Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Short stack with the friendship shortcuts,” said Curtis, holding out a hand for me to fist-bump, while totally sleuthing on Eliza’s page. “I like it.”

  I glanced at Toby, who was pulling a Sherlock on my iLive page—which made no sense because he’d been the first friend I added when I set it up two years ago. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Um, nothing.” He jammed his phone’s off screen, but not before I glimpsed where on my iLive site he’d been: checking my relationship status. We sighed in sync, both of us wishing we could change the other’s feelings, but in very different ways.

  “Can I say something gushy?” I asked the table, then didn’t wait for a response before stumbling forward, my words rolling over one another like a litter of puppies. “I’m really glad I’m here. And I’m really glad I found all of you.”

  Sera responded first. “I’m really glad you’re here too. Both of you.”

  And the rest of the group joined in, Curtis with a joking “Does this mean we get to keep you?” Lance with an aw-shucks “Ditto,” Hannah with shrugging and laughing and “Girls, you’re stuck with us.” Eliza with her formal “You’ve all been so welcoming. I appreciate that.” And Toby with a nudge of his shoulder against mine and a “Friends forever, Rowboat.”

  And since we were totally on our way to being insiders, I felt justified in linking my arm through Sera’s on the way out of the dining hall and saying, “So, I hear you’re a ballerina! Tell me all about it!”

  By the time we’d made it to math, I knew how long she’d been dancing: “Since I was three.”

  By media, I knew her fave ballet: “Giselle! I’d love to play the title role. Or Coppélia.”

  And by Convocation, why she loved it: “The way it’s both art and order. The choreography is fixed, the positions and movements don’t change, but every dancer is unique—even while trying to look uniform.” As we made our way down the Convocation hall aisle, I’d received an invitation to her next performance. “If you want. You don’t have to. No pressure, like, at all.”

  The invitation was priceless because she’d volunteered it. Like she wasn’t just tolerating me at her lunch table for Toby. Like we were already friends. Like she wanted to continue to be.

  And this was exactly what I wanted too. I could easily see Hannah and Sera becoming—well, not besties, because Toby and Eliza had that position on lockdown, but close thirds. People whose families considered me one of their own for dinners and sleepovers and lazy weekend goof-offs. By the time her recital rolled around, I’d totally have that role cemented.

  Except, maybe I didn’t know Sera quite as well as I thought, because as we settled onto a bench in the Convocation hall, Hannah reached over and plucked at Sera’s fingers, wrinkling her nose as she said, “Your dad looked like he was on the warpath today.”

  “Her dad?” Come to think of it, I knew Sera was short for Seraphina, but I didn’t know her last name. I meant to follow up on this, but I was distracted—we were all distracted by a commotion behind us. It started with some clomping, some “excuse mes” and protests.

  Then grew to, “Merrilee! Merrilee? Where are you, Merrilee?”

  I turned to see Monroe scanning the crowd as he climbed over the rows like a conquering warrior.

  “Does he mean you?” asked Lance from behind me.

  “I don’t think there’s another Merrilee at Hero,” said Curtis. “And definitely not another one dating the BMOC.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “Big man on campus,” Curtis said. “Power player. You know . . . Stratford.”

  Actually, I didn’t know. There was a whole heck of a lot I didn’t know about him, apparently.

  “Huh, wouldn’t have pegged you for a party girl.” Lance tilted his head and considered me.

  I opened my mouth to ask party girl? and for some more BMOC details but was cut off by Curtis whistling. He’d climbed on his bench. “Yo, Stratford, she’s over here.” He fingergunned down at me and added, “I figured I’d help him out. It’s not easy to find a short stack in a haystack.”

  “Um, thanks?”

  Hello, Hero High! This was not how I planned to make my center-stage debut—red cheeked and soaked in a sudden sheen of stress sweat, with my best friend pug-eyed with horror beside me and my boyfriend—that word still snagged in my thoughts—calling, “There you are!” from across five benches.

  There were audible female sighs and giggles. Hannah leaned across Sera. “Whoa. Someone turn on the A/C—it’s hot in here.”

