“No joke.” He leaned closer. “These people are scary. I was afraid someone was going to be strangled with their own bow tie.”
“Wait until the third round. It’s a free-for-all.”
“Are we talking Game of Thrones–type stuff here, Merrily? Should I not have worn white?” He batted his lashes, leaving me temporarily at a loss for words. Which was probably for the best, as I might have commented on the fact that for once he wasn’t wearing blue, and that could have given him the impression that I made a study of his wardrobe.
Dr. Pressler clapped her hands. “Please take your seats, everyone. Round two is about to begin.”
The crowd in front of us dispersed, leaving a clear path to the refreshments. I reached for one of the chunky plastic tumblers lined up on the table, then hesitated. “Would you like a drink?” I asked, turning to Alex.
“Just the one. I’m driving.”
I handed him a room-temperature cup, then grabbed another for myself before threading my way through the tables to a vacant spot near the kitchen. To my surprise, Alex followed. Before I could ask why he was trailing me instead of sitting with his inamorata, Dr. Pressler’s voice cut through the chatter.
“The theme for our next round is Sex and Censorship.”
Shaking his head, Alex passed me his drink, placing his freed hands over my ears. “You’re too young to hear this.” We stood that way for a moment, his hands warm against the sides of my face. “You do have curls, you know.” One of his hands shifted so that the thumb brushed my temple. “Right there.”
I twisted out of his grip, afraid he would feel the pounding of my pulse. “Here,” I said, handing his cup back to him.
The first question was about Lolita. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, but it wasn’t enough to block out the teasing glance Alex slid my way. Still grinning, he took a sip of his drink, only to gag loudly enough to interrupt a question about erotic imagery in classical sculpture.
Half the room turned to stare, more affronted than concerned for his welfare. Alex raised a hand in mute apology. As soon as everyone looked away, he spit into his cup.
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
“No, disgusting is what I just drank. Are you trying to kill me?”
“It’s water. With a little raw cider vinegar. It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“Define ‘good.’”
“Something about the immune system. I think.”
He shook his head. “How could you do this to me, Merrily? I thought we had something. Here, feel my throat.” Taking hold of my wrist, he raised it so that my fingers brushed his neck. “Is there a hole?”
The skin was, of course, perfectly intact. Also warm to the touch and very much alive; I could feel his pulse beat against my fingertips. Swallowing hard, I repossessed my hand. Was he actually flirting with me while his significant other was in the same room? That struck me as reckless, even for him.
“Cat got your tongue, Merrily? Or did you fry your vocal cords with this stuff?” He raised his cup before setting it in a gray plastic tub of dirty dishes.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“You said you didn’t like your name.” He edged around to the other side of me, putting distance between himself and the abandoned drink. “It suits you. Merrily, merrily, merrily, as in, ‘life is but a dream.’”
“I’m familiar with the reference.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’m trying to listen,” I replied, evading the question.
“Which of these common items was not used as a vehicle for Victorian pornography?” Dr. Pressler read in stentorian tones. “A. Trading cards. B. Snuffboxes. C. Pocket watches. D. Tussie-mussies.”
Neill bounced a foot off his chair. “D. D. D,” he chanted, waving both arms.
“Correct,” said Dr. Pressler. Neill looked so pleased with himself I was surprised he didn’t run a victory lap.
“Who’s the guy?” Alex asked, following the direction of my gaze.
My mouth made a moue of displeasure, or at least what I imagined a moue to look like. “Neill.”
“You two have a history?”
“What?”
“You keep looking at him.”
“Yeah, no. There’s no history there—and definitely no future.” Breaking the news to Arden would be hard, but still preferable to feeding the inferno of Neill’s ego.
“Sure, Merrily. Whatever you say. Two-time me all you want.”
“Believe me, he’s way too much of a Casaubon. Full of himself,” I explained, before he could ask. “And threatened by anyone else with a brain. Why Dorothea ever married such a withered old windbag I’ll never understand.”
