Y S C H M N I F A
F I
T
D
T
PUBLI SHER’S NOTE: This is a work of ficti PUBLISHER’S fiction. on. Names, characters, charac ters, places, place s, and incidents inciden ts are eith either er the produ product ct of the author’s author ’s imag imaginati ination on or used fictitious fictit iously, ly, and any resem resemblanc blance e to actual persons, person s, living or dead dead,, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names : Schm Names: Schmidt, idt, Tiffany, auth author. or. Title: The boy next story stor y : a Book Bookish ish boyfriends boyfri ends novel / Tiffa Tiffany ny Schmidt. Descript Desc ription: ion: New York York : Amule Amulett Paper Paperback backs, s, 2019. | Summ Summar ary: y: “Rory likess Toby, like Toby, but Toby Toby likes Rory’s Ror y’s sister Merrilee Mer rilee,, even though Merrile Mer rilee e is already alrea dy dating Toby Toby’s ’s frie friend nd Fielding—and Fielding —and it’s all about to get even more complica comp licated ted at Reginald R. Hero High”—Provided High”—Prov ided by publ publisher. isher. Identifiers Ident ifiers:: LCCN 2018038523 2018038 523 (print) | LCCN 2018043439 2018043 439 (ebook) | ISBN 9781683354895 (All Ebooks) | ISBN 9781419734366 (paperback) Subjects Subj ects:: | CYAC: High schools—Fic school s—Fiction. tion. | Scho Schools— ols—Fictio Fiction. n. | Dati Dating ng (Social customs)—Fiction. customs)—Ficti on. | Books and reading—Fiction. | Sisters—Fiction. Classific Clas sificatio ation: n: LCC PZ7.S PZ7.S3563 3563 (ebook) (ebook ) | LCC PZ7.S3563 PZ7.S35 63 Boy 2019 (print) (pri nt) | DDC [Fic]—dc23 [Fic]—dc2 3 Text copyright copyr ight © 2019 Tiffany Schmidt Lettering copyright © 2019 Danielle Da nielle Kroll Book design desig n by Hana Anouk Anou k Nakam Nakamura ura Publ ished Publishe d in 2019 by Amulet Books, an imprint imprin t of ABRAMS ABRAMS.. All rights reserved. reser ved. No por portion tion of this book may be repro reproduce duced, d, stored store d in a retrieval retriev al system, or transmitte trans mitted d in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, photocopying , recording, or otherwis otherwise, e, without written permissio permission n from the publisher. Print ed and bound in U.S.A Printed U.S.A.. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Amul et Book Amulet Bookss are available availab le at special discounts discou nts when purch purchased ased in quan quantity tity for premiums premium s and promotions promoti ons as well as fundr fundraisi aising ng or educa education tional al use. Special Spec ial editions can also be created to spec specifica ification. tion. For deta details, ils, contact contac t
[email protected] specialsales @abramsbooks.com om or the address below. Amulet Amul et Books® is a regis registered tered trademark tradem ark of Harry N. Abram Abrams, s, Inc.
FOR AL L THE OLD ER SISTERS W H O L E A D T H E W AY A N D A L L THE YOUN GER S ISTERS WHO BLAZE THEIR OWN TRAILS. ALSO, FOR RASC AL �MY SNUG GLY TO D D L E R S I D E K I C K .
“SHE PRE FERR ED IMAGINA RY HEROES TO REAL ONES . . .” —Louisa —Lou isa May Alcot Alcott, t, Little Women
1
I
wasn’t one of those artists who thought you had to be a tortured tur ed soul to create. creat e. I cou could ld con concen centrat trate e on a pai painti nting ng while still sti ll remember remem bering ing to eat eat,, sle sleep, ep, and shower. show er. I lik liked ed both my earss where they ear the y were, so there ther e was no ris risk k of me going goi ng Van Van
Gogh Go gh,, an and d I wa wass ju just st as in insp spir ired ed when when I wa wass in a go good od mood mood as
when I was in a funk. But if I did require torture, I was pretty sure driving to school sch ool with the boy I lov loved— ed—and and the girl he loved—qualified. Especiall Espe cially y when the girl he loved was my siste sister. r. “Rory, come on,” Merrilee called from the front hall. “ Toby oby’s ’s bee beeped ped twice. twic e.”” For the first two weeks of school, I’d been the one nudging her—and helpfully reminding her about things like coats,, back coats backpacks, packs, and the annoy annoying ing crossover-tie crossove r-tie part of our uniform—but Merri had a whole new motivation for Hero High mornings: The faster she got out the door, the sooner she got to see her boyfriend, boyfrie nd, Fielding Willi Williams. ams. Have I mentioned she was oblivious to Toby’s feelings? And oblivio obli viousl usly y nev never er shut up abo about ut how happy happ y she was, dating his friend.
