Authors: Aimee Friedman
“Isn’t Langston just the best?” I heard Audre’s mom, Mrs. Legrand, say. “He reserved us a room at the hotel in New Haven.” She was floating regally down the stairs, and Mr. Legrand was behind her, carrying their bags. They were going to visit Langston at Yale that weekend, conveniently leaving the brownstone to Audre for the party. Needless to say, the Legrands are very cool in this way; my parents would barely understand what a “party” was, let alone let me throw one alone in the house.
The Legrands are only
not
cool when they’re shooting down Audre’s dreams of her own pastry empire. Which was happening that very moment.
“Honey, this looks lovely, but perhaps you’ve gone overboard,” Mrs. Legrand was saying, hands on her impressive hips as she met Audre at the table. Audre is curvy in a cute/sexy way, but Mrs. Legrand looks as if she may have enjoyed one too many mini éclairs. She swept her chubby, chocolate-colored hand across the living room and sighed dramatically. After school that day, Audre and I had strung white and silver streamers and lit cinnamon-scented candles; the place was absolutely party-ready. “I hope you took some time to finish your homework,” Mrs. Legrand added worriedly.
“Mom, it’s Friday,” Audre grumbled, smoothing out the glittery white tablecloth she’d sewn herself. “I’ll do it on Sunday at midnight, like always.”
Mr. Legrand, who is as short and thin as Mrs. Legrand is, well, grand and imposing, cleared his throat as he walked by Audre with the bags. “That’s not a wise idea, Audre. You know what an important time of year this is. I’m sure Norah is doing all she can to prepare for college.” He turned to beam at me and I blushed. It’s a rule: Parents pretty much always seem to prefer your best friend to you.
I shrugged. “Well, not really,” I mumbled, feeling guilty. It was true that, since starting the book group, I’d felt more inspired to get all my homework done and even—
shudder
—study a little more. But I still wasn’t exactly a role model for college prep.
After Audre’s parents left, calling over their shoulders that we shouldn’t break anything, Audre stormed back toward the kitchen, fuming.
“Homework,” she muttered to herself. “That’s the
last
thing on my mind! I have to make sure my pies haven’t burned before the guests arrive.”
I also had other—but different—things on my mind. My book of Shakespeare sonnets—fake love letter included—was sitting on the coffee table, worrying me. While Audrea and I had been decorating that afternoon, I’d spilled the whole Rosamund scheme to my best friend. When I was finished, Audre had put down her streamer, raised one eyebrow, and asked, “You
do
realize how much can go wrong?”
So now I was worried
and
dead tired. A tip: When you’re about to go after the boy of your dreams, do not—I repeat, do not—stay up all night. I felt like a zombie and didn’t think I looked much better, even in my favorite green belted dress and cowboy boots.
I was reaching down to pick up the book of sonnets—just to make sure my note was doing okay—when the doorbell rang. “Nors, can you get it?” Audre hollered from the kitchen. Assuming it was Tuesday or Olivia—or maybe even Scott, sneaking away from the Spring Formal—I tucked the book under my arm and hurried across the living room.
“Who’s up for a party?” I asked, flinging the door open.
My entire book group was standing on Audre’s doorstep.
“Uh, I am?” Neil offered, grinning. He seemed more relaxed than usual, and didn’t look half bad, in a yellow Polo shirt and jeans. He gestured to Francesca, Griffin, and (gulp) James beside him. “Hope it’s cool we all came together.” Neil added. “I figured you, Audre, and Scott would do your own thing, so I e-mailed everyone else.”
“That’s fine,” I said, my cheeks already hot.
No! Not fine!
James wasn’t supposed to show up
now
. I needed more time to rehearse and get tipsy on white wine before I whipped out some love letter action.
Then I noticed that there were a few new faces among the four I already knew. Standing next to Griffin was a petite girl with a shiny black bob, short bangs, and pearl-framed vintage-y glasses. She had the hipster look of most NYU students, so I figured she was a college friend—or more, perhaps? Standing behind James was a chubby, teddy bear-ish boy who I recognized from the pool game James had pointed out at Art House.
“This is our friend Theo,” Neil said, pointing to the new guy as everyone came inside.
