“That’s not what he’s doing.” But she didn’t sound as sure as before, when she said he loves her.
“If you say so. But I think you could be using all the time you spend stalking his posts on Knight Watch and waiting for a private message to show up to work on our entry together.”
“Like we’ll even win. Rex totally has it in the bag.”
At this I close the book and sit up, my heart pounding in my ears.
Is this what he’s been doing? Just playing with us, getting us distracted from working on our project?
Is this payback for what we did to them at the Carnaval party?
I shake my head. No, they were already being ridiculous before that.
But he’s known I’ve been working on the Navarre competition for weeks. He even gave me that book about Shakespeare. I thought it was a nice thing, but maybe it was just a trick.
And he’s got Reggie and Bronx taking my friends away from me, causing rifts.
Before I can spiral too far down this rabbit hole of despair, Ines calls.
“Everything okay?” she asks, the sound of late-night Paris streets in the background.
The words tumble out of me before I can stop them. “I kissed Rex and it was amazing, but I think he’s just trying to sabotage me, and the girls have made new friends and forgotten all about me, and no one is talking to me because my English is horrible, and everything is awful, and I want to come home now.”
My sister sighs. Her next words are tinged with so much tiredness that I feel guilty for calling so late, even though she was clearly awake anyway. “Zara, do you remember when you were eight?”
This makes me pause, but I know right away the story she means.
“We moved to a new neighborhood, and I had to change schools.”
“And?”
“And I cried so hard that maman and papa hired a driver so I could keep going to my old school with Rosalie and Maria.”
Even then, my parents understood how important my friends were to me.
“Now, are you eight or eighteen?”
I frown. “I don’t understand what difference it makes.”
“Zara, they’re not always going to be with you. You don’t need them to do everything with you.”
“But I can’t—”
“Zara, stop.” I hear her give directions to what I assume is a cab driver. “You’re still doing this literary thing together, right? And they’re still there in Massachusetts with you, right?”
A ping of jealousy shoots through me at how perfectly she pronounces Massachusetts.
“Yes.”
“So, if they study math with someone else, who cares?”
I can practically hear her shrug.
“I guess I could be overreacting a little,” I say, glancing in the mirror and making a face.
“I can hear you making that face at me.”
I giggle. Even separated by an ocean, she’s still my sister. And sometimes her advice is actually useful.
“Will you be okay?” she asks. I hear her cab driver ask for the payment.
I sniff a little, my tears mostly dry by now. “Yes. Thank you. Sorry for calling so late.”
“I’m always here for you,” she says, and it warms my heart.
By the time Rosalie and Maria get back, I’ve mostly calmed down thanks to Ines’s sisterly advice. These girls crossed an ocean for me, we don’t need to be following each other around all the time.
The boy situation, however, still needs lots of examination, which they are all too happy to provide input on. It only takes a half hour before we have the perfect plan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rex
After Zara storms out of what will apparently be our last tutoring session, I head back to my room. The urge to go find her is strong, but the urge to write is suddenly stronger. She did say, after all, that this is to give both of us more time to work.
So work is what I do.
I start with just jotting down ideas, flipping through a very worn copy of the sonnets and pulling ideas. As the poem takes shape bit by bit, I realize something. This isn’t for the competition. No one will even see it. This is for Zara.
I need to get it out of my system, so that I can focus on my real work. Which I’ll have plenty of time for now, thanks to no more tutoring. It’s not confirmed until Madame Dupuis approves, of course. But how could she say no to Zara? I certainly never can. Even when her request is to spend less time with me.
I still don’t totally understand what prompted her to suggest ending our lessons, and I have the niggling feeling I was supposed to react some other way. But why suggest it if it’s not what she wants to do?
Instead of the mystery from today, I think about our tutoring last week and how it somehow became a discussion of French versus English literature. A very heated discussion.
She’s insanely cute when she gets angry like that.
I didn’t even have to let her win. She was completely convincing in her arguments. She’s smart, and she doesn’t even realize it. Just like everything else, she seems oblivious to how incredible she really is.
There, those are the beginning lines of something.
Your talents and grace are hidden from your own eyes…
The words are flying from my pen, coming easier than anything I’ve ever written. Everything I like about her— everything I’ve felt since I first saw her in the dining hall—goes onto the page.
This all happened so fast, and so unexpectedly, how can I even be sure it’s real? But I know it must be—I’ve never felt anything like it before. And the only way I know how to deal with feelings is to write them down. Then, hopefully, they’ll leave me alone long enough so that I can actually write something useful.
I’m almost done when my computer dings with an incoming video call. I’m surprised to see my dad’s name on the screen. It’s after eight. What could the emergency be?
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I just thought I’d check in to see how you’re doing,” he says. My pulse returns to a normal pace as I let out a breath.
