Authors: Aimee Friedman
I beamed, wondering if it would be bad form to hug your guidance counselor. Vassar The funny thing was, after starting the book group, I’d become less obsessed with the idea of college. Yes, I’d still browse through different schools’ Web sites or, sometimes, when I was fighting my way up a crowded staircase at Millay, I’d imagine I was walking up the massive stone steps of a Gothic library instead. But maybe because the book group, the Philippa hunt, and my pursuit of James had been keeping me so busy, I’d stopped feeling like my real life wouldn’t begin until college. The book group had shown me that there was a whole
other
life to be had—even while I was still stuck in high school.
In any case, Ms. Bliss’s declaration still made me shiver with anticipation, and I thanked her profusely.
Ms. Bliss nodded, wished me a “productive” summer (standard guidance counselor speak), and promised we’d meet again in the fall.
“Oh, and, Norah?” Ms. Bliss called from her desk. When I turned around, she was smiling.
“I just wanted to say,” she added, “that you seem … different. You’re not the same girl you were in February.”
I thought back to that rainy Valentine’s Day—back before I’d started the book group, or met James, or read
To Catch a Duke
. I
had
been someone else then, in a way. “Good different or bad different?” I asked warily.
“Good,” she answered. “Definitely good.” She paused. “I think something great is waiting around the corner for you.”
College?
I wondered.
Boyfriends?
I had no idea what she meant. But when I met Audre at the Book Nook that afternoon, I’d have to tell her that Ms. Bliss wasn’t that evil after all.
It felt like a tradition—a post-Bliss gossip session in the Book Nook café. Audre and I grabbed a small table by the window and sipped frozen hot chocolates while sneaking peeks at Griffin, who was working behind the register.
After we’d rehashed my recent triumph, Audre shared two crucial pieces of news. The first was that she
hadn’t
gotten the summer job at Ozzy’s—they’d called her cell that afternoon to say her baking style was too “fancy” for them. The second was that Derek Dawson, her once-scrawny, now sexy, ex had asked her out in gym class.
“What should I do?” she whined, sounding very un-Audre—and very me, actually.
“About Ozzy’s? Forget ’em,” I replied, stepping into
her
usual decisive role. “You can find something even better. And about Derek?” I grinned. “Go for it. Absolutely.”
Audre bent her straw in half, frowning. “Did you notice that this frozen hot chocolate was made with soy milk?” she asked, staring at her drink while I rolled my eyes. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Avoiding the subject. I
know
I should say yes to Derek. But …” She tilted her head toward the register, where Griffin was working alongside Patrick.
“
Still
holding out hope?” I asked, surprised. “Even after Eva and Francesca?”
Audre nodded firmly. “I’m gonna take your advice, Nors,” she whispered. “Well, my advice. On Saturday, at our last book group meeting? I’m just going to walk up to him and say, ‘I like you. A lot. So now choose: me, Eva, or Francesca.’”
“You can always throw Francesca’s physics photo in as an added bonus,” I giggled.
“Hey, if it comes to that.” Audre finished her drink and sat back. “I figure, what do I have to lose? Our group is ending. If I embarrass myself, I just won’t come to the Book Nook ever again. It’s like the last day of school—suddenly, everybody gets brave.”
I nodded. Saturday would be our last session. Who else would be feeling brave that day?
Probably not me.
“Haven’t seen you girls in a while,” Griffin said, strolling up to our table. I swear I think he listens in on our conversations so he can interrupt whenever we talk about him. “I’ve been
swamped
with finals and stuff,” he added, pulling up a chair. “But I’m finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—I’m totally going to party tonight.”
“With who?” Audre asked casually, and I knew she was thinking, as I was:
Eva? Francesca? Some random hot girl in your art history class?
Griffin grinned, his tan fingers playing with his shell necklace. “Just some buddies from my dorm. Anyway, fill me in. What’s the book group scoop?”
