Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “He was playing tennis with Khalil, whose three talents are: the violin, the ability to text shockingly fast, and gossiping.” Hannah paused and arched an eyebrow. “And anyone who didn’t know already did after you made out by the theater. So? Details?”

  “Is he a good guy? Tell me he’s a good guy.”

  “We know of him, of course—everyone does—he’s pretty popular. But we don’t really know him,” confessed Sera.

  “He’s amazing in the plays,” added Hannah. “Half our class was crushing on him after seeing him in Phantom last year. Obviously he’s handsome as sin. I want his eyelashes.”

  “I like your eyelashes.” Sera poked her girlfriend before turning back to me. “Have you googled him? With who his dad is, he’s probably got his own wiki or something.”

  “Of course!” Should I have admitted that? Probably not. I fumbled for a distraction. “We should get to class.”

  13

  Eliza claimed she wasn’t mad I’d ditched her to drive with Monroe—but it was possible this was just to shush me since I was “pretty please”–ing during Dr. Badawi’s directions.

  Regardless, she seemed truly over it by the time we made it to English and Ms. Gregoire announced, “I tolerated rows on the first day of class, but that’s not going to happen again. Form the desks into a circle, please.”

  “No more T-zone angst,” I said. She rolled her eyes but joined Hannah in directing the redistribution of the furniture.

  Lance, Toby, and two boys I hadn’t met did most of the heavy lifting, while Curtis made jokes and got in the way. Sera waited in the corner with a raven-haired girl who gave Eliza some serious competition for most gorgeous being in the universe. Only unlike Eliza, she owned it. I tried to copy her expert-level hair toss and ended up with it stuck to my lip balm.

  In the other corner, a pretty black girl with doodles on both hands and a super-skinny, super-freckled white guy were engrossed in something on his laptop. I nudged desks this way and that, but mostly I was fascinated by watching Ms. Gregoire watch us.

  Once we were circled up and seated, she tapped her pen on the electronic whiteboard to get our attention. “I forgot to take attendance last week. I know some of you from freshman year, but not all of you were in my class. So, let’s get that out of the way, then I’ll tell you why we’re starting with Shakespeare.”

  Ohhh! I totally had insider info on that one. Messenger opened.

  RowboatReads: It’s because the fall play is Romeo & Juliet.

  ElizaGF: Makes sense.

  RowboatReads: Monroe is ROMEO.

  ElizaGF: This means you’re going to make me see it, doesn’t it?

  I wished I knew how to access those fancy emojis Toby had used last week, because I wanted a stuck-out tongue. Maybe there was even a Shakespearian emoji. I could e-bite my thumb at Eliza.

  Or . . . I could pay attention, because Ms. Gregoire was pointing a gold-painted nail at my classmates. “Okay, if you’re Michael, that makes you”—she pointed from the darkest-skinned of the desk movers to the freckled guy who was pasty pale—“Randolph. Now we’re down to the last three. Hmmm.” She looked between me, the successful hair flipper, and doodle-handed girl. “Merrilee, Ava, Nicole.”

  We nodded. I offered a smile to Nicole, who waved Sharpied fingers back at me, and Ava, who responded with a glower. All righty then. I was glad my chair was across the classroom from hers.

  Ms. Gregoire perched on the edge of an empty desk and folded her hands on her lap. She was wearing another fabulous dress. This one was printed with antique postcards. “Over the weekend, I read your letters. Your opinions of Romeo and Juliet varied quite a bit. From ‘the most romantic story ever written’”—I blushed, a few students laughed—“to ‘the most boring play known to man.’

  “Now let’s talk about why we’re studying this play.” She stood and walked around the crater of the desks. I followed her movements with my eyes and felt each of her words as hot and close as if they’d been whispered in my ear. “This story lives and breathes. Hundreds of years after Shakespeare wrote it, we cry over characters so far removed from our own lives—because they’re not removed from us at all. We relate to them. We know them. They’re us. You’re them.”

  “Like reincarnation?” I hadn’t meant to ask, but she pounced on my question with bright eyes a-twinkle.

