By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

  I nodded. Her raised eyebrows posed the next obvious question—what about Alex? To which I could only shrug. Even if we’d been able to speak freely, I wasn’t sure what to say.

  Nor, it seemed, was anyone else. Aside from the sound of Neill chewing, the room was painfully quiet—until Yarb started retching from somewhere under the table. Feet jerked out of the way, though we were packed so tightly it was hard to move very far. The convulsive gagging went on and on, like a lawnmower trying to start.

  Happy birthday to me, I thought glumly.

  “Jasper,” Mom said.

  “What do you want me to do, reason with him? Hey there, Yarb, maybe you could yack up that hairball later, when we’re not eating fondue?”

  Arden, who had a sensitive gag reflex, clamped her lips together.

  Jasper pushed his chair back far enough to peer beneath the table. “False alarm,” he announced, straightening. “Far as I can tell. But I’d keep your shoes on, just in case.”

  Cam stood. “I have a boyfriend. We’re going to Winter Formal. He might stop by later for cake, if there’s any left.” She grabbed her plate and glass. “You can have my place,” she told Phoebe.

  Phoebe perched nervously at the edge of the chair. There was another awkward silence—almost long enough to make me wish Yarb would start hacking again.

  “Winter Formal is a lot of fun,” Arden said with a faint air of desperation.

  “High-school dances,” Neill scoffed, still working on his lukewarm fondue nuggets.

  “You went to a lot of them?” Phoebe asked sweetly. Jasper grinned at her in open-mouthed delight.

  “Jeff,” I said, before another fight could break out. “That’s the name of Cam’s date. He’s very environmentally conscious.”

  Mom’s lips pursed with interest. “Hmm.”

  “We set them up,” Arden confided.

  Pittaya turned to Lydia. “Do you have a date?”

  She folded her napkin before setting it down. “Are you asking?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay.” Lydia tried to sound casual, but a smile was about to break free, despite—or perhaps because of—the death glare she was getting from Anjuli.

  “But . . . just like that?” Arden looked as stunned as I felt, though I doubted she’d mentally penciled Pittaya in as a date for Terry. “After all the times I tried to set you up?”

  Lydia moved a few leaves of salad around her plate. “Maybe I didn’t want a pity date.”

  Oh no, I thought desperately, clutching the edge of the table. Not them too!

  “We should go together,” Terry said, throwing me a lifeline. “Since we don’t have dates.”

  “That’s hot.” Neill spoke through a mouthful of bread and cheese, making the words even more distasteful.

  My parents turned to him in unison, smoke all but billowing from their ears. “I was talking about the fondue,” he choked, reaching for his glass.

  “Well, this has been unexpectedly fun.” Jasper folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Is it time for cake?”

  Dear Diary,

  I wish I could afford to visit a modiste to design the gown for my first dance. She would hold up the fabrics one by one—shot silk, crushed velvet, sprigged muslin—until she found the perfect material to transform me into a more radiant version of myself.

  But then I’d also need a maid to do my hair, and a carriage to get me there. Not to mention a dancing master to keep me from making a fool of myself.

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 23

  I thought the aftermath of my birthday would resemble a war-torn landscape: the rubble of buildings, scorched earth, hollow-eyed survivors staggering through the ruined streets. Instead, the ensuing weeks were marked by a climate of remote politeness. It was as if the annual quota for soul-baring had been met and exceeded in that one night, leaving everyone shaky and subdued.

  Arden made no further mention of Neill, beyond adding an entry about Egocentric Scoundrels with Poor Table Manners to our guide. Nor did she press Terry and me to find other dates, or demand details from Lydia about her plans with Pittaya. I attributed Arden’s diminished enthusiasm to the pressures of school and being on the dance committee, plus the general frenzy of December, all of which must be exacerbating her scheduling difficulties with Miles. It was no wonder she seemed distracted.

