Authors: Aimee Friedman
“Get a room,” I said under my breath, but I kept watching them. She must have been thanking him for the flowers. Maybe they were going out for a candlelit dinner later. Now his hands were in her hair as their kiss deepened. I was so focused on the couple that I gave a start when the train pulled into my station.
Whatever,
I thought, turning away. That kind of stuff doesn’t get to me. Like I said, I’m not a hopeless romantic. Not at all.
When I got to the Book Nook, I spotted Audre sitting on a plump sofa in the back, pretending to knit a scarf. What she was really doing, of course, was checking out Griffin McCarthy, the hottie who works at the register.
Audre and I are obsessed with the Book Nook, and not only because of Griffin. It’s this adorable bookstore that’s right between our houses. The air smells of fresh coffee beans and the best music is always playing in the background. Today, the Pixies were serenading us. In the front of the store, where I was wringing the rain out of my low ponytail, are rows of shelves spilling over with a crazy mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. The owner’s inkblack cats, who are all named after famous authors, roam around on the bright orange-and-blue rugs. In the back is a small café full of squishy chairs and couches where people sip vanilla cappuccinos and click away on their laptops. Actual writers hang there; I always hoped I would run into Philippa Askance, this Brooklyn punk poetess I worship, but I hadn’t yet.
“You survived,” Audre said as I plopped down beside her. She moved her knitting needles and tangle of yellow yarn aside, then pecked my cheek.
“You changed,” I said, gesturing to her outfit.
To school that day, Audre had worn skinny cords, a purple cowl-neck, and her leopard-print flats. Now she was wearing an off-the-shoulder striped shirt and denim mini over fishnets and fuzzy boots. Her hair was pulled back in a curly dark pouf, big gold hoops dangled from her ears, and the shimmery blush on her cheekbones turned her cocoa-colored skin all glowy. It was obvious she’d made the special effort for Griffin. He doesn’t work at the Book Nook every afternoon, but Audre has his schedule tacked up on the wall in her bedroom so she knows when shell see him.
I’m serious.
“What’s your point?” Audre grinned as she ran her pinkie over her full, glossy bottom lip.
“That you did
not
come here to knit,” I teased. “Have you talked to him yet?” I turned to look at the register, where I’d seen Griffin a second before. Another guy was now in his place, so I glanced toward the coffee counter, where a tattooed girl was tending to some customers. “Hey, Aud, where’d your loverboy go—”
“Norah, Audre. What’s up?” There was no mistaking that deep, slow-as-honey voice. I looked behind me, feeling my cheeks redden. There stood the loverboy in question, holding two steaming mugs and smiling at us from under his mop of shaggy golden hair.
“Griffin!” Audre and I exclaimed at the same instant, then looked at each other and burst into giggles.
Hello, mortification. My name is Norah. Perhaps we’ve met before?
Griffin didn’t seem to notice our girly reaction. He simply set the mugs on the table in front of us and stretched his six-foot surfer’s frame into a chair across from us.
“Two lattes, extra foam. Am I right?” he asked, winking at Audre as he toyed with the shell choker around his neck. Griffin isn’t really my type—the blond California thing doesn’t do it for me—but he still makes my pulse quicken and, like all boys, totally ties my tongue. It doesn’t help that he’s a freshman at New York University, so I’m forever wanting to ask him for the inside scoop on college—but I’m usually too nervous. I figure he wouldn’t bother giving advice to a random high school junior.
“Well, we come here enough,” Audre replied, cool as ever. She is forever poised, even in front of boys she likes. I watched as she lifted one of the mugs and took a long sip, then closed her eyes and tipped her head to one side, getting into what I call her Gourmet Diva Mode. “Mmm. Hazelnut infusion,” she said approvingly.
I sipped the hot, foamy drink. All I tasted was milk and coffee. But that is the difference between Audre and me. Or, actually, between Audre and most high school kids. My best friend already has her life pretty much mapped out: She wants to go to cooking school and become a total domestic goddess, with her own line of pastry cookbooks and a television show—the African-American Nigella Lawson. Meanwhile, I have no idea what I want out of the future—except college. And now even that seemed like a giant question mark.
