“What if I’m bad at it?” I focused on the towel in my hands, on methodically drying each of my fingers. “We both know I’m not good at flirting.”
The pendant lights behind Curtis cast his shadow on the kitchen floor. It was touching me, though he wasn’t. I kept my eyes on the distance between our shoes as I waited for him to answer. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s okay to be bad at things?”
I laughed. Then realized he was serious and lifted my chin. “No.”
“Everyone is bad at things in the beginning: walking, talking, biking, reading—you practice and you get better. Same is true for kissing.”
I let this theory sink in. It started with the presumption of being unskilled. I’d trusted him to see me flail at video games, to watch me eat a cupcake, to keep whatever we were doing here to himself—but did I trust him, or myself, enough to be vulnerable and inept? I pressed my back more firmly against the counter. “There’s a scene only a few pages from the end of the book where Anne says—”
“You finished the whole book?” Curtis snorted. “Of course you have. Anyway, continue with your spoilers, because you’re going to tell me anyway, right? I might as well give you permission.”
I ignored him. “Anne says, ‘We’ve been good enemies’—she’s describing Gilbert and herself to Marilla.”
“But you missed the part before that,” Curtis interrupted. “What Gilbert says first is more important. He says they’re going to be the best of friends—that they were born to be. He tells her, ‘You’ve thwarted destiny enough.’”
“Destiny’s not real.” My words were automatic, and while I spoke, I processed what he’d revealed. “Wait! If you know that, you’ve read the whole book too. I didn’t spoil anything.”
“Nope.” He grinned.
I took a deep breath. “We’ve been good enemies, you and I. I’ve held on to the pettiest things for far too long.”
“Yup.”
He was trying to bait me. But I refused to snap, even though I could’ve offered a sequel’s worth of spoilers, because not only had I finished Green Gables last night, but Anne of Avonlea as well. Ms. Gregoire’s comment about “staking our claim” had been eerily accurate. Like finishing first increased my right to the novel. The whole series was eight books long—I hadn’t read them all yet, but I knew more than Curtis. Holding on to that kernel helped me tell him the truth I’d been cradling. “I don’t think we’ll ever stop fighting—”
“Because you like fighting with me.” He pushed off the opposite counter, his shadow climbing up my body as he approached.
“You’re the most infuriating and frustrating and exasperating person I know.”
“But you like it,” he insisted.
I wouldn’t make this easy—he wouldn’t want me to. I lifted my chin and waited.
“You know,” he said, “Anne rejects Gilbert the first time he proposes.”
I scowled. There was no proposal in Anne of Avonlea. What book was he on? I should leave so I could catch up and pass him. Instead I gripped the counter and snorted. “So now you’re proposing?” But maybe the more direct parallel was how I’d rejected Curtis’s offer to date. I bit my lip to stop myself from demanding if Gilbert had asked Anne again.
“Nah. You’d get too much satisfaction out of turning me down. I’ll settle for beating you at the Avery.” He stepped closer and reached out to drum his fingers beside my hip. “Climb up here.”
“That’s a counter,” I sputtered. “I don’t sit on counters. They make perfectly good chairs for sitting.”
“Yeah, but this is the perfect height.”
“Perfect height for what?” As I asked, I braced both hands and boosted myself up. We were eye-to-eye. My knees would touch his hips if he stepped an inch closer. My toes were already brushing his red flannel pajama pants.
“For this—” Curtis kept his gaze on mine as he leaned in. My eyes widened as my breath caught. I was capable of explaining the biology behind why his pupils dilated; I’m sure mine had too. But when his nose brushed against mine, I hid my pupils behind my eyelids and let out a shuddery breath, my mouth pursing in anticipation of his.
Instead it was our foreheads that touched. Then he was pulling away, and I was opening my eyes, my mouth too—gaping at him in confusion, frustration, annoyance.
“You have to tell me you want this,” Curtis said. “I won’t kiss you unless we’re on the same page.”
I nodded. That would have to be good enough, because I wasn’t going to beg.