  “Almost. Literature is powerful. Anything can happen when you open yourself up to it. Are you open?” It was a question for everyone, but she held my gaze. I nodded emphatically. “I can tell you are, Merrilee. And when you’re ready . . . Well, you’ll find your book.”

  With those cryptic statements, she turned around and picked up a stack of papers. I wanted to call out, But I’m ready now! And I’ve found my book! It’s this one! Instead I chewed my lip. Sweat was collecting around my collar, but my hands were ice-cold.

  Ms. Gregoire continued, “Some of you may think they’re ‘an impulsive, reckless boy and a girl without guidance or role models’ or ‘a story about lust, not love’—but, clearly no one in this classroom has ever done anything reckless or impulsive. You always listen to your parents, right? Especially their dating advice? And you’re never, ever swayed by a person’s physical attractiveness? Oh, wait, you have? You are? See, these characters aren’t so different from you.”

  Ms. Gregoire flipped through her papers. “This one might be my favorite—” She smiled at Curtis. “‘A cautionary tale about poor timing and why neither mail delivery nor drugs are reliable.’ Yes, if you take nothing else away from Romeo and Juliet: send important mail with delivery confirmation, and don’t do drugs.”

  She waited while we laughed, then began to move again. “I expect you all to find something to relate to in the books we read this year—but for some of you, the personal connections will feel . . . bigger. Life changing.”

  The circles she was pacing were making me dizzy. Her words were falling, hammering against my mind and heart. The classroom seemed so hot. So stuffy. The hair on my arms was standing on end. Why wasn’t the clock moving? Why was my heart racing?

  “By the time we’re done studying this play”—she stopped in front of my desk and smiled down at me—“you’ll know the story like it’s your own. Like you’ve lived and breathed it.”

  Meanwhile, I was holding my breath. Like I’d forgotten how to exhale or didn’t dare do it. And into this space of accidental self-asphyxiation, a message bubble popped onto my screen.

  MonROMEO: I miss you already, my muse. My Juliet.

  His timing was eerie. Did he somehow know that Ms. Gregoire was talking about us, was comparing our lives to those of this dramatic duo?

  RowboatReads: You’ve got serious sleuthing skills. How’d you get my screen name?

  MonROMEO: Moved heaven and earth. Impressed?

  I typed VERY, ignoring Eliza’s disapproving elbow to my ribs, and sent him my cell number when he asked, because, really, we should’ve exchanged those before now.

  Ms. Gregoire clapped and I jumped. Ava paused with her lip gloss partway to her mouth, Nicole dropped her Sharpie, a new arm doodle half finished, and Michael froze mid-sneeze, trapping an “Ahhh!” behind his hand, waiting for a choo that didn’t come.

  “Bless you,” Ms. Gregoire said anyway. “Now then, Twelve students, of varying levels of curiosity / In fair Hero High where we lay our scene . . .” She twirled to a stop in the center of our circle and clasped her hands over her heart. “So, act one. We all read it?”

  Twelve heads nodded and leaned in. “Then, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get discussing. What do you think the grudge was about? What could cause a rift so ancient and powerful that it’s been elevated to something nearly sacred?”

  Ms. Gregoire shook her head at Eliza’s raised hand. “None of that. We’re having a conversation: you don’t need to ask permission to participate.”

  Oh, Eliza hadn’t liked that rebuke, no matter how gently it had been given. Her voice was tight and her cheeks faintly pink.
“The text doesn’t account for a reason. It’s simply an ‘ancient grudge’ that both families continue to propagate with their relatives and servants.”

  “That’s a technically correct answer, but I want to know what you think. What reasons could these families have for choosing to hate so fiercely? We all know where this story is headed. What could fuel an animosity that will consume so many lives?”

  “Politics?” I suggested with a frown, thinking of Lilly and Trent. “They ruin everything.”

  “But they already have a prince,” argued Ava. “So neither family is going to be in charge of Verona.”

  I stole a glance down at my screen.

  MonROMEO: Can I come over tonight?

  My cheeks flushed as I remembered that kiss from the courtyard and his parting words.

  “Love?” I suggested, the word soapy slick on my tongue.

  “Like, way back one family rejected a member of the other?” Toby asked. When I nodded, he looked doubtful. “I don’t know—would that create hatred? Or embarrassment and avoidance?”

