“Oh, hi.” I held up my cup. “Do you want some?”
“No, I’m just jealous it gets to be the first thing your lips touched this morning.”
“Oh.” I was way too aware that Eliza and Toby were listening. That she’d snorted into her herbal tea and he’d pitched his half-finished coffee in the trash. “It’s really not. That was lip balm. Then toothbrush, then breakfast, then toothbrush again, and I’m sure there was more lip balm. And my parents’ cheeks . . .” I paused to count on my fingers. “There are probably a dozen things I’ve touched with my mouth before this cup.”
“Then I’m jealous of them all.” We were at the edge of the sophomore hall. The intersection where the bright red of the juniors’ lockers transitioned to the silver of my class’s. Thickets of students bumbled around us—those who were at my level of morning coordination almost stumbled into our little roadblock. They greeted Toby and Monroe, threw general hellos in Eliza’s and my direction.
There was one student, however, who walked by without a greeting. Face averted, footsteps fast. I doubt he would’ve acknowledged us at all if Toby hadn’t reached out and given him a bro-smack on the shoulder. “Hey, Fielding!”
“Oh. Hi, Toby.” Fielding did a grim scan of the rest our group before giving a stiff nod. The whole exchange took less than five seconds, and his eyes didn’t so much as flicker my way. If they had, I would definitely have noticed, since my eyes were suctioned on him. And then he walked away.
“See,” Toby said to me. “He’s shy.”
I snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
I turned to look at him over my shoulder, to see if I could spot any hint of Toby being right, but the movement was cut short by Monroe grasping my face with both hands. It was a gesture that had felt sooo tingly on Friday, but now I just wanted my face back. Especially when he used his very best theater-projection voice to broadcast, “I can’t wait another minute to kiss you good morning.”
“That’s our cue to leave,” said Toby. “C’mon, Eliza, let’s get to class.”
“Don’t be late,” she warned; but I wanted her to grab my hand and drag me away. Why didn’t she? That would be the ultimate Eliza move—prioritizing punctuality over a kiss.
Except—my cross-country lecture. This was her form of respecting me, showing she’d listened. Gah, we needed to work out some sort of Bat Signal, a gesture I could make that meant You were right, I was wrong. Save me!
I used to dream about endless boyfriend texts and being kissed and complimented. But now I wanted . . . space. Or at least texts that communicated instead of pestered. Kisses that I reciprocated instead of tolerated. And compliments that felt like they were about me, not saying fancy words for an audience of onlookers.
The hallway was emptying around us. I pulled out of his grasp and slid my satchel back off his shoulder. “Have a good morning. I’ll look for you between classes.”
Monroe clamped a hand over mine. “Don’t go yet! The warning bell hasn’t even rung.”
“But bio is all the way across campus. I really need to.”
“But I need you. Let’s skip and go get waffles.”
During summer storms, Gatsby glued himself to my side like a barnacle. I seriously couldn’t even pee without him wedged between my leg and the toilet paper roll. And sleep? Not possible with a quivering, sixty-pound, drooling fur ball trying to burrow beneath my pillow. During thunder and lightning, Gatsby needed me. On a random Tuesday morning, Monroe did not. “Skipping’s really not my thing.”
“Come on, Dr. Badawi won’t care if you’re late. Say you got lost.”
Oh, the devil on my shoulder wanted to tell him to get lost. But the better part of me just reapplied lip gloss and blew him a kiss—Yeah, I couldn’t pull that gesture off. I wouldn’t be doing it again. He was all basset hound eyes and pouty lips, and maybe if I weren’t so tired, and it weren’t so off-limits, and I weren’t already in a litter-full of trouble about the country club, I would’ve relented. But I waved and backed away. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”
I didn’t even make it to the first tile on the path before my phone chirped with an I miss you already text. Actually, it wasn’t “I miss you already,” it was Parting is such sweet sorrow, but personally, I thought the moment the cell phone signal blocker kicked in and cut off his texts was pretty sweet.
