When I risked a glance at him, his expression revealed nothing.
“I better get back to my group,” he said at last. As he turned to go, he folded the letter and tucked it in his pocket.
Dear Diary,
Sometimes people are surprised that so many classic books have sad endings. Other people are shocked when they don’t. I guess it’s a glass-half-empty versus glass-half-full kind of thing.
And also a good way to keep people guessing.
M.P.M.
Chapter 33
“What were the exact words again?” Arden asked, leaning across the armrest. It was Thursday evening, and we had arrived early enough to claim most of the theater’s fourth row.
“I wrote, ‘I’ll save you a seat,’” I told her. “But it’s the very last line of the letter, so he might not even read that far.” And not because it was as long as Jane Eyre.
“He knows it’s tonight?” Terry confirmed.
I nodded.
Lydia tapped the program against her knee. “I thought you’d go more heart-eyes-emoji for your closing argument. Oh my darling, blah blah blah.”
“It was a rough draft,” I reminded them. “I was planning to polish it later.”
“I’m sure it was a very good letter,” Terry said. “You worked really hard on it.”
“Hours and hours.”
Arden squeezed my wrist. “Then there’s no way he’ll be able to resist.”
I was glad to see she’d recovered her natural optimism, however difficult I found it to share the sunny outlook. From where I was sitting, it seemed Alex was having no trouble resisting the invitation to join me here. No doubt I’d done it all wrong, never having asked anyone out before.
“Did I mention how great you look?” Arden nudged me with her elbow.
“Seriously,” Lydia chimed in. “Your makeup game is on point.”
“That was all Anton. But thanks.” He’d offered to do my hair, too, but I’d been too anxious to sit still long enough for hot rollers. Baardvaark’s final dress rehearsals always fizzed with nervous energy, but tonight I felt the tension at a cellular level.
As the minutes crawled past, and more and more people found their seats, all color and brightness seemed to bleed from the world, circling the drain along with the last dregs of hope. Then I realized the darkness wasn’t metaphysical; the house lights were dimming. I surveyed the auditorium one last time, on the off chance he’d slipped past me unseen.
Cam was sitting with Jeff in the same row as our parents. Bo manned the video camera in back; he gave a dignified nod when our eyes met. To my right sat Arden, Lydia, and Terry, the latter of whom didn’t seem to mind Jasper’s whispered commentary. Mrs. Larios would be there soon, to help Doug serve the pastelitos at intermission. The two of them were talking about seeing the show together a different night.
All the principals were accounted for—except the one I most wanted to see. Maybe this was my bittersweet denouement. The chastened young woman facing the future with her friends at her side, sadder but wiser in the wake of life’s travails.
A spotlight flared to life and Van strode confidently toward the center of the stage. She was wearing her I’m-the-director outfit: slim black pants and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. The paisley scarf was a new touch; I suspected Phoebe’s influence. After running through the standard litany of thank-yous and warnings about cell phones, she paused, hands steepled in front of her, until she’d captured everyone’s attention.
“It’s my pleasure to announce a change to the program. Tonight, the role of Iago will be played by the one and only Adeline Porter-Malcolm.” Scattered whoops and hollers greeted the news, gradually building to a sustained round of applause.
Arden poked me in the shoulder. “Did you know?”
I shook my head. No wonder Addie had been so cheerful of late. She’d found the courage to stand up for what she wanted, and now her dreams were coming true. It was nice to know that worked out for some people.
After Van left the stage, the spotlight winked out, plunging the theater into darkness. The twins said this was one of their favorite moments of any production: the dividing line between regular life and the heightened reality of the stage, when everyone held their breath, balanced on the knife-edge of anticipation.
The velvet seat shook beneath me. Someone had dropped into the empty place at my side. Don’t get your hopes up, I cautioned myself.
“Alex?” I whispered, taking a chance.
“Merrily.”
I closed my eyes. He was here. And he’d called me Merrily. My hands gripped the armrests to keep my body from puddling on the floor.
“Glasses.” His voice was low, barely audible over the crinkling of programs and squeaking of springs. At first, I thought I must have misheard.
“What?”
“I got an eye infection, so I couldn’t wear my contacts, but I was too cool for glasses.” He paused. “If I acted like you were invisible, it was because I couldn’t see past the end of my nose.”
A few seconds passed before my brain caught up. He was talking about that day years ago, when he’d looked right through me backstage and I’d been so sure he was giving me an epic brushoff. “So you weren’t being fickle,” I said slowly. “It was just vanity.”
“Exactly. You should definitely put that in my next love letter. I could get into this whole literary girlfriend thing.”