I nodded, smiling, but Theo was too busy staring at Francesca, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.
Francesca had also brought a friend along; she was linking arms with a girl who had a mass of curly dark blond hair and wore a metallic silver strapless dress under a furry black shrug—a Plum all the way.
“And this is
my
friend,” Francesca said smugly, stepping past me into the foyer. “Mimi.”
Mimi rolled her eyes as a way of saying hello. “Why did you drag me out to Brooklyn?” I heard her whine to Francesca, who immediately starting apologizing.
I can’t even tell you how freaky it was to see Francesca at her most glam—silky, spaghetti-strap tank, sleek cropped black pants, long silver earrings—and remember the awkward girl in the photo. Were they really the same person? How had she changed so much? And why? I observed Francesca carefully as she followed Mimi to the food table, asking, “What can I get you?” in a breathless voice. It was obvious Mimi was the queen bee, and Francesca her little lapdog. Audre was going to
love
seeing Francesca act so wussy.
And then I got it—or at least some of it: Mimi must have been a brand-new friend, part of the trendy crowd Francesca had fought to join after she’d shed her turtlenecks and glasses—and, most likely, her old friends. I suddenly recognized Francesca’s type—we had them at Millay, too: Wannabe Plums, girls who’d managed to pull themselves out of the unpopular pit but still remained on the outskirts of the cool clique. It made me feel almost sorry for Francesca; there had to be heaps of insecurity beneath her bitchy attitude.
“Here ya go, Norah,” Griffin said, breaking into my thoughts and handing me a six-pack of Stella Artois. “This is Eva, a friend of mine from school,” he added, lightly touching the petite, dark-haired girl on the small of her back. She nodded at me.
So she is an NYU student
, I thought. But was she really just a “friend”? Hmm. With Griffin, one never knew. I’d have to alert Audre about this latest development.
“I’m glad you could make it,” I told Griffin truthfully, accepting the beer. Audre had been crushed when her crush had replied to her Evite with a “maybe,” claiming he had to cram for an art history exam. His being here would make her night,
even
if this Eva chick
was
in the picture.
He shrugged. “Hey, dude. Naturally. I couldn’t pass up this chance to see—” He suddenly stopped, like he didn’t want to say anything else. His sun-kissed face flushed a little and he glanced down. Was ever-cool Griffin …
blushing?
To see who?
I wondered. It had to be Audre. Maybe he
did
like her! I felt a spark of excitement. But if that was the case, why would he bring another girl to her party?
“So where are your other thirds?”
Griffin asked as Eva—who hadn’t said a word—wandered off toward the food table.
“You mean Audre and Scott?” I asked, laughing. “Aud is off being the perfect hostess. And Scott’s at our rival event—Millay’s Spring Formal.” I made a face and Griffin chuckled.
“Listen, I should go find Eva,” he said, squeezing my arm in his patented
I’m-not
-really-
flirting-with-you-am-I?
Griffin way. “You’ll have to excuse her. She’s—get this—not supposed to talk for a full weekend as part of this performance art class she’s taking. When I told a bunch of my friends about this party, Eva said she wanted to come along to ‘challenge’ herself.” Griffin made air quotes with his fingers and crinkled up his perfect, freckly nose.
I nodded, curious. I agreed with Griffin’s cynical take on Eva’s whole vow-of-silence act, but I wondered: If he
was
dating Eva, would he poke fun at her like that? It didn’t seem to be Griffin’s style. But before I could find out the truth, the doorbell rang again. And again. Kids started pouring in and soon the party was in full swing, everyone sampling Audre’s treats, gossiping in big circles, and dancing in small groups throughout the living room.
For the first hour, I was busy catching up with the friends I’d had less time for since the book group began. Sipping sparkling white wine, I listened as Ha-Jin and Stephanie—assistant editors on the yearbook—complained about layouts and pesky photographers, and a newly recovered Olivia described the hellishness of mono. Tuesday, it turned out, was back on the outs with her boy toy—at least until he flew her to Cabo again. As we were wrapping up our chat, my eyes roamed across the room until I saw James. He was sitting on the Legrands’ sofa, eating a mini éclair alongside Francesca, Neil, and Theo. He didn’t see me.
