finally spotting her at a table full of football players, giggling at something one of them is saying and draping herself around his arm. “Well, well. She appears to have switched teams. Literally. This is an interesting turn of events.”
Brie rolls her eyes at me. “Honestly, Alicea, you need to get over that boy. Move on. He’s not worth it.”
I bristle at Brie’s tone but say nothing. We’ve finally patched things up between us, and besides, she kind of has a point. “I merely said it was interesting. And for your information, I am moving on. This morning in calc, I asked Darius out. Kind of.”
“What?” They squeal in unison, and I tell them what happened.
“Oh my gosh.” Maggs squirms in her seat with excitement. “Why are we just now learning about this? Why didn’t you tell us the second we got here?”
“I didn’t want to step on Brie’s news. Which, let’s face it, is bigger than my news.”
“Barely.” Brie grins at me. “Now, if I got into Virginia, that would be huge news. And who knows? If Alicea Springer can get past her infatuation with Ty Walker, I feel like anything is possible.”
The two of them spend the next eight minutes arguing over whether coffee at Cuppa Joe counts as a first date (Maggs says definitely, Brie says not quite), before the bell finally rings.
Maggs gives me a hug as we head out. “Have fun. I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell you all about it.” First date or not, I’m looking forward to going out with Darius, and I’m happy that Maggs and Brie are so excited for me.
Still, I can’t help but glance back at Ty, all alone as he walks down the hall toward his next class.
When I was little, a friend let me play with her paint-by-numbers set. I painted a giant monarch butterfly atop a bright pink-and-purple bloom. I loved seeing the picture come to life beneath my brush, the colors so brilliant and their placement within the lines so precise.
I brought the picture home and hid it in a drawer. I knew my parents and brother would laugh. Calling something a “paint-by-number” was the epitome of an insult for the Springers. But every once in a while, in the privacy of my room, I would take out the painting and admire my handiwork. I knew even then that art was not my thing, but I felt a certain pride in that piece. It was pretty, happy, and vivid. I named the butterfly Elizabeth, after the queen of England.
The painting hanging above our booth at Cuppa Joe reminds me a bit of that picture. It’s been years since I’ve dug it out, but I remember its every detail. “What do you think of that butterfly?” I ask Darius.
He glances at it and looks back at me, confused. “What do you mean?”
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Most butterflies are.”
“Exactly. They’re beautiful.”
A look of realization crosses his face and he laughs. “I see. It’s because they’re symmetrical, isn’t it?”
“No. Well, maybe. I didn’t think of that, but now that you mention it, it doesn’t hurt.” I lean across the table toward him. “I just mean that a painting can be simple—it can be something as common and maybe even as cliché as a butterfly—and still be something pretty to hang on your wall. It doesn’t always have to be … Art.”
Darius tilts his head. “You say ‘art’ like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not a bad thing. More like … an unknowable thing. I mean, what makes one painting ‘art’ and another ‘not art’? And who’s to judge?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, and I can see him turning the question over in his mind. Finally, he sets down his cup. “You know what they say: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think that goes for art, as well. So you can call cliché butterfly paintings art if you want.”
I smile. “Good. I do. I declare Queen Elizabeth up there a work of art.”
“Queen Eliz—? Ah, because she’s a monarch.”
I tap his cup with mine. “Exactly. And speaking of works of art … ” I stare at him expectantly.
“It’s almost ready. I swear. One more class—maybe two—and I’ll be finished. Then you can see it. At this point, though, I’m kind of worried it won’t live up to the hype. I think I need to lower your expectations.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that. My expectations are very high, I assure you.”
He shakes his head. “Then you may be in for a disappointment.”
“And whose fault would that be? You could have shown it to me weeks ago, but no, you insisted I had to wait until it was perfect.”
“Not perfect. Ready.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference. I told you, perfection is not my goal. If I worried about making everything perfect, I’d never create anything. Or at least, I’d never finish anything.”
