by Ohlin, Nancy
But before I can open my mouth, I spot Max in the crowded hallway, leaning against a trophy case filled with medals. When he sees me, he straightens and shoots me a shy half smile. “Hi, Tess.”
“Max!”
I mumble “Excuse me” to Franklin and hurry to Max’s side. “Hi! Are you okay? I mean, how are you?” I babble.
“I’m good, thanks. Listen, are you doing anything tonight?”
Confused, I glance over my shoulder. Is Max talking to me? Oh my God, he’s talking to me. I notice Franklin hanging back and checking his phone.
“Tess?” Max prompts me.
“What? Yes! I thought—” I take a deep breath so as to stop sounding like a complete idiot. “Let’s see, tonight? I had this thing, but I don’t have it anymore. Yeah, I’m definitely free.”
“I thought maybe we could meet at the library and work on those paper topics for Bags.”
“Sure!”
“Say, at eight? If you give me your number, I can text you.”
“Sure!”
I try to sound calm, cool, and collected, like his invitation is no big deal. But it’s hard to keep from jumping up and down and screaming with joy.
We exchange numbers. From zero attention to a study date. I wonder what changed? But maybe that’s just how boys act. It’s not like I have a lot of experience in that department. Grinning, I type his name into my contact list as MAX!!! with three exclamation points.
“What’s so funny?” he asks me.
“What? Oh, I was just thinking about how much smaller cell phones will get in the future,” I reply, attempting to cover up my dumb crush behavior. Pretty soon, I’ll be scribbling “I MAX” in my notebook with glittery pink markers.
He shakes his head with a smile. “Yeah, you’re definitely strange.”
“Uh, thanks?”
He waves and takes off. Franklin is waiting for him a little ways down the crowded hall. He tucks his phone in his pocket and says something to Max.
As they walk away, Franklin turns and gives me that warning look. I know what he’s thinking. But I don’t care.
I head down the hall in the other direction, practically skipping.
I have a date with Max.
I have a date with Max.
I have a date with Max.
11.
AT LUNCH, I EAT A BIG PLATE OF DRESSINGLESS, TASTELESS RAW vegetables while Devon tells Priscilla, Elinor, Yoonie, and me about the improvements she wants to make to the Kerrith third-floor lounge. I bite into a carrot stick and take a big sip of water—room temperature, with a slice of lemon, the way Devon told me to drink it—and feel myself getting skinnier and prettier. And hungrier. How do these people survive on so little food? And just how skinny and pretty will I get by eight o’clock, when I meet up with Max?
“We could get a new DVD player plus some new furniture. And maybe an Xbox, too,” Devon says. “The stuff we have now is basically flea market crap. I thought it would be nice to make some changes, start the year fresh.” She shrugs and smiles sadly.
“Oh, sweetie.” Priscilla reaches across the table and squeezes Devon’s hand. “I think that’s an awesome idea.”
“We are totally with you on this,” Elinor adds.
“Big-time.” Yoonie gives two thumbs-up.
I wonder what Devon and the girls are talking about. Do they mean “start the year fresh” because of what happened to Becca? I wish I could jump into their discussion, but I don’t want to intrude or say the wrong thing. Especially not after my idiotic colonoscopy remark the other day.
“So I talked to Mrs. Frith, and she says we can redecorate if we pay for it ourselves.” Devon continues, “Does anyone have any ideas? Priscilla, your parents will pitch in, right?”
“Hit up the Texas oil tycoons,” Priscilla jokes. “Seriously, they’ll totally send me a check. They never ask questions. What about your mom and dad, Devon? They’re loaded, too, right?”
“I texted my mom about it this morning. She said she has to think about it. Her divorce lawyer is charging her a fortune and she has to be careful with her money or whatever. Of course, if she wasn’t such a selfish bitch, there wouldn’t be a divorce to begin with.” Devon sighs. “I guess I can try my dad, though. I can usually guilt him into letting me use his AmEx card.”
