“You know, I really think that would tie my bedroom together.” I laugh, rolling my eyes.
Then, out of nowhere, Jason asks, “What’s MTB?”
Cue a thousand mini explosions in my brain.
“Excuse me?” I choke, and bits of scone fly out the corner of my mouth. I desperately hope he didn’t see.
“MTB,” he repeats casually, swiping the debris off the edge of the table. Great.
“Where did you hear that?” I flip through my mental file of memories, wondering if he might have overheard me talking to Phoebe, or if maybe I—or should I say über-Julia—drunkenly blurted out something between my model stories? Oh God …
“Oh, one of those girls in the tower said it. I had no idea what it meant,” he says, taking a very large bite of his scone. “I figured it was some British thing. And what with all your book learnin’, I thought you might know.”
“Hardee har har,” I retort. I pause to break off another chunk of scone. Really I’m stalling, hoping that he’ll get distracted by something else and let it go.
“Come on,” Jason presses. “Tell me.”
“I dunno,” I say cautiously. “I mean, when Phoebs and I use it, we mean ‘meant to be.’ ”
Now it’s Jason’s turn to choke.
“What?” I say, instantly defensive.
“So when you say ‘MTB,’ do you mean, like, guys?”
I clear my throat a couple of times and try to sound casual. “Yeah,” I reply. “I mean, we might say, ‘So-and-so are totally MTB,’ as in, that couple is totally meant to be. Or ‘That guy is totally my MTB,’ meaning that we’re totally meant to be together.”
Jason snorts. I can tell he doesn’t buy it. “So do you have an MTB?” he asks.
The question startles me. I mean, I’ve been saying Mark is my MTB for as long as I can remember, but there’s no way I can tell Jason that. Fortunately, I don’t have to come up with a response, because Jason charges on.
“Meant to be …,” he says with a little chuckle. He takes a stack of brown raw-sugar packets from the container on our table and starts slapping them against his palm to loosen the sugar. “What a load of crap.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t actually believe that. I mean, you’re smart. You know stuff. So you’ve gotta know that it’s all a big fairy tale. A marketing tool. Chick flicks and Hallmark cards and Valentine’s Day and diamond rings. Bullshit.” He rips the tops off the three sugar packets, tips his head back, and pours them into his mouth. Great. With all that sugar, now he’s going to go supersonic.
“You don’t think you’ll ever fall in love?” I ask, leaning back in my chair, the metal curlicues digging into my back.
“Sure, I think I’ll fall in love,” he says. He crumples the empty packets in his fist, then drops them. They bounce and scatter across the table. He ignores them, scraping together a little mountain of crumbs on the plate, licking his finger, and pressing it into the pile. “Many, many times. And when I do, I don’t think it’s going to be about fate or destiny or ‘meant to be.’ ”
“Then what will it be about?” I fire back. I reach for the wrappers, gathering them up and placing them on our plate. Why am I always picking up his trash?
“I don’t know, I’ve never been in love,” he says, pulling apart chunks of his remaining scone, “but I imagine it’ll be about her thinking it’s funny when I make a fool of myself and laughing at my dumb jokes and liking the same music.”
“So you’re looking for someone just like you?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. Then he grins widely. “But with boobs.”
I instinctively cross my arms over my own (sort of flat) chest.
“Nice,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Whatever. Point is, maybe some people wouldn’t want to be around me all day, but there are people out there who would. And they’re smart and funny. And they like some of the things I like and hate some of the things I hate, but they also introduce me to all kinds of new things. That’s as close to ‘meant to be’ as I can imagine.”
“So there’s no ‘the one’?”
“Nope,” he says. “Ones. Plural. Many ones. Which makes me a lucky guy.” Another grin spreads across his face and he winks at me.
“You’re gross,” I reply. I toss my napkin at him. He catches it in midair.
“I’m right,” he says. He chucks the napkin back at me.
“You’re not.” I duck, and the napkin sails over my shoulder and bounces off the window.
“We’ll see,” he replies.