Blue eyes studied my face. “Dorothea?”
“From Middlemarch.”
Alex nodded. “Of course.” He was silent for a moment, watching Neill drum the table with both hands. “Is a tussie-mussie one of those fluffy things French maids carry around?”
“It’s a small floral arrangement.”
He considered this in silence. “Then that was a pretty obvious answer?”
“Yes,” I agreed, pleased he’d pointed this out.
“Do you think they’ll ask about that dirty book you told me to read?”
“I never—”
“Dangerous Liaisons,” he reminded me. “Because you’d be all over that one.”
“I’m not in this round,” I reminded him.
“Lucky for me.” He leaned closer, nudging me with his shoulder. “What was the guy’s name again?”
“Neill?”
“No. The one who wrote the book.”
“Choderlos de Laclos.”
“Say it slowly.”
“Cho-der-los de—” I broke off, realizing he was toying with me. “Shouldn’t you check on Phoebe?”
“Why?” He made a show of looking around. “Did someone give her one of those drinks?”
The innocent act was cut short by the end of the second round. The noise level jumped as teams and spectators began to move around the room, heatedly discussing the recent action.
“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind me. I tried to move out of the way, but the only place to go was closer to Alex. I mumbled an apology while bumping against him. The contact was only slightly more intimate than the time I’d measured him for a costume he didn’t want. When I looked to see whether whoever it was had enough room to get by, my eyes widened.
“Anjuli.” The last thing I’d expected was for her to seek me out, especially after looking right through me before—
Her arm jutted toward Alex. “Anjuli. From Psy Fry.”
“Team name,” I explained in response to his puzzled look.
Inching forward, she angled her body to block me from view. “Do you act?” She made a square with her hands, positioning it in front of his face like a viewfinder.
Alex looked from Anjuli to me. I thought I had schooled my expression, but whatever he read on my face made him turn back to Anjuli with a thin smile. It was not one of his patented charm offensives. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”
“You’re funny. How do you feel about surrealism?”
“Pretty much the same way Mary feels about me talking to her friends. It’s a hard pass, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.” Anjuli returned his regretful smile with a relieved one of her own. “We’ve grown apart lately anyway.”
I scoffed at the euphemistic phrasing.
“If you’re thinking I look familiar, it’s probably from the article in the school newspaper. ‘Rising Stars of Experimental Cinema.’ I suggested it to the editor.” Anjuli pressed a business card into his hand. “Let me know if you want to do a screen test.”
As she walked away my stomach roiled, a bitter stew of disappointment and cider vinegar.
The door to Mung’s swung open, ushering in a blast of cold air. It also brought Addie, whose face appeared both mustache-less and reasonably compo
sed. Some of the tension in my spine dissipated. Now that she was here, everything could go back to normal. Someone (most likely Van) would tell Neill to shove off, and that would be that.
But as Addie approached, it was Van who stood, without acknowledging her twin. Turning her back on the team table, Van squeezed in beside Phoebe. It looked like they were sharing a chair, bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. What was it about theater people and lack of personal boundaries? Always giving each other back rubs or flopping their legs onto someone’s lap or . . . slowly drawing the pad of a thumb across the other person’s palm.
I whipped my head around. It looked like . . . but maybe I was . . . only it had been so telling. The smallest of gestures, one hand touching another, yet even from across the room the intimacy of that covert caress rocked me back on my heels. I needed to compare notes with someone, make sure I wasn’t reading too much into it. Except the person standing closest to me was Alex Ritter.
“Oh,” I said, as curiosity gave way to chagrin.
“What?” He tried to see past me. Grabbing his arm, I spun him around to face the opposite direction.
“Have you seen the mural? It’s like The Last Supper but with all these sci-fi characters.” I pointed at the crude painting that graced the restaurant’s back wall. “The owner is really into that stuff. Hence the name of this place.”
