Authors: Aimee Friedman
“Actually,” I said, getting a crazy idea. (What can I say? I’m known for those.) “Maybe you could also, like, guest-star at our meeting! You know, we’d have the reading, and then the book group could meet afterward to discuss
Bitter Ironies?
And you’d be there to answer our questions!” I nodded, proud of my amazing initiative. Ms. Bliss would be so impressed.
But Philippa didn’t seem too impressed. She seemed … scared. She cleared her throat, hesitating, and even took a few steps back from me.
Damn
. I’d probably gone overboard. “Um,” I covered. “I guess we can think about that part. But you
will
be able to come to the reading, right?” I held my breath, worried Philippa would change her mind.
She slipped her shades back on and tilted her head to the side, back in mystery mode. “I’ll be there in some form,” she replied softly. “I promise.”
Huh?
“I should go,” Philippa said. She took a couple more steps back, and raised one hand. “I need to run home and write.”
Of course—her writing! I imagined Philippa returning to her brownstone and walking upstairs with her groceries. Maybe she’d pet Kafka and then settle down at her gigantic desk, open her laptop with a flourish, and begin typing her new masterpiece.
That
was the last thing I wanted to keep Philippa Askance from. So, still feeling surreal after our talk, I nodded, waved back, and turned to go.
“Hey, wait,” Philippa called after me. “Are you still with that boy?”
I looked over my shoulder, confused. “What bo—” I began, and then realized.
James
. Philippa Askance thought I was …
with
James. She’d seen us together and assumed we were a couple! That had to mean something, didn’t it? (True, Mrs. Ferber had assumed the same thing, but whatever.)
“Oh, that boy? We’re not together,” I replied truthfully, gazing sadly at the sidewalk.
Philippa sighed. “Really? You guys were … adorable. You both gave off this vibe of—” She paused and I could tell she was trying to think up the perfect words like I did sometimes. “Innocent abandon.”
Innocent abandon?
I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded very poetic. And it was about
me and James
!
Suddenly, I remembered James, my Rosamund flower delivery, and the book group. I glanced at my watch—it was almost eleven; I’d never have time to pick up the food from the grocery store now. I needed to bid Philippa adieu and race home as quickly as possible.
But when I looked up to tell the mysterious poetess good-bye, she was already gone.
I arrived at my brownstone, with a stitch in my side and my ponytail unraveling, to find the whole book group waiting on my stoop, looking impatient.
My parents were both working that day, and Stacey was upstairs, sleeping off the screaming match she’d had with her boyfriend the night before, so nobody had answered the doorbell. Apologizing—and trying not to think the words “innocent abandon” every time I looked at James—I unlocked the door and ushered the group inside.
Audre and Scott, who were as tight as ever now that the Spring Formal was over, walked in side by side, looking stressed. At school last week, I’d finally given Scott the whole Rosamund rundown, and he’d been super-supportive, not even remembering to mock me for my secret romance novel passion. Both he and Audre were well aware of today’s planned flower fake-out. In fact, I’d asked that both my friends play a role in the scheme, and, last night, we’d even rehearsed our lines over three-way calling. This time, I’d decided, there was going to be
no
messing up.
Francesca sauntered into my house with barely a hello, sporting giant sunglasses, a silky draped top, slim Bermuda shorts and wedge-heeled espadrilles—clearly, she was getting into fashionable character for her big
The Devil Wears Prada
moment. I still couldn’t help wanting to shout:
I know the truth!
at her, but, right then, I was too busy with my own dramas.
James and Neil were the last to enter, and they both observed my living room with interest, staring at the science textbooks on the shelves. “Whoa,” Neil whispered, obviously impressed—it occurred to me that my parents would love him—while James ran a hand through his hair and murmured a more thoughtful, “Wow.”
“What?” I asked James, feeling slightly defensive, while the rest of the group headed for the kitchen.
James turned toward me, half-shrugging as we cut across the living room together. “Well, it’s just that—you’re really different from your parents, right?”
You think?
I grinned, flattered that James had bothered to notice, and was about to agree wholeheartedly when I noticed him do a double take at something on the cluttered coffee table. Following his gaze, I felt my skin freeze.
No!
There, on top of a stack of old newspapers, sat
To Catch a Duke
.
That morning, before calling the florist, I’d thumbed through the book while standing in the kitchen—rereading Rosamund’s bouquet scene for inspiration. Then, while dashing out the door to the grocery store, I’d absentmindedly tossed the book onto the coffee table, figuring I’d spirit it up to my room when I returned. Of course, that hadn’t happened, so my gigantic secret was lying there, in plain view, for the whole world—and James—to see.
I was getting ready to snatch the book off the table—or explain myself somehow—but, to, my relief, James glanced away and continued toward the kitchen, unruffled.
I made myself breathe steadily. In. Out. In. Out. So James had seen a romance novel in my living room. Big deal. He didn’t have to automatically assume it belonged to me. And, most importantly, he had no way of knowing that I was taking serious love advice from said book.
Still, I’d have to make sure to stash Rosamund and Co. back upstairs as soon as humanly possible.
In the kitchen, I laid out my humble food offerings—dry cereal, peanut butter, and toast—to the grumbles of “Oh, man, that’s
it?
” and “I knew we should’ve gone to a diner” and “Norah, have I taught you nothing?” (that was Audre, of course). But I didn’t feel too guilty—I had the mother of all excuses.
“Well, I
was
standing in line to get tastier stuff,” I explained huffily as we all settled down around the butcher-block table. “But that mission kind of got put on hold when I saw, oh yeah,
Philippa freaking Askance
.”