“Then let go. I’ve got you.” Curtis tapped the hands I had clenched around the counter.
“This is not the Titanic, DiCaprio,” I quipped.
“No, it’s not, because both of us are smart enough to calculate how both Rose and Jack could fit on that door. C’mon. Let go. Hold on to me.” His hands were warm on mine—not tugging or prying, just resting there like an invitation it was my job to accept.
“Curtis—” I slammed my mouth shut. His name had come out in a breathless, desperate whisper. It was a voice I wouldn’t have recognized as mine. One I never wanted to hear again. I was better than this. I was stronger.
Except, blast! Who had cranked up the sensitivity of my nerve endings? I shivered as he trailed his hands up my arms. “What, Firebug? What do you want?”
When a person is nervous, their amygdala is activated. It pumps the blood in their body away from their brain and stomach and toward their arms and legs. It’s an ancient instinct—part of the fight-or-flight-or-freeze mechanism. But it makes you stupid. So incredibly stupid. My stupid prehistoric instincts were counter to what I would’ve done if there’d been adequate blood or oxygen levels in my brain. If I’d been able to think clearly, I never would have used my feet to pull him closer, my arms to reach up and steady myself on his broad shoulders.
“Kiss me.” I shut my eyes, leaned in—
And jumped, bashing my forehead against the bridge of his nose when my blazer pocket began to buzz.
It was a splash of cold water. A redirection of adrenaline. Now my fingers were shoving him away, even as my mouth was forming the words, “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
He waved off my concern with a short laugh, but winced as he reached up to touch his nose. “Maybe you should get that, in case it’s important.”
My eyes were on him as I pulled out the phone. My distracted “Hello?” would’ve been cause for interrogation from my parents, but Merri’s chipper voice responded, “Hey pal, what are you up to?”
I looked at Curtis. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dazed. At least he wasn’t wincing or hadn’t gotten out an ice pack. Maybe I hadn’t hit him that hard? My forehead barely hurt.
But did I look that starry-eyed? I felt it. So forcing myself to answer, “Nothing,” and watching the smile fall from his face scraped me raw.
I hopped down from the counter, turning my back on Curtis and the cupcakes. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Math homework,” Merri repeated, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I need you to settle a bet.”
“Math homework?” My voice pitched up—because I didn’t even remember we’d had any.
“Toby and I are arguing about the answer to number seventeen.” I heard his voice in the background, and she laughed. “Prove me right. What’d you get?”
“Problem seventeen?”
“Eliza, you okay?” Merri’s voice was concerned, and she shushed Toby. “You sound funny.”
“I’m fine.” The words were automatic, but flat. Their deception burned the sweetness off my tongue. Fingers softly touched my hand, and I jumped. Curtis grinned at my overreaction, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He held out a notebook, tapped a thumb next to problem seventeen. I scanned his calculations. “The answer is negative thirty-seven.”
“Yes!” Merri shrieked so shrilly that even Curtis flinched. He stepped back to toss his notebook onto the counter. I’m not sure if he purposely put it where I’d been sitting when we almo
st . . . but it made my cheeks burn. “In your face, Mayday. You owe me a doughnut or a cookie or a cupcake. I should make you owe Eliza one too.”
“Cupcake?” I repeated.
Curtis tilted his head at that word. He pointed to himself and mouthed, “Talking about me?”
A watery laugh escaped my lips, because I wished I had been. I wished I was the type of girl who could use pet names or tell my best friend what I was doing.
“Don’t worry,” Merri was saying in my ear. “I don’t expect you to eat it. More for me.”
Right. No one would expect that of me. My parents weren’t the only ones who had me pigeonholed. “I’ve got to go.” My words were for both of them, and I crossed the room to get my coat with the phone still pressed to my ear like a shield. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
24
I’d texted Merri to tell her to ride to school with Toby—added that they could stop and pick up her math-problem prize.
She’d responded, Sure. But why?
I hadn’t answered.
The truth was I’d beat Ms. Gregoire to campus Wednesday morning. I was pacing outside her door before she walked down the hallway, coat on, classroom keys in her hand.