2 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
“Come on! Come on!” she called from the open shotgun seatt of Toby sea oby’s ’s car. “ Toda oday’s y’s the day Fielding Field ing’s ’s wea wearin ringg the socks soc ks I picke pic ked d out for fo r him him..” Thatt did Tha didn’t n’t me mean an any anythi thing ng to me. Merri, Merr i, my oldest oldes t old older er sister sis ter Lilly, Lil ly, and I had gone out for manicure mani curess two nights nigh ts ago so Merri Mer ri could coul d fill us in on her newest new est boyfri boy friend end.. But if she’d sai said d something about socks, I’d missed it. Or it’d happened while I was in the bathroom. I was still surprised I’d been invited at all. Mom always said that three was the hardest number for including people—“It’s all points and corners”—and the defaul def aultt duo in our house hous e was Mer Merri ri plus Lil Lilly. ly. Fielding was an impressive upgrade from Merri’s first emo-jerk ex, Monroe expelled-from-school-already Stratford, but I had no idea why she was excited about his socks. Maybe my sister sist er had a foo foott fet fetish ish?? Ew, gros gross. s. I mentally deleted that thought as I opened the car door and slid into the back seat, passing passi ng Merri her forgotten crosscountr cou ntry y bag. ba g. “Hey, “ Hey, Toby. Toby.”” “Morning, Roar.” The flash of a smile he directed at me as he turned around to back out of our driveway was better than tha n any cup of cof coffee fee.. Toby oby’s ’s gri grin n was 99 percent perce nt perfect perf ect,, but the 1 percent that would keep him from starring in ads for orthodont ort hodontists ists was my favo favorite rite part: part : His secon second d tooth was just the teenie tee niest st bit croo crooke ked. d. The type of croo crooked ked you’d you’d not notice ice only if you’d sketched it dozens of times. Like, if maybe you had a portfolio hidden in the back of your closet that contained nothing but drawings of a certain olive-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired dark-hai red Latino boy whose eyela eyelashes shes made your heart race
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
3
and whose long fingers gripped the steering wheel of the car driving driv ing you to your new schoo school. l. “ Wha Whatt do you me mean, an, socks?” sock s?” he ask asked ed Merri Merr i as he tur turned ned down the stereo’s volume and pulled onto our street. It was some movie’s musical score—always. I don’t think Toby owned songs with lyrics. Sometimes Somet imes I recognized which film and sometimes Merri commandeered the radio. This time she clicked click ed it off. “Didn’t “Di dn’t I tel telll you this story?” stor y?” And, just like yesterd yest erday, ay, I got to watch from the back seat as Merri—the copilot of Toby’s dreams, the girl with a permanent claim on shotgun and his heart—twi hear t—twisted sted the knife in his back. “It’s so cute—who knew Fielding Williams could be cute? But I don’t know if it’ll be
funny fun ny to any anyone one that’s tha t’s not me. Or him him.. It’s an inside insi de thing— thing — but make sure to compliment his socks today today,, okay?” She giggled. gig gled. I wanted to growl. Becaus Bec ause e her here’s e’s the thing thin g abo about ut my “ big big”” sis sister ter:: She was a peanut. Maybe five whole feet if she had on shoes and used her best posture. Her height paired with her perso personalit nality y (thi (think nk sugar rush, rush , no sugar needed), her looks (a compl complete ete checklist checkli st for adorable: adorable : freckles, perky nose, huge blue-gray eyes, pointy chin),, and her intelligenc chin) intell igence e (hello, Mensa) meant that she was irresisti irre sistible. ble. Merri was the type of girl people instantly insta ntly loved. And it was a goo good d thi thing ng she was wasn’t n’t evi evil, l, because becau se she wou would’ ld’ve ve made mad e an alluring allur ing cult leader. leade r. Peop People le leaned leane d in when she talked, talk ed, squish squ ished ed closer close r to her in crowds, crowds , rac raced ed for the seat beside bes ide hers at tables. table s. Eve Everr yon yone e got sucked sucke d int into o her orbit, orbi t, bec becaus ause e it was a place you felt entertained entert ained,, safe safe,, cherished.
4 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
Watching her giggle, wrinkle her nose, then reach in her backpack for breakfast bars I hadn’t known she’ she’d d packed for Toby and me—“Yours is vegan, Rory, I checked”—made me understand why everyone loved her. Why he loved her. Toby looked at the foil wrapper on his bar like he wanted to bronze it. Instead he ripped it open and took a big bite. There was a purity about Merri, a sweetness beyond all the sugar she consumed. I wasn’t bitter; I was exhausted. Because every time someon som eone e sai said, d, “Mer “Merri’s ri’s your sister? siste r? I love he her, r,” they the y followe foll owed d up by expect expe cting ing me to be li like ke her. I was wasn’t. n’t. We ha had d th the e same brown hair, but mine was six inches short shorter, er, cut at my chin. And height-wise, I was six inches taller. I got the double younger r ?” take “You’re younge ?” not just because of our heights but