“
Gracias
.” Griffin gave Audre a slow grin. “Just brewed ’em myself.” The tattooed girl from the coffee counter wiggled past Griffin on her way to the front of the store, and I noticed that he followed her with his eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to work the register?” Audre asked, fluttering her lashes at him. It kills me that my best friend knows how to flirt without ever, to my knowledge, having taken any lessons.
“I’ve got a sweet deal with Patrick,” Griffin replied. “When one of us has friends come in, the other one covers the register.”
I snuck a peek at Audre, knowing she was loving that Griffin had called us his friends. She was trying not to smile, but her deep dimples gave her away. I grinned too.
Griffin was the social butterfly of the Book Nook, chatting up everyone from hipster writers to paint-stained artists. And his NYU buddies—most of them crush-worthy, floppy-haired types—would sometimes drop by for free coffee. It
was
kind of flattering to be included in that circle, and I felt a sudden rush of confidence. If Griffin considered me a friend, there was no harm in asking him a few questions about getting into college. Maybe he would put my mind at ease after the Ms. Bliss fiasco.
I cleared my throat and took off my glasses. “Griffin?” I began. “Did you, um, when you applied to NYU, did you do lots of—”
“Drugs?” Griffin cut me off, his hazel eyes twinkling. He lazily rubbed a hand across the front of his worn blue T-shirt. “Dude, I must have been smoking
something,
because NYU is so not the right school for me.”
“It’s not?” Audre set down her latte with a frown, most likely tortured by visions of Griffin transferring to another city.
Griffin sighed. “It’s a dope place and all, but these New York winters bring me down. Back in Santa Monica, I’d hit the beach with my friends every afternoon. I know it’s messed up, but sometimes I miss high school. You know?”
Audre and I glanced at each other in horrified disbelief.
“You. Are. Crazy,” Audre pronounced, staring at Griffin as if he’d just sprouted another gorgeous head.
“Don’t get us started on high school,” I jumped in, forgetting my nervousness. “Especially
today
. They played these disgusting love songs like ‘I Wanna Be With You’ over the PA system during lunch and—”
“Our English teacher made us watch that lame
Romeo and Juliet
movie—not even the Claire-and-Leo one,” Audre groaned, rolling her eyes. I nodded emphatically. Audre and I have been finishing each other’s sentences since we met in the Prospect Park playground at age four. Griffin watched us with a small smirk, clearly amused.
“Not like English class doesn’t suck on regular days,” I added, and pointed to the stack of shiny paperbacks on the table in front of us. “I mean, there are so many incredible books in the world, and we’re stuck reading dull, creepy stuff like
Heart of Darkness
.” English was a sore point for me; it’s usually my favorite subject, but our junior-year teacher, Mr. Whitmore, was a white-bearded snooze who sucked all the juiciness out of literature and droned on endlessly about grammar.
Griffin chuckled and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you still get assigned boring reading in college.” Then his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Though you know what some of my friends have been into lately? Book groups.”
“Book groups?” I echoed, feeling a pinprick of curiosity.
“As in, like, Oprah?” Audre asked dubiously.
“But more fun,” Griffin replied. “Just some friends getting together over beers once a month to chill and talk about, like,
On the Road
. It’s cool ’cause
you
get to pick the books, not some stodgy teacher.”
Hmm. Book groups. I pictured Audre, Scott, and myself hanging out in Audre’s bedroom, drinking ciders that her older brother Langston would buy for us and debating the new Louise Rennison novel. True, Audre and Scott don’t love to read as much as I do, and we
were
all swamped with school and SAT prep. Plus, Audre had her baking class, while Scott juggled Art Club, Student Council, and a zillion other extracurriculars—
Wait. That was it! I almost spilled my latte as I sat bolt upright.