That didn’t stop him from messaging me on my laptop. Constantly. By the time I got to English, I was stressed out and fed up.
RowboatReads: I think we’re going to get in trouble. Please stop.
MonROMEO: O, teach me how I should forget to think
RowboatReads: I’m serious. Stop. Now.
MonROMEO: Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so
Either we hadn’t gotten to that part of the play or I’d forgotten it. Either way, I wiln’t have it. And I was about to tell him—
“Merrilee, would you care to weigh in with your thoughts?” Ms. Gregoire asked.
Again! Getting caught off guard twice in one week meant I wasn’t nearly as stealthy at messaging as I thought. I needed to turn in my ninja card. We’d been doing a reading of the first three scenes of act three.
I hadn’t been cast as Juliet, which seemed super strange. In fact, Ms. Gregoire hadn’t given me a role at all. And not that I’d been sulking, but it had made me slightly less reluctant to engage with Monroe via messenger.
I glanced at my screen. There was a new quote there. It had worked before. . . . I crossed my fingers and read, “‘So tedious is this day / As is the night before some festival.’” I wisely left off the rest of Monroe’s message, the part where he suggested skipping Convocation.
“That’s a lovely line, but I’m not sure how it’s relevant.” Ms. Gregoire stood slowly, in a way that disarmed me, so I was unprepared when she crossed the circle in two strides and flipped my computer around. “I see.” I wilted under her look of disappointment. “Class, I need to step out of the room for a moment, but I’d like you to continue the discussion. The topic, for those of you who may not have been paying attention, was Romeo’s agency. Was he as cornered as he believed? Did he have to murder Tybalt?”
The pause while Ms. Gregoire exited with my laptop was full of humiliation. Luckily it was brief, discussion resuming before the door shut.
“Romeo has so much more agency than he admits. His level of privilege is absurd. He’s protected from the consequences of his actions by his gender and his parents’ wealth. He should have been killed, not exiled, and yet his reaction is to throw a crying tantrum like a toddler.”
It wasn’t Eliza. It was Ava. And while her words may have distracted from my shame, her glare was as sharp as a dart.
“Juliet’s not much better,” Nicole argued. Her hands had a new Sharpie tattoo today, one that danced as she gestured while speaking. “She says she’d rather her parents be dead than Romeo be banished. I’d say that’s equally pathetic—it’s why they’re so well matched.”
“Except—” It was Eliza this time, one finger held up in the air, her other hand searching through her book. “Juliet has practically no agency at all. The only power she can wield is whether or not to kill herself. She has the last line in the act: ‘If all else fail, myself have the power to die.’ I know we haven’t gotten that far, but it’s not like I’m offering spoilers here. Maybe her statement about Tybalt’s death, and the hypothetical sacrifice of her parents too, is more a statement about wanting control—and the fact that her best chance of any agency was through a marriage to Romeo and using him to escape from her family.”
“Go, Legally Blonde!”
Curtis was giving a slow clap, but froze and lowered his hands when she whirled toward him with a paint-curling glare. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
I shot him a look of sympathy. Eliza had zero tolerance for anything remotely like a blonde joke. He returned my sympathetic look as Ms. Gregoire walked back in.
“Neve
rtheless, he’s right, that was quite a good point, Eliza.” She placed my laptop on her desk. “Let’s hear from one of the men in here. Do you feel the same way?”
“It’s Romeo’s loyalty that’s being tested—not just his temper. This wasn’t the same as Tybalt insulting Mercutio on iLive or something. He killed him. Romeo is honor-bound to avenge the death of his friend,” said Randolph.
“Maybe I’d accept that argument if he hadn’t blamed Juliet’s beauty for making him ‘effeminate.’ That sounds more like toxic masculinity than loyalty,” said Curtis.
Eliza lifted an eyebrow in approval, but when she caught me watching, it slammed down.
“It’s too much.” I was saying the words before I’d even finished the thought in my head. “Too fast. I just wish they could slow down. Take a time-out. Think about what they really want. The more choices he makes, the more cornered she feels.”
