A Novel Idea

by Aimee Friedman

  “We’re done,” I announced, pushing my chair back. I thought of Ms. Bliss. Good-bye, Vassar. My voice wobbled a little, which made me feel even worse. “The book group is over. Fm calling it off.”

  Audre gasped and looked at me. “Nors, you didn’t even consult me! And I’m the vice president.”

  “Uh, Aud, you made that up, remember?” I replied, rolling my eyes.

  “Over?” Francesca cried, looking alarmed. What did she care?

  James looked up from the Onion, biting his lower lip in this incredibly sexy way. “Are you serious?” he asked me anxiously, and I felt my stomach twist. What did he care?

  Nell shrugged, propping The Fellowship of the Ring up against his coffee mug. “Fine by me,” he declared.

  Scott returned to the table then, wearing an apologetic smile. “Student Council crisis,” he explained, snapping his phone shut. “What did I miss?” He looked around at everyone’s miserable faces, and his grin slowly deflated.

  “Dude, Norah ended the book group,” Griffin told him, also, weirdly, looking miserable. Then, glancing at me, Griffin’s face brightened. “Though, hey, maybe you’ll change your mind when you hear my awesome news.”

  “What is it?” I asked Griffin numbly, guessing that he’d won some surfing contest.

  “I just met Philippa Askance.” Griffin grinned. “You know, the writer?”

  I nodded, my pulse racing. Philippa Askance had been here? James and I had just talked about her at Art House! She’s this an incredible writer—she’s only nineteen, and her gritty novel in verse, Bitter Ironies, was a huge hit. But she’s mainly cool because she’s a mystery. Besides the author photo on the back of the book—bleached-blond hair in a spiky do, combat boots, a skirt held together by safety pins, and a delicate face hidden in the shadows—no one had ever seen her. She never gave readings or interviews and, according to a teen blog I’d read, Philippa was now working on her top-secret second novel and never left her house. So Griffins news was superexciting. Even Audre, Francesca, and the others perked up; Philippa’s that big of a celebrity.

  “What did she say?” James asked, his blue eyes sparkling. I felt a flash of jealousy, kind of like I’d had at Art House when James had said Philippa was cute.

  “Nothing, of course.” Griffin shook his head. “She was browsing at the shelves and had these giant shades on, but I recognized her from her author photo, and was like, ‘Dude, I’m a fan. Come give a reading at the Book Nook!’ But then she bolted like I’d, I don’t know, asked her to sleep with me or something.”

  Probably 90 percent of the book group blushed when he said that.

  “So here was my idea,” Griffin went on, leaning against the back of Francesca’s chair. “Why don’t you guys try to get Philippa Askance to read at the Book Nook? She doesn’t care about me, but maybe if it came from, like, a high school book group, she’d think that was really cool, and a good cause and all.”

  I sat up straighter, forgetting my unhappiness. Griffin was a genius! I would have chewed off my left arm to meet Philippa, and now here was my chance. How stupid would it be to cancel the book group when we could actually organize something this exciting?

  To my shock, everyone else, except for Neil, seemed to be having the exact same reaction. They were all nodding and telling Griffin what a great idea this was. I didn’t get it—I assumed all the others had wanted the group to just roll over and die.

  But somehow we were back on track.

  James, adorably energized, suggested we set up a separate meeting to map out a Philippa plan of attack: We knew she lived in Park Slope, so some of us could hunt around the neighborhood for her, while the others tried to get in touch with her agent or editor. We agreed to schedule our next Philippa gathering for next Saturday.

  Then, because the group’s vibe was suddenly so mellow and almost, well, friendly, I decided not to ruin it by shooting down Francesca’s earlier suggestions.

  “Let’s read The Devil Wears Prada” I picked randomly, “for our next real meeting, in April.”

  Neil, James, and Scott groaned, Francesca beamed at me like I was her new best friend, and Audre elbowed me in the ribs. It didn’t matter. Nothing could bother me anymore. Philippa Askance would give a reading at the Book Nook, my club wasn’t a total flop, and best of all, I was definitely going to see James again.

