Authors: Aimee Friedman
“No mistake,” the girl chirped, thrusting the flowers at me. “Bloom, Eighth Street. Sign here, please.”
I signed my dignity away, and then reluctantly dragged myself back into the house with my rightful roses.
“Again?”
Scott cried when I entered the kitchen, which was
so
not part of his script.
Audre, knowing something was seriously off, made a panicked face at me.
“Gosh,
you’ve
been busy lately, Norah,” Francesca commented.
“I’m not saying anything,” Neil said.
But the worst was James. He was looking down at the table, looking like he might be fighting back laughter.
For a split second, I saw a way to salvage this debacle—I could simply and sanely tell the group that these flowers were for my sister, and then move ahead with our harmless book talk. After all, I already
had
one bouquet to back me up.
But now, with the second vase of roses in my hand, and the whole group watching me, I felt a tumbling mix of greed and recklessness. If I wanted to go all-out Rosamund, weren’t
two
bouquets better than one? The more admirers, the merrier.
Yes. I know. I was diving off the deep end. But I was also hoping—foolishly—that this impromptu change of plans could work in my favor.
“I guess I
have
been busy,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I held the vase aloft. “These are from another guy I’ve been seeing. His name is …” I thought fast and desperately. “Lorenzo.”
Audre choked on her toast, James coughed, and Neil said, “You actually know someone named
Lorenzo?
”
Did I ever.
Before I could respond, I heard a girl’s voice cry out from the living room.
“Where are my flowers?” the voice demanded imperiously.
I froze.
As the kitchen door swung open, I turned slowly to see Stacey rushing toward me in her pajamas, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink.
When Stacey and I were younger, we’d pretend we had ESP. We would each close our eyes, try to figure out what the other was thinking (usually, for both of us, it was “I want ice cream”) and shriek when we were right. Now I once again tried to send my sister a mental message:
Get out of here. Turn around and walk out and forget about your flowers
.
She didn’t hear me.
“Dylan just called,” Stacey said, grabbing for the vase in my hand. “He said he sent roses—ooh! They’re so pretty.”
I jerked back, fear gripping me. “These are—these are mine,” I managed to stammer, which was pretty much my first nonlie of the morning.
Stacey stuck her tongue out at me and pointed to the roses on the counter. “Then
those
are mine!”
I heard murmurs from the table. I was reminded of Audre’s party and the awful, sinking realization that my scheme was collapsing.
“You’re wrong,” I told Stacey, backing up. “Those are, um, for me too.”
Stacey squinted. My little sister may be a little too into sparkly lip gloss and Jesse McCartney, but she’s not stupid.
“Norah,” she hissed, slowly walking toward me. “Stop lying. There’s no way
you
got two bouquets.”
The devil, I realized, does not wear Prada. She wears pink pj’s and fluffy It’s
Happy Bunny
slippers.
“How do you know?” I snapped. Suddenly, I was sick of always being boyless and flowerless. The lame Bloom sister. Stacey never saw me any other way—and that was how I saw myself too. It wasn’t fair. “Not everything is about
you
, you little brat,” I added, gritting my teeth and glaring at my sister.
“Give … me …
my flowers
!” she whined, pushing past me toward the counter. “I’m gonna tell Mom!” she added, lunging for the bouquet.
I grabbed Stacey’s arm to stop her, but then I realized that the entire book group was about to witness me wrestling with my little sister.
Not the mature and sexy image I’d been going for.
So I gave in, stepping out of her way and shrugging. Stacey promptly scooped up the vase and flounced out of the kitchen, but not before yelling “I hate you!” over her shoulder.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, hoping I wouldn’t dig myself in even deeper by bursting into tears. Too bad I couldn’t repeat the out-of-body experience from Audre’s party. Remembering
that
disaster, I felt another tug of grief.
Strike two
. What was
wrong
with me? Why did Rosamund’s risky stunts always run so smoothly, so neatly? And why were
all
of mine flopping?
I turned back to my book group, defeated. There was a long silence as James, Neil, and Francesca gawked at me and Scott and Audre exchanged mournful glances. Nobody was even pretending to look at their copies of
The Devil Wears Prada
. Apparently, my train wreck of an existence was much more interesting than high fashion and the bitchy people who work at magazines.
“That was my sister,” I finally said, as if that explained things.
“But why did you let her take the bouquet?” Francesca asked, still looking suspicious.
I sighed and set down my “real” bouquet. A wave of fatigue washed over me. I didn’t have the slightest energy to invent another lie.
“It’s a long story,” I replied with a sigh.
And that, I realized, was
all
it was. A story. Rosamund’s story. What had I been
thinking?
I couldn’t follow in the footsteps of a
fictional character
. Of course Rosamund’s plans ended up successful—she wasn’t real! There are no evil little sisters or teasing boys or random mishaps in romance novels. But life is rife with that stuff. Life is not fiction, and fiction is not life, and I needed to stop confusing the two.
Francesca resumed the fascinating
Devil
discussion (“Let’s talk about the use of shoes, okay, guys?”) and the rest of the group turned their attention to her. But I dropped my chin in my hands, spacing out and wondering if I should give Rosamund a breather. So far, she’d brought me nothing but humiliation—which I could have achieved fine on my own, without her help. The Rosamund plan had only taken my natural ability to embarrass myself and multiplied it by a thousand. Ever since I’d begun the wild schemes, I’d lost all sense of reason. The only thing
To Catch a Duke
would catch me, it seemed, was a spot in the crazy house.