  MonROMEO: I’ve got rehearsal so I’m not free till late, but if you leave your balcony unlocked . . .

  My mind was on what Ms. Gregoire implied about book-life parallels. Now balconies were back in play . . . I shivered and typed with hasty fingers.

  RowboatReads: Maybe. We’ll see.

  MonROMEO: Please. We can practice—be my Juliet, I’ll be your Romeo.

  The words were too close to my thoughts. To Ms. Gregoire’s pronouncements. We were them, they were us. All the romance, all the family grudges, all the balconies. Hopefully a hundred percent less death.

  The class kept talking and I turned toward each speaker, doing a great impression of paying attention, but my head was a mess of tangled thoughts and story elements.

  “Money,” said Randolph. Already I’d noticed he spoke in short sentences and absolutes. “Isn’t it always about money?”

  “Or religion,” said Sera. “It seems like most wars are over one or the other.”

  “But both families have a relationship with Friar Laurence—this implies they’re both Catholic,” said Nicole. “And Romeo and Juliet’s first conversation is full of him making allusions to a shared belief system: saints and pilgrims and prayers.”

  Ms. Gregoire smiled. “Great use of textual support. I’m loving all your ideas.”

  “Power,” said Lance. “It’s all about saving face.”

  “But why do they feel the need to ‘save face’?” asked Eliza. “You’re describing the reaction, not the motives. Which makes sense because the motives aren’t in the text. This is pure conjecture.”

  Ms. Gregoire laughed. “Touché. I can see how playing revisionist with Shakespeare could feel objectionable. But I do want you thinking about the characters’ motivations as you read tonight. Why do they commit so quickly and fully to each other? What drives them to make their pledges of devotion, despite the reasons—whatever the cause may be—they have to hate?” She trailed her fingers along the front edges of our desks, skipping from one corner to the next as she circled around the group.

  Hannah suggested, “Maybe that’s why he left it a mystery. So the theatergoers would be more intrigued and invested.”

  Eliza groaned.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking, E?” Curtis shifted his desk closer to hers. “The only way to figure this out is a séance. Let’s light some candles, get a Ouija board, hold hands, and ask Ol’ Willy’s ghost.”

  Eliza pushed away the hand he’d held out toward her. “No.”

  I looked down at my screen, at the cursor blinking on the messenger app. I still hadn’t responded, but it showed that Monroe was typing again. I dragged my fingers over the keys. Monroe or Romeo? Yes or no? To sleep perchance to miss a visit on my balcony? To be or not to be his Juliet? But those weren’t even the right play. I chewed my bottom lip and moved my pointer finger to the Y key. But my thumb was on the N.

  “Merrilee,” said Ms. Gregoire. “You’re looking particularly conflicted. Would you like to share your insights?”

  “Um.” My fingers crashed down with a mess of letters that felt like they were knotted in a pointy ball in my throat. “Um, I was . . .” I looked helplessly at the computer screen in front of me. There was a new message from Monroe, a quote that I seized upon gratefully. “I really like this line: ‘Ay me, sad hours seem long.’” I clicked out of his message and looked up at the class. “It just speaks to Mon—er, Romeo’s impatience. The way his emotions are the guiding force in his life.” I swallowed. They were becoming guiding forces in mine too.

  “And how . . . um, expressive he is too. All those . . . feelings,” added Toby.

  Eliza, for all her pointy elbows, was also ready to jump in and save me. “It’s one of the first lines Romeo speaks, yet it’s prophetic for his actions throughout the book. He’s either bemoaning a wait or acting rashly. He has no in-between.”

  “Very good, you three.” Ms. Gregoire nodded her approval, but her gaze lingered on me, and the hair on my scalp prickled. “That’s exactly what I mean about connecting with the text and putting yourself in the characters’ shoes. There’s so much more of this to come!”

  14

  Ms. Gregoire had barely finished her “Tonight, read act two. I’ll see you all tomorrow” before I was grabbing Eliza’s arm and dragging her out of the building.