because becaus e I had none of the bounce and perk that radiated from Merri. Merr i. She gig giggle gled; d; I laug laughed. hed. She chatted; chatte d; I fret fretted. ted. She was impulsive; impulsiv e; I was introspec introspective. tive. She was comfortable comfort able as the center cent er of atte attentio ntion, n, and I was much happier happi er standing stand ing in the corner. corn er. Pref Preferab erably ly facing the corner corn er with an eas easel el in fron frontt of me. I loved her, but I didn’t want to, and couldn’t, be her. No matter mat ter how muc much h our parents, paren ts, teachers, teach ers, and cus custom tomers ers at the family fami ly dog bout boutique, ique, Haute Dog, expected expect ed it. Toby didn’t di dn’t though. thou gh. He’d kno known wn us both since sin ce the day he arriv ar rived ed next door. Bac Back k the then, n, Mer Merri ri and I wer were e the same height hei ght and our mom dressed dress ed us ali alike. ke. His ado adopti ptive ve parents parent s had joined joine d
the long list of people who assumed we were twins, but tiny Toby could tell us apart. He built sandcastles with me—and stomped stomp ed them with Merri. Sidewalk Sidew alk art with me—h me—hose ose nozzle
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
5
eraser era ser with Merri. Merr i. We swu swung ng on swi swings ngs and san sangg son songs— gs—the they y jumped from the monkey bars and got ice packs. He wasn’t the first person to compliment my drawings, but his compliment was the first to make me feel fee l special. I still had, hidden in the same back-of-my-closet portfolio, a crooked three-legged green cat painted in watercolors on warped paper. In the upper left corner, he’ he’d d stamped his approval appro val with a prize prized d Batman stick sticker. er. “Oh, we’re we’r e not getting gett ing Eliza Eli za today, toda y,” Merri Merr i said when whe n Toby Toby flicked flick ed on his blin blinker ker to turn down her stree street. t. “ Thi Thiss day’s looking looki ng up alr alread eady, y,” he sai said. d. “Be nice.” Merri poked him in the upper arm and he snapped snapp ed his teeth playfully playfu lly at her finger. “I’m “I’ m always alway s nice.” nice.” Toby Toby couldn’t coul dn’t stand stan d Eliza, Eliza , Merri’s Merri ’s oth other er best friend, but he still gave her a ride ever every y day to make my sister sis ter happy. happ y. And Eliza, Eliz a, she hated T Tob oby. y. Th Thou ough gh I wa wasn’t sn’t sure sur e she liked many people peopl e besides Merri Merr i and mayb maybe e her teachers. Eliza looked like the flippin’ snow queen from Frozen, which was fitting because her icy attitude was capable of giving anyone in a three-mile radius frostbite. And that was after her brains and beauty had h ad given give n them inferiority complexes. I was firmly on Team Toby oby,, but Eliza’ Eliza’ss fierce protectiveness of Merri and refusal to allow any female around her to be trivialized was pretty endearing. I looked away and hid a yawn against my shoulder. We hadn’t even gotten gotte n to school and I was already alread y tired tired.. “Late night nig ht painting, paintin g, Roar?” Toby Toby was an artist himself— hims elf— a musician—and he understood night owl creativity. But because he was practically perfect, I didn’t want him to know
6 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
the truth. I’d been up late studying and staring at the bright yellow academic warning I’ I’d d gotten in math the week before. I was supposed to have returned it on Monday. But Monday at Hero High had been mayhem. The entire school had been dealing deal ing with the fallout from the Rogue Romeo party part y thrown last Friday by Merri’s ex-boyfriend. It was the type of party thatt was already part of Hero High lore— Remember that time tha Monroe Stratfo Stratford rd broke into the school theater and stole the costumes tu mes from fro m the sch school ool play, pla y, and got in a figh fightt wit with h tha thatt new girl gir l onstage, onst age, and then the party part y got bus busted? ted?
Unlike most of the people who lied and said they’d been there, I did remember, because I’d had the starring role of idiot new girl who threw paint on him. I had two Saturday detentions dete ntions to prove it. Eventu Eve ntuall ally y Mrs. Robert Robe rtss was going goin g to rem rememb ember er to ask for the academic academi c warni warning. ng. I could easily forge a signa signature— ture—handhand writing wasn’t wasn’t that different from line drawing. But forgery was purposefully deceptive. Forgetfulness was passive. So I’ I’d d been crossing my fingers through ever every y sixth period and hoping it was conta contagious. gious. “Hey, sleeping beauty!” Merri turned around in her seat and held out her I like big books and I cannot lie travel mug. “You awake back there? I’m out of princes to kiss you. Want my coffee instead?” “No, I’m fine.” fine.” I tu tuck cked ed my ha hair ir behin beh ind d my ears ears an and d gr grit itte ted d my teeth. Rory might be short for Aurora, but Merri knew I hated Sleeping Beauty jokes. “You sure? It’s good.” Merri shook her mug, which would’ve been a better idea if she’ she’d d had the lid closed. Instead
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
7
it splashed all over my uniform, landing in fat milky plops on my white blouse and gray-red-and-navy-plaid skirt. She wrinkled her nose. “Whoops. “Whoops.”” “Are you serious, Merrilee?” But while I seethed, Toby groan-chuckled. “There are paper towels under the seat, Roar. Rowboat, turn around before you do any permanent damage to your sister.” “I’m really sorry, Rory,” said Merri. She paused to take a sip, then frowned when she realized her mug was almost empty. em pty. “Goo “Good d thi thing ng Eli Eliza’s za’s not here—she here— she would not have av e be been en happy hap py about abo ut that.” that.” “ Yea eah, h, good thing thi ng,,” I sn snap appe ped. d. But it wa wass to too o la late te for her to avoid avo id doing permane perm anent nt damage damag e to me. Not because becau se I was now modeling the latest in caffeine fashions, but because there could be no winner in the race of me chasing him while he was chasing her.
