Love Lessons

by Daphne James Huff

  “Pretty convenient all the hot girls were there too. Jules said you were talking to a few of them.”

  I shrug. “You could have been there, too, talking to Jackie, if you hadn’t been such a dick to Reggie.”

  He glances around the hallway, a sour look on his face. It’s mostly deserted; everyone is at breakfast. I need to finish this up quick and shower, or there’ll be no time for my own before my first class.

  I remember with a little thrill that it’s Thursday. First period is French.

  “You’re the dick, Navarre.” His face is mere inches from mine. It would be slightly more intimidating if he weren’t so much shorter than me. “I’m not losing this bet, not to you. And you’re not winning the literary prize.”

  “Getting Jules to do all your dirty work for you won’t help you win either,” I say, and grin as his expression sours even more. It’s like he ate an entire bag of lemons.

  He opens his mouth but just then, a voice calls him from down the hall. It’s Alex Stoke, who, if possible, is even more of a jerk than Don.

  Responding to the call of the alpha tool, Don stalks off without another word. I race to grab my shower caddy and head down the hall.

  I don’t know why it matters so much that Don loses this bet. Even though I lost it beyond a shadow of a doubt twenty minutes ago when I held Zara in my arms in the freezing cold. I can still see her standing there, cheeks pink with the cold, her lips red from kissing. She’s never looked so beautiful. All I can think about is when I’ll get to see her again.

  But even if Don doesn’t know about it, it has to be the last time. This was too close of a call. Not even meeting in private will work. I need to figure out another way to see her, and still have it be for school, or officially have to eat crow to the last person on earth I want to.

  For the first time I can remember, I’m actually looking forward to French class. An extra hour with Zara will be the highlight of my day. Especially now that I don’t know when I’ll see her next. Maybe we can just wait until the competition is over. It’s just a few more weeks, the time will fly by, I’m sure, between classes and writing.

  I spend most of class writing her silly notes in French, which she corrects with a little smug smile on her face.

  Yeah, there’s no way I’ll be able to wait a month to be alone with her again.

  On my way to my next class, Mr. Marcade stops me in the hall.

  “Mr. Navarre, a word?” He gestures toward his office. I walk in, still feeling a high from my time next to Zara.

  The goofy grin on my face disappears when I see how serious he looks.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

  “Not exactly,” he says after a moment’s pause that sets my heart racing. “But I can’t accept the change you requested in your Navarre entry.”

  The racing heart stops and drops into my stomach.

  “Why not?” What on earth could be wrong with it? Maybe I didn’t explain well enough what we wanted to do.

  “It doesn’t seem like it’s a true group project.”

  “What do you mean? We came up with the idea together.” Well, sort of. Bronx and Reggie had the idea and then convinced me. That’s a group decision, right?

  “You can all just do the sonnets on your own. What the committee wants this year is to really see something written in a group, not just the three of you writing in isolation and pulling it together at the end.”

  Of course. I should have thought of that. My irritation with my friends starts as a prickle in my chest that grows to cover my entire body. I clench my fists underneath the table and hope Mr. Marcade doesn’t notice how tight my voice is when I reply with a simple, “I understand.”

  “Your original idea was good, but I know it was yours.” He gives me a stern stare. “And this sonnet idea it still too is isolated.”

  I purse my lips, trying to not scream. I’ve been working for weeks now on them. Time is running out. Mr. Marcade knows this.

  “You can do whatever you want, of course,” he says, folding his hands on top of his desk. “But I know how important this is to you. With all the trouble you caused at the French Club meeting a few weeks ago, I want to be sure you’re doing everything you can to align with the committee’s expectations.”

  The committee has been pretty lenient in years past with the kind of behavior that disqualified people. Of course this is the year they decide to not only make it a group project, but actually start paying attention to the shenanigans that go on at Shelfbrooke.

  I still think punching someone to defend your friend is above all of that, but I’m not here to convince Mr. Marcade of that. I’m here to make sure I do whatever I need to do to win.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before saying anything. “What would you suggest?”

  “Oh, you know I can’t give you help like that,” he says, waving his hand. “But...I can say that a play would be a very interesting project to see.”

  I’m having trouble swallowing. The thought of writing an entire play in a month, in an entirely collaborative process is more than I think I can handle right now. This entire competition seems to be set up to take away the things I need most to write well: my private writing time, my original ideas, and a single objective. I want to yell at him how unfair it is, how furious my father will be about this, how none of my family had to deal with this kind of nonsense, and how people had just let them write.

  All I say when I stand up, however, is “thanks,” before I storm out of his office and head to my room.

  I can barely make it there without wanting to punch something. My next class has already started, so it’s no use heading there late. I’ll just find the teacher later to explain that I felt sick and had to lay down.

  Which is pretty much the truth.

  After a painful hour of fuming in my bed, Reggie and Bronx arrive, morning classes over for the day.

  “Hey, you weren’t in history,” says Reggie, his face crinkled with worry. “Did you see my text?”