“I thought something was wrong,” I say, shifting the papers off of my desk. He catches the movement, however, and gets excited.
“Are those for the project? Those pages you sent me Sunday weren’t half bad.” A burst of pride blooms in my chest at his words.
“Would you read me some?” His eyes are lit up in a way I’ve never seen before. He never reacts like this about things I’ve written. He reads it all, of course, but I’ve never read anything out loud to him.
I remember the first time I brought him some of my writing. I was as excited as a 10-year-old could possibly be. He disappeared for hours behind his study doors with the pages, while I sat outside, not moving, not even for dinner, though I was starving. I was so worried I’d miss seeing his proud face when he walked out.
I eventually fell asleep. When I woke up, the pages were next to me, covered in red pen.
Since then, I’ve only ever sent him final versions, proofread at least five times. And he still manages to find the one typo that always gets through all of that. Those pages from Sunday had been reread and rewritten at least ten times already.
“It’s not really ready yet.” I clear my throat. He should know better than anybody not to show a first draft to someone. Also, this is not exactly the same as what he’s already seen. I haven’t told him about the sonnets yet, and Mr. Marcade has been taking forever to approve the idea.
“Come on, let’s hear it,” he says, and I can’t help myself. I pull out the sheet, knowing deep inside me that I’ll regret this, but the look in his eyes is so promising. Like he really thinks this will be good.
I clear my throat and start to read, the words flowing just as easily as they had from pen to paper. As I read, I can’t help but feel the corners of my mouth tug up in a smile. The emotions are so pure, and the rhymes so flawless. Okay, fine, it’s no Shakespeare, but it’s probably
the best thing I’ve ever written. All this time I avoided Zara and kept our interactions centered on school, but that momentary lapse of kissing inspired successful poetry. I knew I was right to institute the ban. Look at how good my writing has gotten.
When I’m done, I don’t look up right away. My heart is pounding, my hand holding the poem is shaking. I take two deep breaths before turning my eyes to the screen.
My heart drops into my stomach when I see his face. His forehead is scrunched up around his eyebrows, and the dip in his chin is so pronounced, it looks painful.
“So, uh, what did you think?” I dare to ask after a few painfully endless moments of silence.
“That’s what you’re submitting to the competition?” he says finally, his face still scrunched.
“I told you, it’s not a finished draft—”
“But you’re doing sonnets? I thought you were doing The Secret Garden? When did that change?”
My face heats. “It was a group decision. I told you I’m doing it with Reggie and Bronx.”
He lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “I still can’t believe they tried to pull that crap. This year, when you’re finally eligible…”
“I know, right?” I shove the pages off my desk. “But I think I have a plan worked out. An outline for the sonnets.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Sonnet retellings have never won.”
Neither did you, I almost blurt out. Again. But he seems to have forgotten my harsh words from Sunday. And he actually read—and liked!—the pages I sent. Besides, he’s won plenty of other things. He knows what’s good and what isn’t.
“It’ll be fine.”
“Well, as long as they’re not all stupid love poems you should be okay.”
I swallow, my throat dry and scratchy. I nod.
“Well, if that’s all you have, I’ll just get back to work then. I’ll be there next week for the alumni event, okay?”
I nod again. I’d actually been looking forward to it, until tonight.
He signs off and I drop my head into my hands.
Zara gave me the gift of more time to write, but what if I’m not writing the right thing?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Zara
Our plan involves several steps, and several tests.
Rosalie declared that the previous test was flawed, so of course Rex failed it spectacularly. When given the choice between writing or French lessons, of course he would pick writing. And if he really had been trying to distract me from my own writing, Maria pointed out, he would have insisted we continue with the lessons.
I know they’re right. There’s always a good explanation for everything. Just like Rosalie and Maria are not suddenly abandoning me, maybe Rex isn’t really as conniving as I fear. Maybe he’s just a silly American boy with a big head, who took my request at face value.
Part one of the new plan isn’t very fun. It means getting up early enough to see the three boys head out running in the cold February morning. But as I sip a cup of coffee in an almost empty dining hall with Rosalie and Maria, I think this may be a nicer way to start our mornings. We can pick whatever table we want, and there’s no one staring as we chat in French. With no long line behind me, the chefs are more than happy to take a little extra time to prepare me an omelette to my specifications.
It’s with a warm, full feeling that I head into the cold to talk to Rex with my friends. We walk around the gardens, keeping an eye out for them. We spot them rounding a corner and wait until we’re sure they’ve seen us as well before we split apart.
Part two of the plan has begun.
I’m shivering from nerves more than the cold by the time Rex separates himself from the other two and heads my way. He slows to a walk, eyebrows raised in question. I don’t say anything as I turn on my heels and head toward a secluded spot. I hear the crunch of snow behind me and take a deep breath before turning around.
