Authors: Aimee Friedman
“The weirdest thing,” I said, pointing to Neil in the photo, “is that Mister Lord of the Rings won the same contest.”
“Which explains why he asked if he knew her on the first day.” Audre nodded. “But why did she ignore him?”
“
Obviously
she’s
ashamed
of her geeky past. Wouldn’t you be?” I reached for another cupcake. “Anyway, this explains so much: her going to Dartmouth, how she slipped up about that sci-fi book, why she’s always so defensive….”
Plus, I realized, Hamilton Prep is this snooty private school on the Upper West Side. Suddenly I remembered Francesca telling Scott that she went to school “uptown,” but not offering more info. That, too, added up.
Audre was flashing her dimples uncontrollably. “I
almost
feel bad for how I’ve treated her. Imagine the stress of hiding a secret like that … not to mention all the painful eyebrow tweezing.” She giggled, then glanced at me. “Oh my God! Do you think Griffin knows?”
“Probably not. Didn’t she say they met this past fall? By then she must have fabuloused herself up. I mean, he
did
say she was smart, but come on—Griffin wouldn’t go for her in that turtleneck, would he?”
Audre flapped the photo in the air. “I’m not one for blackmail, but—”
“Audre Antonia Legrand!” I threw a pillow at her.
“Joking,” she said, tossing the photo down. “The mere
knowledge
of this puppy will make me
so
happy when I see her at the party tomorrow night.”
“I can’t believe you invited the whole group,” I groaned. “I’m not emotionally prepared to see … well, you know.”
Audre rolled her eyes. “Nors, you’re being silly. Just call James up and ask him out. Say ‘I’d really like to get to know you better.’ Or tell him you like him! Anything! Be proactive, baby.” She leaned back against my pillows, still casting smiles down at the Francesca photo.
I let Audre’s advice sink in. This was a novel idea for me.
Telling
the boy I liked that I … liked him? Madness! I’d never in a million years do it. Audre, on the other hand, is all about seizing the day. Except she doesn’t always take her own advice. “Well, why don’t
you
do something about Griffin?” I shot back.
Audre’s cheeks reddened. “It’s different. He’s in college and all. And there’s the whole
is-he-or-isr’t-he?
with Francesca. But James is this, like,
reality
, Nors. He’s kind of sexy—in a dorky way—he’s practically your soul mate, and he clearly has some feelings for you—”
“Wrong on two counts,” I cut in. “Maybe we connected over books, but that does
not
make him my soul mate.” I knew I was lying even as I spoke. “Besides, I don’t believe in that gushy stuff.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Audre said.
“And he doesn’t like me, Audre. I mean, he could’ve kissed me after Philippa left, right? Or e-mailed me. He had his chances.” I sighed, my previous excitement about Francesca morphing into misery. “It’s hopeless.”
Audre snatched an uneaten cupcake from my hand. “I need that for tomorrow,” she chided, then slung an arm around me. “Nors, believe me,” she insisted. “You’re making a mistake if you don’t at least try to pursue James.”
I knew she had a point; I wasn’t going to get over James any time soon, and I was fed up with always pining after boys—with zero results.
“But I’m a total coward,” I admitted with a shrug. “I won’t make the first move. And I’m
awful
at flirting. So what am I supposed to do if I want to get him?”
After Audre left and I’d slogged through my homework, I washed up, changed into my pj’s, and, at long last, climbed into bed with
To Catch a Duke
.
I lay back against my pillows and admired the cover: In a fancy ballroom, a dark-eyed girl with flowing brown hair, wearing a cream-colored gown, gazes into the intense blue eyes of a gentleman in riding breeches and a vest. I’m such a sucker for this stuff it worries me. Still, I’ll take these books over
The Devil Wears Prada
any day. I’d read that earlier in the week, and had found it pretty vapid and shallow—the perfect choice for (the “new”) Francesca.
Without wasting another second, I took a breath, opened
To Catch a Duke
, and dug in.