I want to say something clever and cutting, but all I can do is mutter back, “I guess we will.”
“Flirtation is no different from mounting a good argument or coming out ahead in a deal,” he says. He starts batting the last chunk of his scone back and forth across the table with his fingers. “It’s manipulation, Julia. Good convincing. Hell, it’s practically theater.”
Suddenly, I feel almost sorry for him. Manipulation? Theater? This is what he thinks when he thinks of love? It’s sad, really. Everyone knows that Jason’s dad and stepmom split in an epic disaster of a divorce. Jason’s dad is a pretty big-deal lawyer in Boston, so the details were splashed all over the Internet. There were quite a lot of name-calling (his) and some rumored cheating (hers), as well as a very public tossing of a plate of risotto at a charity function (also hers). I don’t know anything about his biological mother—no one does—but I know that now he never sees his stepmom, who had been around since Jason was little. Can you imagine? She was practically his mother, and now she’s gone. According to Sarah Finder, his dad is always running around with one leggy blonde or another, each younger than the one before. No wonder Jason has a warped view of love.
I guess that’s Reason Number 725 that Jason and I are completely and totally different.
Probably only a few more minutes and we can head out. I reach into my bag, now slung over the back of my chair, to pull out Pride and Prejudice.
“GOOOOOOOAL!”
A chunk of scone bounces off my chest and onto the floor, leaving a spray of clotted cream from my shirt down. I look up and Jason has his arms raised above his head. Before I can protest (or protect my clothes), he flicks another chunk toward me; this one misses me and instead splatters on the dinosaur diorama directly behind my left shoulder.
The barista with the blue hair and the metal in her face is unamused, to say the least. She wads up the rag in her hand and chucks it at the floor with quite a lot of force, looking like she’s about to head around the counter and toward us. To kick us out, probably. But I’m not in the mood to be chastised today (or any day, really), so I grab Jason by the hand and jerk him toward the door.
“What are you—” he asks, but I shush him and nod toward the angry barista.
“Julia, I was trying to win the World Cup,” Jason whines, trying to stall. “I just need one more shot!”
“Come on.” I pull Jason hard by the hand, and together we stumble into the rainy street.
hey P, what is your fave line from Shakespeare? (I forget) —J
“Ouch!” I yank my finger back from the brass knob on my dresser. I stick it in my mouth, trying to soothe the pain of a truly shocking electric shock. I’ve got all my shirts in a pile on the floor, and I’m refolding them and placing them back in the drawer one by one, long sleeves on the left, short sleeves on the right. As I hold each one up to fold, I give it a quick once-over for stray lint, picking off tiny bits of fuzz whenever I spot it. With all the quick dressing I’ve done in the last couple of days, my bureau is looking really disorganized, and it’s time to clean it up.
It’s five p.m., the hour on our itinerary marked “rest period.” Clearly, Mrs. Tennison intended this to be her rest period. Did she think the rest of us would need a juice box and a nap? Not even halfway through our trip, and already the woman needs to escape. I don’t know how she’s going to get through the next seven days.
I really sho
uld be working on my reflection paper (or papers, plural, I guess), but my brain can pretty much only tolerate searching for lint right now. I wonder what my classmates will be writing about, since, as Jason already pointed out, most of them have spent the time trolling pubs and shopping. I might as well have gone with them, because even though I’ve taken in some actual culture, I’m having a really hard time focusing.
The rain outside my hotel window is tapping lightly on the sill, lulling me into a little bit of a post-dinner coma, and the blinking cursor on my laptop seems to be taunting me for my inability to crank out a simple one-page paper. At least reorganizing my dresser seemed like a good way to take control of something in my world. “Reorganize the room, reorganize the mind,” my mom always says. But all I can think about is my conversation with Jason a couple of hours ago at the café. His words keep playing on endless loop: You’ve gotta know that it’s all a big fairy tale.
I guess it’s hard to believe in love when the people who are supposed to be your role models call each other playboys and gold diggers in public.