“Can I tell him?” Audre asked me with a mischievous smile.
“Tell him what?” I was still distracted, thinking about my bravery, or lack thereof.
Audre gave me a
duh
look. “About your date.” I’d filled Audre in on the Neil portion of the scheme during our subway ride to school that morning.
“Ooh, what date?” Griffin asked, leaning over and jabbing my shoulder, which—surprise—made my face turn red.
“Go for it,” I mumbled. My date wasn’t really a secret. And maybe the more people who knew about it, the sooner it would get to James.
“Its with Neil,” Audre announced. “Tomorrow night. MeKong. Hot stuff, right?” Then she flinched, laughing abruptly, as I threw my straw wrapper at her.
Griffin’s
surf’s up!
smile faded abruptly and he looked at me. “What’s this?
Neil
, from the book group?” He sounded concerned.
Okay, weird. Why did Griffin suddenly care so much about Neil? Or me?
“Are you and him serious?” he was asking. “I mean, I didn’t even know you were into each other that way.”
We’re not
, I wanted to say. But Griffin’s random interest felt so intense that I could barely speak. I glanced at Audre, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
“So … speaking of dates, Nors,” she said, clearly trying to change the subject, “did you get to talk to Scott during math today?”
I nodded, swallowing a mouthful of frozen hot chocolate. Scott and I are in the same ninth period math class. That’s where we usually exchange our crucial information, and one of us fills Audre in later.
“How did his date go?” Audre asked eagerly, leaning forward.
“Scott had a date?” Griffin interrupted. Again, he looked worried. What was his
deal?
He was usually Mr. Mellow—but now he was stressing over the love lives of every book group member?
“Uh … yeah,” I said. I looked back at Audre, who shrugged again. “Anyway, he said it was a major flop. The guy was completely boring and didn’t seem into art or books or movies. They had nothing to talk about.”
“Really?” Griffin asked. “So is Scott—”
“Griff! Hey, man, can you cover for me?”
Patrick was calling from the register, where a curvy redhead—probably his girlfriend—stood waiting.
“Oops, gotta go.” Griffin got to his feet, all smiles again. “See you ladies this Saturday? Should be good times, providing Ms. Askance shows up.”
I nodded, suddenly anxious.
The Book Nook managers sure seemed to think Philippa was showing up. They’d hung a giant poster of her author photo in the window, along with a banner announcing the time of the reading. Stacks of
Bitter Ironies
were on sale at the front of the store, alongside more posters and banners. This was going to the biggest event at the Book Nook—
ever
. And though Philippa’s über-helpful agent and editor were handling the nitty-gritty details, I knew it was also up to the book group to make sure things went off without a hitch. Philippa’s big appearance had been
our
idea, after all. So, if it didn’t work out, we’d be to blame.
But no pressure or anything.
The next night, I was under another kind of pressure. With forty minutes to go until my Neil date, I still hadn’t picked my outfit or dried my hair. Instead, I was locked in the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a robe and trying to shave my legs and brush my teeth at the same time (a terrible idea, by the way).
Really, I shouldn’t have cared how I would look for Neil—
he
wasn’t the boy I wanted. But Neil was just one step away from James. And if guys—like girls—went over all the details of a date with their friends, I’d want Neil to tell James I’d looked—to quote one of my trial love letters—“smoking.” It wasn’t like Rosamund had worn a potato sack when she’d gone to a ball with Alberto.
The problem? I was born without that gene that makes most girls good at primping. Makeup and hair products and eyelash curlers are like alien objects to me. So getting myself together takes about five hours longer than it would for any other girl.
Like, say, my sister.
“Norah!” Stacey pounded her little fist on the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there forever! What’s going on?” Usually,
she
was the one taking forever in the bathroom, but I knew she didn’t have a date tonight; though Stacey and Dylan were still happily together, she had to stay in and study for a French test.