Dark-haired, slender Rosamund Billingsworth whirled about, tears pricking her amber-brown eyes. “It’s not fair, Mother!” she cried in anguish. “Why should I suffer at the hands of love only because we are poor?
”
“Yes, why?” I whispered, snuggling deeper under the covers, reading away.
The story went like this: Rosamund met Lorenzo, a hot blue-eyed Italian duke, at a neighbor’s winter ball. They danced, flirted, and almost made out—but then Lorenzo blew her off big-time. A heart-broken Rosamund knew it was because of her pathetic social standing. So she decided to make Lorenzo fall hopelessly in love with her … by pretending to be the most desirable woman in all of England. Gripped by suspense, I read on as Rosamund concocted a range of ingenious man-getting schemes. But even as I was getting close to the end (and the clock was getting close to 4 a.m.),
nothing
seemed to be working—until Lorenzo discovered that Rosamund was pursuing his friend, Count Alberto:
“Oh, Rosamund,” Lorenzo murmured, striding toward her with the same bold, manly confidence that had first caught her eye. His black hair glimmered in the sunlight and his piercing azure eyes burned. “If you love Alberto, I shall surely perish, for then there will be no hope in my universe.”
“I do not love Alberto,” Rosamund whispered, trembling at Lorenzo’s impassioned words. “Nor any of the other men you have seen me with in town. It was all pretense.”
Lorenzo stopped before her, and lightly brushed a finger across her ruby-red lips. “For whose benefit?” he asked, his voice smooth as satin
.
“Yours,” Rosamund confessed, her bosom heaving
.
“And this,” Lorenzo replied, sliding a strong arm about Rosamund’s slim waist, “is for
your
benefit.”
He lowered his head and ravaged her mouth with a kiss so fiery Rosamund was certain she would melt. She returned his kiss, relishing the feel of his lips and his tongue, and the firm touch of his hands as they slid up and down her supple body. She wrapped herself around him as their kisses grew wilder, their hands more wanton
.
Lorenzo reluctantly drew back, his breathing ragged. He caressed Rosamund’s face, his eyes aflame with tenderness
.
“Dear Rosamund,” he whispered. “I cannot bear to see you with another man.”
“There is no other man I want,” Rosamund cried, “if
you
will have me—poor as I am.”
“I care not a whit about your poverty or your name,” Lorenzo declared, drawing her close. “Your beauty, your fierce spirit is worth all the wealth in the world. I love you, Rosamund. I will love you for all eternity.”
“And I love you, Lorenzo,” Rosamund sighed, collapsing in his arms once more.
“Marry me?” Lorenzo asked, holding her tightly.
“Today, if you wish,” Rosamund murmured against his lips
.
“Well,” Lorenzo chuckled. “If that can’t be arranged, perhaps you’ll settle for an early honeymoon?”
And, under the sheltering branches of the leafy green trees, Lorenzo laid Rosamund against a soft blanket of grass. The lovers kissed and caressed as if they were ravenous, and finally consummated the pulsing desire that had simmered between them for so long
.
I shut the book and fell back against my pillow, letting out a satisfied sigh. What an ending! Sure, the writing was a little flowery, but who cared? Rosamund was an awesome character—I totally admired her persistence when it came to going after the guy she wanted.
I sat up in bed, my heart thudding.
The guy she wanted. James
. Audre’s words came back to me:
Be proactive, baby
. She was right. It was time to act. I’d been looking for the best way to pursue James, right? Now I had it, spelled out for me step-by-step by Irene O’Dell! Jealousy is powerful. All I had to do was convince James that I was the most wanted girl in New York City—and next time, he’d be sure to follow through on that kiss.
In a way, I realized, my skin flushing with inspiration, Mrs. Ferber may have helped me out by mentioning other boyfriends. James hadn’t known she was talking about Stacey, so maybe he
already
suspected that I juggled twenty different boys.
Now I just had to confirm that suspicion.
