Love Lessons

by Daphne James Huff

  “I’ve heard ‘boonies’ before, but thought that meant something good, like bonne,” says Zara.

  Reggie shakes his head. “No, it means—”

  “It doesn’t matter what it means, that’s not what we’re doing.” I take a deep calming breath and try not to break my pencil in two. We’re quickly losing the thread of conversation going down unimportant rabbit holes. I’m used to dealing with two rabbits, not five. Not only do they want to do the most retold play of all time, they don’t even have any original ideas to do so.

  “Well, we need some kind of new spin on Romeo and Juliet,” says Reggie.

  “I really don’t see an original way to do this that hasn’t already been done before.” I try to keep my voice as even as possible.

  “We could do it with zombies,” says Bronx.

  “Or singing groups,” says Maria.

  “It could be with basketball players,” says Rosalie.

  “It’s all been done!” I bang my hands on the table. My pencil goes flying. “We should just pick a different play.”

  “Or maybe we should pick someone else to do this play with.” Zara is glaring at me so fiercely, I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames.

  I open my mouth to answer—with what, I have no idea—when we’re interrupted.

  “What’s this?”

  My words dry up in my throat as I hear Don’s voice from across the room. He’s there, with Jules and Alex and a few others. “Are the golden boys actually deigning to speak with fair maidens?”

  “It’s for the Navarre competition,” I say, but my voice is tight. “We’re working on it together.”

  “How convenient.” His eyes are hard and cold, and an involuntary shudder runs down my back at the thought of all he could say. Zara is already furious, and I don’t want him adding fuel to the fire. “Are you sure this isn’t against the rules?”

  “We can change teams up until four weeks before,” says Reggie. “I already checked with Mr. Marcade.”

  Don’s eyes darken. Those aren’t the rules he’s talking about. This is stretching the ban to its limit. I’m regretting my choice now to not do this in an empty classroom. But hiding it would make it seem more like it’s something forbidden.

  So many rules to keep track of. When it should have been simple: stay away from these girls and focus on the competition. And yet here I am, mere weeks away from the deadline, doing exactly what I didn’t want to do. It’s all going to blow up in my face, I just know it.

  “Four weeks isn’t much time to put together something amazing,” says Don, the smugness radiating off of him like heat from a fire.

  “Only for those of us wasting our time writing horrible love poems,” says Zara, cocking an eyebrow.

  I almost reach over the table to kiss her adorable, smirking face. I had forgotten that “one of those French girls” had gotten Don’s letter intended for Jackie.

  From the look on Don’s face, he had no idea anyone else knew. He’s a pale shade of green but he manages to say through gritted teeth, “The only horrible love poems are the ones these idiots will write instead of this play.”

  It was a weak burn, probably the weakest he’s ever managed, and he turns on his heel before we can laugh in his face.

  “Actually,” says Reggie, with a thoughtful hand on his chin. “We do have all those sonnets. Maybe there’s a way to work them into this.”

  “Stratfordians and Oxfordians?” says Zara, her eyes on her paper. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. “Two people on opposite sides of the Shakespeare authorship question but fall in love because of a book of lost poems.”

  I bite my lip. This isn’t a terrible idea. And to work in the sonnets we’ve already done would make it like it was two retellings in one. I don’t think anyone else would have thought to try something like this.

  “And we could have it set in a school,” says Reggie, his pencil flying over the page. “Two professors. The judges will love that.”

  Everyone starts throwing out ideas, the relief of a solid plan lifting their spirits. We’re getting loud, even for the common room, so I clear my throat to get their attention. Five pairs of eyes are on me.

  I take a breath. “This could really work.”

  They grin and keep talking, Reggie taking notes. My shoulders relax. All isn’t lost. Not yet.

  Then I lift my eyes to the opposite end of the table, and my heart sinks.

  Zara is the only one not smiling.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rex

  The more we work out the details, the more the idea to use the sonnets inside a play turns out to be a good one. A really good one. The pressure has lifted slightly from my shoulders now that we finally agree on something. But I don't think I can handle any more collaboration for the day. After working another hour, trying to ignore the frosty looks Zara keeps shooting my way, I call it quits for the night. We’ll meet again in a few days to go over what we’ve each written and start to weave it together. I walk back to my room alone, leaving the others in the common room. I need some time to think.

  Working with five people on a play is so far from how I imagined working on this. I can’t say I’m truly happy about it. But at least we’re making progress, and it actually feels like we may be able to do something acceptable. With a little tweaking from me, I’m sure I can make it great.

  Back in my room, I flop onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow. I just wish Zara had looked at me, even once. I don’t know what I did. Running through my words, nothing pops out as insulting or rude.

  Maybe it’s something with her friends. Rosalie was the one to suggest Romeo and Juliet; was Zara upset she didn’t suggest it? Experience has taught me that girls can be insanely confusing. Hence the ban to keep confusion to a minimum right now.

  I roll onto my back and sigh. Worrying about it is taking up more brain space than I really want it to right now. I should just get up and write. Or maybe go for a run.