Start your own club,
Ms. Bliss had said. A book group would count as a real activity, wouldn’t it? I’d need a teacher’s permission to make it official, but any sane adult would okay a club that was all about reading. And talk about showing colleges commitment
and
initiative. Take that, Ms. Bliss!
“Who’s Ms. Bliss?” Griffin asked.
Oh, God. My cheeks burned and I quickly drank more of my latte, hoping to disappear inside the giant mug. Had I spoken those last words
out loud?
One snicker from Audre confirmed my fear.
“Our guidance counselor,” she explained casually. Then she elbowed me in the ribs. “And, Nors, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is a resounding no.”
“Good for you, Psychic Hotline,” I snapped, annoyed that she was so quick to burst my bubble. “So what if I want to start a book group? You’re saying you wouldn’t join?” That
couldn’t
happen; I suck at organizing anything, so I’d need both Audre’s and Scott’s support to get a club off the ground.
Audre crossed her arms over her chest in her favorite you-are-not-changing-my-mind pose. “It’d be like having more homework.”
“Not if you read good stuff,” Griffin pointed out. He eased up out of the chair and stretched his arms above his head, giving us a delicious glimpse of his bare olive stomach. “And hey, you could even hold your meetings here. I’d be happy to bring you guys drinks.”
Aha!
This time, without even looking at Audre, I knew her dimples were showing. If anything was going to convince my stubborn best friend to take part in the group, it would be the chance to see more of her crush.
“I gotta hit the register before my boss finds me,” the object of Audre’s affection announced. “Norah, keep me posted ’bout this book group gig. I don’t have time to join, but a friend of mine might be interested.” When he looked my way, he grinned. Then, without warning, he strolled right up to me, crouched low, and leaned in toward my face.
I froze, and then flushed all over. What was going on? Was Griffin going to kiss me? My very first kiss—here, in the Book Nook? Would Audre get mad? Thank God I’d taken off my glasses, but I wished I’d at least put some Burt’s Beeswax balm on my lips—
“Foam,” Griffin said, wiping my upper lip with his warm thumb. “A danger of latte-drinking.” He winked, stood up, and shot Audre a quick salute. “Later, ladies.”
We sat there in stunned silence for several seconds. Finally, I managed to turn to Audre and say, “He so likes you.”
“Whatever,” Audre replied. “He’s a flirt. With me. With you. With everybody.” She picked up a copy of
Fast Food Nation
from the table and thumbed through it. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I’d be opposed to him serving me drinks….” She glanced at me, her light brown eyes dancing.
Still shaky from the fake-out kiss, I barely dared believe my good luck. “At the book group?” I whispered. “You mean you’ll do it, Aud?” Quickly, I told her about my face-off with Ms. Bliss and how starting the group could be my last hope.
“If it’ll help you with college stuff, I’m there,” Audre said firmly when I was finished. She squeezed my arm. “Consider me your second in command. I can even provide the snacks.” Then she grinned wickedly. “And maybe that friend Griffin mentioned can provide the extra eye candy.”
My heart fluttered for an instant.
Would
one of Griffin’s NYU friends really join? That
could
be a nice bonus. I hadn’t considered that, in addition to scoring me points with Ms. Bliss, this new club might improve my love life.
But, no. Good books and cute boys all at once?
While I was still in high school?
Not possible.
Two
“Oh … my … God! Mom! Help me, Mom,
please
!”
When I walked into my brownstone, I heard my thirteen-year-old sister’s hysterical screams from upstairs. A stranger might think she’d injured herself, but I knew not to worry. I shut the door and noticed a note posted to the back, scrawled in my mother’s messy handwriting:
Don’t forget to lock me in the morning.
I should probably explain about my parents. They’re completely brilliant, and completely insane. My dad is a physics professor at Columbia University, and my mom is a research biologist. They’re forever misplacing things, forgetting to lock the door, and sometimes forgetting they have two daughters—who both suck at science.
My sister, Stacey, careened down the stairs, almost colliding with me. Her curly dark hair was pinned up to her head, and she wore her fluffy bathrobe and platform flip-flops.