2
T
he best portion port ion of Mer Merri’s ri’s morning morni ng began as min mine e was ending. Waiting to open her car door was the headmaster’s maste r’s son. A perf perfect ect specimen specime n of dignity and decorum—at rum— at least until my sister launched launche d herself out of
her seat and into his arms. “Mer-ri-lee,” Fielding sputtered as she twined her arms around his neck and nuzzled into his cheek, messing up his perfect hair and hugging wrinkles into his blazer. But for all his (weak) protests and throat clearing, he grinned down at her like lik e she was some sort sor t of impish impi sh miracle. mirac le. A wee week k ago, they
weren’t dating; and a week ago Toby Toby would’ve been smiling as he greeted one of his closest friends and talked lacrosse strategies and weekend wee kend plans. Toby sighed behind me, and a better person might have given him privacy to wear whatever emotion he needed to. I wasn’t a better person. I was a self-punishing one. I wanted to see his face as he wat watche ched d the them. m. I won wonder dered ed if it mirrore mirr ored d my own watching him. With a grimace, he turned away from the world’s most infatuate infa tuated d couple. “Ride home?” he asked me, pointing pointi ng to the knee brace he now wore over his khakis, courtesy of an idiot
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
9
from fro m St. Joe’s lac lacros rosse se team last week. week . “I’ “I’m m out for the sea season son,, so I can leave leav e whenev when ever er you’re ready.” ready.” “Yes, please.” This Friday was looking up. All I had to do was make it through seven periods and I’ I’d d get to ride home with justh im. Toby scooped scoo ped his faded fade d red backpac back pack k out of the trunk trun k and closed clo sed it wit with h whi white te knu knuckl ckles. es. Not loo lookin kingg at Mer Merri ri or Fie Fieldi lding ng in a way that felt purposeful, he called a hollow “Bye, guys” before gifting me a small smile. “Have a good day day,, Roar Roar..” “You too.” I waved, then curled my fingers in tight, like I could cou ld hold on to tha thatt smile and an d use it to float me through thro ugh my first two obsta obstacles: cles: Advanced Advanc ed Art and Engli English. sh. The first should shoul d hav have e bee been n my fa favor vorite ite class; class ; I cou couldn’t ldn’t remembe me mberr a tim time e whe when n ar artt hadn’t been ee n the axis my lif life e rev revolv olved ed around.. While most of my elem around elementar entary y schoo schooll class classmate matess had been dressing up like superheroes and Disney characters for Hallow Hal lowee een, n, I’d bee been n Deg Degas’s as’s Star dan dancer, cer, Si Singe ngerr Sar Sargen gent’s t’s Madame X , Ver Vermee meer’s r’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, and, on the last
year Merri let me tag along with her and Toby oby,, Picasso’ Picasso’ss Dora Maar —I’ll —I’ll admit, that one was a mistake. It required way too
much explanatio expla nation n and cut down on our candy haul. From the days of crayons and Batman stickers until my first few days of high school, I’d never doubted my artistic ability. If you gave me an easel and almost any medium, I’d give you something worthy of appreciation. Creating was what I did; it was who I was. But this was Hero High, where even art betrayed betray ed me. Mrs. Mundhenk had told me that being the only freshman in Adv Advanc anced ed Art was an honor and a pri privil vilege ege.. She hadn’t
10 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
informed me that every upperclassman in the studio would see it as an invas invasion. ion. At first first,, I’ I’d d shr shrugg ugged ed off the silent sile nt tre treatm atment ent.. The muttermutte ring that always began a few steps after I passed. I figured I’d prove I belonged among them and win them over. But when Mrs. Mundhenk Mundh enk display disp layed ed my draw drawing ing from the first week of class as an exemplar, exemp lar, the mutterings mutte rings grew louder. I could tune it out. I’d been practicing meditation for years and my bedroom was across the hallway from Merri, who liked to put on headphones and sing. I could tune out most anything—especially when I was drawing. But no amount amou nt of meditation meditati on was effective effecti ve against these cold shoulders. Especially once they became actual shoulders and feet knocking knock ing into my ease easel. l. I’d thought—wanted to think—they were unintentional. That once, twice, three times a period someone would accidental den tally ly jar the back of my easel with their thei r foo foott or elbow while whil e I had a pen pencil cil or paintbr pain tbrush ush to the paper. pape r. I’ I’d d responde respo nded d to the syrupy “So sorrys” with a tight smile or “It happens” while I tried to figure out how to undo the damage to my pictures. But the sorrys stopped and the nudges increased. My charcoal drawing started to resemble a cracked windshield from all the jagged lines snaking snaki ng in wrong direct directions. ions. It had gotten to the point where I flinched whenever anyone was near my easel. I was more aware of my classmates’ movements around the spacious art room than I was of the Cassatt painting I was supposed to be reproducing. It defeated the entire purpose of me being at this school. I
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
11
could’ve stayed at the six-to-twelfth grade, all-girls magnet school sch ool Merri Mer ri and I had attende atte nded d up until this thi s yea year, r, but Lilly Lil ly’s ’s future mother-in-law had sold my parents on Hero High’s renowned art program and then used her US senator status to secure our admis admission. sion. I was supposed to be building a great portfolio to show off with college applications, but so far that portfolio was empty. Even my exemplar painting from the first week had been “accidentally” ripped from the wall the previous night, leaving jagged jagge d chunks behind. “I’m so sorry, Aurora.” Mrs. Mundhenk had brought the scraps over to show me as I was setting up. “It was like that when I got here. It must’ve gotten caught on someone’s bag or coat. They must not have noticed, noti ced, because becaus e they would’ve stoppe sto pped d to pic pick k it up or leave a note. I bet whoever whoev er it is wou would ld be heartbroken if they knew what they’d done. done.”” “ Yeah eah..” I gri gritte tted d my tee teeth, th, becaus bec ause e how cou could ld a tea teache cherr be so informed inform ed about her subject matter but so ignorant about her students? stude nts? “Real “Rea l hear heartbrok tbroken. en.”” I glowered at the sketch in front of me. It wasn’t working. I unclipped the Cassatt print and headed to the front of the room where folders of example paintings painti ngs were stored. The assignm assi gnment ent was “Dr “Draw aw a fam famous ous painting paint ing with your own spin, spi n,”” and I ign ignore ored d the crowd crow d bic bicke kerin ringg aro around und the contemconte mporary porar y folde folderr and picked through the othe others rs before selecting selectin g Seurat’s L e Chahut . Back at my easel, I decided my “own spin” would be replacing the pointillist dots and chromo-luminarism chromo- luminarism with
12 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
crisp pencil penci l line lines, s, precis precise e shadi shading, ng, and a monoc monochroma hromatic tic palette. The result would be less neo-impressionist and more photo-real photo -realist. ist. At leas leastt that was my hope. “Hey. “He y. Can I work here?” here? ” I loo looked ked up to see Byron Byr on standin stan dingg at the easel beside besid e mine mine.. I knew of him—junior/twin/popular—from my friend Clara’s obsession with creating social diagrams, but I didn’t know him. He’d never assaulted my easel though, and he
shared sha red a nam name e with my par parent ents’ s’ dog, so that was enough enoug h of a reason rea son to t o say, “Su “Sure. re.”” “ Your painti pai nting ng was kicking, kicki ng, by the way. Sor Sorrr y it got rip ripped ped..” “Thanks,” I said. Possibly proving why I belonged at the edges. Was “kicking” good? Or had I just said thanks for an insult? Regardless, it was not an adjective I’d be using; it brought to mind all the shoes that had aimed themselves at my easel’s ease l’s legs. “So, freshman, freshma n, what should we call you?” I put down the tortillon I was crushing between my fingers. “Wha “What?” t?” “What should we call you?” His voice had gone up and slowed down—the way Merri talked to dogs. He pointed to himself. “I’m Byron. So far most people in here are calling you ‘the prodigy.’ Figured you might want a chance to name yourse yourself. lf.”” “Oh.” Normally being called a prodigy was a good thing? But it didn’t sound sou nd like it here. here . “Um, Auro Aurora— ra—Ror Rory. y.” Byron Byr on unpacked unpack ed his pen pencil cilss onto the lip of his eas easel. el. “Nice “Nic e to meet mee t you, Auro Aurora-R ra-Ror ory. y.” My eyes eye s went wide. wi de. “No, it’s just jus t Ror Rory. y.”