  Six

  “Don’t kill me,” Audre said over the phone as I walked briskly up Seventh Avenue, my cell tucked between my chin and my shoulder. “But I can’t make it to Operation: Find Philippa. My baking class got rescheduled, and if I don’t go, my parents will use that against me until the end of time.”

  It was a sun-soaked Saturday—the first day in March that felt like spring—and I was flip-flopping toward the Starbucks on Carroll Street where the book group was supposed to meet. (Over e-mail, we’d decided against the Book Nook because Griffin doesn’t work there on Saturdays, and this didn’t count as an “official” meeting.) In addition to my flip-flops, I was celebrating the weather with the cropped, olive-green eBay jacket my mom had finally lent me money for. That, paired with a tank top and jeans, was enough. I love when it starts to get warm out.

  “I totally understand,” I told Audre, even though her news was a bit of a bummer. Audre’s parents, the usually-chill Mr. and Mrs. Legrand, think their Gourmet Diva daughter should aim for Yale, like Langston. But Audre is all about cooking school, so she and her ’rents clash. She takes this baking class at a community college to prove to them she’s serious about it.

  “So now you and Scott have both bailed,” I added, heading toward Carroll Street. “He’s hosting some charity auction for Millay today. Or maybe that was last week. I can’t keep track.”

  “Well, say hi to James for me—if you can,” Audre laughed. Of course I’d already filled my best friend in on my crush—it’s impossible for me to keep secrets from Audre, even if I want to. She’d already guessed I was head over heels when, according to her, I’d been “checking out his fine, rain-drenched body at the last meeting.” I hadn’t denied it.

  Then I saw James for real, standing outside Starbucks with his arms crossed over his chest, looking thoughtful and gorgeous.

  “Gotta go,” I whispered to Audre, clicking off.

  “Um, hey, Norah. I think it’s just you and me,” I heard James say as I approached him, my pulse tapping like crazy.

  “What do you mean?” I stopped short, so I wouldn’t have to come too close. Sitting across from James in the darkness of Art House, practically half-naked, had somehow been comfortable; standing with him in a regular-me outfit in broad daylight was freaking me out. Normal, right?

  “Neil has a math team competition this weekend,” James explained, not really looking at me. “And Francesca showed up like a second ago, but when I told her I didn’t think anyone else was coming, she made up some excuse and ran away.”

  Only because Griffin’s not here, I thought, annoyed on Audre’s behalf. Then I remembered Audre. And Scott.

  James was right. It was just the two of us.

  “So … ,” I said, firmly telling myself that we were not on a date, “how should we work this?”

  James brushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes. “Well, before Francesca left, she promised she’d try to call Philippa’s agent on Monday. And Neil said he’d look up her editor.” He shrugged. “I guess we could kind of walk around and see if we run into her somewhere?”

  Semistalking Philippa actually sounded like fun, so before I could get too nervous, I agreed.

  Silently, we wandered up and down side streets, under blooming trees, the sun warming us. Park Slope is laid out in a neat little grid, so it’s easy to roam for a while and not get lost. We were turning the corner onto 3rd Street when we bumped into my next-door neighbor, this old lady, Mrs. Ferber.

  I hate to use the term “nosy,” but Mrs. Ferber begs for it; she’s always looking out her window to see my family’s comings and goings and is forever catching
me and Stacey out by the trash cans, asking us when we plan on getting married. She also never seems to remember which sister is which.

  True to form, Mrs. Ferber squinted up at me from under the brim of her ridiculous hot pink sun hat, clearly trying to figure out who I was.

  “The Bloom girl!” she cried at last, clapping her hands together in excitement as James looked obviously amused. Then, her silver curls trembling, she pointed to James. “Another boyfriend?” she cackled.