I stare at Devon. I had no idea her parents were splitting up.
“Mother and Dad will send me a check if I ask. I’ll tell them I need to replace my Burberry. They’ll never notice,” Elinor volunteers.
“I’ll tell mine I need a new bow for my violin,” Yoonie adds.
“Perfect.” Devon turns to me. “Tess, what about you?”
“I guess I can ask my mom,” I say reluctantly. My mom can barely afford rent and groceries, much less fancy furniture and DVD players and Xboxes for our dorm. But I don’t want to tell the girls that.
“What about your dad? Are they divorced?” Devon asks.
I hesitate. I really don’t want to get into my depressing family history. “Sort of,” I say vaguely.
“Sort of? You’re quite the mystery, aren’t you? I’m going to have to Google you, Tess. I bet you’re like the crown princess of some no-name country, and the bad haircut and discount shoes are all an act to fit in with us lowly mortals.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. Does Devon know that I’ve been cyber-stalking Becca? I’m so rattled by her comment that I don’t even feel hurt by her insult.
Yoonie gives me a sympathetic smile. “I think your hair’s cute. Very retro, very Sarah Michelle Gellar in Grudge 2. Who does your highlights?”
“No one. They’re just like that. You know, naturally.” I don’t add that my mom cuts my hair, once a year. If I let her.
“No way! You’re so lucky. I have to spend two hundred dollars a month to get this,” Yoonie says.
“Big deal, sweetie, try five hundred a month,” Priscilla scoffs.
“This hair talk is all very fascinating, but can we get back on topic? Money, people. I need money,” Devon says irritably.
“Maybe we could throw a fund-raiser? Like a bake sale or something?” I suggest, wanting to be helpful. The Thorn Abbey boys must eat, even if the girls don’t.
“I’m sure we’d be able to buy some great stuff with the twelve dollars we’d make from selling cupcakes,” Devon says sarcastically.
I cringe. Devon seems to have gotten a lot more snitty since the subject of her mom came up. Or maybe she’s upset about her parents’ divorce. The other girls didn’t seem surprised by the news. I guess she confides in them about family stuff, but not me. On the other hand, I haven’t confided in Devon about my family stuff, either. Maybe if I open up to her, she’ll open up to me?
It was so much easier at Avery Park High. Kayleigh was basically my only friend and we knew everything there was to know about each other’s lives, and there was nothing to be embarrassed about because neither of our parents had money, fancy houses, glamorous jobs, or stable marriages. Besides, Kayleigh and I didn’t have deep conversations. We mostly ate junk food and watched TV and strategized about her various unrequited crushes.
“I’ll expect all contributions by end of next week. Then we can go shopping together that weekend,” Devon announces.
“Isn’t that the Corn Roast?” Priscilla asks.
“Oh. That.” Devon picks up her phone and starts scrolling. “Hmmm, you’re right. No biggie, we can work around it.”
“What’s a Corn Roast?” I picture cobs of corn cooked on a giant spit, the way whole pigs are cooked at Hawaiian luaus.
“A big, huge party with a bonfire and barbecue and Headmaster Henle’s old-person idea of ‘pop music.’ And, of course, a lot of drunk making out after dark when the grown-ups aren’t looking,” Yoonie says with a sly grin.
I picture myself at the Corn Roast with Max. Not that that would happen in a million years, but still. I dip my head and scarf down more tasteless vegetables so the other girls won’t see me blush.
Devon is too focused to notice me. “Okay, next topic. There’s a party in Chapin tonight. Eight o’clock, third floor, Killian Montgomery’s room. You’re all coming with me, right?”
Priscilla raises her hand. “Excuse me. Girls in Chapin? Without an official event? How are we supposed to get past the security guard and the house counselor?”
“Killian has that under control. We’re supposed to tell the guard we’re going to a Movie Fest subcommittee meeting,” Devon explains.
“Okay, well, count me in. As long as I can squeeze in a mani-pedi,” Priscilla says, frowning at her nails.