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
13
He grinned grin ned.. “I got that. tha t. I was teasin tea singg you you..” I cou could’ ld’ve ve left it rig right ht there. there . Tha Thatt wou would’ ld’ve ve been the end of the conversatio conver sation n and I could’ could’ve ve gone back to debat debating ing whether whethe r I needed neede d an accent acce nt color to make my shadows shad ows pop. But I did didn’t. n’t. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in art in so long and it was like I had a bui buildu ldup p of words pil piled ed on my tongue. tongue . “ Why Why’s ’s ev ever eryon yone e obsessed with the contemporary art folder? I thought there was going to be a fight over some of those prints. prints.”” Byron laughed—and laughe d—and pointed point ed to the print he was clipping clippin g to his easel. It was contem contemporar porary y. “Not that I have anything against contemporary art,” I babbled. I took a deep breath, ordering myself: Be impressive! Prove you know your stuff. Instead I mumbled, “That
one’s one ’s nice. ni ce.”” That one’s nice? It It was Snipes’s Vanity, Captured—one of
the most evocative pieces of the last few decades. It hung in the Guggenheim, and the last time I was there, Merri had literally dragged me away by my hoodie, saying, “How long can you possibly possi bly look at a pai painti nting ng of a pea peacoc cock?” k?” The answer answe r was “Hours” when the artist was Snipes. “What do you think of my drawing so far?” Byron asked me. “What “W hat would you change?” That question quest ion was a mine minefield field and I must’ve grimaced, because he laughed. “Be honest, I can tak take e it.” it.” I took a deep breath and indicated a few places where the angles were off. When he responded positively to that, I suggeste sugg ested d he try crosshatched crosshatch ed shading and, at his insis insistence tence,, demonstrat demo nstrated ed on his drawin drawing. g. “You’re going to make this class interesting, aren’t you?”
14
| TIFFANY SCHMIDT
Byron held out his hand, palm up. I was pretty sure we’d all given give n up high fives back in grade school—at school—a t least unless sports spor ts or grandpas were involved—but I didn’t want to leave him hangin han ging, g, and I did didn’t n’t have a clu clue e what was cool at Hero High. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, I smacked my palm against his. He tilted tilte d his head. hea d. “Oh, wel well. l. Sure. Right Righ t on, I gue guess? ss? But actually I wanted your phone. You know, so I can give you my num numbe ber. r.” And if it wasn’t abundantly clear I wasn’t cool before, it was then. But no one had kicked me all period. The only distractions were Byron’s frequent requests for help. It didn’t bother me, but apparently Mrs. Mundhenk felt differently. “Byron, enough. Let Aurora do her own painting and you do yours. Over there. there.”” He sighed as he packed up his materials to move to the other oth er side of the studio. stud io. I tho though ughtt I was in for another anoth er of Mrs. Mundhenk’s Mundh enk’s lectu lectures res where she menti mentioned oned all my “poten “potential” tial” and then made it clear I wasn’t living up to it. Instead, she pointed to the boy standing a step behind her. “Have you two met? You’re both freshmen, so you must have some classes class es toget together. her.” I nodde nodded. d. English. Maybe history? histor y? “Chuck “Chuck,, right right?” ?” “Huck “Hu ck,,” he correcte corre cted, d, and be befor fore e I cou could ld cringe, cring e, he add added, ed, “Let’s pretend I thought your name was ‘Dory’ to make things thin gs equa equal. l.”” As he spo spoke, ke, he leaned lean ed a hip agains aga instt a metal stool; stoo l; only, the seatt beg sea began an to spi spin n dow down, n, cau causin singg him to stu stumbl mble. e. He laughed laughe d
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
15
and I smiled. An embarrassment for an embarrassment—it feltt good to find a pee fel peer. r. “We’ve moved Huck up to Advanced Art. Since it’s two weeks into the year year,, I was hoping you could catch him up and maybe may be be friends frie nds!! I thi think nk it will be nice for you both to hav have e another anoth er freshman fres hman in i n here. here.”” I stared. Mrs. Mundhenk said, “Great,” then tapped her clunky clu nky red woo wooll clo clogs gs together toget her like a fol folksy ksy Dorothy Dorot hy from Oz. “All righ r ightt then, the n, carr car r y on. on.”” I watched her retreating back while Huck clipped a piece of scrap paper to the easel ease l bes beside ide mine. mine . May Maybe be now tha thatt the there re were two of us, I’ I’d d be less likely to come in and discover my pencill tips broken every penci ever y morn morning, ing, my knea kneaded ded eraser full of dirt, my thumbnail sketches sketche s missing. I glanced sideways at him. Huck was tall, with a longlimbed gangliness that screamed growth spurt. He was wearingg suede navy oxfords with wearin wit h khakis and a red lacrosse jersey. That was Toby oby’s ’s team. I knew nothing about the game beyond sticks and balls. I’ I’d d always meant to watch Toby play, but I’ I’d d gotten distracte distracted d in the space betwee between n intention and action, and now his knee injury was keeping him out for the season. “Um,, welcom “Um welc ome. e. Hi.” Hi.” Why was I so awkwar awk ward d all the time? tim e? I frowned frow ned at my pap paper. er. I wished Mrs. Mundhenk Mundh enk hadn’t used the word “friends.” It made my stomach knot with loneliness. I didn’t even know this kid, but those seven letters made my throat itch like lik e patheticne pathet icness ss was poll pollen en and I was covered in it.