Now or never
. My pulse racing, I told Tuesday and the other girls that I had “something important” to do. Then I finished my glass of wine in a gulp. I’m not a big drinker, and that combined with zero sleep made my head feel very fuzzy—which maybe wasn’t a bad thing. Praying to Rosamund for strength, I walked across the living room with the book still under my arm and sat in an armchair facing the sofa.
James lifted his chin toward me in, yes, another one of those frustrating boy nods. I nodded back, noticing how his blue shirt matched his eyes. “Hey, Norah, we were just talking about Philippa Askance,” he said shortly. He didn’t smile or in any way show that he remembered our moment in front of her house. I was much too antsy to respond.
“Her agent says she’s crazy,” Neil chimed in, balancing an empty plate on his lap. “Like, she promises to do lots of readings but always bails at the last minute.”
“I heard that too,” Theo added as he not-too-subtly tried to peek down Francesca’s silky top.
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen to us,” I finally managed to say, thinking that, at this point, the Philippa reading was the only thing holding our group together.
Meanwhile, Francesca was giving me a slow, snotty once-over, definitely scrutinizing my outfit.
“Where’s Mimi?” I asked her, putting my Shakespeare book in my lap.
Aren’t you lost without your leader?
I wanted to add.
Francesca pointed to the far corner. “There,” she said curtly.
I turned to see Mimi on a love seat, seriously fooling around with Jorge Marquez, one of Derek Dawson’s hot soccer friends. Derek himself was standing next to the love seat, looking depressed as he gazed around the living room; he was probably searching for Audre.
“Oh,” I said, facing Francesca again. So
that
was why she was stuck over on the couch with the dynamic trio of Neil, James, and Theo. But why wasn’t she with Griffin? Unless he was off making out with Eva (she wouldn’t have to break her vow of silence for
that
). Oh, God. I could just imagine Audre finding the two of them in Langston’s bedroom. That would be, well, not fun.
Francesca narrowed her eyes at the Shakespeare in my lap. “Norah, Norah, Norah,” she said, and then giggled. “You accessorized with a book! You know, you strike me as just the kind of girl who would do that.”
Really? And you strike me as just the kind of girl who would win the Columbia University City-Wide High School Physics Contest but then pretend you’re a ditz
.
Audre would have said that, but I held back.
And realized that Francesca had just given me my opening.
I held up the book, hoping to seem casual even though my knees were semi-knocking together. “My Shakespeare sonnets? Yeah, I carry this around with me sometimes just, you know—for inspiration.” This was a lie; I’d had to read some sonnets for English class last year, but hadn’t spend much time with Shakespeare since. As I spoke, I gave the book a little shake. My letter didn’t budge.
“Shakespeare sonnets?” James echoed, giving me a funny look.
“Ooh, read one out loud!” Francesca gushed. “It’ll be
sooo
romantic.” Was it my imagination or was she making googly eyes at … Neil? Or maybe Theo—I couldn’t tell. She must have been drunk, I figured, or trying to make Griffin jealous—wherever he was.
Did I have a choice? My fingers trembling, I flipped through the pages until I came to a random sonnet.
I read: “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds—’” Theo snickered, but I kept going: “‘Admit impediments. Love is not love which alters—’”
I stopped, blushing. “Forget it,” I muttered, hurriedly turning the page. Bad choice. Saying the word “love” in front of, well, the boy you love is a tad embarrassing. But as I hurriedly turned the page in search of another sonnet, my stubborn letter
finally
slipped out and tumbled to the floor.
It landed on the toe of my cowboy boot, so I gave it a discreet kick and it shot across the rug, stopping at the heels of James’s Skechers. Goal!
Too bad you can’t play soccer with love letters; I might actually be a good athlete, then.
James didn’t notice the letter. Nobody did. It sat there, a little white square of paper, waiting for its big moment.
Look down!
I silently urged James, but he was busy with his mini éclair. I barely listened as Francesca babbled on about her recent trip to Bloomingdale’s. Then I heard her say, “Do you think another cupcake will make me
fat?
” She pinched her nonexistent hips and pouted at Neil and Theo, who were both about to drool. She must have adored tormenting boys like them.