“Good morning, Eliza.” She smiled. “Give me a second to get this unlocked.”
“Are you sure we can’t do the same book?” I asked as the door swung open. The lights flickered on, triggered by motion detectors.
“Very.”
I groaned. “I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I have to do this book.”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all. You’ve found your story.” She nodded sagely. “But it might not be only yours, and rules are rules. You’ll have to sort this out with Curtis.”
Something about her words made me shiver. “We have a bet.” I took a gulp from the cardboard cup in my hand. “Curtis and I—we bet. Whichever of us wins the Avery Science Competition gets to do their project on Anne of Green Gables. The loser does Frankenstein.”
“I see.” Ms. Gregoire placed her bag and coffee mug on her desk, then crossed to the closet in the back of the classroom and hung up her coat.
“But I can’t do the science fair without a faculty adviser . . .” I’d finally filled out the application last night, and that requirement was in bold.
“You’re asking me?” She laughed. “Well, then—I have a few questions. One: Are you using any materials that are radio active, banned by arms treaties, or illegal?”
“No. I’m not really using—”
“Two: Any dead bodies? I’ve read Frankenstein too, you know.”
“No. My project is—”
“Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.” She laughed at my shocked face. “Eliza, you and I both know you want a signature on a piece of paper, not science advice. If you’d needed that, you wouldn’t be seeking an adviser in the humanities building.”
True. I pulled out the application. “Here’s the form to sign. Thank you.”
“So you need to beat Mr. Cavendish.” She straightened a few desks as she crossed the room, patting the back of one to indicate I should take a seat. She hmm’d as she scanned the document. “He’s a formidable opponent. But then again, so are you. How are you coping?”
“I’m overwhelmed by—” I laughed. “Everything. It feels like everything is a competition lately—quiz bowl, science fair, half-marathons, now this book—”
“Competition isn’t always a bad thing.” Her signature was all poetry and flourish. And green. I stared at her pen. “Sometimes it’s what we need to get out of our comfort zones and help us grow. Take Anne and Gilbert—”
I winced and took another sip. I’d been thinking of almost nothing but Anne and Gilbert. Except for all the moments I’d been thinking of Curtis and me—and how annoyed he must have been after I’d left like that last night.
“Sometimes the people we compete and conflict with are those who challenge our way of thinking and push us to be better.” Ms. Gregoire handed back the application. “Sometimes—like Anne—we’re too stubborn to see it. I don’t know where you are in the book, so I hope I’m not spoiling anything.”
I shook my head. “Anne hates Gilbert—hated. Past tense. I didn’t realize at first that it was going to change. But in the later books of the series—they don’t conflict. They start supporting each other. They need each other to get through college. And when he decides to be a doctor—”
“Whoa, let me cut you off there, Eliza. Did you read the whole series last night?”
I shook my head. Wisps from my ponytail were escaping and brushing my neck. I’d need to fix that before class started. Neat, high, tight. There were only so many deviations from the norm I could tolerate. “I’d already read Green Gables and Avonlea. I read of the Island and House of Dreams last night. I skipped of Windy Poplars—I know it comes fourth chronologically, but it was published later, and from what I saw online, it doesn’t advance the plot. Maybe I’ll come back to it, but I’m not much for epistolary novels. And then I wasn’t sure what to read next: of Ingleside or Rainbow Valley—the message boards were split about whether to go chronologically or by publishing date. What do you think?”
“Eliza.” Ms. Gregoire’s voice was concerned. “Did you sleep at all?”
Another headshake. More strands escaping. “But it’s okay, because my parents know I bought a new iLive band and I emailed them that I didn’t have time to set it up. As long as I get it calibrated before bedtime tonight—but not until after our run—might as well get another one in before I need to find excuses . . .” I trailed off and looked up at Ms. Gregoire.
She nudged the Cool Beans cup away from my hand. “I’m guessing that’s not your usual herbal tea?”
