Dear Diary,
They used to talk about a young woman being “accomplished,” which meant she could do all the ladylike things: singing, drawing, dancing, pouring tea. Maybe speak a smattering of pretty foreign words, learned from a governess since girls didn’t get a formal education.
Nowadays the list of things you’re supposed to master is a lot longer. Be pretty! And smart! And sporty! They call it being well-rounded, but sometimes it feels like they’re saying the same thing as in the olden days: Pretend to be perfect in every way!
M.P.M.
Chapter 13
On Friday, I dressed in the blouse Anton had sent home via the twins, accompanied by a note explaining that it should be worn with jeans to keep the look young. He’d also drawn a diagram to guide my makeup application, complete with color palette.
The black shirt had a high neckline, but the Respectable Widow effect was offset by semi-sheer lace panels and cap sleeves. When I regarded the results in the mirror, I wasn’t sure they quite reached the level described by Arden, so I ran up the stairs to the twins’ room for a final consultation.
“Very vintage chic,” Addie pronounced, sweeping a section of my unbound hair forward so that it hung in front of my shoulder. “Brings out your chestnut highlights.”
Shaking her head, Van set down a bound copy of the script and rose from her bed to brush my hair back the way it had been.
I was too busy savoring the word chestnut to care where my hair fell. Perhaps it lacked the poetry of titian or raven, but it was infinitely better than plain old brown, which had always been my secret dread.
Van heaved a theatrical sigh. “Our little Mary, all grown up. I didn’t think it would happen this fast, did you?”
“Mary’s her own person. Who among us ever really plumbs the depths of another’s heart?” Since Addie had moved on to braiding a small section of my hair, I both heard and felt the tension behind her words, delivered in a series of sharp yanks.
Van came to inspect the results. “I like it. Simple and charming without being too jejune.”
Addie humphed. Another time I might have wondered about the discord scenting the air like overripe laundry, but my mind had already leaped ahead to the evening with my friends. With a hasty thanks, I slipped out the door, ready for my next adventure.
* * *
When Arden parked the car behind Millville High, my spirits deflated. We were one amid a sea of vehicles gathered for the weekly field hockey match. And while the lights were bright and the percussion section of the school band was pounding out a jaunty rhythm, this was not exactly uncharted territory. Cam’s games were a regular feature in my life, which was why I hadn’t felt bad about missing this one. I was also acutely conscious of being overdressed.
Arden linked her arm through mine. “Are you excited?”
I summoned a smile. “Yes.”
It wasn’t really a lie; I was excited to be there with my friends. That would be different from sitting with my family, trying to keep my mother from cursing too loudly when she didn’t like the officiating. “I guess you must have had ‘sporting event’ on your list?”
“Something like that.” Her mouth curved in a distinctly Cheshire cat fashion.
Lydia gave a skeptical huff. “I hope we’re not about to walk into something weird.” She considered Arden for a moment. “You know flash mobs are not a thing anymore, right?”
Arden merely shrugged. The rest of us hurried to keep up as she pranced through the gate and past the concession stand, not slowing until we reached the bleachers. Pulling me to a halt, she surveyed my appearance.
“Shake out your hair,” she instructed. “Okay. Now look over there.”
I turned, doing my best to make the movement appear natural. The crowd was a patchwork of half-familiar faces, blurring into a general impression of Millville High students. I was beginning to worry I’d missed Arden’s big surprise when an anomaly caught my eye.
It was the guy I’d noticed at the mall; the well-groomed, disapproving one. He appeared even more out of place in this context, where no one else had seen fit to polish their shoes. I felt a lot better about my own outfit.
“Ta-da!” Arden hummed in my ear. “Ask and you shall receive!”
Of the many questions buzzing around my brain, I chose to pose the most baffling. “How did you find him?”
“His host dad plays racquetball with my uncle,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Will Arnheim, German exchange student at Jefferson High—which is why his shoes are so extra. He’s only going to be here one semester, so we better hurry.” Placing a hand at the small of my back, she shoved me forward.
“Wait, what are we doing?” I asked in an urgent whisper, digging in my heels.
“Going to talk to him. Obviously.”
I stole another glance in his direction. He really did look the part, mysterious and dashing in his dark sweater and sleek haircut. It was a level of elegance seldom witnessed at Millville High, where being sharply dressed meant tying both your shoes. I could easily picture him brooding in the corner of a drawing room while listening to classical music, or whatever was on NPR at the time. Was this the moment I’d read about so often, when two strangers caught sight of each other across a crowded ballroom? The connection would be instantaneous, drawing us together like magnets—as soon as he put down his phone.
“Ready,” I said.
Arden snapped her fingers at Lydia and Terry, signaling them to fall in behind us. My heart hammered as we closed the distance to where Mystery Guy—Will, I reminded myself—was sitting. From a chance sighting at the mall to a meaningful encounter on the sidelines of a field hockey match, the hand of destiny seemed to be nudging us together. With a little help from Arden, who cleared her throat before addressing the young man who had yet to acknowledge our presence.
“Hey,” she said brightly, dropping onto the bleacher at his side. “Will, right? How’s it going?”