An excited hush fell over the table, so I eagerly told the whole story—from my minor stalking, to my obsessive-fan quoting, to the weird but wonderful conversation. I could feel James watching me, but though the others gave me enthusiastic props for my bravery, he remained silent. I wondered if he was envious that
he
hadn’t had been the one to chat up his beloved Philippa.
“So it’s set,” über-organized Scott declared, checking the planner in his T-Mobile Sidekick. “The
Bitter Ironies
meeting is gonna be at the end of May, and then we’re all on summer vacation, right? Does everyone already have summer plans?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, forgetting Philippa for a moment. “My glamorous shelving job at the local library starts in June.”
Summers were always the same for me: weekdays spent at the library—reading the books when I was supposed to be shelving them—and weekends spent wandering around Prospect Park, getting a sunburn on my arms and neck and wishing that
this
would be the summer I’d fall in love. Or at least have a fling—that seemed to be a summer trend among a lot of my friends. It hadn’t happened to me yet.
James smiled, almost to himself. “I’ll be interning at an independent book publisher in the neighborhood.” He said this modestly, but I realized how surprisingly together James was.
He
probably would have no trouble getting into college.
“I applied to work at Ozzy’s,” Audre offered anxiously between bites of toast. Ozzy’s is this other mellow writers-and-lattes café in the Slope, and Audre had recently auditioned for an assistant baker position in their kitchen. She hadn’t heard yet, but getting the job would score her big points with her skeptical parents.
“Art camp in July for me,” Scott chimed in, pretending to be annoyed—but I knew he secretly loved it.
“Science day camp for me.” Neil grinned—he made no bones about loving
that
.
We all looked at Francesca, who was playing with the emerald ring on her finger. “Packing for Dartmouth,” she replied shortly. I wondered if she had other plans—perhaps ones that involved her Physics Girl past—but I wasn’t about to ask.
“Anyway,” Scott said, anally going back to his planner, “does that mean the May meeting will be our last?”
Our
last
! My throat tightened.
The others nodded, looking as depressed as I felt. Which was bizarre.
Sure, the six of us had
sort of
bonded since February. After the Great Geek Discovery, Audre had been downright, well,
polite
to Francesca. And everyone else’s tension also seemed to have lessened, making us feel almost like … friends. But I knew that wasn’t why I was crushed to end the book group. Without our monthly meetings—and the Philippa hunt—I’d most likely never see James again. And Audre, similarly, was upset because she’d miss seeing so much of Griffin. But what was everyone else’s problem?
Unless they
all
had a different hidden agenda keeping them loyal to the group.
But that would be way too freaky.
We’d just started discussing
The Devil Wears Prada
(“What was everyone’s favorite outfit description?” Francesca asked, in all seriousness) when my doorbell rang. Audre and Scott immediately glanced at me, looking as wide-eyed and worried as I suddenly felt.
The flowers had arrived.
“I wonder who that could be!” I exclaimed, trying not to cringe at how fake I sounded. Have I mentioned what a heinous actress I am? Excusing myself from the table, I hurried out of the kitchen, racing to the front door in the living room.
“Bloom?” the delivery boy asked from behind a quivering mountain of red roses.
I took a deep breath. I hate roses; I’d wanted to get something more unusual, like a tiger-lily-and-lilac bouquet. But I couldn’t afford be subtle here. Things had to be as clear as possible:
Lots of boys like me!
I barely looked at the sheet the delivery boy gave me—I just signed and then lugged the heavy vase into the kitchen.
“Wow,” Francesca said. “
Somebody’s
spending the big bucks on you, Norah.”
James sat up straighter, and Neil, probably feeling guilty about what he’d done at Audre’s party, said nothing.
So far, so good.
“Hey, who are they from?” Audre asked, delivering her line perfectly as I set the vase on the counter.
“I have no clue!” I giggled, hoping to sound overwhelmed by my zillions of admirers.
When I’d placed my order with the florist I’d asked that the card come from a “Sebastian” (I’d picked the name randomly from one of Irene O’Dell’s books). Now, I plucked the small white card out of the bouquet, expecting to see “Sebastian’s” message (
Norah
, mon amour—
you fill me with passion. These flowers are as stunning as you are. Kisses, Sebastian
). Instead, this is what the card said:
Stacey, baby. I’m SO sorry about last night. Girl, will u ever forgive me? I luv u. Dylan
.
Oh … God. This wasn’t my bouquet at all. I pictured my sister’s boyfriend—gelled blond hair, clear braces, boy-band fashion sense. Of course Dylan would send Stacey roses—he had no imagination.
I chewed on the pad of my thumb, wondering what to do. I
could
just fess up the sad truth: My little sister had a better love life than I ever would. But I hadn’t yet received
my
delivery, and I was worried the florist might have messed up and forgotten. At least I
had
some flowers now. And Stacey was sound asleep; she’d never know the difference.
I went for it.
“They’re from Sebastian,” I told the group, my face hot. I stuffed the card into my jeans pocket, hoping no one would ask to see it.
“Is this the same guy who sent you the other note?” Scott asked, right on cue, clearly not aware anything was wrong.
“Nope,” I replied after a beat, channeling Rosamund.
You are the most wanted girl in New York City
. “I was already going out with Sebastian when I got that letter.”
“You were?” Francesca piped up, looking suspicious. “Why didn’t you bring him to the party?”
Oh, what a tangled web we weave. “Well—we’re not that serious,” I fudged, looking at Scott and Audre for help. But then, thankfully, I was saved by not one bell, but two: first the house phone and then the doorbell. The phone stopped ringing abruptly—it must have roused Stacey from her dead-to-the-world slumber—so I excused myself and ran to the front door for the second time that morning.
And, naturally, there was my actual flower delivery.
“No,” I told the delivery girl, feeling my stomach churn. “There’s been some mistake.”
And it’s called my life
.