  I’d flung my phone somewhere in my initial fit of irritation and haven’t bothered to find it yet.

  “Mr. Marcade didn’t approve the sonnet idea.”

  “Oh, bummer,” says Bronx, not sounding the least bit upset.

  I sit up and have to keep myself from running across the room to strangle him. “This is what I get for trusting you guys to come up with an idea. We’re now weeks behind everyone else.”

  “Hey, we still have time,” says Reggie, one long leg crossed over the other as he leans against my dresser. “We’ll figure something else out.”

  “But there isn’t time.” I run my hands through my hair and get up to pace the small space between my desk and bed. “If we’d just stuck with my idea, we’d almost be done by now.”

  This is what I get for letting myself get distracted. The stacks of sonnets I’ve tucked away in the Zara folder could have been pages of a short story, or something else useful.

  “Did he say we have to change our idea?” asks Reggie.

  I shake my head. “But if we want to win, we should. He suggested a play.”

  “A play?” Bronx’s eyes light up. “You mean we’d do the presentation all dressed up and everything?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, usually that’s what a play involves.”

  “You know, the girls are doing a play,” Reggie says, rubbing his chin. “Do you think we could…” He trails off, and flushes.

  “Do I think we could what?” I have a sinking feeling I know what his suggestion will be, and I don’t know if I have it in me to refuse. The only thing I want just as much as to win this thing, is to be around Zara. The impulses have been battling inside me all morning, and I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with ways to see her now that tutoring is over, and Don will be watching my every move.

  “Maybe we should do something together?” Reggie says with a little smile. “They’ve been worki
ng on their play for a while. Maria was telling me about it, and it sounds really good. They may have some ideas we could work together on.”

  I inhale sharply. More people in the group can’t be a good thing. It would mean having to handle five people’s input, then trying to turn it into something usable. A huge part of me is screaming out to not do it, that I’ll be able to come up with something on my own.

  But it would also mean spending a lot of time with Zara.

  With a very good, ban-proof reason.

  I nod, and the two of them exchange high fives.

  This is either the best idea ever...or the worst.

  Chapter Thirty

  Zara

  “He wants to work together on the Navarre project?”

  Rosalie sounds just as astounded as I am by Rex’s suggestion. We’re in the common room on a snowy Sunday evening, finishing up homework when Maria comes in with the announcement.

  It’s not that the thought doesn’t please me—spending more time with Rex is something I definitely want. Passing notes in French class and stolen kisses in the gardens is not enough for me. And I hope it's not enough for him, either.

  But around a table with five other people is not quite what I had in mind when he said he’d figure out a way to see me more.

  “He’s been so secretive about his project until now,” I say, frowning. “And suddenly he wants help?”

  This does not sound like the Rex I know. He’s so sure of himself. Why would he suddenly need our help?

  Maria is all for the idea. I’m not ready to admit what really annoys me about this is that Rex didn’t ask me himself. Maria was out with Reggie tonight (apparently there’s a shed somewhere in the gardens that’s very cozy) and was dispatched to relate the request to us. “It will be so much easier to put on a play, a really good one, if we have more people,” she says. “Reggie said the judges really want to see a group collaboration this year.”

  “That’s what we were already doing,” I say, with a raised eyebrow. I’m unexpectedly protective of our idea. We’ve been spending weeks on it, after all. I never really thought we’d win, but if the boys are suddenly so eager to collaborate, maybe we’re more of a threat than I realized. Rex did say my English is amazing.

  “I suppose they do need lessons in working together nicely,” Rosalie says with a smirk. I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Just when I’d escaped French tutoring, now I need to be the collaboration tutor?” I shake my head. I feel even less competent at that than I did in teaching French.

  “I don’t think that’s what they’re asking for, even if they desperately need it,” says Maria. “They want to partner with us because they think it’ll help them win.”

  This doesn’t actually make me feel any better. Pressure starts to settle onto my shoulders. Complimenting my language skills is one thing. I know how important the competition is to Rex. If he’s trusting us to help him win, and then something goes wrong…Well, at least I’m going back to France soon, and wouldn’t have to look at his disappointed face to too long.

  The thought of returning home, however, doesn’t fill me with the same anticipation that it did a few weeks ago. When faced with the choice between leaving him, and disappointing him, I know which one hurts more.

  Rosalie and Maria both look at me, and I know they’re letting me decide. I’m the one who wanted to win this thing so badly, to go home early. They’ll do whatever I want them to.

  “I want to know what you both think.” I can’t make the decision on my own, and I won’t make a decision that they don’t agree with.

  “I think if it’ll increase our chances of winning, it’s a good idea,” says Rosalie, leaning back in her armchair.

  “And I think if it means more time with the boys, it’s a great idea.” Maria smiles, her cheeks still flushed from her stealthy trip back into the dorm. For all their lectures on curfews and hall monitors when we arrived, it’s surprisingly easy to get around those things.

  At least, that’s what Rosalie and Maria tell me.

