Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I thought about my parents. My mom’s “I know you’re our impulsive little imp, but—”

  Dad’s “I’m not sure if you find trouble or trouble finds you.”

  Eliza’s “You don’t intentionally get so lost in your thoughts, but—”

  I didn’t like their expectations being stacked against me. The fact that people—my parents, my best friend—treated me like a fiasco was inevitable. Even Toby—who was fiercely defensive of me—felt like I needed defending.

  I desperately wanted to tell Monroe yes. Tell him, “Make it seven minutes,” and then monkey down from my balcony and across the lawn and into his heated leather seats and embrace. Have him distract me from my parents’ disappointment.

  But I wanted romantic adventures, not disasters. Hijinks, not mishaps. I wanted my parents to look at me with pride for my accomplishments, not resigned tolerance for my mistakes. Sneaking out felt like the wrong side of this equation. I sighed and slashed my arm through Dad’s careful pillow arrangement. Being responsible was no fun. “I can’t.”

  “What? No. You can. Even if you have to wait till later. I’ll stay up all night.”

  “I really can’t. I shouldn’t even be on the phone. I just got a huge lecture—my parents found out about the fire alarm.”

  “Oh.” He sucked in a breath. “And I’m guessing they’re pissed?”

  “Yeah. They’re most upset about my lies. But it’s expensive too. The fines—”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll have someone call the club tomorrow.” I could practically hear the shrug and hand wave in his quick answer. “Dad will make a donation to the firefighters’ retirement fund, and this will all disappear. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

  That’s what money was to him, a wave of the hand, a “don’t worry about it.” I was used to the rich. The May rich of international banking and Gordon-Fergus rich of prizes and sponsorships. Rhodes old-money rich.

  We weren’t. We’d inherited the house from Mom’s parents, but that had been her whole inheritance and it had been before I was born. We were stretched thin by Lillian’s college tuition bills, thinner by her wedding, thinner still by the expenses of Hero High that weren’t covered by scholarships. We weren’t poor. I’d seen the YouTube videos about global wealth distribution and #FirstWorldProblems and knew we were much better off than most people. And as long as humanity didn’t decide to stop spoiling their pets, we’d probably scrape by. But I’d never be waving my hand to dismiss an unknown sum, as though no matter how many zeros were involved, it was no concern.

  “Now that that’s taken care of—what time can I pick you up?”

  “No!” There was impulsive and there was stupid. This was trespassing in stupid territory and had set up a base camp in Not Listening. “I can’t! Monroe, seriously—I mean, aren’t your parents mad?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Well, if-slash-when they find out—won’t you be in trouble?” How could he not understand that me sneaking out right now was going from frying pan to firebomb?

  “They won’t find out. Dad’s assistant will write the check. Besides, he’ll get political clout from the donation. Come on. No one’s home at my house. I’ll pick you up and we can—”

  The knock on my door had me jamming the hang-up button and burying my phone beneath a pillow, because that was not a conversation I was ready to have or have overheard.

  “Merri?” Lilly knocked again.

  I squeaked, “Come in.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Lilly looked around the room. She had a mug of tea cupped in her hands. I wasn’t sure if it was for me—and I wasn’t thirsty after chocolate milk—but I snatched it and took a big sip to disguise my flush.

  “Not really. A little bit. This much.” I held my fingers up an inch apart. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to apologize for dumping all that on you the other night.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m the MoH; that’s literally my job.”

  “Yeah, well. I was being ridiculous. All that over a cat pillow. Anyway, Trent and I worked it out.”

  “Good. Can I see it?”

  “The pillow? We didn’t get it. We talked, and—”

  “Talked?” My sister deserved a boy who’d buy her a dozen cat-mustache pillows. Who’d have the picture turned into wall art. This was why I didn’t understand Trent or the ring on her finger. Where was his big apology gesture? “What store was the pillow from?”