  “The dining hall’s that way,” she said. Then, “Grass! Grass! We’re on the gra—Are you going to throw up? Pass out? Breathe, Merrilee. Put your head down. Breathe slowly.”

  I didn’t think I was going pass out. Maybe? It would certainly explain why I felt so dizzy.

  “Monroe is Romeo,” I whispered.

  “I know. School play. You told me. Congrats to him. But why are you so pale? Did you skip breakfast?”

  “No. You don’t understand. He is Romeo. Not just in the play.”

  “I officially have no clue what you’re talking about.” Eliza tugged at the fingers I’d wrapped around her arm.

  “In real life. He is him. You heard Ms. Gregoire. ‘This book lives and breathes.’”

  “She didn’t mean the characters literally live and breathe.”

  “And Friday she looked right at me and said I’d fall in love—and her mug went all strobe-y—just like the fire alarm at the country club when I met Monroe! And what about the whole ‘We know them. They’re us. We’re them.’ Or ‘you’ll find your book.’ And our families: the Rhodeses and the Stratfords—they’re political opponents. We kissed without knowing each other’s names. Balconies!” Air sputtered out of my lungs. I whispered, “How did she do it?”

  “Our English teacher didn’t do anything.” Eliza rubbed at her temples. “Repeat after me: Ms. Gregoire is not magical, and Romeo is a fictional character.”

  “I’m not saying she’s magical.”

  “Oh. Good,” said Eliza. “If you’re done, can we go eat?”

  I trailed after her down the path to the cafeteria. And whether or not she heard me, she didn’t respond when I added, “It’s not magic if it’s real.”

  I could lie and say I didn’t spend lunch craning my neck to try to get a glimpse of Monroe, but I won’t. Luckily Toby figured out what I was doing before I pulled any muscles. “Stratford wouldn’t have this lunch. Juniors eat later than us.”

  I nodded, pouting, and stole a bite of his red velvet cupcake. But part of me was also kind of relieved. It’s not every day that you learn your new boyfriend and you are epic, star-crossed lovers. I needed a little bit of time to process and figure out how to casually tell him, “Just say no to poisons.”

  Speaking of poison . . . I was still curious about the death glare I’d gotten during English class intros. I turned to Hannah. “What’s Ava’s deal? She looked like she wanted to kill me and wear my skin as a cape.”

  Hannah choked on her water and sputtered out a laugh. “Um, gross. Ava’s pretty self-important. Her dad’s the head of the school board. She’s
been queen bee since kindergarten and has never been a fan of new people. She’ll either warm up to you . . . or not.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Those sound like good odds.”

  Curtis leaned around her to add, “And she is, or at least was, a fan of Monroe’s, if you catch my drift.” He paused to take a huge bite of his sandwich, then said, “Like, she liked him. Like liked him.”

  I held up a hand. “I get it. So there’s probably no chance she and I will ever be besties?”

  “Literally zero,” said Curtis cheerfully. “Good thing you’ve got us.”

  It was sweet of him to say, especially since I was already sick of trying to calculate how long until my outsider status was upgraded to friends forever. Dad always said, “Patience and Merrilee will never be bedfellows. Or roommates. Or even casual acquaintances.” So, the sooner I got to know them all, the sooner we’d be friends, and the sooner I’d get to hear secrets and understand the whys behind things like Sera blushing and excusing herself to get milk when everyone began to talk about their sports teams and practice schedules.

  I flashed Hannah question eyes and she leaned in. “Sera’s exempt from the sports requirement, and it makes her uncomfortable. She’s an unbelievably good ballerina. Once she gets to know you better, I’m sure she’ll tell you about it.”

  “Oh. Okay.” And it was okay, I got it . . . but I didn’t want to accept it. I wanted Sera to trust and tell me now. I wanted them all to. Especially because if things did go full Romeo and Juliet, who knew how much time I—No! I wasn’t going there.

  By the end of lunch, I’d facilitated a table-wide phone number swap and had four new connections on iLive. Curtis’s page was bugs and baked goods. Lance’s lacrosse and anime. Sera’s dance and NASA. Hannah’s books, books, and books. I wanted to pause and study them—the crib notes get-to-know-you guide. When I said it aloud, everyone laughed.