“I’m in too, although I’ll probably have to leave early. This cleanse is exhausting. I fainted in French yesterday, and Madame forced me to go see that bitch nurse, and she says I’m supposed to get more rest,” Elinor mutters.
Yoonie checks her phone. “I’ve got chamber practice at seven thirty, but I can sneak out. It’s just Mozart.”
Devon nods approvingly. “Great. Tess? You’re in too, right? It’s time you got acquainted with Thorn Abbey’s male population.”
I stall, taking a long sip of lemon water. Eight o’clock is when I’m supposed to meet Max. “I can’t.”
“Why? Have you got a date?” Devon asks snidely.
I squirm. I can’t tell her that I actually do have a date, with Max. She told me to stay away from him, and she isn’t the sort of person one disobeys or says “no” to.
Back in Avery Park, I never got invited to parties. Now that I finally have one to go to, I’m desperate to get out of it. Ironic.
“I have this paper to write, and I haven’t even started on it,” I hedge.
Devon rolls her eyes. “Stop being such a colossal nerd. You have to come with us.”
“I’ll try. Just text me Kelly’s room number, okay?”
“It’s Killian.”
“Sorry. Killian.”
Devon glares at me suspiciously. I don’t think she’s buying my story about the paper. But she can’t know I’m hanging out with Max, not after I promised her I wouldn’t.
Although if Max and I continue to spend time together, how long am I going to be able to keep it a secret? I know it’s wishful thinking to hope for anything more than study dates. But if my wish comes true, then what? Am I going to have to choose between Devon and Max?
Life at Thorn Abbey is definitely more complicated than life at Avery Park High.
12.
WHEN I GET TO THE LIBRARY AT 7:59 P.M., MAX IS ALREADY IN a secluded study nook. He texted me directions: second floor, through the mystery stacks, first desk on the right. Just beyond the Agatha Christies and Raymond Chandlers, I find him. Max’s white button-down shirt, part of his school uniform, is untucked, and he’s poring over an old book. Big swoon.
Love Poems from the Victorian Age is in curly gold script on the moss-green cover. He’s reading love poems? Oh my God, double swoon.
I slide into the seat across from Max. “What’re you reading?” I ask, as if I didn’t know.
He looks up and smiles. “Hey! You’re here!”
“I’m here.”
He points to the book. “I thought I might use this poem in my paper for Bags.”
Oh. So he wasn’t planning on reading poetry as a way of declaring his love for me. “Who’s it by?”
“I don’t remember. I can’t seem to find it, but I know it’s in here somewhere.”
He flips through the book, and the frail pages make a crackly, whispering sound. It feels so intimate, just him and me, our heads bent low as we study together by the warm glow of the brass desk lamps. I gaze at his face, at the way his dark, wavy hair falls across his forehead. And then there is that jagged scar on his cheek. I wonder how he got it. Maybe he took a spill on his bike when he was little?
I reach into my backpack and pull out my notebook, which I’ve neatly labeled Tess Szekeres, Kerrith Hall. I quickly open it to a clean page so Max doesn’t see the “Kerrith Hall” part. He doesn’t need to know that I live in Becca’s old dorm. With Becca’s old roommate. That would definitely kill the cozy, intimate mood.
“Have you come up with any ideas?” Max asks without looking up.
“For what?”
“For paper topics?”
Right. Mr. Bagley’s assignment. Focus. “I was thinking of writing about existentialism in the novel,” I tell him. “Or maybe something about the two endings—how the first one is a romantic nineteenth-century ending and the second one is a more realistic twentieth-century ending.”
Max grins. “You should be teaching this class.”
I blush. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You’re like the smartest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I wish I could tell him how not smart I’ve felt since coming to Thorn Abbey. How I’m clueless when it comes to Devon and the other girls’ favorite subjects, like diets and designer brands and so forth.
At least Max appreciates me for the stuff I can talk about.
“So what ideas have you come up with?” I ask him.