  At home, the rest of the family tiptoed around Addie and Van. Mom filled the tea cabinet with herbal blends that prominently featured words like soothing, harmony, and peace. When there were no further explosions, and Cam didn’t rattle the household with additional revelations, we cautiously resumed our normal routines. Dad said hopeful things at the dinner table about clearing the air, prompting Jasper to volunteer, “That wasn’t me.”

  This was followed by a gaseous noise we all knew and dreaded.

  “Wait.” My brother held up a finger. “That one was.”

  We all covered our noses.

  * * *

  Despite the surface calm, it was not without trepidation that I mounted the stairs to the attic the night of the dance. Partly this was selfish; the twins had promised to do my hair and makeup for the evening, and I wasn’t sure how sublimated aggression would translate to cosmetics use. My vanity was a small thing, however, compared to the deep-seated need to see the twins restored to their former place as pillars of my world. They were supposed to be capable and mature, not sharp-tongued and falling apart.

  I knocked on the door of their bedroom already wearing the dress Anton had helped me select from the Baardvaark costume department. The cocktail-length black number hailed from a recent production of Henry V, set during the late 1940s. It cinched in at the waist and poofed wide over the hips; according to Anton, this was a signature of Dior’s New Look, and thus perfectly suited to the Parisian theme. When I removed it from the dry-cleaning bag, I found a note pinned to the shoulder in Anton’s spiky cursive: “Try not to break too many hearts.”

  “What do you think?” I asked diffidently, when Addie opened the door.

  She beckoned me inside. “Turn around.” I made a slow rotation, holding the sides of the skirt as though about to curtsy.

  My sister nodded in satisfaction. “You have such a tiny waist. It’s perfect for this dress.”

  I looked down at myself in surprise. Where the twins and Cam were willowy and narrow-hipped, a look I’d always envied, my figure had a lot more ins and outs. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, in this dress anyway. I swished experimentally from side to side. It was like wearing a cloud, only scratchier.

  Van got up from her bed to adjust my neckline, which was relatively high-cut but wide enough to expose my collarbone. She twisted my hair into a coil so that we could check the effect in the full-length mirror. “Up or down?”

  “Up.” I liked the way it looked: dark dress, pale neck, dark hair.

  Van turned to her twin. “Should we give her a beauty mark?”

  “People will just think it’s a weird freckle,” I pointed out, not without a modicum of self-pity. My sisters all bronzed in the sun instead of speckling like a springer spaniel.

  “It’s winter,” Addie said as she removed the last bobby pin from her mouth and slid it into my hair. “Your freckles hardly show. Anyway, I like them.”

  “Addie used to want freckles so badly she Sharpied herself,” Van told me.

  “It would have looked better if I hadn’t used red.”

  “One of the grading pens?” My voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. We were strictly forbidden to borrow them, as our parents required a steady supply to mark student essays and they tended to slip through our father’s fingers like grains of sand.

  “Mom thought she had chicken pox,” Van said.

  “But then she realized that was impossible, because you would have had them too.” Addie looked at Van as she spoke. When their eyes met in the mirror I held my breath, lest I disrupt the fragile rapprochement. Van offered a tremulous smile, but Addie’s expression had alr
eady shuttered.

  “I’m going to check the curling iron.” She kept her eyes on the floor as she hurried from the room.

  “What?” Van asked, catching me looking at her. “You think it’s all my fault.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You always side with Addie.”

  “No I don’t!”

  Van gave me a look that reminded me of our mother. I supposed she had a point. When battle lines were drawn, I defaulted to Team Addie, in the same way that Jasper and Cam had an unspoken alliance. I’d never thought about where that left Van.

  “I’m just surprised,” I said, in lieu of answering her directly.

  “That I’m dating a woman?”

  “Nobody cares about that.”

  Van looked disappointed. No doubt she had a speech prepared.

  “What bothers me is that you’re having an affair.” My heart pounded as I waited for Van to respond.

  Her brow furrowed. “Except neither of us is married.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not cheating.”

  “I’m not—wait, you think Phoebe’s with someone else?”