16 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
“Thanks,” he answered, but instead of turning toward his own easel, I felt his eyes on me. Maybe if he stared long enough, he could tell me what was wrong with my piece, because something was. The drawing might m ight be technically fine,, but it felt . . . spiritle fine spiri tless. ss. Lost. Lost . A bit like lik e me. Dan Dangit git!! Why friendss? Now it was all I could think did di d sh she e ha have ve to sa say y friend thi nk abo about. ut.
“ Why are you looking looki ng at me like that?” tha t?” I sna snappe pped d whe when nI couldn’t take tak e it any longer. “I’m trying to come up with a way to suggest we be pals without sounding like a creeper . . . or a toddler toddler..” “What?” I whirled toward him, panic-eyed. Had I been thinking thin king out loud? Merri did that somet sometimes. imes. His mouth lifted in a mischievous grin that made dimples appear in his cheeks. “Just hear me out a sec. Maybe Mrs. Mundhe Mun dhenk nk is on to somethi some thing. ng.”” He hel held d up a fist, liftin lif tingg a finger for each reason: “One, we’re the only freshmen in Advanced Advan ced Art and that probably probab ly means we both like ar art. t. Two, we’re two of the few freshmen who didn’t attend Mayfield Middle Middl e Acade Academy my and have haven’t n’t been together togeth er since kinde kindergarrgarten. Three, we both have all-day detention tomorrow, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen The Breakfast Club, so I know kno w tha that’s t’s lik like e fri friend endshi ship p boo boott cam camp. p.” “Of course cours e I hav have. e.”” Clearly, Clear ly, he hadn’t met Merri, Mer ri, becaus bec ause e that answer was obvious. She and rom-coms went together like lik e a wrec wreckin kingg bal balll and flying flyin g bri bricks cks,, whi which ch was oft often en how it felt when she crashed into my room and demanded I watch them the m with her. “ You were at the party par ty too? I tho thought ught I was the only fresh freshman. man.”” “I was there. Not my best decision.” He shrugged in an
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
17
exaggerate exag gerated d moti motion, on, his square shoulders shoul ders brushing brushi ng the tips of his hair. ha ir. “I’ “I’ve ve got more mor e reasons reaso ns if you’re not sol sold. d.”” “Let’s “Le t’s hea hearr the them, m,”” I sai said, d, but hon honest estly ly he cou could’ ld’ve ve stopped stopp ed after the first one. Or even at zero—just the desire to be my friend frie nd was good enoug enough. h. Did that make me a loser loser?? “Four, we have a lot of classes together: English, history, French—and if we’re friends I can look at the doodles you’re always alw ays drawing drawi ng without witho ut seeming seem ing nosy. nos y.” He gave me a she sheepi epish sh one-di one -dimpl mple e gri grin n and I lau laughe ghed. d. He lif lifted ted his thumb. “And “And five, we both love coffee. coffee.”” I wrinkl wri nkled ed my nose. no se. “No. “ No. I don’t don’t..” “You don’t want to be friends?” He cringed, but he was quick qui ck to hol hold d up both palms and say sincere sinc erely, ly, “ Tha That’s t’s coo cool—I l—I didn’t did n’t mean to pre pressu ssure re you or any anythi thing. ng.”” He turned to his easel and I fought the urge to smack my palm against my forehead. “No,” I clarified. “Yes, we can maybe may be be friends frie nds—bu —butt no to coffee coff ee.. I hat hate e it. it.”” “As your your friend frie nd . . .” He pause pau sed d dra drama mati tica call lly. y. I sn snor orte ted d an and d nodded nod ded.. “I regret to inf infor orm m you that you’re wearing weari ng a who whole le lot of somethi some thing ng you hate on your shi shirt rt..” “My sister siste r got a lit little tle enthus ent husias iastic tic with wit h her travel trave l mug.” mug.” I’d I’d put down my pencil somewhere midconversation and fully turned toward him. A strange sensation fluttered under my ribs—not quite hope, but at least not the bleak despair I’d felt since my first week here. “Does that invalidate reason number five?” He shook his head. “Five, I really like coffee, and now I don’t have to worry about you stealing mine.” I laughed, but his face was earnest when he added, “Seriously though, no
18 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
pressure on the friendship thing. I can stop working on our friendshi frie ndship p bracelets anytime. anytime .” I snorted again. I knew he was joking, that this whole conversation was wink, nod nonsense, but dangit, part of me wished it was real. That it was possible to fast-forward through throug h awkward and get-toget-to-know-yo know-you u and be instant BFFs. I’d nev never er had a “best” “be st” friend fri end.. I’d I’d been a part of the group gro up but neverr the other half of anyone’s neckl neve necklace. ace. Clara, the only other friend I’d made at Hero High, was still mad I’d gone to the Rogue Romeo party without her. It didn’t did n’t mat matter ter that the par party ty had end ended ed with me being escort esco rted ed home by Headmaster Williams or that I’d be spending the next two Saturdays Saturda ys in dete detention ntion while she was cheerleading cheerlea ding at football games. Apparently not inviting her had violated some fledgling friendship frie ndship code. Everythi Ever ything ng about Hero High dynamics exhausted exhauste d me: trying to inter interpret pret my class classmates mates’’ subtle changes of expression, expressio n, inside jokes, secret crushes, and historic rivalries. I’d given up on finding a spot for myself in the prees preestabli tablished shed invisible invis ible sociall hierarchy they’ socia they ’d brought with them from thei theirr private middle school. I flicked a curl of pencil shaving at Huck. “Let’s call it a friendshi frie ndship p test drive.” drive.” “I’ll “I’ ll take it. it .” He ben bentt over his easel eas el where wher e he’d he’d been making lazy shading gradients. I don’t think he meant for me to see how relieve reli eved d his exhale exh ale was. Did it make me a bad friend fri end if I was glad that maybe I wasn’t the only one so lonely at Hero High?