  Reggie sticks his head into my door, and I give him a look to let him know I need some freaking space.

  “Just one thing, then I'll leave you alone, I swear.” He holds up his hands and I nod.

  He walks in and closes the door. So this is not a conversation he wants to end up on Knight Watch. It must be serious. I sit up to face him.

  “So, Zara seemed a little mad,” he says.

  I chuckle. “Thanks, but I caught onto that on my own. She's used to her friends doing what she wants.”

  He raises an eyebrow at that. “Maybe but...I think she's jealous because Rosalie and Maria got poems.”

  The air whooshes out of me. I hadn’t thought of that. That kiss in the garden had been proof of something to me. Was it not enough for her?

  “She’s not the jealous type,” I say. She’s not jealous, just hard on herself, and she has no reason to be. Confusing and distracting she may be, but it’s because she’s so incredible. I laugh a little thinking about her perfect response to Don earlier.

  But Reggie isn’t laughing.

  “How well do you really know her?”

  “How well do you know her?” I narrow my eyes.

  He shrugs. “Maria is worried about her, that’s what I know. It’s hard for Zara to be away from her family. To see her friends make new friends, when no one is being that nice too Zara.”

  “Who’s being mean to her?” My hands ball into fists at my sides. I told Don to make everyone stay away, not bully her from afar.

  “I don’t think anyone is mean, just no one really talks to her outside of class.” Reggie frowns. “You’ve never noticed how alone she is sometimes in the halls?”

  “Honestly, no,” I say. “When I see her, I only see her. She could be with one or a hundred people, I wouldn’t notice.”

  Reggie whistles. “You got it bad, man. Definitely get this all down on paper.”

  I nod, then realize something.

  “Wait, when did you send yours to Maria? I thought you hated i
t.”

  He shrugs and flushes, but a smile tugs at his lips.

  “I knew it was bad, but it was important that she knows how I feel. Since we can't be seen together outside of class and everything.”

  He looks hopeful for a moment, then opens his mouth.

  “No,” I interrupt. “The ban still stands.”

  I am not losing to Don. Not when winning the Navarre competition is so precarious.

  Reggie sighs but doesn't argue for once. Thank goodness for small miracles.

  “Well, I think Zara would like something from you, is all I'm saying.”

  He gets up and walks out, leaving the door open and me to think about what to do.

  Do I pull out something I've already written? I think about my dad's comments and decide those are no good.

  What if I write it, and she's still mad? What if Reggie is wrong? I listened to him about other stuff and look where that got me.

  I pull out a fresh sheet, deciding to let the muse decide. If I'm inspired, she gets a poem. If not, I'll just have to figure out another way to get her to forgive me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Zara

  I hold the paper in a shaking hand, not quite believing it’s real.

  Rex actually wrote me a poem.

  And it's in French.

  This can’t be true. All the words he’s written are so beautiful, there’s no way it’s really meant for me.

  Of course, after so many kisses, it doesn’t seem like I should even need anything like this.

  But now that I have it on paper, in front of me, it finally feels real. I’d never admit that this is what I’d hoped would happen. He’d write something for me, just like Bronx did for Rosalie. Something sweet like Reggie had for Maria. Physical proof that his words and feelings won’t just disappear once they’re out of his mouth.

  I trace the letters with a finger, noting the firm press of each accented word, as if he wanted to be extra sure that he got those right.

  I know I should be mad about how he acted earlier. How he’s been acting for weeks. Like he knows best about everything. A silly love poem doesn’t mean he’s changed.

  But maybe it does.

  The poem took time. Time he could have been spending writing other things. More important things. I must be important, too, if he spent his time on something for me.

  The only downside is that there’s no one to share it with. Rosalie and Maria are out—whether with new friends or the boys, I don’t know—and I’m sitting in our room, alone like so many other nights.

  I’m not jealous. Really. How can I be, when I’m sitting here with my own declaration of love, just for me? Neither of them got anything in French. A thrill runs up my spine, thinking of his accented voice reading these words out loud.

  But I can only think and dream for so long. I’ve finished all my schoolwork for the evening, and it’s too late to call anyone in France. I don’t feel like watching anything on my laptop. I open it anyway, and the school’s webpage opens automatically. I scroll through my email, making sure there aren’t any assignments I’ve forgotten.

  The invitation to join Knight Watch is still in my school inbox. I never bothered with it, but I figure, why not tonight? Maybe I may actually learn something Rosalie and Maria won’t have heard from their new friends.

  As I look through the posts, there’s nothing really that interesting. It’s all about people I don’t know, situations I wasn’t involved in. There’s a brief mention of the Carnaval party, and my heart skips a beat, but it’s just something about the punch being spiked. I look up what this means and add it to my list of English expressions. Now the list takes up pages and pages of a notebook. If nothing else, I’ll know more American slang than my sister when this is all over.

  My eyes fall on a post from weeks ago, the first few days of the semester, from Don. I almost skip past it, but there’s a new comment from a few days ago, with Rex’s name on it.