  It should have been a relief to discover Van didn’t know, but she looked so crestfallen I almost wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

  “Who?” she whispered.

  I braced myself. “Alex. Alex Ritter. I saw them together at auditions.”

  Van was silent for a long moment. Then she bent forward, gripping the edge of the dresser. Her shoulders shook.

  “It’s okay!” I patted her with both hands. “You’ll meet someone else, and they’ll be so much better. You deserve someone faithful and true . . . ” My voice trailed off as I realized my sister was laughing, not weeping. Had she succumbed to nerv­ous hysteria? Maybe I should slap her.

  Addie walked back into the room shaking a bottle of red nail polish. “What’s so funny?”

  Van wiped her eyes before taking a deep breath. “Mary just informed me that Phoebe is dating someone behind my back.”

  Addie’s arm fell to her side. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Wait!” Van waved her to silence. “You haven’t heard the best part. Guess who it is?”

  “Who?” Addie directed the question at me.

  I sighed. “Alex Ritter.”

  Addie looked away, pressing a hand to her lips, but not quickly enough to hide that she was laughing at me too, albeit with more restraint. How wonderful they’d finally found something to agree on. I was sorely tempted to walk out and leave them to their mirth-filled reconciliation.

  “I’m sorry.” Addie gasped for breath, clutching her ribs. “I shouldn’t laugh. You didn’t know.”

  I looked from her to Van, who appeared to be on the verge of another fit. “Know what?”

  “Alex is Phoebe’s brother,” Van said, clearly relishing the word. “Not her boy toy.”

  Phoebe was Alex’s sister? I thought of their slender frames and curly wheat-blond hair, the dark lashes and blue-gray eyes. It was . . . not impossible.

  “But he came to Trivia Night.” This was not a protest so much as a question—the first of many circling my brain like moths around a porch light.

  “He heard me telling Phoebe about it. Said it sounded entertaining.” I felt Van’s eyes on me. “Maybe he had another reason for showing up?”

  Addie set down the nail polish. “Is there something you want to tell us, Mary?”

  “Me?”

  “Who else would he have gone there to see?” Addie asked.

  “You. Van. Random strangers. How should I know?”

  “Pretty sure he knows I’m spoken for,” Van pointed out.

  I sniffed. “That didn’t stop him before.”

  Addie frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Antony and Cleopatra,” I reminded them. “With what’s-her-name? She had a boyfriend at the time, and then Alex came along and suddenly people were sobbing in the prop room and slamming doors.”

  Van made a noise of disgust. “Oh please. Julia and Tad were like the low-rent Heathcliff and Cathy, way before Alex Ritter showed up. We ordered sandwiches after rehearsal once and somehow it led to this huge crisis with Tad locked in the bathroom and Julia rolling around on the stage yelling ‘hey nonny my ASS.’”

  “Over condiments,” Addie recalled. “She was not a mustard person.”

  I must have missed that day. “But what about you guys? Didn’t he, you know—”

  “Flirt with us? Oh yeah. It was adorable. He was like a baby Lord Byron, without the sleaziness. Or the incest.” Van grinned at me. “Too soon?”

  “It was harmless,” Addie put in. “Flattering in a way. You could tell he didn’t really mean anything by it.”

  “Oh.” It must be nice, to be able tell things like that.

  “He wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world, but he made you think he was.” Van picked up a brush and began running it through her hair. “That’s the power of charisma.”

  “Magnetism,” Addie agreed. “The sparkle in the eye that hints at inner life.”

  I huffed in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Alex Ritter is extremely handsome.”

  The twins exchanged a glance. Addie spoke first. “Are the two of you—”

  “Dallying?” Van finished.

  “No! Not at all.” I looked at my hands, twisting in front of me. “That would be stupid.”

  “Why?” Van asked.

  “Wouldn’t you guys warn me away from someone like that?”