  I felt my cheeks grow hot. Okay. She definitely thought I was Stacey. Just last week, Stacey had said that Mrs. Ferber had spied on her and Dylan when they were kissing good night on our stoop.

  “Uh, no,” I began, staring down and wishing the sidewalk beneath my feet had a trapdoor. “You’re thinking of—”

  “Well, he’s much more handsome than the last one,” Mrs. Ferber cut in. Then, patting me on the shoulder, she added an emphatic “Good for you!” before tottering off.

  I stood there, my eyes shut, contemplating suicide.

  When I dared peek at James, he was studying the ground, his ears very red. He glanced at me and gave his sideways grin.

  “You must run into people in the neighborhood a lot,” he finally spoke, swallowing down what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “I mean, I know I do.”

  It was a relief to break the silence—and avoid talking about what Mrs. Ferber had said. “Yeah, I’m used to it. I’ve lived here all my life. Have you?” I asked as we started walking again.

  James nodded. “But it’s weird, because as well as I think I know the Slope, I’m always discovering new stuff—like that.” He pointed across the street to a light blue limestone house.

  “What about it?” I asked. We stopped walking and both stared across the street.

  “It’s the only blue house on the whole street,” James replied, as if this were obvious. “When you really notice it is at night, because it glows, like a ghost.”

  I looked at the house, and then turned to look at James, examining his profile. He’s so smart, I thought, my heart beating faster. The way he saw the world made me realize that he must have been a good poet—better than anyone on Blank Canvas, in any case. I wished I had the nerve to ask to read his poetry.

  James was still looking at the house across the street, so he backed up and sat on one of the brownstone stoops. Without thinking, I sat beside him, hugging my knees, still studying the side of his face.

  “It’s beautiful,” I finally whispered, meaning the house. Kind of.

  James turned to me, his blue eyes serious. “And you,” he said.

  My breath caught. What?

  “You’re like that house,” James went on. “You’ve always been in this neighborhood, but I’d never even seen you before the book group.”

  “Oh. Right.” Hello, moron! Of course he didn’t mean you’re beautiful.

  We fell silent again, and I noticed that we were sitting very close together on the stoop. The sun was right overhead, so I slipped off my jacket and draped it across my lap. As I was doing that, my arm brushed James’s, and I felt the warmth of his skin. He smelled clean and sweet, like vanilla. Suddenly, I was shaking. I wanted to touch James for real, on purpose, to run my fingers through his hair.

  As if James knew what I was thinking, he turned his head and held my gaze. His eyes looked darker than usual, and he swallowed hard.

  “Norah?” he said quietly.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “Um,” he replied. And then he leaned in toward me.

  You know when something absolutely insane and wonderful is happening and time sort of slows down? James was coming closer, and his lips were inches from mine, and very slowly I was realizing, He … is … going … to … kiss … me. This was it: that delicious prekiss moment I’d wondered about for so long! My heart hammering, I leaned in to meet him halfway and—

  The door of the brownstone behind us creaked open loudly, and someone stepped out onto the stoop. A dog barked.

  James pulled back immediately, and I spun around to see the evil person who had interrupted what was going to be my amazing, unforgettable first kiss.

  It was Philippa Askance.

  Her spiky, bleached-blond hair was pulled up in a high ponytail and, behind oversized shades and multiple piercings, her face was pale and regal. She wore a torn, camouflage miniskirt; a tight white tank revealed tattoos all over her peaches-and-cream arms. She was holding a snarling black poodle on a long leash, and I remembered that she’d thanked her dog, Kafka, on the acknowledgments page of Bitter Ironies.

  James and I glanced at each other, open-mouthed. Without even really trying, we’d found our mystery writer.

  “Uh, Philippa—are you Philippa Askance?” James blurted, jumping to his feet. I stood too, but my knees were shaking, so I almost slipped off the stoop.

  “It’s—it’s really you,” I stammered, gazing at the author, half awestruck, half distracted by James. “We were actually wondering if … you … might…” I trailed off, totally intimidated.