Grabbing my journal, I stretched across my bed and took careful notes on each of Rosamund’s stunts. They were as follows:
1) Before a lavish tea party, she wrote herself a love letter, disguising her handwriting (
Darling Rosamund, I must possess you
). At the party, Rosamund “accidentally” let the note fall out of her book of Shakespeare sonnets and onto Lorenzo3’s expensive shoe.
2) When her pushy parents invited Lorenzo to dine at their manor (I love how in these books, even the poor people live in mansions), Rosamund secretly arranged to have a lavish bouquet from an “admirer” delivered to her door.
3) While strolling in town with her brother-in-law, Rosamund ran into Lorenzo—and pretended said brother-in-law was really a suitor.
4) And finally, the icing on the cake: pretending to love Alberto.
Lying on my stomach, I chewed my pen cap, thinking hard. Weirdly enough, Rosamund’s first step was practically already in place for me. Audre’s dessert party tomorrow (well, today) was
almost
like a tea party. James would be there. I would be there. What better opportunity to let a love letter carelessly flutter to the ground?
And, best of all, since I didn’t live in 1812, I wouldn’t even have to disguise my sloppy handwriting. All I had to do was type!
My skin tingly, I slipped out of bed, bound my hair up in a messy bun, opened my iBook, and started writing.
Dearest, darling Norah
—
Suddenly, I heard heavy footsteps thumping toward the bathroom in the hall and froze. It was Stacey; for someone so dainty, my sister walks like a baby elephant. I wondered if she’d seen the light on in my room, and for a second I felt like a criminal. An
insane
criminal. Who in their right mind wrote themselves a love letter?
Well, whatever. It worked for Rosamund.
When I heard Stacey return to her room, I let out a breath and went back to work.
Dearest, darling Norah
,
How often have I admired your elegance and grace. I long for you deeply
—
No. Horrible. I needed to stop channeling Irene O’Dell and make the letter sound like it came from a normal boy.
Hey N
,
You might not know me, but I think you’re smoking. Your ass looked so hot in those jeans today I almost
—
Okay, but not a gross boy. Someone who’d actually go for me.
Norah
,
This is kind of embarrassing, but I think you’re one of the coolest girls I’ve ever known. And you’re really cute, too
.
I smiled, blushing. This was a nice self-esteem boost.
Figuring my made-up admirer should go to Millay, I added:
I’m in history class with you
. That sounded good; English would be too obvious. I kept going, feeling inspired.
You don’t speak too often, but when you do, it’s really smart. And when you take your dark hair out of its bun and let it swing down your back, I think it’s, well, beautiful. Anyway, you probably have a boyfriend—girls like you are never single. If you think you know who this is, write me back, and tell me if I have a chance with you. I really, really hope so
.
Faithfully yours
,
An admirer
I reread the note on my screen, biting my nails and reviewing the works. The letter seemed to work. It was the right mix of shy-boy awkward and smart-boy poetic. Exactly the kind of love letter I would want to receive. And, hopefully, the kind that would completely fool James.
The early sunlight was painting my walls gold as I printed the letter, folded it, and carefully tucked it into
my
copy of Shakespeare sonnets, which I’d take to Audre’s house that night. Giving up on sleep, I headed out the door for the shower, mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead. Depending on how things went, this could very well be the best night of my life. Or the worst.
Eight
Trying to stay awake, I slipped a Modest Mouse CD into Audre’s player and turned the volume way up just as Audre bumped into me from behind, almost dropping her tray of mini éclairs.
“Watch it!” she cried over the opening chords of the first track. “You’re supposed to be helping,
not
ruining everything.”
“Sorry,” I replied, but it came out as a yawn. Then I stepped out of her warpath. Audre turns into a bit of a lunatic when she’s setting up for a party. I watched as she stomped toward the table in her purple satin pumps and added the éclairs to the mouth-watering spread of goodies and drinks. The bottles of wine on the table were courtesy of Langston, who’d bought them for Audre the last time he was home. He’s the best.