  But at least one other girl in the crowd wasn’t swooning: the one seated next to me. She yanked on my arm. “That’s him? What is he doing?”

  I nodded for Eliza without taking my eyes off Monroe. He’d been handsome in the pro shop’s darkness; gorgeous in the midnight air; a beautiful surprise on my doorstep this morning. But standing on the bench with his face illuminated by a smile and all of him glowing in the soft light coming through the nonreligious stained-glass windows, he was something godly, something beyond breathtaking. The window lit his white shirt with rainbow splashes of color, made his dark curls look blue-black, and caught all the angles and planes of his face and neck. The light loved him, and I—I didn’t. But it’d only been two days. Maybe I’d figure out how to not choke on the word “boyfriend” before I worried about that.

  He stepped over the last bench between Lance and Curtis, then climbed down in my row.

  “Hello, love.”

  Oh, was that going to be a thing now? “Love”? At least it was better than “short stack.” We get it, Curtis. I’m small. Clever. Keep it up, and I won’t root for you to win over Eliza.

  “Love” should’ve sounded classy, like a British endearment. The type of thing I’d insisted our heroes call their heroines in Toby’s and my old fanfic days. Instead it felt a bit too try-hard. A bit too loud. The sun must’ve slid behind a cloud, because the stained-glass glow around him faded into shadows. The only things glowing were my cheeks. “Um, hi?”

  He kissed the top of my head, which was a look how short you are! thing. I hated it. Not that he knew this bugged me. But Eliza did. She looked him up and down. Slowly. “Monroe.”

  I saw his smile wane. “You must be Eliza.” His voice sounded friendly enough, but his grip on me had tightened like he was trying to squeeze the last globs of toothpaste out of a tube. “Since you and I share remarkably good taste in our favorite person, I hope we’ll get along.”

  Eliza arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you prefer Rosalind Franklin to Watson and Crick too?”

  I would have laughed and explained the who-really-discovered-DNA’s-structure joke to Monroe. I might have complained about him making a scene. I mean, I’m all for the idea of romantic gestures, but maybe not such big ones on my second day at a new school?

  There were lots of things I could’ve done next, if the headmaster hadn’t interrupted. “Stratford! These sort of antics are unacceptable. Climbing on furniture, yelling in the Convocation hall. What were you thinking?” He stood at the end of our row and called across the heads of four students.

  “Sir, I was declaring my affection for this beautiful girl. I apologize for the disruption.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Headmaster Williams clearly hadn’t expected Monroe to respond with frank talk about feelings. He looked momentarily baffled. “Go to my office and think about more appropriate ways to express it. When Convocation is over, I’ll discuss this with you.”

  “Yes, sir.” But he lingered for one last squeeze and brush of his lips across my cheek. Instead of romantic, it felt a little defiant and a lot possessive.

  “Go now, Mr. Stratford,” Headmaster Williams said sternly. “Your nonsense has already delayed Convocation enough.”

  Monroe lifted his hand to his mouth, then tilted it toward me before he trudged down the aisle and out the large arched double doors at the rear of the room. I’d always thought of blowing kisses as something toddlers did. Or girls. The type of girls
who could wear body glitter unselfconsciously and had mastered the art of winking without looking like they had something in their eyes. But Monroe was a whole new category: hot. The guy who talked emotions. The gesture drew my eyes to his mouth and filled my head with memories of how nice those lips had felt against mine.

  I just wished those memories were louder than the whispers. Sharper than the not-so-furtive glances. (Ava’s took “if looks could kill” to murder-spree levels.) Clearer than Sera looking at the headmaster, who still stood in the aisle, and squeaking, “Hi, Dad.”

  He nodded at her before heading to the podium. I dragged my eyes from the back of his blazer to meet hers. “Wait!” My voice was slightly on the wrong side of whisper—people who had stopped staring turned to look again. I ducked down in my pew and said, “Wait. If the headmaster is your father, that means you’re related to Fielding.”

  I tried to infuse my voice with at least half the scorn he’d demonstrated toward me, and I must’ve succeeded, because Sera paled and bit her lip. “Oh no. What did my brother do?”