  Lilly laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t get me the pillow; I don’t want it. I never really did, because it was never about the pillow. I was swept up in the idea of buying something for our future place. But it’s ours, mine and Trent’s—not just mine. So after we talked it out, we went shopping and picked out some lamps we both like.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Lamps?” Wasn’t Lilly actually supposed to be old before she became old and boring? I blamed Trent. He was a horrible influence. That would never be me. Monroe would never be a Trent. He’d have filled my room with the pillows and the wall art and gotten it tattooed on his arm. We’d name the kitten something cute and couple-y—Verona! And every night before I went to sleep, I’d kiss the tattoo and he’d curl that arm around me.

  Poor Lilly. I’d have to make notes to pester Trent before Valentine’s Day and anniversaries—left to his own devices, he’d probably buy her blenders or vacuum cleaners—end tables to put the freaking lamps on. Was it bad form for the MoH to talk the bride into picking a different groom?

  “Anyway . . .” Lilly drew out the word in a way that meant she knew she’d lost my attention. “I also wanted to check on you about Monroe. This whole thing seems really sudden. I didn’t even know you knew each other . . . and now you’re dating? Is he anything like his dad, because I’ve heard—”

  “It’s totally fine. Good. All good. Great!” Um, where was a thesaurus when you needed one? Because as Lilly had just clearly demonstrated, she was not the person I’d be going to for romance advice. “Marvelous, even.”

  “You sure?” Lilly was twisting a strand of her hair around her finger. She’d been doing it the whole conversation, but it was only then that I noticed the tip was turning white. Only then did I notice the teeth marks in her lipstick, and the way her voice was straining.

  I stopped trying to shoo her out the door. “I promise. The situation with the fire alarm and the senator sucks, but at least I’ll never have to call her ‘Mom.’”

  Lilly shuddered. “Something for me to look forward to, right?” She sighed and leaned against my dresser, absently putting lids back on powders and lining up my lip glosses and mascara. By the end of the night, my room would be uncomfortably organized. “Do you know she signed us both up for Bridal Body Boot Camp?”

  “Are you kidding me? What did you do?” I glance apologetically at the pillows on my bed. My phone was probably buzzing away underneath them. But Lilly needed me, and would any MoH worth her weight in taffeta and tulle act differently?

  “I told her that she could go if she wanted, but since I was a bride and this was my body, I already had a quote-unquote ‘bridal body’—no boot camp necessary.”

  I gaped at her. “Did you really?”

  She bit her lip, then beamed. “Yup. I need to start setting boundaries now. And I tore up her list of suggested wedding hairstyles. I’m capable of choosing my own, thanks very much.”

  “Go, you!” I gave her a hug.

  Unlike Eliza, Lilly was a hugger. The type that held on tight and didn’t let go right away. She was the one I used to run to with scraped knees. Not because I didn’t love my parents, but because they rushed to the bandage part too quickly, and sometimes all I wanted was someone to acknowledge my pain, not fix it.

  “Lills, I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” She took a sip of my/her tea, then handed it back. “But I should probably let you get to your homework . . . Isn’t your fancy new school supposed to be hard? To hear Rory talk, it�
�s med school combined with law school combined with rocket science.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s been two days. We’ve barely even started—” Except why was I prolonging this conversation? “But you’re right. I shouldn’t get behind. Good night.”

  I was turning toward my bed to pick up my phone when Dad opened my door. “Hi, sweetie.”

  I sighed. “Seriously, is my room Grand Central Station tonight?”

  “I’m not staying. I just wanted to drop off this.” Dad pulled a plate from behind his back. It was heaped with a giant’s portion of spaghetti, smothered in olive oil, peas, and fresh Parmesan. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but you’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I wanted to make sure you carbo-loaded.”

  “Big day?” I tilted my head.

  “Your first meet!” Dad crossed my room and peered out onto the balcony. “It’s supposed to rain later—going to make for a muddy course tomorrow.” He’d been waiting his whole life to have offspring he could cheer for in any sort of athletic competition. No wonder he was more excited about my first meet than I was. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten. While he checked the weather on his phone, I grabbed a pen and wrote pack uniform on my hand. “They wouldn’t delay the race for a little mud, would they?” he asked, forehead knotted.