3
H
uck and I didn’t talk for the rest res t of cla class. ss. Maybe Mayb e we
were both worried about doing or saying something awkward and scaring each other off . . . Or maybe that was just jus t me.
When the bell rang, I shoved my pencil bag in my back-
pack and rinsed off my charco charcoal-sm al-smudged udged fingers. Normally Normal ly I raced rac ed out of the room, room , lik like e the side-ey side -eyes es and sni snide de comments comme nts were chasing cha sing me, me , but that day I paused with wi th my hand on the door. On the wall beside me was a giant display about the school’s scho ol’s fou founde nder: r: Reg Regina inald ld R . Hero. He’d He’d bee been n an ar artis tist—a t—a famous famo us tile maker—and maker—a nd because of that that,, the art artss program here was endowed and supplied in ways I’ I’d d only dreamed about in my charter school classes last year. When Huck caught up, I shuffled shuf fled my feet. “Um, ready for Engli English?” sh?” My per person sonal al ans answer wer was No, never , but he flashed flash ed his dimples. ple s. “Let’s “Le t’s go get our ou r Gatsby Gats by on. on.”” I groaned and my fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. “Don’t “Do n’t tell me you’r you’re e enjoying enjoy ing that tha t boo book. k.”” Huck pulled a water bottle out of his backpack. “So far it’s a stor story y about rich people peop le and parties. parti es. What’s not to like like?” ?”
20 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
Well, my family certainly didn didn’t ’t qualify as the former—not with all the loans for Lilly’s college, the bills from her upcoming wedding wedd ing to the senato sen atorr ’s son son,, and the parts par ts of Hero High tuition tuit ion that weren’t covered by financi financial al aid. And from ringaround aro und-th -the-r e-rosy osy through throu gh Rog Rogue ue Romeo, I’d I’d nev never er fit in at parties. tie s. So, the there re was qui quite te a lot not to lik like e in Huck’s sta statem tement ent.. “I just jus t don’t get the t he book. book .” “I’m “I’ m sure you’ll you’ ll figure it out, ou t,”” said Huck as we reache rea ched d the classroom door. “Besides, I don’t think it matters what Ms. Gregoire makes us read; she’s always going to make it sound fun.. It’s pre fun pretty tty much a con consen sensus sus on the lacross lacr osse e tea team—i m—iff Ms. Gregoire’s not your favorite teacher on campus, you’re doing something some thing wrong. wrong.”” I’d I’ d had a sim simila ilarr con conve versa rsatio tion n wit with h Cla Clara ra last week. week . She She’’d practically inserted Ms. Gregoire’s name in the first cheer she’d learned on her new squad. And at every family dinner, Merrilee practically levitated while talking about how great she was. Merri thought she was magical. “Like, “Like , literally magical, Rory. She makes stuff from the books happen in her students’ lives. Eliza doesn’t believe me, but pay attention and see se e what you yo u thi think nk..” I was paying attention. I was paying such close attention that my notes were practically practicall y a transc transcript ript of her lectures: “I don’t want you to analyze, I want you to invest—put yourself in thee sto th story. ry. I wan wantt you to imm immers ersee you yours rself elf in the these se words, words , the then n giv givee me your you r personal pers onal reaction reac tion..”
What did that even mean? Because whatever it was, I was doing it wrong. I’d be lucky to make it to Halloween without getting getti ng a secon second d yello yellow w acade academic mic warni warning. ng.
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
21
Huck winked win ked at me and headed head ed to his seat sea t hal halfwa fway y arou around nd the circle ci rcle.. As I sat at my desk, desk , Clara did the same sam e thing she’ she ’d done all week—avert week—av erted ed her face and sighed loudly. I was way too exhausted to endure another period of her silent sile nt treatment. treatmen t. Except, here in this classroom, classro om, wishes had a way of coming true in weird, warped outcomes, because Clara turned and spoke to me for the first time since Monday’s “I don’t understand how you could go to that party and not bring me!”