At last his pale, sharply defined chin lifted. While waiting for him to notice me, I attempted a coquettish pose, glancing down through my lashes without being too obvious about it. His piercing hazel eyes rose. They moved across my face—
And kept going, until they landed on Terry. The double-take, that sudden inhalation of surprise and interest, his newly intent stare: it all happened exactly as I’d imagined. Unfortunately, it wasn’t happening to me. While Terry tried to cringe her way to invisibility, Arden’s surreptitious hand movement urged me to take up a position on Will’s other side.
“It’s so great you’re having a totally American experience,” she said to Will, who sat ramrod straight between us. “Friday Night Lights.”
“Except it’s supposed to be football, not field hockey,” Lydia pointed out.
“The school board was worried about traumatic brain injury,” I volunteered, showing off a heretofore undiscovered knack for banter. Let’s talk more about concussions!
“Where are my manners?” Arden smacked herself on the forehead. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves.” She left my name for last, which might have been a reasonably subtle tactic if she hadn’t followed it up by adding, “Mary actually comes from a family of geniuses. Both her parents are professors at the college, and she knows all about Millville, if you ever need a guide to the local attractions.”
His eyes flicked to Terry at the word attractions. Leaning past me, he repeated her last name in a caressing tone. “Larios.” This was followed by a stream of rapid-fire Spanish, of which I caught the obvious you speak Spanish? and Terry’s reluctant of course. As for the rest, I suspected it was along the lines of you walk in beauty like the night, because Terry blushed and looked away.
“So, Will,” Arden cut in. “Do you have any hobbies?”
He frowned at her.
“Sports? Clubs? Extracurriculars?”
“I like to ride my bike.”
Arden looked hopefully at me; I shook my head. No spandex shorts for me. When Will start
ed to speak again, she brightened, clearly encouraged to see him taking an active role in the conversation.
“This country has no respect for cyclists,” he said in his clipped accent. “Your bike lanes are a disgrace.”
“Interesting.” Arden propped her chin on her hand. “You must have a unique perspective. What are some of the things you like?”
“Some of the people are charming,” he said, with another betraying glance at Terry.
Arden bit her lip; I could tell she was worried on my behalf. I also knew she was too much of an optimist to give up on her vision of how this evening was supposed to unfold without a fight. My feelings were more fatalistic. The dream of romance was like a butterfly that had been savagely pinned to a specimen board. If Terry and Will were meant for each other, far be it from me to stand in their way.
“You don’t paint your face like some girls,” Will murmured approvingly to Terry. “Why do they do that in this country?”
Terry shook her head, unable (or unwilling) to answer. Arden widened her eyes at me, urging me to seize the opening.
“At least it’s not lead-based, like they used to wear in the eighteenth century.” I laughed nervously. “People aren’t rotting their faces off.”
Although Terry appeared intrigued by this tidbit, Will’s lip curled in disgust.
On the field, the cheer team began shouting out a chant. The fans clapped in time, stomping the metal bleachers until the whole stadium shook.
Will winced. “So much yelling.”
Arden laughed as though he’d made a joke. “That’s kind of their job. You want me to teach you the words? You can impress all your friends at home.”
“We don’t do this where I’m from.” He sniffed in distaste. “Even the women are loud here.” His eyes strayed to Terry. “Most of them.”
“I need candy,” Lydia announced, jumping to her feet. “Anybody want anything?”
“Americans and their sweets,” Will said, with a scornful huff. “You eat like babies.”
“Nom nom nom,” Lydia deadpanned. “Coming, Mary?”
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
* * *
“No offense, but I’m pretty sure I hate him,” she said when we were out of earshot. Instead of continuing on to the snack bar, Lydia led the way up the stairs into the next rank of bleachers.
“I thought you wanted candy.”
She shook her head. “You know how Arden gets. She was just going to keep beating that dead horse.”
We climbed until we were near the top of the stands. Lydia edged into a mostly empty row, leaving plenty of space on all sides. I exhaled, feeling the tension of the last several minutes subside. From the corner of my eye I noticed Lydia checking out my purse, resting on the aluminum bleacher beside me.
“No book?” she asked.
I shook my head; I’d fallen out of the habit of carrying one with me. These days I was most often with my friends, and not in need of other entertainment.
Lydia pulled a silver-and-pink tube from her own bag, coating her lips in a frosty peach gloss that perfectly matched the color of her sweatshirt. “I read too, you know.” She cleared her throat. “Not as much as you, obviously.”
Despite the stiffness with which she relayed this information, I felt a rush of delight. “What kind of books?”
“It’s not your type of stuff. That’s why I mostly read on my phone, so no one can make fun of the covers.”
In my head, I tried on various possibilities. Lydia the secret romance reader. Lydia the lover of spy novels. Legal thrillers seemed the obvious possibility, given her professional ambitions . . .
“I like fantasy.” The words were barely above a whisper. Steeling herself, she added, “Preferably epic.”
I confined my surprise to a few rapid blinks. “That’s cool. There’s a class on Literature of the Fantastic I want to take when I go to college.”