“I thought mung was a type of bean.”
I nodded much too eagerly. “Yes, but there was some bad guy named Ming the Merciless, so . . . you know. A play on words.”
Alex looked from me to the mural. I wasn’t sure he was buying my attempt to distract him.
“That’s Spock,” I continued with false cheer, “and Chewbacca and that robot guy—”
“It’s a Dalek.” His gaze shifted to my hand, still gripping his sleeve, but he made no move to break free. “You seem nervous, Merrily.”
“No! Well, maybe a little. But only because of Trivia Night. Nothing else.”
He shifted so that we faced each other. “Are you sure?”
“Take your seats, everyone,” said Dr. Pressler. “It’s time for the third round.”
I seized on the diversion. “We better, you know—”
“Find the seats we don’t have?”
“Yes,” I agreed, too wound up to invent a better excuse. I led him to another corner of the room, from which it would be much harder to see Van and Phoebe’s surreptitious flirtation. Whatever his past transgressions, Alex didn’t deserve to be publicly betrayed. Especially after the way he’d taken my part with Anjuli.
“They call this the Melee Round,” I told him. “If none of the teams know the answer, anyone can weigh in.”
He favored me with one of his lazy smiles. “Madness.”
I shrugged; he’d see for himself soon enough.
“Our theme for this evening’s final round is popular culture.” Dr. Pressler savored each syllable, as if she were licking the words off a spoon. Groans erupted from all sides.
Alex bent to whisper in my ear. “It’s like their worst nightmare.”
“Pretty much.”
While he surveyed the unhappy faces surrounding us, I snuck a glance at Phoebe and Van. The handsy business seemed to be at an end, at least for now. I wanted to walk across the room and ask my sister how she could be with someone who was already in a relationship. It was such a blatant moral failing. That must be why Addie had been withdrawn lately: the weight of knowing her twin had become the Other Woman.
I was so busy making sure Alex didn’t notice anything untoward, I barely heard the first few questions. We were standing close enough for him to nudge me with his elbow any time he found a response particularly amusing, such as Noreen guessing the Beatles when the answer was Justin Bieber.
“Even I knew that one.”
I feigned surprise. “You have hidden depths.”
He gave me another of those looks—pleased? intrigued?—that made it difficult for me to remember what we’d been talking about. Somewhere far away, a voice read the next question.
Suddenly I snapped to attention. “Wait, what?”
Alex shrugged, hands in his pockets. No one else seemed to know the answer either. Obligingly, Dr. Pressler repeated herself. “In this best-selling popular novel turned feature film, heroine Allie Calhoun suffers from which devastating disease?” She set down the index card, sliding her reading glasses to the end of her nose. “Bonus points if you can name the title of the work in question.”
I turned to Alex. “I know this.”
He started to raise my arm. “Shout it out.”
“I can’t.” I pulled away. “The teams have to concede first. I’m sure somebody’ll get it.”
“My money’s on you, Merrily.” He moved to stand behind me, gathering my hair back over my shoulders and holding it loosely in one hand.
“What are you doing?” I half turned, but not so much as to dislodge his grip.
“You can’t have a bunch of hair in the way when it’s time to kick ass.” He tapped his temple. “Sisters, remember?”
Of course I remembered. It was one of the disturbingly large number of Facts about Alex Ritter I had somehow collected. “I have to concentrate.”
He nodded. “Eye of the tiger.”
A professor of opera threw his hand in the air. “Tuberculosis!”
“Incorrect,” said Dr. Pressler.
“Cholera,” tried another voice.
Dr. Pressler shook her head.
“Scarlet fever.”
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Pressler replied.
Desperation set in, shots in the dark fired at will:
“Putrid throat.”
“Syphilis.”
“Hemophilia.”
“Typhoid.”
“Diphtheria.”
Alex’s breath fanned my ear. “Interesting friends you have, Merrily.”
“A wasting sickness!” That one was from my dad.