I purse my lips and quirk an eyebrow at him.
“And I am going to finish it.”
“So you say.”
“I swear. It’s really close.” He laughs and grabs my hand as I set down my cup and squeezes my pinkie finger. “And then I will show it to you. A promise is a promise.”
His touch sends a shiver up my arm, and I realize my tea doesn’t interest me nearly as much as his curls. I am itching to tangle my fingers in them.
He narrows his eyes as though he’s reading my mind and nods toward the door. “I have an idea. Are you ready to go?”
My stomach feels as though Queen Elizabeth and a dozen of her friends have taken flight inside.
“Ready.”
“Sorry, Brie, but Maggs wins. That totally counted as a first date.” I lift my foot onto the barre and stretch out over my leg, extending my arm over my ear.
Brie peers up at me from her deep plié and grins. “Oh? Do go on.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. Nice girls don’t kiss and tell.”
Maggs and Brie both inch closer to me.
“So there was kissing. And … ?”
“Nothing. Just kissing.” But I smile, because it was some awesome kissing.
After we left Cuppa Joe, Darius and I drove to Claymore Park, where he challenged me to a competition on the monkey bars. I think I surprised him. He had strength, but I had agility. After my final spin around the bars, ending with a soaring dismount, I gave him a high-five that somehow morphed into an embrace.
“Impressive,” he whispered, his lips inches from mine. “You fly like an angel. I take it your neck is feeling better?”
“Much.” I reached up and touched it. “Hasn’t hurt in days.” His hairline was damp, adding tiny curls to his bigger curls, and I swiped at them. “You worked up a sweat doing those pull-ups.”
“That’s because I did … how many?”
“Sixteen.” I’d bet he couldn’t do more than a dozen. “Not sure that last one counted, though.”
“Fine. Fifteen and a half. I still win the bet.”
“Yes, you do,” I admitted. “What do I owe you?”
He tilted his head, as though considering his options. “Sixteen kisses?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe fifteen and a half.”
“That works.” And with that, he pulled me close and kissed me for what might have been fifteen and a half kisses, although I can’t be sure. It simultaneously felt like an infinite number and yet left me wanting more. Too soon, he pulled away.
“We should go,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s getting dark.”
“I don’t mind the dark.”
“Okay, but I think we should—”
“I’ll bet you can’t do ten pushups.”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not falling for that.”
“Please.” I gave him my best, most irresistible pout, and he slowly, softly touched his lips to mine, for one last glorious kiss that sent a thrill all the way through me and made me feel as though I was indeed flying like an—
“Circle up, ladies.” Ms. DuBois’s clap-clap-clap brings me tumbling back into class. Today, for the first time, we’re going to dance the “Waltz of the Flowers.” We’ve spent the past three sessions walking through it, learning the choreography and figuring out how to match our movements to the music. I’ve been practicing my solo pieces on my own, but this will be the first time I’ve performed them in front of all the other girls, and the monarchs have once again invaded my belly.
Ms. DuBois pokes my breastbone. “Butterflies are good. Use them.” The woman’s a mind reader.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, allowing the soft sounds of the violin in the first measure of the waltz to relax me, and then it’s game on. I’m in a zone, and I nail every move. My plié is deeper than ever, my jeté higher, my brisé sharper, and my foetté turns draw more than a few admiring glances from my classmates. Partway through the dance, though, Ms. DuBois steps onto the floor.
“Alicea, s’il vous plaît.”
I stop, surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She walks around me, slowly, eyeing me from head to toe. “Nothing is wrong. Your steps and your positioning are perfect and precise. But I am not seeing Dewdrop.”
“Excuse me?”
“A minute ago, when I walked into the room, I saw Dewdrop. In your face, in your eyes. Now she is gone.”
Behind us, Brie snickers.
Ms. DuBois turns to her. “What is the joke, Brietta?”