Max runs his hand through his hair. It sticks up this way and that, just like when we were on the cliff. When we almost kissed. I blush even more.
“Well, like I said, something based on the poem. If I can ever find it. If I’m remembering it right, the guy in the poem reminds me of Charles in the novel.”
“In what way?”
“Charles is this upper-class Victorian guy and everyone expects him to behave a certain way, marry a certain kind of girl. But he rejects all that. Or tries to, anyway.”
The way he says this—with a slight catch in his voice—makes me think he’s somehow referring to himself. I bite my lip. If only I were smoother, more self-assured, I could draw him out and get him to confide in me. Is he from an upper-class family too? Do Max’s parents expect a lot from him? I have no idea how to talk to a boy that way. I can barely manage the usual pleasantries without having a panic attack.
“That sounds terrific!” I say with more enthusiasm than I intended.
“You think so?” Max says eagerly. “I really respect your opinion on this.” He stops flipping through the poetry book. “Found it! I knew it was in here. Okay, tell me if this sounds like a paper topic. It’s short.”
I smile. “I don’t care if it’s long. I don’t have anywhere I have to be or anything like that.”
He clears his throat and begins reading:
“This, he could not share with her, or any other soul.
Although at times, his secret felt not dark and wrong, but light
And true. But what was he to do? The laws of man said this.
His heart and mind said that. It was a contest for the gods
To weigh. Or for him to win with his fledgling wings and mortal faith.”
He closes the book and gazes at me expectantly. “What do you think?”
My brain is buzzing and racing. I can’t seem to formulate an articulate response. Being with Max, having him recite poetry to me . . . okay, so he wasn’t reciting poetry to me, exactly, but it felt that way. His reading voice is so soft and deep and hypnotic, like a super-sexy lullaby. “What sort of secret are they . . . I mean he, the poet . . . talking about?” I sputter.
“I’m not sure. But it sounds like Charles, right?”
“Definitely!”
“I was also thinking about working Charles Darwin’s ideas about evolution into my paper. Bags was talking about Darwin a lot today, remember? About the survival of the fittest? Maybe there’s a way to connect all these themes.” Max stands up. “Can you wait here? I’m going to go grab his book.”
“The Origin of Species?”
“Yup, that’s the one.”
Max gets up and starts down the aisle. Before he disappears, he turns and flashes me a quick smile. I smile back. I may be imagining things, but I think he actually likes me. As in likes me.
My life is now complete.
Giggling happily, I pick up the book of love poems an
d begin leafing through it. Avery Park High would never have a cool old book like this in their library. Thorn Abbey’s collection is definitely more impressive.
Except, it’s not a library book. There is a handwritten inscription inside the front cover:
To Max
With all my love,
Becca
My chest tightens. I have forgotten how to breathe. Of course it was a gift from Becca. Of course Max still carries it around with him. How could I have thought that he liked me?
Becca must have been a really thoughtful and romantic girlfriend, giving a gift like that. Most girls I know would have chosen an iTunes card or a DVD instead. No wonder he was, is, in love with her.
I am so stupid.
With all my love, Becca. Even her handwriting is beautiful. And bold. The ink is a deep, velvety pink, the color of late-summer roses. Trembling, I touch the big, swirly B of her name . . .
. . . and recoil, stifling a scream. The page is burning hot.
But that’s not possible. I touch it again, very, very gingerly.
The page is cool and smooth, like one would expect.
I turn my hand over to look at my fingertips. They’re bright red and raw and tender.
I must be going insane.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“What don’t you understand?”
Max has reappeared, a thick volume tucked under his arm. He stares at me curiously. “Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine. Here’s your book back.” I slide it across the desk to him. It’s haunted. He’s haunted. I grab my notebook and backpack. “I have to go.”
“What? You just got here. Besides, I was hoping I could bounce more ideas off you. We could take a walk, if you’d like?”
“I can’t.”
I bolt out without saying good-bye. He must think I’m crazy.
Maybe I am crazy.
What is happening to me?
13.