“You’ll go here?” She nodded in the direction of the Millville College campus.
“Probably. Free tuition.”
“That’s no joke,” she agreed, more confident now that we were discussing pragmatic concerns.
A whistle blew, and a player from the bench took the place of someone on the field.
“Do you have a favorite?” I asked.
She kept her eyes averted. “I have a thing for dragons.”
Before I could muster a response—something like, I get it, dragons are tough but also noble, like you—a tall figure loomed into view.
“Now this one looks interesting,” Lydia murmured.
I blinked up at the new arrival. “Pittaya?”
He gestured at the bench, mutely requesting permission to sit. Lydia looked from me to him and back again, eyebrows at the alert.
“Lydia, this is Pittaya. We went to school together. Before.”
“Scoundrel?” she asked, barely moving her lips.
“Not as such,” I whispered back. “But he was there that day.”
Recognition flickered in her eyes. “Becky with the good hair. The one who—”
“Ditched me, yes.” It never got more fun to admit that.
Once I’d told Terry about the Shunning, it seemed weird to keep it from Arden and Lydia, which was how Anjuli had ended up on our list as a Becky Sharp, the callous social climber from Vanity Fair. It wasn’t a perfect fit; I may have exaggerated Anjuli’s culpability for dramatic effect. I was also anxious to gloss over the part where she found me boring and replaceable.
Lydia looked Pittaya up and down. She was small and fair, yet deeply menacing, like an Easter egg with fangs. “You have some nerve showing your face around here.”
I wanted to tell her she was barking up the wrong tree. Pittaya wasn’t going to explain himself. He was a pillar of silence, staring at his hands as though they were chess pieces and he needed to contemplate the next move—
“I apologize.”
My eyes widened. I’d forgotten how deep his voice was.
“I’m not good with conflict,” he continued. “Also, you had the position of strength.”
“What are you talking about?” My memory of that day mostly involved cowering.
“You like people, and they like you.” He nodded at Lydia. “But Anjuli—”
“Is a cold-hearted snake,” Lydia supplied. She gave Pittaya another once-over. “That doesn’t let you off the hook. You should’ve had Mary’s back.”
I bit my lip to keep from grinning like a fool. It was thrilling to have Lydia on my side. It also made me want to tear up a little.
Pittaya nodded solemnly. “I should have left with you. Even if it made things worse with Anjuli.”
“What do you mean?” Lydia sounded dubious.
He swallowed, obviously uncomfortable. I’d never seen Pittaya squirm before.
“Because Anjuli has a crush on you,” I said as realization struck. “If you’d stuck up for me she would have really gone berserk.”
He lowered his head in acknowledgment. “Not that I think of you that way.”
“Likewise,” I assured him, my mind already flying in another direction. Was this the real cause of the falling out with Anjuli: Not a desperate urge to make pretentious movies, but the desire to eliminate a supposed rival? It was almost flattering to think she considered me a threat in that way, until I remembered the unmistakable flavor of her annoyance. The sighing and seething, like every word out of my mouth grated on her nerves. My charms obviously weren’t that potent.
“I stopped speaking to her,” Pittaya informed us. “After.”
My first thought was, Does she know you’re giving her the silent treatment?
Lydia looked grudgingly impressed. She pulled five dollars from her wallet and held it out to me. “Mary, would you do me a solid and get me a candy bar? Hook yourself up too.”
I hesitated. “For real this time?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes were locked on Pittaya. “I’m going to have a little talk with your friend.”
After a brief consultation with my conscience, I decided Pittaya could hold his own.
We both could.
Dear Diary,
I love the moment in a story when the love interest first appears on the scene. The heroine doesn’t always like him right away, but there’s still a zing that makes you sit up and think, Aha! This guy is going to be important.
If the narrator spends a lot of time talking about his clothes, or describing his facial features in excruciating detail, that’s usually a sign you’re looking at the hero.
M.P.M.
Chapter 14
Standing at the back of the serpentine line for the snack bar, I rose onto my toes in an effort to see the menu.
“I see you found someone who meets your standards,” said Alex Ritter’s voice.
Turning as well as I was able in such close confines, I gave him a mystified look. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who looks constipated.” When I continued to look at him blankly he added, “Sitting next to your friend.”
“Pittaya?”
A crease appeared between his brows, which were several shades darker than his hair. “I thought his name was Will.”
“Ohhh. Him.”
“Yes, him.” His eyebrows lifted in challenge. “Apparently he got the green light.”
“What?”
Alex blew out a breath, as if my slowness both amused and frustrated him. “He’s not too friendly for her?”
My throat had gone dry. “They’re just hanging out.”
“Pull the wool over your own eyes, Mary Porter-Malcolm.” He paused, gaze roaming over my face. I saw him notice the black shirt, studying it with the same focused attention he was devoting to every detail of my appearance. Maybe this was his secret weapon, beyond the way he smelled, or the perfect hair, or how his shirts brought out the blue of his eyes: he made you feel compelling.
“I’m surprised they didn’t give you all M names,” he murmured. “It really trips off the tongue.”
By the Book Page 11