I reach for the picture of Mom and Dad. I know, it’s very Brady Bunch to idolize your parents, but mine really did have a perfect marriage. I think that’s why Mom’s been single since Dad died. Can you imagine trying to find perfection a second time?
I try to conjure up an image of Mark, but it keeps coming up all blurry. I try focusing on his perfectly imperfect smile when my thoughts are interrupted by a persistent buzz. I reach for my phone to find another text message.
@ cue-2-cue, know it? —C
Chris! And I was just thinking about my MTB. I mean, sure, I was thinking about Mark, but maybe this is supposed to be a sign. Like maybe Chris could be my MTB. And he’s given me an actual location where he might be right now.
A quick trip to Google pulls up only one hit for a Cue-2-Cue location in London (because I’m guessing Mystery Chris is not chilling in Turkmenistan), and it turns out to be an indie music shop right here in Soho, only a few blocks from the hotel. Probably only about five minutes away. I could go there right now and … and what?
Definitely not meet him. Jason was right about one thing: Chris will be disappointed that über-Julia has morphed back into … well, Julia-Julia. But I could go and scope him out from afar. Maybe I’ll finally recognize him from the party.
I click reply and start typing a message about being busy, but I realize that if I tell him I’m not coming, he might leave. No. I want him to stay right there. Instead, I ignore his text. I’ll pretend I never got it, then scoot over to the record shop and do a little detective work.
Forgetting all about my vow not to break any more rules, I quickly jot down the directions from Google, tuck them into the pocket of my coat, and get ready to head out. I’m about to grab my mini umbrella when there’s a knock at the door. I peer through the peephole to see a fish-eyed Jason leaning against the entryway. Dammit.
The door swings open and Jason hops inside before I can slam it in his face.
“What do you want?”
“Now that’s no way to greet your buddy. Hello to you, too, sunshine.”
“Sorry. I was working on my paper and you interrupted me.” Homework: that’s sure to scare Jason off.
“Oh, great. That’s what I’m here about,” Jason says, his grin practically taking over his lightly freckled face.
“What?”
“Just checking to see if you got my paper done,” he says. He dodges me neatly and steps all the way into my room. “I may have to do a little editing, you know, so it’s in my own words.”
“Not done yet,” I reply. I need to keep things short and sweet if I hope to be rid of him. I’m not a very good liar. “Soon.”
“What, you’re having a little trouble reflecting? Your inner mirror a little foggy?”
“No,” I say. “It turns out that twice the work takes twice as long.” I shoot a glance at my phone. It’s still open on my bed, the text message visible. “I’ll text you when I’m done, okay?”
“You’ll text me? Gee, you’re getting awfully liberal with those texts,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“The longer you stand here bothering me, the longer it takes me to write,” I say. I fling the door open and gesture him through it. “Now go.”
“Fine, then. Back to work! Chop-chop!” he says. Then his face turns suspicious. His eyes flick to my packed messenger bag, which is sitting on the bed. “Wait a second. Were you going somewhere, Book Licker?”
“No,” I say, a little too quickly.
“Then why are you wearing your coat?” he asks, leaning in to pick some lint off my shoulder. “Feeling a draft? Catching a chill? Trying to put out your pants, which seem to be catching on fire, you liar liar?”
“Fine!” I explode, just to get him to shut up. “Yes, okay. I was maybe thinking of possibly going somewhere. Are you satisfied?”
He crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Without me? My, my, you really are turning into a regular rule breaker. Let me guess. You got another text from Loverboy.”
I ignore the “Loverboy” part and extend my phone to him. He rubs his chin as he reads the text. I notice he has a tiny bit of stubble coming in along his jawline. It makes him look more grown-up, which only makes the mischievous look in his eyes more noticeable.
“Cue-2-Cue is a music shop,” I mumble through my embarrassment. “I was thinking of heading over there.”
He squints his bright blue eyes at me. “Well, then it’s a good thing I showed up,” he says as he turns toward the door. “I’ll get my coat. Be back in a flash.”