“Indeed,” said Ms. Gregoire. “That’s a fine place to end. Tonight I’d like you to finish acts three and four.”
In the shuffling of pens and books and laptops being packed, Ms. Gregoire approached my desk. “I’d like you to stay after for a few moments.” She gave a small, disappointed headshake. “Headmaster Williams will be joining us.”
Did classrooms always take this long to empty? I couldn’t decide if I wanted everyone to linger, or to hurry up and leave. I ignored the sympathetic looks they were offering on their way out the door. Well, everyone but anti–new girl, proMonroe Ava.
Eliza paused in the hallway, making a show of dumping an imaginary pebble out of her shoe and fiddling with the contents of her bag.
“Ms. Gordon-Fergus, go to lunch. Merrilee will be along shortly.”
“Yes, Ms. Gregoire,” Eliza said, but she didn’t walk away particularly fast.
Ms. Gregoire didn’t fill our wait with small talk. She worked at her desk and let me focus on my guilt and keeping my breakfast from reappearing.
By the time I heard the clacking of footsteps in the hallway, I’d worked myself into a massive panic. My nostrils flared and my eyes were glassy before Headmaster Williams entered the classroom, looking so official and intimidating I wanted to confess to every lie I’d ever told.
He nodded a greeting. “Merrilee, you’re aware of why Ms. Gregoire asked me here?”
I nodded and sniffled.
“I reviewed your messages to Monroe Stratford and sent the file over to Headmaster Williams as well,” said Ms. Gregoire.
Forget crying, I wanted to die. They’d read my e–love notes with Monroe? I would not vomit. I would not vomit. I would not think about any of the things he’d written or the things I’d written back. Oh, I was going to vomit.
Ms. Gregoire cleared her throat and I looked up from the floor tiles. “It doesn’t seem like there was any cheating.”
“Cheating?” I shook my head so fast my hair lashed my face, sticking in my lip balm. I spat it out and added, “I know Monroe sent some quotes from the play, but he had no idea what we were discussing in class.”
“Our concern wasn’t that you were cheating, but that he was,” clarified Ms. Gregoire.
“I don’t understand.”
“Were you aware that Monroe was messaging you while taking an exam in his calculus class?” asked Headmaster Williams.
“A test?” I winced. Why, Monroe? Why?
“An online exam. During which having any other program open constitutes cheating. This was a policy his teacher explained before distributing the link to the exam.”
“I didn’t know. And I was telling him to stop messaging.” Was that throwing him under the bus? Whatever, it was true! If he’d stopped the first time I asked, or the sixth, or the twelfth, I wouldn’t be the filling of this disapproval sandwich. “And I wasn’t planning on skipping. I was literally typing no when I got caught. It’s probably still in the window.”
“We saw that—” Ms. Gregoire paused, and I didn’t dare exhale in case she added a “but.”
Headmaster Williams cleared his throat. “But, you both signed the Hero High Honor Code. Do you remember the consequence for cheating, Ms. Campbell?”
Nope. I had no clue, but judging from the pulsing vein on the side of his forehead, now was not the time to admit to signing without reading. “I didn’t know he was taking a test. I swear. And I’m in precalc. I wouldn’t know how to help him if I wanted to—which I didn’t! Or wouldn’t have, because I really didn’t know he was taking a test.”
There was a long silence as the headmaster’s head continued to look like it might explode and I fought against the flood of blather that was gathering on my tongue. Eliza always said that when confronted, answer only the question asked and don’t give any additional incriminating details. Whoops.
“Facts are facts and behaviors have consequences, Ms. Campbell.” Judging from his expression, it was too bad the Convocation hall was not a church, because it would’ve been a good time to slip in there and start praying.
Ms. Gregoire stood up. “Maybe, just this once, because Merrilee is a new student and perhaps the policies weren’t completely clear to her, we can exercise leniency with her punishment. If I might—since it was my class she disrupted—I’d like to be the one to assign the consequence.”
The headmaster nodded. “I’ll grant that.”