  “He—he—” Eliza tried to elbow me from the left, but I dodged her bone dagger—seriously, the girl could market her elbows as weapons. “No, never mind. Nothing. I’m over it . . . ” I faced forward and attempted to listen to the headmaster for a full thirty seconds, but he had Fielding’s chin, and they both curled their lips the same way. I turned back to Sera. “Except he’s . . . he’s . . . awful! I mean, I adore you, Sera, but your brother’s a jerk.”

  Having said my piece, I turned back to the front just in time for the singing of the school song. I still didn’t know the words, but I faked it like a pro.

  By the time the headmaster strutted back down the aisle, I thought my run-ins with the Williams family men were done for the day—but before we’d cleared our row, I caught a glimpse of the other owner of the Williams’s square jawline and chin. He was standing at the aisle looking down on us as he, well . . . looked down on us.

  “You!” It was more of a growl than a greeting, because I’d swallowed a breath mint down the wrong pipe and my throat was all scratchy and raw. His fault.

  “What?” Hannah broke off her rambling story about soccer camp. “Oh. Hey, Williams.”

  “Hi, Hannah,” he replied. I was still glaring at him, trying not to cough up bits of my esophagus or show any other sign of weakness, but he hadn’t even glanced at me. “Sera, you left a pointe shoe in my car. Thought your class tonight might be tricky with just one.”

  She laughed. “Ha! A bit. Thanks! It must’ve fallen out of my bag.” She accepted the shoe. “And I guess you know Hannah’s and my adoptees? Eliza and Mer—”

  “We’ve met.” My iciness crackled and his jaw tightened, and he finally did look at me. But with the way his eyes flashed and nostrils flared, I wished he hadn’t. And just knowing that he’d been here when Monroe did his whole . . . whatever. That Fielding had seen that, had probably laughed at it, made flames lick across my cheeks.

  “Indeed,” he said stiffly. “How are you finding Hero High so far?”

  He was back to not looking at me. Looking everywhere but at me. Probably because the last time he’d seen me, I’d been giving the whole country club parking lot a sneak peek at my underwear through my water-soaked dress. Or maybe because the last time we’d spoken, he’d accused me of being illiterate.

  I narrowed my eyes. “It’s fine. Easy. Really easy. Not even the slightest bit challenging.”

  “Well, that’s good.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Seeing as it’s been two whole days of strenuous syllabus review and rigorous get-to-know-you games.”

  While my thoughts and feelings were as snarled as the fur of a Maltese that’d missed an appointment at the groomer’s, my voice was coolly calm as I said, “You must hate those games. You know, since you think getting to know people before you judge them is a waste of your time.”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line.

  Point. For. Me.

  Sera looked between us and sighed, her fingers knotting in the ribbons of the ballet shoe. “I’m sincerely sorry for whatever is going on here.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to apologize. You have been nothing but sweet and lovely. It’s not like you get to choose who you’re related to. If you could—”

  “It’s ‘whom,’” Fielding interrupted, his words as tight as his jaw. “And the same lack-of-choice sentiment applies to classmates.” His hands looked like they were just resting on the edge of the pew, but his fingertips were white with pressure. He squeezed them into a fist and walked away without even attempting an explanation, apology, or good-bye.

  I wanted to call him rude, but actually that had been me. “Sorry,” I muttered. “He’s just so . . .” Disappointing. Handsome. Pretentious. Pretty. Obnoxious. Gorgeous. “Exasperating!”

  I watched his back retreating. What a waste of good bones and muscles and tailoring. The girls, however, watched me: Hannah with curiosity, Sera with confusion, and Eliza—“I’m proud you stuck up for yourself, Merrilee.” Which, really, that was the participation ribbon of praise. She added, “And Sera, it isn’t your fault.”

  “He was really that awful?” Sera asked.

  “I wouldn’t suggest he join any welcoming committees,” I said. “And I feel bad for whoever his Knight Light adoptee was.”

  “Well, that was me, and he was great, but . . .”