“Quad shot espresso.” It promised a high concentration of caffeine—but maybe jumping straight into the deep end of the coffee pool wasn’t the smartest decision. My fingers trembled on the desk without the warm cup to steady them.
“You should head home,” suggested Ms. Gregoire. “Things will look calmer once you’ve gotten some sleep.”
“Can’t.” Nancy would have to excuse the absence, and what explanation could I give that wouldn’t set off parental alarms? “It’s fine—I’m fine. But . . . could I do a later Anne book and Curtis could do Green Gables? Would that work?”
Ms. Gregoire shook her head. “I don’t think you actually want me to say yes. I know you’re amped up on caffeine and lack of sleep right now, but you—like Anne—are a fan of the chase.”
25
Run today? I wrote the note on the tiniest scrap of paper I could tear from my biology notebook. The letters were shaky, written with nervous and caffeine-jittery hands. It was several minutes before Curtis looked my way. The first time he did, he gave me the barest flicker of a grin before turning back to Dr. Badawi’s titration demonstration at the front of the lab. I wrapped my legs around my stool and stared at him—willing him to look. When he did, I nodded at the scrap—no bigger than my pinky nail before I’d folded it in half—and placed it on the far side of the lab table’s sink.
His eyes narrowed, then widened in comprehension. He reached upward in a dramatic stretch, and I wanted to groan. But then again, Curtis was always dramatic. It would’ve been more obvious if he’d attempted subtlety. On the downward arc, his hand rested briefly on the front of our table. When he brought it back to his lap, the scrap was gone.
I didn’t see him unfold or read it, but he nodded. Then, feigning a yawn, he popped the paper in his mouth and swallowed like some ridiculous cartoon spy. Next time our glances clashed, he winked.
I bit my lip. Curtis was having way too much fun with the stealth part of whatever it was we’d been doing. Ms. Gregoire had been wrong—he might like the chase, but I did not. She’d been right that I should’ve gone home though. By the time we reached English class, I was swaying on my feet and my yawns were nearly contiguous.
“You okay?” Merri tugged me out of the path of a bank of lockers.
/> “Eliza.” Ms. Gregoire saved me from another lie by beckoning me to her desk. “I need you to run an errand for me in the library. It might take all class, so bring your things.” She dropped her voice and added, “There are study corrals in the back corner that can’t be seen from the circulation desk. Set a timer so you don’t sleep through lunch, and go take a power nap.”
I nodded. I wasn’t ready to agree with Merri that our teacher was magic, but she was intuitive and perceptive—and compassionate. Compassion was a trait my parents considered as useless as patience, but I was grateful for it and for the Hero High blanket that was folded and waiting in one of the corrals. It smelled of laundry soap and had a chocolate on top of it, like a pillow at a fancy hotel. It was good Ms. Gregoire had reminded me to set a timer; otherwise I would’ve flopped face-first onto the blanket and woken up tomorrow.
As it was, I barely limped through lunch and my afternoon classes. On the drive home I waved off Merri’s concern by blaming my lethargy on a headache, then felt guilty when she turned off the radio and sat quietly, whispering, “Feel better,” as she got out at her house.
I felt even guiltier when pointing my car in Curtis’s direction provided a caffeine-free jolt. The anticipation was its own stimulant, and I had to take a steadying breath as I pulled into his driveway and grabbed my gym bag.
“Hey.” Win let me in and asked with a wry smile, “So what’s today’s accomplishment? Colossal feats heroic, academic, or athletic? Or all of the above?”
“Somewhere between five and seven miles,” I said as Curtis emerged from the hallway. I expected a smile, but my answer made him cringe. Puzzled, I turned back to Win. “Do you run?”
“Not unless I’m being chased.” His words were sharper than usual, less humored and more . . . harsh. I cast about for a response.
“My best friend’s sister Rory is anti-running too. She’s pretty intense with yoga. Have you tried that?”
“Do I look Zen?”
He looked . . . angry, but I couldn’t help it; when I opened my mouth, a correction slipped out. “That’s a common misconception. Zen isn’t a physical trait. It’s—”
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