I turned to face him as faint lighting began to illuminate the stage. It was just bright enough for me to see the smile playing about his lips. With the kind of reckless abandon that would surely have led to my imminent death in a nineteenth-century novel, I leaned in and kissed him.
It was a little disconcerting when the entire audience broke into applause, until I realized that Roderigo and Iago had just made their entrance. My eyes went immediately to Addie. Her mustache was much more convincing this time.
“So what’s the deal?” Alex murmured in my ear.
“You mean with us?” It surprised me he was asking to define our relationship. I’d been led to believe modern men were commitment-shy.
He tipped his head at the stage. “The play. I only know the basics.”
“Like the part where my sister conspires to get your sister murdered?
“Yeah.” He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Outstanding first date, Merrily. Very on-brand. Who needs happy endings, am I right?”
Me, I thought, squeezing his hand.
Only not endings, because this didn’t have the feel of a finale. The shivery, hopeful, heart-pounding certainty that something good was about to happen: It was like starting a new book, with countless pages left to turn. Except better, because this time I didn’t have to imagine myself into the story. It was all happening to me, right now, each moment indelible as ink on paper.
For once I wasn’t worried about trying to predict how everything would turn out. There was a lot to be said for the unexpected adventures that happened along the way. A twist of fate. A lucky break. The part of a tale everyone recognizes as
THE END BEGINNING
The Scoundrel
Survival Guide,
Appendix I:
Works Cited
Which Tragedy Was Which?
Or: A Brief History of Mistakes That Have Been Made, Literarily
By Mary Porter-Malcolm
The One about the Eponymous Governess, Her Much Older Love Interest, the Madwoman in the Attic, the Ghostly Voice Echoing across the Moors, and Alex’s Essay Test:
All that and so much more can be found in Jane Eyre, by my favorite Brontë sister, Charlotte.
(NB: The story does NOT end with Jane fighting off her husband’s homicidal first wife.)
The One about Codependent Drama Queens Heathcliff and Cathy, Who Inflict Their Relationship Issues on Everyone around Them:
That would be Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë (a.k.a. the more twisted Brontë sister).
The One about
the Cruel and Philandering Husband Who Has No Skill at Subterfuge:
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is by Anne “The Perpetually Overshadowed” Brontë. The scene in a moonlit garden that Arden recreated with Miles goes something like this:
“My darling, you love me again! Does this mean you’ll stop carousing with your vile friends and corrupting our son?”
“Helen!” (roughly shoving her out of his arms) “What are you doing here? Go inside at once!”
“Oh . . . okay.” My, that was odd! One might almost think he was expecting someone else, like the beautiful lady who’s been staying with us for months, giving me mocking glances. I wonder what it could mean?
The One Where She Names Her Baby Sorrow and Later Turns Stabby:
Tess of the d’Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy. There are actually two bad guys here: one coerces Tess into single motherhood, and the other (not-so-aptly named Angel) judges her for having a checkered past, even though he’s not exactly pure as the driven snow himself, thereby driving Tess to violent despair.
The One in Which Being Poor but Pretty Is a Recipe for Disaster, Especially When Your Friends are the Worst and Society Is a Shark Tank (but More Vicious):
The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton.
The One about Whales, Obsession, Testosterone Poisoning, Phrenology, and Ten Thousand Other Digressions That Will Test Your Patience to the Breaking Point:
Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.
The One about the Innocent Abroad Marrying the Sleazy European Fortune Hunter with the Mistress, Even Though Isabel Archer Had Way Better Options:
Henry James had a thing for stories in which the virtuous are punished. The most famous is this one, Portrait of a Lady.
The One about Cecil the Snobby Fiancé and the Au Naturel Guy She Goes for Instead, with Bonus Italian Scenery:
A Room with a View, the most cheerful of E. M. Forster novels.
The One about a Pretentious Geezer Named Casaubon Who Tries to Hide That He’s Full of It by Browbeating His Much Younger (and Cleverer) Wife, Dorothea:
That would be Middlemarch, by George Eliot, the pen name of one Mary Anne Evans. Happily, Dorothea eventually sees the light. And a handsome, age-appropriate love interest who respects her.
The Ones with Sleepwalking, Doppelgangers, Secret Societies, Cursed Jewels, and the Birth of the Detective Genre:
The Moonstone and The Woman in White, both by Wilkie Collins.
The One with the Slut-Shaming Double Standard and the Scarlet A That Is Not a Monogram:
The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The One Where the Handsome Mill Owner Sees the Object of His Affection at a Train Station with Another Man Late at Night and Assumes the Worst, but Everything Turns Out Okay in the End:
North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell. (Spoiler alert: the guy at the station was really her brother.) The miniseries gets top marks, too.
