Authors: Aimee Friedman
“You’re right on time,” Francesca breathed, smiling at James. Was she
flirting
with him? Maybe she’d noticed his secret hotness too. But wasn’t she more into Griffin? “I was just about to give my ideas for the next meeting,” she added coyly.
Who asked you?
I thought. We hadn’t even discussed the first book yet. I felt it in the pit of my stomach: Things were going downhill, and fast.
Tossing her hair, Francesca unfolded a pink piece of paper and carefully read out loud: “
The A-List, The Au Pairs, Summer Boys, South Beach, Sloppy Firsts, The Devil Wears Prada
—”
“Whoa,” I cut in, taken aback by her chick-lit bonanza. I thought I saw James glance at me and smile, but then he went back to reading the paper.
Francesca narrowed her eyes. “Are you making fun of me, Norah?”
“No, but you just listed like a million books!” I replied, rolling my eyes. Paranoid much?
Audre, who was already in a pissy mood after seeing Griffin quickly kiss Francesca on the lips when she’d arrived that day, crossed her arms over her chest, her red plastic bracelets clinking together. “You mean you actually care what we read?” she asked Francesca.
Oh, boy. Here we went again.
Francesca’s gray eyes blazed. “
Excuse me
?”
“How about
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
?” Neil piped up, still clinging to his sci-fi dreams.
“I’ve read that already,” Francesca said distractedly, clearly eager to get back to Audre. Then her cheeks turned pink and she glanced quickly at Neil. “Or
not
,” she added snidely. “Why would I bother with some ridiculous book about
androids
?”
I studied Francesca, wondering why she’d snapped at Neil so abruptly.
But Audre didn’t seem to notice; she was on a roll. “We all know why you
really
joined this group,” she told Francesca.
Francesca’s normally tan skin looked paler than usual as she turned back to Audre. “What … are you … talking about?” she whispered.
“You joined for college, right?” I jumped in, hoping to stop Audre before she went off on a Griffin rant. “I mean, to put on your record? That’s why I—”
“No,” Francesca replied curtly. “I already got in early to Dartmouth.”
Dartmouth?
How? Had she slept with the admissions officer?
Then, for a crazy second, I wondered if Francesca had been sentenced to this book group by some vindictive guidance counselor. Maybe she’d gotten into trouble at school and this was her punishment—a kind of community-outreach to geeks.
“Please. The real reason is Griffin,” Audre spat. “All you care about is getting your claws into—”
“I heard my name.”
Griffin, forever the master of bad timing, appeared, carrying a bunch of steaming coffee mugs. He set them down and stole a piece of chocolate bark from Audre. “How are my favorite book lovers?” he asked with a wide smile.
All of a sudden I felt like crying. Griffin had been so sweet helping me start the group, and now the whole thing was going down the toilet. Nobody liked the first book. Scott was too busy. Francesca and Audre were going to strangle each other. Neil only lived for sci-fi. And James … James was weird and unpredictable, and my crush on him was only going to lead to disaster when he inevitably rejected me.
I made an executive decision.
“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.