I studied James across the table—his long-fingered hands, soulful lips, and blue eyes—and, heart aching, accepted that there was no point in pursuing him anymore. I’d tried, and failed. Rosamund and Lorenzo would simply go back under my bed, where they belonged. I’d simply wait for the book group to end, and my crush on James to run its course, kind of like a high fever.
Ten
Spring fever. It usually sets in around May, and this year’s case was stronger than ever. Why? Three little letters: SAT.
The exam itself was a hellish Saturday morning full of headaches and hand cramps that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Then a few agonizing weeks later came the tense Wednesday when our scores were posted online.
Clutching hands in the Millay computer lab, Audre and I held our respective breaths as our respective pages loaded. When the scores came up, we both shrieked, but for different reasons. We
both
did better than expected, which was a giant relief for me, but a huge letdown for Audre. As twisted as it sounds, she was literally
hoping
to get a really bad score so she could avoid the whole Yale issue with her parents. Meanwhile,
my
euphoria at scoring higher than a four hundred on the math section lasted until homeroom, when my teacher reminded me that I had my sure-to-be-awful follow-up meeting with Ms. Bliss the next day. I’d written the appointment down on my calendar at home ages ago, but had since pushed the whole thing out of my mind. Somehow, I suspected Ms. Bliss would find a way to shoot down my good score.
Stressed, Audre and I decided to treat ourselves to a movie after school. There was a Japanese film showing at the Angelika, this trendy theater near Millay that’s always showing foreign and indie films. Since Scott was out on a blind date with some guy Ha-Jin had set him up with, Audre invited her brother along to fill the “boy” slot. Langston was done with college for the year, and his girlfriend was living in London for the summer, so he was totally available.
Which was a nice treat. Even though Langston is practically the brother I never had, I still think he’s drool-worthy, and extremely smart.
While we were sitting in the theater, waiting for the previews to start, I was asking Langston all the college questions I’m usually too timid to ask Griffin.
I was crossing my legs and just getting to “What’s your favorite course?” when Audre leaned across Langston to poke me in the arm.
“Could we
not
talk about college for two seconds?” she grumbled. “I swear, I get it enough at home.” She pulled her wallet out of her green patent leather hobo bag. “It’s always ‘Langston takes the best classes at Yale’ and ‘You know, when
Langston
was a high school junior, he spent twelve hundred and fifty hours on his homework every night.’”
I giggled, because Audre had just done a pitch-perfect imitation of her dad.
Langston laughed too, his big brown eyes twinkling. “Oh, Aud. You know it doesn’t make any difference. You’re still our parents’ favorite.”
“Uh-huh,” Audre muttered. She jumped up and brushed past us into the aisle. “I’m getting popcorn.”
This was a bad sign; Audre usually thinks movie theater popcorn is junk and only eats it when she’s royally pissed. I watched her walk off, and turned back to Langston with a sigh.
“Excuse the sibling rivalry,” he said, grinning.
“Please,” I said. “I’m an expert.” Stacey and I had been avoiding each other ever since our kitchen smackdown in April. My sister was all wrapped up in her gooey reunion with Dylan. And, after putting an end to my Rosamund schemes, I had thrown myself into homework and rereading
Bitter Ironies
for our last session—which was that coming weekend.
“Besides,” I added, “Audre’s just upset about the SATs and the whole culinary school issue.”
And the fact that she hasn’t seen Griffin since he left her party with that Eva chick
. I didn’t say that, though; Audre hadn’t told Langston about her love for Griffin—we keep our boy matters private from him. “It’s a hard time for
all
of us juniors,” I mused aloud, leaning back in my seat. “Because we know all this change is coming soon.”
“You’re so insightful, Norah,” Langston said, studying me. “I think you’re really going places. Audre told me about this book group you started, and it sounds like a success.” He patted my arm.
“Going places?” I repeated, blushing a little. I know Langston has a girlfriend and all, but getting attention from a luscious guy like him is still flattering. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the group was anything but a success, so I stalled, feeling the subway rumble beneath my feet. That’s one of the cool quirks of the Angelika—it’s built right above the Broadway-Lafayette subway station, so the trains roaring underneath you kind of add to the whole moviegoing experience.
I was about to change the subject and ask Langston if he found the subway thing pleasant (as I did) or distracting (as Audre did) when I heard James’s voice coming from the back of the theater.
Yes.
James
.
Positive I was losing my mind, I turned in my seat and saw him coming down the aisle. He wore a hoodie under a denim jacket, and his dark hair was rumpled; he looked scrumptiously scruffy.
But James didn’t live or go to school in the city—why was he here? Then I noticed the girl at his side, and my heart jumped. Was James on a
date?
The girl looked about fourteen, and she had shoulder-length dark brown hair and big blue eyes.
She was a double of James.
I relaxed.
Of course
. She had to be his
sister
, the one he’d mentioned taking to dance class. And right behind them came a man and woman. The woman had James’s blue eyes, and the man his tall, slender frame and dark hair. James’s parents. They looked youngish and hip—the dad in a leather jacket, and the mom in a belted denim coat that I completely would have worn. They were probably editors or journalists or, at the very least, people who liked to read novels and
not
science journals. Lucky James. It all made sense now; the fun, smart Roth family was on a movie outing together. I watched the family approach, and then I realized that James would see me at any second. I stiffened.
“Norah, are you okay?” Langston tapped my shoulder. “What are you staring at?”
When I turned back to face Langston, I noticed that he still had one hand on my arm from before. His other hand was now on my shoulder. To someone who didn’t know better, it would almost look like he was putting his arms around me. And Audre’s seat was still empty. Langston and I could easily have been a couple on a date.
Before I could stop it, my mind leaped to Rosamund, and her impressive step number three: pretending that her handsome brother-in-law, Fitzgerald, was her beau.