The One with the Tragic Waste of a Wedding Cake:
Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. And yes, it’s really about Pip and Estella and a thousand other characters, but Miss Havisham casts a long shadow. Hell hath no fury like a woman abandoned at the altar.
The One in Which the Heroine Is TSTL:
How dumb is Pamela, heroine of the eponymous novel by Samuel Richardson? She can’t climb a low wall without injuring herself. She’s afraid of cows, because she thinks they are bulls. And when the horrible Mr. B climbs into bed with her disguised as a housemaid, Pamela doesn’t have a clue. (With thanks to Lydia for teaching me the phrase too stupid to live.)
The Collected Works of Jane Austen:
Ask Jasper. He’s the expert.
Acknowledgments
If you have read my book, as opposed to turning directly to this page for mysterious reasons of your own, it won’t be a surprise to learn that I grew up in a big family. I would not be the person I am today (bossy, sarcastic, possessive about desserts) without my beloved younger siblings, Dan, Luke, Claire, and Joe. Thanks also to their significant others, Lindsay, Beth, Ahmed, and Leelanee, for making holidays an even bigger party, and to the next generation (Coulson, Gabriel, Elias, Pablo, Marie, and Amael) for keeping us all laughing.
My parents, Peter and Sharon Henry, took me seriously as a reader and a writer from a young age. Mom gave me Jane Austen and Madeleine L’Engle, and Dad supplied me with Anne McCaffrey and Ursula Le Guin. Thank you both for laughing at my jokes, even if it was partly the hysteria of moving five kids back and forth across the country.
To Amy, my best friend of thirty-five years and a living reminder of my YA self, you are still the funniest person I know. Remember when you asked me to summarize An American Tragedy on the way into class and then you aced the test except for misspelling the main character’s name? You should tell your students that story.
On the publishing side, I am indebted to my agent, Bridget Smith, for being a kindred spirit and consummate professional, plus that whole making-dreams-come-true thing. My editor, Lily Kessinger, brought abundant warmth and intelligence to this process at every stage. Thank you for your patience, enthusiasm, and unflagging good cheer. Additional thanks to everyone else at HMH and beyond who helped make this a book, including Monique Aimee for the swoon-worthy cover art, designer Andrea Miller, publicist Sammy Brown, and copyeditor Megan Gendell.
To my film agent, Kristina Moore, and all the other industry gatekeepers who gave me a thrill of hope along the way, thank you.
Speaking of crucial encouragement, I am grateful to everyone who read this book in some form and offered feedback, including Randi Hacker, Gwendolyn Conover, Laura Huffman, Janet Lukehart, Korey Kaul, Melissa McCrory Hatcher, Heather Cashman, Darci Falin (also a photographer and graphic designer extraordinaire), Trenna Soderling, Beth Henry, and Melissa Zinn. And to Claire and Mom again, because no one on the planet has been forced to read the first chapters of this book more times than you two. Good news: I’m finished changing them!
I am fortunate to have a bunch of amazing writers in my general vicinity. For advice, editorial notes, encouragement, and interpretive dancing, I am especially grateful to Natalie Parker and Tessa Gratton (sorry I went to your wedding on the wrong day); Megan “Effervescence Incarnate” Bannen; and mystery maven Julie Tollefson. And to Miranda Asebedo, Rebecca Coffindaffer, Sarah Henning, Dot Hutchison, Adib Khorram, Christie Hall, and the rest of the local writers gang: you are the only group I’ve ever wanted to be part of, with the possible exception of the Super Friends.
To all the writers I only know through their books, whose words have rocked my world and put down roots in my brain: I hope one day I can give someone else a taste of the deep happiness I found in your stories.
On the home front, I am grateful for my belle-fille Lucile, who has inspired me with her grace and generosity of spirit, not to mention her skill at accessorizing, since she was a little girl.
To my not-so-little Gilly Bean, thank you for talking through plot points on long walks, asking for the Trivia Night scene as a bedtime story, and telling your kindergarten class all those years ago that your mom was a writer. To which they replied, “She’s probably just sitting at home, eating chocolate and watching TV.”
My husband, Fred, has kept the faith throughout the long journey to publication. For bringing music to my life and believing I’m a great writer even though my books are notably light on war and science and existential dread, merci beaucoup. (I totally pronounced it right in my head.)
Finally, to my fellow readers: I hope you never run out of good books. And thank you for giving this one a try.
hmhteen.com
About the Author
Photo by Darci Falin
AMANDA SELLET has strong opinions about books, movies, and baked goods, which led to a previous career as a professional critic. These days she channels those feelings into YA novels about smart girls who still have a lot to learn. She has lived in many different states and a couple of foreign countries, but now calls Kansas home, with her f
amily and assorted cats.
Visit her at amandasellet.com
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