I think about making a run for it but instead pull my door shut, tug on it twice to make sure it locked, and wait in the hallway. In seconds he’s trotting down the hall, his rusty, messy hair bouncing across his face.
“I thought you didn’t believe in love,” I say as he leads the way to the elevator.
“I don’t,” he replies over his shoulder.
“Then why are you coming along?”
“Because I think this guy could be a fun adventure for you, Book Licker. You need to loosen up, and having a little foreign fling might just be the ticket. Maybe it’ll cure you of your ridiculous fairy tale.”
I sigh, but let it slide. I like my fairy tale, thankyouverymuch.
Cue-2-Cue looks like it came right out of the last century. Every inch of wall space is taken up with dust-laden CDs. Long tables dip under the weight of milk crates stuffed full of records. These tables make up the narrow aisles of the shop, and there’s a row of wooden windowed listening booths, like a row of old phone booths, along the far wall. It smells like dust and must and that special cocktail of vintage-BO.
There are a few customers in the shop. Three of them are girls. One of the two guys in the shop is the middle-aged clerk, bearded and clad in an old moth-eaten blazer. The other is a boy of about thirteen, who’s glued to a display of Rush’s entire catalog.
“I don’t think he’s here,” I whisper to Jason.
“Why are you whispering?” he whispers back. “This isn’t a library.”
“Whatever,” I say a little louder, clearing my throat. “I don’t think he’s here.”
“Are you sure? He looks like a likely candidate,” Jason says, and he gestures to the kid flipping through Rush albums. “And he looks like your speed, too! Beginner level.”
“Hey, I have been on plenty dates before, you know,” I retort. Okay, three dates—but Jason doesn’t need to know that. I’m not a total loser.
“Oh really? And who are these lucky bachelors? Members of the robotics club? Mathletes?” Jason crosses his arms and leans against a rack of concert T-shirts, like he’s daring me to prove him wrong.
“Kevin Heineman. And some other people you probably wouldn’t know.” Because they don’t exist, I mentally add.
Jason feigns nearly falling over. “Kevin Heineman? Are you kidding? I totally saw that guy eat his own boogers.”
“Oh, when was that
, first grade?”
“Last year,” he replies, laughing. “C’mon, Lady Marmalade, let’s go check the listening booths in the back.”
I follow him down the aisle and off to the left, toward the row of four narrow wooden booths, which are plastered with torn and fading posters. A handwritten sign stuck to the front of each booth reads Only one guest per booth! The first two are empty. The third contains a girl clutching a Tori Amos album and scowling.
“Nasty breakup,” Jason says, winking at me, before moving on to the last booth. His eyes grow wide. “Well, I think we might have something here.”
My heart leaps into my throat, and I move slowly into the view of the window. Chris? I don’t see anyone at first, but when I glance at Jason, he’s pointing toward the floor. I look down to see a pair of teenagers in school uniforms sharing a pair of headphones and furiously making out. The girl catches me staring and gives me a dirty look before giving me the finger and returning to her business.
“Nice, Jason,” I say. I try to arrange my face into the same dirty look Miss Makeout gave me.
“What?” he asks, giving me that innocent look he seems to have perfected.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, turning to head toward the door, feeling deflated. Yet another blown opportunity to see Chris.
“What, we walk all the way over here, and now you want to ditch out after a few minutes just because your mystery lover isn’t here?” Jason pulls open the door to the first booth in the row, gesturing for me to go in.
“I am not going in there with you,” I say. The booth is barely big enough for two people, and I can’t help flashing back to what Sarah Finder said about Jason’s desire to join the mile-high club.
Jason rolls his eyes. “I promise to play nice. Come on. We’re here. We might as well enjoy it.” He spins around toward the nearest bin of records. Dramatically wiggling his fingers, he closes his eyes, drops his hand into the records, flips for a moment, then pulls out a colorful album cover at random. He glances at the cover, then hugs it tightly to his chest, his arms crossed over the back so I can’t see.
Meant to Be Page 12