Brie shakes her head, but then starts laughing. “That wasn’t Dewdrop, Ms. DuBois. That was the look of looooove.”
This sends a wave of giggles through the class, and even Ms. DuBois cracks a smile.
“Well, then. Love works, too.” She points at me as she exits the floor. “Perhaps you should work on that.”
Brie has overstated the situation. I am not in love with Darius Groves, never mind the fact that I’m drawing a million hearts around his name in my lit notebook at the moment.
Mr. Dunham hovers over my desk. “Alicea, why do you think Teasdale uses sea grass as an analogy in this poem?”
I cover my doodles with my hand and look up. Our class is analyzing “I Would Live in Your Love” by Sara Teasdale. The verse is on the white board:
I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,
Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes;
I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul as it leads.
I glance around at my classmates. Poetry has never been my strong suit—too much ambiguity. Still, this verse seems obvious. “Because sea grass needs the sea,” I say. “It can’t live anywhere else. It’s like she can’t live without him. Just like the title says … I would live in your love.”
Mr. Dunham turns and strolls back to his desk. He perches on the edge of it, removes his glasses, and points them at me. “And what do you think about that?” he asks. “About living in someone’s love?”
I shrug. I think it’s romantic—being swept up by the waves and becoming someone’s soul mate. It’s what finding your perfect match is supposed to be all about. Still, I don’t say this, because I’m hyper-aware of Darius and Ty and everyone else watching me. “It’s cool,” I reply. “I like it.”
“Fair enough.” Mr. Dunham peers around the room. “Other thoughts? Does anyone have a different interpretation of the poem?”
Abi Eisenberg raises her hand. “I don’t think it’s cool at all,” she says. “I think it’s creepy.”
Mr. Dunham nods. “Okay. Explain.”
“She’s not writing about love. She’s writing about obsession.” Abi trains her eyes on me. “Real love doesn’t mean drowning yourself in the other person. ‘I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me.’ What’s that about?”
Mr. Dunham turns toward me. “What do you have to say to that?”
I’m not sure whether he’s expecting me to defend T
easdale or myself. When I speak, my voice is small and strangled. “Abi has a point.”
“So what do the rest of you think?” he asks the class. “Is this love or obsession?”
“That depends.” Darius answers from the back. I turn, surprised. It’s not like him to speak up.
Mr. Dunham walks down the row toward him. “Depends on what?”
“Not on what; on who,” Darius says. “With the right person, it’s not about drowning, it’s about thriving—growing thick and strong like sea grass. Maybe she says she’d empty her soul of her dreams because they were the wrong dreams.”
I steal a glance at Abi, who is staring at Darius with her mouth agape. The look in her eyes is pure respect. She catches my eye and offers a slight but meaningful head tilt.
Mr. Dunham heads back up the aisle, his eyes once again on me, but mercifully, the bell rings before he can call on me again. As I jump up and head out the door, Darius appears at my side.
“Hey, Bright Angel.”
I fall into step beside him. “Not sure why Dunham decided to pick on me today. That was annoying.”
“He tends to call on people who aren’t paying attention.”
I elbow him in the side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. You seemed engrossed in your notebook. What were you writing?”
I blush at the thought of my heart drawings. “Nothing. Just doodling.”
Darius glances at my armload of books, and for a moment I fear he’s going to try to snatch it from me, but he merely grins. “If you say so.”
We walk in silence, stopping at my locker.
“So I was thinking … ” Darius leans toward me, his voice low. “Maybe we could take another field trip to Claymore Park after school. I bet I can make the full sixteen pull-ups this time.”
I smile. “What are the stakes?”
“The same as the other day.”
“Ah. So if you win, I have to kiss you. And if I win?”
He shrugs. “That’s up to you. But it doesn’t matter, because you won’t.” He walks backward away from me down the hallway. “Because I’m motivated to collect my prize. Very, very motivated.”
The Boyfriend Whisperer 2.0 Page 11