  “Promise there’ll be a meet tomorrow, puddles and all.” I grabbed the pasta from his hands, taking a bite so large I almost choked when I spoke around it. “This is really good, Dad. Thanks.” I paused to chew and swallow. “But I need to do my homework.”

  “Right. Of course.” He stamped a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll let you focus so you can get to bed and rest up for the big race. Sleep sweet, little dreamer.”

  I managed to swallow the noodles, but my mouth tasted of guilt and garlic. “Thanks. Good night.”

  This time I looked up and down the hallway before shutting the door. Having endured three visitors, I was good for the rest of the night, right? Wasn’t that the rule Dickens established way back in A Christmas Carol? Three and done?

  I stared down at my pasta and tried to convince myself I had an appetite. Tomorrow was a three-mile race—but today had felt like a marathon. I picked up my phone and dialed.

  “Hey, before you even ask, I’m not coming out tonight. So please don’t put me in a situation where I have to say no to you again.”

  “Fine.” Monroe managed to cram an impressive amount of sulkiness into four letters.

  “But . . . we could talk?” Maybe I needed to try this maturity stuff. Especially if it would give me answers about what it meant to be a modern incarnation of Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t want to go through life fearing poisons and daggers—avoiding everything from sewing needles to piercings to splinters. “Tell me about your family. You said they’re busy—what’s that like?”

  Because while having my bedroom feel like Grand Central Station wasn’t ideal, I couldn’t imagine having parents who weren’t involved and wouldn’t sit there and listen to me recount every detail from my day like it was fascinating. I mean, they still hung my doodles on the fridge. And I was no Rory. Maybe if I got him talking about his parents, he’d even tell me about his half sister. It bothered me that he’d edited her out of his family.

  “No offense,” said Monroe. “But the last thing I want to do with you is talk—especially about my parents.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be seriously offended or just moderately miffed. But I had hung up on him several times tonight, so maybe he was entitled to a little frustration. “Okay, then. I have another idea. A compromise. I’ve got English homework and you’ve got lines to learn. . . . Do you maybe want to read the play to me? Act two?”

  “Huh.” I could practically hear his annoyance melt away as he absorbed this idea. “Clever and gorgeous. And mine. Love, that’s brilliant. Get comfy while I find my script.”

  I wished he was here. That when I lounged on my bed, the elephant pillow beneath my cheek could’ve been his chest. My hand resting on his arm where I’d imagined the kitten tattoo.

  He’d started reading while I was still fumbling through my book, trying to find the right page. I caught up as he finished the chorus and reached the first of Romeo’s lines.

  “Can I go forward when my heart is here? / Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.” He changed his voice and read Benvolio’s line, then again for Mercutio.

  I rested my chin on my hand and closed my book, closed my eyes, and immersed myself in the richness of his emotions and voice. Never had Shakespeare felt more alive. The politics were in place, Monroe was full-on Romeo . . . and all the other characters too. But the more he read, the less I felt connected with the play. I wasn’t digging Juliet—how her guy didn’t want to talk either, not beyond compliments and demands. And how she let herself be so easily swayed by his plans. When Monroe read her most famous soliloquy, my thoughts were a distorted echo of her lines. I would no longer like to be a Capulet.

  Eliza was dead wrong. Magic was real. But not all magic was good. I’d wanted this. I wanted what I saw in every romance book, and this was right off those pages. But while this moment felt full of every ingredient for enchantment—it wasn’t quite sticking. Everything was moving too fast, and instead of letting myself get swept up in the momentum, I was clinging to my misgivings. I wanted to swoon . . . but I couldn’t quite fall.

  18

  “Toby, you don’t need to bother introducing me to Fielding; Clara already claimed him.” Rory’s declaration broke the silence on the drive to school the next morning. I was busy yawning and texting. And texting. And texting. There was a delicate balance between wooing and try-hard, and Monroe had tipped the scales the wrong way. The texts had started seconds after we’d hung up.

  What are you doing?

  Math homework.

  What are you doing now?