  “I would never tell you who to love,” Van said loftily. “I trust you to follow your heart. If it ends badly, so be it. You have to be open to new experiences. What’s the point of living otherwise?”

  There wasn’t enough room in my brain to process what she was saying. “It doesn’t matter. He’s not really interested.”

  Van waved a finger at me. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mare-Bear. I thought the same thing about Phoebe, but we Porter-Malcolms are not without attractions of our own.”

  “Be true to yourself and other people will see your worth. If they’re worth your time.” Addie’s words seemed directed to her twin as much as me.

  While Van smiled, a thread of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. They made it sound so easy, like riding a bike—but I had come late to that skill, too.

  Dear Diary,

  Even a Victorianist like me is not immune to the spell of the Cinderella trope. Is it humanly possible to attend a dance without thinking you might magically turn out to be the belle of the ball?

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 24

  My rational mind was aware that Winter Formal wouldn’t be a ball in the traditional sense. Nevertheless, I’d envisioned a certain level of elegance. If not crystal chandeliers, silk gloves, and a full orchestra, then at least a style of dancing that didn’t involve the use of butt cheeks as hand grips.

  As I stepped through the doors of the Millville High gymnasium, I was forced to scale my expectations down, and then down again, at which point I began to appreciate the effort that had been made. The streamers and balloons gave off a metallic sheen that went some way toward disguising the battle-worn state of the gym, and the giant Eiffel Tower projected on the wall was certainly on point, thematically. My classmates had also taken on a surface gloss, sporting hair as stiff and glittering as their new clothes. Eventually I might even get used to the groin-rubbing.

  “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Terry whisper-yelled at my side. “There’s your sister.”

  She pointed to the dance floor, where Cam and Jeff were bringing a uniquely athletic flair to their spins and turns. Their moves had more in common with boomerang throwing than the minuet.

  “Hey,” said Lydia, stepping in front of us. She wore a sleeveless pink dress with a sweetheart neckline and smattering of sparkles across the bodice. “What are you looking at?”

  “Mary’s sister,” Terry replied. “Cam.”

  Since the twins weren’t at Winter Formal, the clarification seemed unn
ecessary. I felt a ping of curiosity as the music changed tempo. Lydia’s shoulders twitched in time with the beat.

  “Have you guys seen Arden?” she asked.

  As I shook my head, it occurred to me how odd that was.

  “Let me text her.” Lydia slipped her phone from her beaded clutch. “Probably her dinner ran long.” The ding of a response was immediate. “In the bathroom. She’ll be here in a sec.”

  My inclination would have been to seek out a dark corner from which to wait and watch, until I remembered that Lydia was here with a date.

  “Pittaya’s helping with the sound system,” she said, correctly interpreting my covert surveying of the crowd.

  At last Arden appeared, dressed in the red gown she’d tried on at the mall. Her movements lacked their usual bounce, but I attributed that to the stiletto heels. A bold choice considering the height differential with her date.

  Lydia peered over Arden’s shoulder as they hugged. “Where’s Miles?”

  Arden’s response was swallowed by the music. Was it my imagination, or had she flinched before answering?

  “Huh?” said Lydia.

  “He’s not coming,” Arden replied. I edged closer, thinking I must have misheard.

  “He bailed on Winter Formal?” Lydia’s hands balled into fists on her sequined hips.

  Arden shook her head. “He bailed on me.”

  The three of us stared at her in shock until Lydia managed a hoarse, “What?”

  “It’s fine.” Above her lock-jawed smile, Arden’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I’m over it.”

  “Over—what are you saying?” Lydia sputtered. “Did you and Miles break up?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it, but yes.”

  “Was it that girl?” Lydia demanded.

  “No.” Arden looked at the floor. “That wasn’t the problem.”

  “What was it?” Terry asked.

  Arden shrugged. “Me, apparently.”

  “That prissy little jerkwad,” Lydia started to say, grinding each word between her teeth.

  “I literally cannot do this right now,” Arden said, holding up a hand. “I want tonight to be fun, and that means no crying.”