  Philippa glanced from me to James, and the trace of a smile made her mouth twitch. Then, without a word, she sped down the steps past us, Kafka yapping. I watched in shock as writer and dog sprinted down the block, toward Prospect Park, and disappeared around the corner. James and I stood alone on her stoop, probably looking like the biggest idiots alive.

  Slowly, James turned to me. His face was as flushed as mine felt. “Did we, um, just imagine that?” he whispered.

  I stared back at him. Did I just imagine our almost-kiss? I wanted to cry. I couldn’t tell which event was more surreal.

  “I don’t think so,” I managed to reply, hanging on to the banister for support. “It was definitely her.”

  “Well, uh, at least we know where she lives now.” James shrugged, still looking flustered.

  “If worse comes to worst we can always camp out on her stoop,” I suggested, only semi-joking. “But she didn’t seem all that friendly.”

  “Still, we should tell the group,” James pointed out. “I’ll e-mail everyone.”

  What were we doing? I wondered, my stomach clenching. Here we were, calmly discussing Philippa Askance, and completely ignoring the fact that we’d been about to kiss!

  But what if James hadn’t planned on kissing me? What if he was just leaning over to brush a leaf out of my hair, just like when Griffin wiped the coffee foam off my lip on Valentine’s Day?

  Suddenly, the sun went behind a cloud, and the temperature seemed to drop about twenty degrees. The wind blew and shook leaves down onto us. It felt almost like winter again. I shivered and reached down to pick up my jacket, slipping it over my shoulders as an unexpected lump formed in my throat. Our afternoon was over.

  “Well, um, I should probably, you know, head home …,” James was saying, slowly backing away.

  I started backing up too, in the opposite direction. “Right. Home.”

  Once I was safely around the corner, I broke into a run. My head was spinning from everything: Mrs. Ferber, our nonkiss, Philippa’s mysterious smile, and James, James, James. Nothing made any sense, but I guess that was normal. I was falling in love, and there’s no room for reason or logic in love’s twisty tangles. I know that for a fact.

  Or maybe that’s a line from one of my romance novels.

  Seven

  “You know, Norah,” my mom said when we were clearing the dinner table on Thursday night. “I ran into Mrs. Ferber today, and she told me the funniest thing.”

  I’d been stuffing all the plates into the dishwasher at warp speed; I was eager to get upstairs and delve into my new Irene O’Dell paperback, To Catch a Duke, which I’d bought that afternoon at Barnes & Noble. However, at my mom’s words, I dropped a handful of forks and straightened up.

  “What did she say?” I asked, holding my breath as I recalled the awkward moment on the street.

  “That she saw you with a cute boy,” my mom replied, putting an empty wineglass into the refrigerator as i
f it belonged there.

  “Me?” I asked. “Not Stacey?”

  “She seemed to think it was you,” Mom replied, raising her eyebrows at me. “I mean, I know Stacey is usually the one with all the boyfriends …”

  Thankfully, Stacey herself wasn’t in the kitchen to hear this; she was at the movies with Dylan, again. My dad was in the living room, but he wouldn’t have paid attention anyway.

  I rolled my eyes and banged the salt cellar down on the counter. “Thanks, Mom. Why don’t you rub some of this salt into my gaping wound?”

  Ever since my dreamlike (or nightmarish; take your pick) encounter with James, I’d been moody and rude; Audre had started calling me “Ms. PMS.” Even though I thought about James constantly—lying awake at night and reading love poetry during the day—we hadn’t had any direct contact since that afternoon. He had sent a mass e-mail to the group—annoyingly titled “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Day-Time”—which told the whole Philippa story, but naturally left off any mention of our almost-kiss. In other e-mails, Francesca, Neil, Scott, and Audre explained that they’d been in touch with Philippa’s agent and editor, who were more helpful than the actual Philippa had been. In fact, the agent promised she’d get Philippa to commit to a date in May, about a month from now.