  “Family discount,” said Hannah. “He adores you. It’s other people your brother has issues with.” When Sera frowned, she kissed her cheek and added, “I’m not saying he’s a bad guy . . . but you have to admit no one’s ever going to confuse him with a teddy bear.” She turned to me and arched an envy-inspiring eyebrow into her envy-inspiring red bangs. “Though I’ve never heard anyone dislike him quite so passionately before.”

  I pulled my book bag higher up my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Eliza had her head tilted, studying me like a specimen in one of her experiments. “You are being unusually vocal about how much you dislike him. Is this about the recycling debacle? What don’t I know?”

  Oh, so many things. She didn’t know about Fielding’s mosaic path commentary, or what he’d said at the party. The way he’d been the haughtiest of haughties in the parking lot after. She didn’t know how everything with Monroe felt like it was moving at warp speed. And since she refused to believe me about Ms. Gregoire’s book-life connection powers, she didn’t know all the ways my thoughts were spinning like a wobbly top—

  “Merrilee?”

  Capulet.

  “Merri?”

  Montague.

  “Rowboat?”

  MonRomeo.

  A piercing whistle split the air. I jumped, stepping on Hannah’s foot and whacking Eliza with my satchel.

  Curtis pulled two fingers from his mouth. “You okay there, short stack?”

  I glanced around at all the eyebrows-up faces. I mentally rewound a minute and realized they’d all been calling me while I was lost in my own headspace. “Totally fine.” I forced up the corners of my mouth. “C’mon, Eliza. We’ve got cross-country.”

  15

  Leaves crunched under my sneakers. Fall was just getting started, so these were the quitters—the leaves that had let go early and changed directly from green to brown without pausing on the gorgeous colors in between. They had less of a crunch and more of a slip, since they weren’t even nice and crisp, like good autumn leaves should be. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, the trail around campus was picturesque, and the cropped leggings and T-shirt I’d filched from Rory’s drawer were cute. If it weren’t for the fact that I was breathless and sweaty and my running partner was pissed and practically sprinting, it might have been enjoyable.

  “You know that today isn’t actually a race, right?” I asked Eliza, pausing to catch my breath before adding, “I mean, why don’t we try that ‘conversational pace’ thing?”

  “Conversati
onal? Sure, let’s talk. Let’s talk about what went down in Convocation.”

  “I was thinking we should talk about . . .” Gah, I should’ve planned this better. I glanced around for a topic. “Leaves. Do you know what any of these trees are?”

  “Are you truly pretending we’re not going to have this conversation about Monroe?”

  “I think that’s a sassafras?” I nodded toward a tree. “How fun is that word? Sassafras.”

  “It’s a tulip poplar. So, about Monroe—”

  “Can’t we talk about something else? How about bio? Read any good studies lately?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “I hate you,” I panted, struggling to keep up with her anger-fueled pace.

  “I’ve got ten years of friendship bracelets that argue differently.”

  “Fine, then I’m stopping.” I made a show of flopping into a mulch bed. Then bending forward to stretch my calves so I couldn’t see her face. “What’d you think?”

  “What’d I think of the guy who was hauled out of Convocation for creating a spectacle?”

  “Those wouldn’t have been my words, but . . . yeah?” I peeked up at her, then went back to studying my shoelaces. “Keep in mind I want you to like him . . . Um, not that I want you to like like him, but you know.”

  “I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy—but you need to slow down.”

  “Why?” I stood up and staggered a bit from blood-rush dizziness. “Because it’s not the pace you want me to go? If you had your way, neither of us would date until we’d finished our doctorates. I like him. He likes me. Maybe he more than likes me.”

  Eliza’s anger was always calm—it burned like frostbite; it slapped with facts. But standing on the trail, with no one around but trees and whatever woodland animals we hadn’t scared, she kicked ferociously at the ground, spraying small pieces of dirt, rocks, and sticks. “Do you want me to have a panic attack? Because if you keep saying things like that, I—”

  “You’ll do what? Tell my parents? They’ve already met him. They loved him with their usual over-the-top flair, and he didn’t freak out. Did you notice he didn’t flip over you, either? He was absolutely intimidated by you—but not by your appearance, it was your position as my best friend that made him nervous.”