I hadn’t told anyone in my family about my date. Stacey, who I was still pissed at, would only make fun of me. And, knowing my parents, they’d do something totally random, like decide to tag along and wind up chatting with Neil about astrophysics all night.
But as Stacey continued to bang on the door and as I got more and more sweaty and panicked—
Mousse or gel? What’s the difference? And why are both those names so scary?
—I realized shutting Stacey out might not be the answer. This once, my shallow sis could actually help, rather than mess things up.
In a time of need, there’s usually no one better to turn to than your sister—even if you seriously want to shoot her the
rest
of the time.
So, setting down my toothbrush and razor, I unlocked the door, faced Stacey, and said, “Okay, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise not to: (a) tease me, (b) tell Mom and Dad, or (c) force any of your sequined halter tops on me.”
Stacey’s face lit up. “It’s about a boy, isn’t it?”
I felt a twinge of satisfaction. Tonight, I
wasn’t
the lame sister! Now that I had a date, my status was magically elevated in my sisters eyes. And, despite myself, I kind of enjoyed that feeling of being admired.
I gave Stacey the two-second rundown on the date (though I did act as if it were real—not part of a plan stolen from a book), and my lack of primping skills—which she knew about already. Stacey nodded wisely.
“You need help,” she declared. “Bad.”
I shrugged, hating that she was right.
She clapped her hands, all business. “Leave it to me,” she announced, and started dragging me out of the bathroom.
“Hang on,” I said, remembering how she’d dressed me for Langston’s “Come As You Aren’t” party. “Can you, uh, make me look like my normal self? You know, no backless dresses or—”
Stacey groaned, cutting me off. “Who’s the pro here? You or me?”
She got to work, brushing my hair straight and shiny, glossing my lips berry, and carefully lining my eyes. Then she helped me piece together an outfit—a lowslung denim skirt paired with the faux-diamond-studded belt Ms. Bliss had mocked back in February, a V-neck raspberry sweater, and my trusty cowboy boots.
“Wow,” I said, looking in the mirror. I did look like myself—only better. “You
are
a pro.”
“You should wear skirts sometimes—not always jeans,” Stacey advised sagely. “You’ll get more boys if you show off your legs.”
Hmm
, I thought. Stacey was obviously doing something right in life—it wasn’t like
she
had to send herself roses to get some guy’s attention. I knew my sister would inevitably piss me off in the very near future, but, in that small window of time during which we’d get along, maybe I could stand to learn a little bit from her.
As I was heading out the door, suddenly a bundle of nerves, Stacey crammed a pack of Orbit gum into my beaded bag.
“Chew two pieces after dinner,” she warned, as a final piece of dating advice. “Because, chances are, he’s going to kiss you.”
Twelve
Stacey’s words were echoing in my head—and freaking me out—as I walked into MeKong. The candelit restaurant was crowded, and the spicy scents of peanut sauce and lime drifted in from the back kitchen. Neil was at a corner table, reading the menu. He didn’t see me right away, so that gave me a chance to check him out.
My stomach sank; Neil looked good. His wavy black hair was parted on one side and neatly combed. He wore glasses with new, funkier frames, a striped button-down shirt, and khakis. There was no doubt about it: Neil expected action tonight.
Maybe kissing Neil would be a smart move, I thought. Maybe he’d tell James I was a good kisser—I didn’t know if I’d be decent at kissing or not, but really, how hard could it be? Maybe when Neil walked me home, I could even do something bold like reach for his hand or—
Slow down there, Bloom,
I thought as Neil caught my eye and waved. We hadn’t even
eaten
yet and I was already planning our hook-up?
I started for the seat across from him, but Neil leaped up, walked around the table, and pulled the chair out for me. He semibumped into me as he was doing this, so I almost fell, but then he caught my arm and helped me into the chair. I could smell his aftershave—something sharp and spicy. My face was burning. What was with the gentleman stuff? Was this the same
Lord of the Rings
—loving Neil who’d read aloud my letter at Audre’s party?