“There is a certain irony in your inability to find the correct answer,” Dr. Pressler observed. I tensed, sure someone would get the hint.
“Electra complex,” suggested one of the psychology faculty. “Fugue episodes!”
“One answer at a time, please,” said Dr. Pressler. “Unless you’re ready to concede, in which case we will open the floor.” My hands clenched, fingernails pressing into damp palms.
When both kleptomania and scurvy had been shot down, Dr. Pressler surveyed the room. “Alternates, you may weigh in.”
Heart thundering, I raised my hand.
“Yes.” Dr. Pressler dipped her chin at me. “Do you have an answer?”
I nodded.
“For which team?”
“Let’s Get Lit.” I ignored Alex’s snort.
“Go ahead,” said the dean.
“Alzheimer’s.”
She smiled. “That is correct.”
Over the ensuing hubbub, I added, “And it’s from The Notebook.”
“Also correct. With the bonus point”—she paused to glance at the scorekeeper—“Let’s Get Lit takes the win.”
Alex squeezed my shoulders. When I spun to face him, he held up both hands for a double high-five, linking his fingers with mine when I would have let go.
“Nice job, Merrily,” he whispered, eyes never leaving mine.
Jasper whooped loudly, and someone called my name—the real one.
“I think they want to carry you around the room.” Alex slowly slipped his hands from mine before nudging me toward my family.
“Wonderful,” said Dad.
“We’re so proud,” added Mom.
As they accepted grudging congratulations from the other team captains, Neill thrust himself into the fray. “Lucky for you they asked something only a teenage girl would know.”
Jasper shoved in front of him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Mary just saved your bacon.”
“Nice work, Mare-Bear,” said Van. At her side, Phoebe offered a smile I couldn’t qui
te return. “Mary’s the baby of the family,” Van explained with a poignant sigh. “They grow up so fast.”
“Actually, I’m the second youngest,” I corrected. “And sixteen isn’t a baby.”
Van frowned at me. “You’re not sixteen.”
“Almost,” said Addie, who had come up behind me. “Her birthday’s next Saturday.”
Bo sketched a check mark in the air. “Marked that date on my calendar a long time ago.”
“You should come for dinner,” Van said to Phoebe, as though the rest of us were a convenient backdrop to their flirtation.
“Will there be cake?” Phoebe asked, eyelashes fluttering as she pretended to mull it over.
From anyone else, it would have been charming, but I refused to be swayed. “Sometimes I ask for pie.”
“You do not,” Van argued. “You’ve never once asked for pie for your birthday.”
“I could change my mind.”
“Pie is also good,” Phoebe murmured.
Neill grinned obsequiously at her. “I like it both ways, too. Maybe I’ll stop by.” He winked at me before mouthing the words you’re welcome.
Dear Diary,
I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about my birthday. Not the presents, or even turning sixteen. I just keep imagining the party, and having this perfect, candlelit evening with my friends and family to celebrate all the changes in my life over the last year. A very civilized, elegant affair that says to the world, “See? She’s becoming such a refined young lady.”
M.P.M.
Chapter 22
The rule of birthdays in the Porter-Malcolm household was that for twenty-four hours, you got to choose all your favorite things, and no one was allowed to complain. In practice, this applied mostly to food. Picking a menu without editorial comments from six other people was a luxury—as I’d explained to my friends when asking them to join us for dinner.
Though I had yet to forgive Van for inviting her illicit girlfriend to my party without so much as a by-your-leave, my general mood was upbeat. The changes in my life since last year felt satisfyingly dramatic: a milestone worthy of celebration. Plus my grades were good, my skin reasonably unblemished (knock on wood), and I had real friends—the kind who seemed genuinely excited for me, instead of complaining that I was too hard to buy for because I only liked books, and since I’d read everything they had no choice but to forgo the giving of presents altogether, as Anjuli had done last year.
By the Book Page 18