  Not that I don’t appreciate all their insight into life at Shelfbrooke. And their suggestions about what to do about Rex, which I have been seeking out without fail as we analyze ever minor interaction and plot ways to see the boys beyond stolen glances in the cafeteria. Tonight’s plan is to sit in the common room tonight, in case they come by.

  But Rex hasn’t been in here all semester and won’t be until the competition is over.

  “I could definitely use more time with Rex.” I try not to pout. “I know he has a lot going on, but if Reggie and Bronx have the time to see you, I don’t get why he doesn’t have any for me.” My voice catches on the last part.

  “He totally likes you,” says Rosalie. Maria nods fervently in agreement. “The other two are just more…vocal.”

  “You should go off campus to meet somewhere,” says Maria. She looks out the window and crinkles her nose. “Well, if it’s sunny. And not on the weekend, when everyone is out at the same two places.”

  “Can we even leave campus during the week?” I scrunch up my face. I remember the tour guide mentioning something about signing out at the front desk, and it seemed like too much of a pain, plus there’s nowhere to go anyway.

  “Yeah, there’s this really cute street with shops and everything,” says Maria. “Not where we got pizza, it’s a different town.”

  I bite down my jealousy but can’t help asking the question. “When did you go there?”

  “Just one night a few weeks ago while you were tutoring Rex. We ran into Bette on the way to our room, and she invited us to come along.”

  I take a deep breath and remind myself of what my sister said. We don’t need to do everything together.

  It would just be a lot easier if I had someone to do things with as well.

  The contest. I have to stay focused on the contest. That’s something people are interested in doing together.

  If I end up disappointing Rex when we lose, so be it. At least I’ll have some more time with him before I leave.

  And less time for Rosalie and Maria to spend with their new friends, whispers the not-so-tiny jealous part of my brain.

  “Let’s do it then,” I say, and am thrilled at the identical looks of elation on their faces. For better or worse, we all want more time with these boys.

  I just hope everyone gets what they want out of it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Rex

  Rosalie gets things started right away. “What play should we work on?”

  We’re all in a corner in the common room. No need to hide in a classroom, since this is for school. Though I am a little nervous about everyone hearing our plans. I would have liked to be outside, but it’s gray and rainy and two degrees outside. I may not have been totally honest with Zara when I said winter in New England wasn’t so bad. It’s pretty much the worst, but I try to make the best of it.

  Making the best of this situation may be a bit harder. A quick glance around the room reveals no other seniors, at least, so everyone else must either be working on it in their rooms, or in the library. The thought of so many people working on this while we’re so far behind has me beating my pencil on top of my paper at a hummingbird’s pace.

  “Did you still want to do King Lear?” asks Reggie, his eyes laser focused on Maria. I’ve made everyone sit on opposite sides of the table, to maintain at least some semblance of distance. It’s important that it looks like we’re doing schoolwork, not flirting. “We could add our ideas to it.”

  Zara shakes her head. Her hair floats around her face like a cloud. My pencil tapping increases, as if to distract my hands from their need to run my fingers through her silky blond locks. “No, this has to be from all of us. We need to all agree.”

  I hold back a groan. Getting two people to agree with me was hard enough. Getting five will be impossible.

  “What about Romeo and Juliet?” suggests Rosalie, and Bronx winks at her from across the
table. She flushes.

  The others are nodding and smiling, but I shake my head.

  “That’s so classic, and so cheesy,” I protest. “Absolutely not.”

  “What’s wrong with classic and cheesy?” asks Zara, her eyebrows raised high. “Don’t you like cheese?”

  The other girls snicker a little, and I catch Reggie trying to hide his smile. A rush of irritation runs through me. If it had just been me and Zara, I would have laughed, too, but the pressure of the added gazes weighs on me. I need to keep control of the situation.

  “I’m the only one who really wants to win, so I say no.”

  Her eyes flash.

  Crap.

  “This is important to all of us. We should all have a say,” she says, her voice a low hum of displeasure.

  My pencil is now clenched in my hand, and I’m holding it up as if it’ll somehow protect me from her anger.

  “All you girls want to do Romeo and Juliet,” I say. “But that’s not what we want.” Reggie and Bronx will follow along with me, I know it.

  But they’re nodding their heads along with the three girls.

  Traitors.

  “What kind of retelling should it be?” asks Reggie, pulling out a paper to take notes. “What time period? Where?”

  I open my mouth to tell them what we’ll do, but the girls are faster than me.

  “We could set it in the city, make it modern,” suggests Zara.

  “Yes, like in New York,” says Rosalie.

  “With rival gangs,” adds Maria.

  “That’s West Side Story, and it’s already been done,” I say through gritted teeth. But Reggie is taking notes and nodding like this is the best idea he’s ever heard.

  “We could do it in Boston instead,” he says. “Irish versus Italians or something.”

  “Like Boondock Saints but with romance,” says Bronx, looking thrilled at the idea.

  “Boondock?” Rosalie crinkles her forehead.

  “Is that something near the water?” Maria tilts her head to the side with a frown. “A special kind of dock?”