“You said you still wanted to see me, if it’s private,” I say, before I lose my nerve. “Is this private enough?”
A smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Private but not very warm.”
I hold out an extra pair of gloves and a hat, all a bright pink. This is the first test: is he willing to look ridiculous in front of me?
He puts them on without hesitation, and my heart beats a little faster.
“How’s the writing going?”
A shadow flickers across his face, but then he nods. “Pretty good. The extra time has been helpful.”
I pause, waiting, my heart in my throat. This is the second test. Will he ask about me or is he completely focused on himself?
“What about you?”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Fine.”
He’s slightly breathless from his run, his cheeks pink and eyes bright. There are two other tests, but I make a split-second decision to just jump right to the end.
“Do you still want to see me?” I ask and take a step toward him. We’re surrounded by high bushes on either side, off of the main path. It’s like the school designed these gardens for just this kind of secret rendezvous.
He nods and closes the distance between us with two quick steps.
In a flash, his arms are around me, and my senses are invaded by everything Rex. The clean smell of his laundry detergent mixed with the bitter sting of his early morning sweat, the sound of his deep inhales as he catches his breath, the heat of his breath on my face as his lips come ever closer to mine.
He’s all I can see, or smell, or hear. With the final crash of his lips on mine, he’s all I can taste.
This kiss is different than Saturday’s. He was hesitant before, careful, barely touching his hands to my shoulders as if afraid to break me.
Today, his arms are strong around me, holding me up as his kisses grow deep and urgent. If I had any doubt about how he felt, he’s showing me with every passing second just how much he wants me.
Finally, after what feels like hours, he pulls away. My lips feel empty without his, and my hands grab at his shirt, pulling him back to me.
He smiles, slow and wide. “I can’t get enough of you, Zara.”
My breath catches in my throat. There’s no doubt left.
“But you were right,” he says, leaning his forehead on mine with a sigh.
I ignore the rising panic in my chest. “What do you mean?”
“We both have a lot of work to do. For the competition.”
I shake my head. “I don’t really care about that anymore. I only wanted to win to prove to my parents that my English is better than my sister’s.”
My original goal of going home early has been completely abandoned. Returning in a blaze of glory, however, would not be terrible.
He laughs a little and pulls back to look at me. “And I only want to win to prove I’m better than my father.”
I arch an eyebrow at this. He’s never mentioned his father in any of our tutoring conversations, beyond the typical descriptions of family and their careers.
He flushes. “No, not better. I could never be that.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “But I want to at least do this one thing he never managed to do. Everything else, he’s already done.”
It’s these words, that have nothing to do with me, that let me know how much he really cares. I know it’s not something he’s ever said to his friends, or to anyone else.
“You don’t need to win anything to prove your English is amazing, Zara,” he says, a hand pushing my hair back. I lean into his pink gloved hand and close my eyes with a sigh. Rosalie and Maria have said the same thing many times; why does it mean so much more coming from him? “Your entry will be great, I know it will. But you need time to work on it. So do I.”
“I won’t be a distraction,” I say, knowing that it’s all I want to be right now. But we both have bigger things to worry about.
“So, we’ll keep this low key?” he says, his eyes reaching mine for the confirmation that this
won’t get serious. That it won’t get overwhelming, for either of us.
I frown a little, wanting to be sure I understand his meaning. “You mean, not tell anyone?”
“We’ll just, you know, keep it private.”
This shouldn’t be a surprise. I was the one, after all, who figured out this private way to talk to him. “Will we still see each other?”
He smiles, and plants a cool, soft kiss on my lips. “Of course. Just not in front of everyone else.”
I know this must be because of the ban, but I want him so much, I feel like I’d agree to anything at this point. He passed the tests. He really does care. So what if he wants to keep pretending he’s avoiding girls?
I take a deep breath. “Okay, whatever you want.”
He looks at me, considering. “I don’t want all these gossips at Shelfbrooke weighing in on this. I don’t want to be just another Knight Watch post.”
I nod. I still haven’t ventured onto the site and have no intention to do so in the short time that remains for me here.
There are voices coming around the corner, and he quickly takes off the hat and gloves and shoves them into my hands.
“I’ll let you know where to meet me next.” He runs his hands along my arms with a smile and a brief kiss on my forehead. “Somewhere warm.”
And with that, he’s gone, running around the corner, and I’m left alone in the alcove, shivering in the morning sun.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rex
Don is waiting for me outside my dorm room. I’m still sweaty from my run—and my run-in with Zara—so I try to push past him.
“Heard you had a nice time at the party Saturday night,” he says, leaning against my closed door. “I came here so you could pay up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That party was for French class. I had to go.”
My heart is pounding. Did someone see me and Zara in the garden on Saturday? Did someone see us this morning?
Love Lessons Page 11