  “Looks like Rex is risking it anyway—he’s in the common room right now with her.”

  I frown and scroll up to the original post. My throat tightens as I read.

  Guys, be warned: the blonde frog is off limits if you don’t want to fend off a psycho stalker for the rest of the semester. Thanks to the King for the heads up;-)

  It hits me like a punch to the gut.

  Psycho stalker? King’s orders?

  What has Rex been telling people about me?

  There are a ton of comments from when it was first posted, and while I know I should just close it, I can’t help but keep read.

  Ewww, why would anyone talk to her anyway? I can barely understand what she says.

  Ooh la la. I bet it’s the French disease that’s addled her brain…she’s totally hot, but I won’t be going anywhere near that.

  Hot? I guess, if you like crazy foreigners who look like they have a stick up their derrière.

  My hands are shaking, and I can’t breathe. So this is why everyone’s been avoiding me. I’m the ugly, crazy French girl who can’t speak English. Rex must have known this was going on. How could he not, if he’s the one who warned Don about me?

  I wonder if someone told Rosalie or Maria. Probably not. They’re too busy saving them from their crazy friend. And other than that first look at the site, they haven’t been on it for the same reason I haven’t: there's nothing about anyone we know or care about. Except there was something there this whole time. A single post responsible for this entire disaster of a semester.

  With trembling hands, I shut the computer. The rush of betrayal through my veins makes me sick. How can I trust a single thing that has ever come out of Rex’s mouth? He’s been deceitful from day one, with me, but most of all with himself.

  He thinks he’s proving something by staying away. But it just proves to people I’m not someone he wants to be around.

  If he wants crazy stalker, he’s about to get it.

  I barge into the boy’s side of the dorm, ignoring the hoots and hollers from the open doors. I’m vaguely aware of a hall monitor chasing after me, but the glare I send his way makes him back off, at least momentarily.

  “Rex!” I pound on his closed door. Curious heads poke out from the surrounding rooms, practically salivating for some drama. The French stalker is here to put on a show.

  And a show they shall have.

  Rex opens the door and I ignore the flutter his wide smile sends through me. He looks so deliriously happy to see me that I need to ball my fists and dig my nails into my palms to bring me back to my present agony.

  “Did you get my poem?” he asks. My heart clenches when I think of it. So many lovely words.

  But then I feel sick when I think of the words others have been saying about me behind my back. What he’s been saying about me.

  “I did,” I say, and reach into my pocket. I fling the bits of paper in his face, taking in his open-mouthed shock with glee. “Here’s what you can do with it.”

  He watches the torn-up poem fall to the ground with a furrowed brow.

  “I thought…I thought you wanted to know how I feel.”

  “Oh, I know,” I say. “The whole school knows how you feel. I saw that post you ordered Don to write.”

  He frowns as if trying to remember but then pales. “What post?” But I can see it on his face. He knows something about it.

  “The one where you basically command the entire school to stay away from me because I’m a ‘psycho stalker,’” I say, putting air quotes around the last two words. “The one where you condemn me to a lonely semester without the chance of any new friends.”

  The tears are thick in my eyes, but I will them not to fall. I do not want to cry in front of him.

  “I had no idea he’d write that!” He’s looking around the hall, where a decent-sized crowd has gathered. This fuels my rage and dries my tears.

  Even now, his stupid reputation is all he cares about.

  “But you did tell him to write something?”

/>   He shifts on his feet, avoiding my eyes. “I didn’t think this would happen.”

  “What, that I’d find out? Or that no one would talk to me, so by the time April rolled around and you were free of your stupid self-imposed ban, I’d be thrilled you even look my way?”

  He opens his mouth, but no words come out. I guess I was right.

  All semester I loved being right. I’d rub it in his face, just to show him he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.

  But this time, I really wish I’d been wrong.

  I turn to leave, but he reaches out to me. “Wait,” he says, his hand inches from my arm. “I didn’t think he’d write something like that.”

  “But you did tell him to write something?” I repeat my question he didn’t answer earlier.

  “He...he was going to try hooking up with you and I didn’t want you to have to deal with that gross excuse for a guy, or any of the other jerks here. I told him to stay away, for all the guys to stay away.”

  I laugh, hard and cold. “Gee, thanks so much for your protection. Poor little foreign girl, can’t even figure out how to escape the big bad douchebag.”

  “That’s not what I—” He shakes his head and takes a step closer to me. We’re still the focus of everyone in the hall, and he lowers his voice. “I just wanted you so much. Since the first time I saw you.”

  I inhale sharply. His poem had said as much. How he’d admired me from afar for weeks. How hard it had been to stay away. How he thought he was falling in love with me.

  But he has no idea what love is. That’s is not something you can control or convince someone to do.

  “If you’d just said that instead of this charade of sticking to your word, you wouldn’t have needed to tell anyone to stay away.” My voice cracks a little. “You would’ve had me from the beginning.”

  His eyebrows draw together, his eyes so pitiful, I almost reach out to him.