  Still math. problem #3

  They hadn’t stopped. Not even when I’d answered Sleeping.

  Today brought a dozen texts during breakfast to convince him that I was fine riding with Toby. In fact, I wanted to drive with Toby. In fact-fact, I was currently driving with Toby and, no, I wasn’t going to ask him to pull over so Monroe could pick me up.

  I put down my phone and wrinkled my nose. I’d forgotten that Rory wanted an intro and to join his freshman fan club. “Ugh. Believe me, you’re not missing much with Fielding.” I didn’t know who this Clara girl was, but I would not be sad or surprised if she flunked out of school. I mean, she had to have been an idiot if she wanted a guy who looked at you like you were dog vomit. Except . . . maybe he didn’t look at other girls that way. Maybe it was just me. I swallowed. Dad must’ve bought the juice with pulp again. That was totally what was stuck in my throat.

  “Um, really?” said Rory. “Because from what I’ve heard, he’s hot, smart, and president of just about every club on campus. He’s like Hero High royalty.”

  “Royal pain in the . . .” I shook my head. Who cared if that was true? “Regardless, you can’t claim people.”

  “Says the girl who claimed Prince Eric, the Beast—in both human and nonhuman forms—all Prince Charmings, and the entire house of Gryffindor?” Rory was wearing fingerless gray knit gloves. I’m not sure if she thought they looked cool or if they were part of her artist costume or what, but when she ran a hand through her chin-length hair, it stood out straight with static. I didn’t tell her.

  My phone had beeped twice during this exchange, but I ignored it and turned around to look in the backseat. “You’re totally Slytherin, so why do you even care? Not you, Eliza; you’re Ravenclaw.”

  “I’d like to point out that those are characters and fiction,” said Eliza. I hated her parents’ sleep log and rules, but gah, for a second I was jealous of it. And of the fact that she looked bright-eyed and well rested while it was taking all my energy not to drool when I yawned. “Not that I disagree with Rory that it’s ridiculous to claim them—but I’m going to also agree with Merri here. What do you mean Clara claimed hi
m?”

  “And who is Clara?” asked Toby. “Does she even know Fielding?”

  “Not if she’s lucky,” I mumbled.

  “He would hate everything about this conversation,” Toby said. “Poor guy. He’s actually really shy.”

  Rory said, “Awww.” I rolled my eyes.

  My phone was beeping again. I scrolled through text after text. The latest said, Waiting to surprise you at your locker.

  Except now it wasn’t a surprise. “Do we have time for drive-through coffee?” I asked, tugging on Toby’s arm. “Please, please, please. You’ll be my hero.”

  “Late night?” Eliza asked.

  Rory kicked my seat and said, “Merri and Toby were up as late as I was. My math homework is going to murder me.”

  My eyes widened. Note to self: turn down speakerphone. At least Rory had given me the perfect Monroe–cell phone cover story.

  “I wasn’t—” Toby began, and I pinched his arm. He frowned at me, but finished, “aware we’d been so loud.”

  Rory’s voice sweetened as she responded to him, “I was going to bang on the wall, but Mom said Merri had a rough night and to leave her alone.”

  “Rough night?” Toby and Eliza chorused.

  Why were ejector seats in cars not a real thing? Especially since interloping younger sisters were. “Hence my need for coffee,” I answered, and Toby put on his turn signal to head to Cool Beans’ drive-through.

  Once we’d parked at school and finally gotten rid of Rory, I filled them in as best I could in the two minutes’ walk toward our lockers. “So, in summary, I’m now a felon, I’ve pissed off a senator, I’m exhausted, Monroe apparently thinks I’ll forget him if he goes five minutes without texting. And I’m not liking this play nearly as much as I thought.”

  Toby gave me a side hug. Eliza offered comfort in the form of facts. “It isn’t a felony—”

  “I wish I could be that coffee cup.” Monroe’s words hit my ear as he slid an arm around my waist, twisting my bag off my shoulder and slinging it onto his. I jumped and almost sloshed my mocha on him, so I guess he managed his surprise after all.