I turned to Ms. Gregoire. Was that a glint in her eye? I shivered. She was supposed to be twinkle-eyed, not glinty.
“What will the punishment be?” My voice wavered as I made a mental list of evil teachers in books—Matilda with Trunchbull and her chokey, Harry Potter’s Umbridge and her blood quill, Little Women’s Mr. Davis, who struck Amy March’s hand and made her throw her limes out the window. I clenched my fingers tight and tucked them behind my back.
“I’m going to have to think on it. You’re an interesting case, Merrilee. More complicated than I originally thought. But . . .” She studied me a moment. “You might be ready.”
I didn’t know what that meant, if it was a compliment or something I should apologize for. I bobbed my head and body—part chicken, part acknowledgment, and part clumsy curtsy.
Headmaster Williams handed back my laptop. I took it with shaky hands. “I’ll also be calling your parents, Ms. Campbell. This is your one and only chance. Next time—”
“There won’t be a next time!” Probably not the best idea to interrupt him, but I was fizzy with anxiety, and that made me blurt.
“Come see me tomorrow morning before homeroom, and I’ll have your punishment sorted,” Ms. Gregoire said. “In the meantime, run along to lunch before Miss Gordon-Fergus comes searching to make sure we haven’t tortured you.”
“And, if you’re capable of it, do manage to stay out of trouble,” added the headmaster.
“Thank you!” I was so relieved I threw my arms around Ms. Gregoire. Yup, I hugged a teacher. Probably something that’s frowned upon, post-kindergarten. I would’ve hugged Headmaster Williams too—but I didn’t want to get greasy condescension on my uniform.
“All right now.” She laughed and gently pried my hands off. “See you in the morning.”
“Thank you,” I said again as I shoved my laptop into its sleeve, then paused with it halfway zipped. “But . . . what about Monroe?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Stratford was quite aware he was taking an exam. And he’s had three years to learn the school policies. He seems to have a penchant for getting into trouble with regards to you, Ms. Campbell.”
The last part may have been true, but that didn’t mean it was my fault. No meant no. In all domains. And I’d said “no” and “stop” more than once. Whatever happened was on him.
19
When I arrived at lunch, the table fell quiet.
Curtis spoke first. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sorta.” I studied my bag so I could pretend they weren’t all staring. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Not with Sera there—because I liked her and didn’t think I could be polite about her father j
ust then.
Hannah offered me the cupcake from Toby’s tray. “Well, I’m fully prepared to go into Knight Light crisis mode.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” Though I’d absolutely take a frosting-only bite of Toby’s cupcake before returning it—and the fact that he didn’t object meant he was worried too.
Eliza nudged my foot under the table; I nudged hers back. Best-friend speak for We’ll talk later. She offered me a grape, which was her way of saying, Oh, you better believe we will.
I zombied through the rest of my classes, but once we hit the cross-country locker rooms, all bets were off. Eliza and I changed at record pace, like the actual race was to see who could get in her singlet and shorts fastest. And then, while our teammates were still stripping down, she suggested, “Let’s do a warm-up lap,” and dragged me out the door.
Silly me for not realizing she actually meant the running part of it. I puffed after her. “Just when I’m starting to like running, they have to make us go and do something stupid like race.” I glanced over my shoulder at the school gates and almost stumbled over a root.
“You’re going to give me high blood pressure, I swear it,” said Eliza.
“Well, I don’t like the part where I fall constantly. But I like that it’s time with you, even though I’m slow and you can run so much faster.”
“You’re getting faster.” She ran quietly for a few steps before adding, “I like that it’s time with you too. But I won’t be slowing my pace during the meet, just FYI.”
“Oh, I know.” I grinned. “You’ve got a competitive streak three-point-two miles long, so I’m guessing you plan to win?”
“I might not win,” she said dismissively. “But I have been doing supplementary workouts too. The anaerobic strength training my parents require. Some yoga for flexibility. And occasionally sprints on the treadmill if we spent more time chatting than running.”
“Eliza!” I studied her face. “That sounds like too much.”
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