“Oh, it’s you.” Her words were neither quiet nor logical. Who else would be in my assigned seat? It didn’t make her disdain hurt less. I liked Clara. I liked her a lot. She’d been the first person to smile at me when I’d been hovering in the corner during last summer’s freshman orientation. She’d excused herself from a conversation and come over, saying, “You’re new! Come sit with me. I know most of this stuff stu ff already alrea dy because becau se my bro brothe therr Penn’s a jun junior ior here. here . Plu Plus, s, I already alrea dy know practi practically cally every ever y other freshman fresh man in this room. I’ll I’ ll tell you about them the m if you tell me abo about ut you you!” !” We’d We’ d texted all summer. She’ She’d d hugged me on my first day and saved sav ed me a sea seatt in every ever y cla class ss we sha shared red.. Unti Untill the Rogue Rog ue Romeo Rom eo party, part y, we’d sat togethe toge therr at lunch and in Convocat Convo cation ion,, which was a whole-school assembly at the end of ever every y day day.. This week I’d been back to chilling with the dust bunnies in the corners. corn ers. I was over it. I leaned forward and whispered, “Are you ever going to forgive me? What if I promise to never go to a party without you again? Or just never go to a party?” The second option was way more appealing.
22 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
“Did someone say ‘party’?” asked Ms. Gregoire as she breezed in from the hall in a jewel-green sleeveless maxi dress. The fabric fabri c was print printed ed with gold foil eyeglasses, eyeglass es, which matched the gold sandals peeping out below the hem. The colors complement compl emented ed her dark red hair perfectly; perfectl y; the bangl bangles es on her wrist added a tinkling punctuation to her gestures. I had to giv give e it to her; no mat matter ter what I tho though ughtt of her assignassig nments, me nts, she knew how to dress. And mak make e an ent entranc rance. e. She reminded me of a more stylish Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School School Bus, only instead of science, she got way over-
enthus ent husias iastic tic about abou t boo books. ks. One day in class I’d I’d kep keptt trac track k of the number num ber of tim times es she she’’d mad made e com commen ments ts abo about ut “seei “seeing ng our oursel selves ves in the story”—by story ”—by the time the period ended, I was at seve seventeen. nteen. So far, we were two chapters into The Great Gatsby and the only thing I saw was confusion. I didn’t need more than thirty-eight pages; I was over this book already. It annoyed me as much as Merri’s dog—also named Gatsby because my sister loved thi thiss nov novel el as muc much h as her drooly, she sheddi dding ng mutt. But then the n aga again, in, she’d cho chosen sen Fieldin Fiel dingg ove overr Toby, so cle clearly arly her taste in all things was quest questiona ionable. ble. “Thank you all for your beautiful reaction pieces on the opening chapters,” Ms. Gregoire enthused once we’d all settled in and unpacked for the period. “Some of you are there! And some som e of you are almost th there ere..” Our des desks ks were arrange arra nged d in a ring, which made the center feel like a stage and always made her speeches feel like theater-in-the-round. She had a habit of walking in circles as she spoke, and she was leaning agains aga instt my desk when she add added, ed, “Some “Som e of you hav haven’t en’t quite made mad e it to West Egg yet, yet , but I have high hi gh hop hopes. es.””
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
23
I kne knew w tha thatt was a sto storr y ref refere erence nce—th —the e boo book k too took k pla place ce on two imagina imag inarr y isl island andss off Long Island: Islan d: Eas Eastt Eg Eggg and West West Egg. And from the way she was discreetly tapping a finger on my desk as she spoke, I was pretty sure I was the “some of you” who was too dumb to get it. I’d I’ d been the slowe sl owest st in a cla class ss before bef ore.. I’d I’d been the one who wh o needed extra help. But usually I could identify what it was I Greatt Gats Gatsby by I fe didn’t understand. understa nd. With The Grea felt lt lost. lost . So much much
of what filled the pages didn’t seem to matter, or if it did, I couldn’t figure figu re out why. Did we need a whole page describing a billboard for an eye doctor? Was that important? What about the dog Tom buys for his mistress? Merri said any time there was a pet in a story stor y, it was significant. signific ant. She could give whole speeches speec hes about Hedwig Hed wig.. But this thi s dog didn’t even eve n hav have e a nam name. e. In the first chapter, chap ter, Dai Daisy sy had sai said d she hoped hope d her daughdaug hter would wou ld be “a “a beautifu beaut ifull little littl e fool,” fool,” and that’s how I fel feltt while reading. But unlike Daisy, I didn’t think that was “the best thing thi ng a girl can ca n be in thi thiss world.” world.” Or maybe Daisy Da isy didn’t did n’t really reall y think that? I couldn’t keep up with the lies and posturing of these characters. “Toda oday, y, let let’s ’s rea read d together. together.” Ms. Gre Gregoi goire re proposed propo sed this thi s with breathy enthus enthusiasm, iasm, high eyebro eyebrows, ws, and a dramat dramatic ic inhale, like she was waiting waiti ng for us all to clap or che cheer er for her sug sugges gestio tion. n. And dangit, when I looke looked d around the class classroom, room, everyever yone else els e see seemed med ready read y to pull out pom pom-po -poms ms or do the wav wave. e. Clara was hugging her book to her chest. Dante was drumming his dark fingers on his cover. Huck had already flipped to the page.
24 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
“Do I hav have e any volunte volu nteers ers to rea read?” d?” she ask asked. ed. Every Ever y han hand d in the room went up. Well, ever eve r y han hand d exc except ept for mine. mine . “Ho “How w wonderful. Let’s Let’s see . . .” She tapped her lip and rotated as I slumped down in my seat. “We’re going to read a few pages, then the n sto stop p and discuss. discu ss. How abo about ut Keene, Keen e, Clara, Dante, Dant e, Eli Elinor, nor, Gemma, Gemm a, and Huck. Does everyone ever yone remember rememb er who’s who’s reading before them? Huck, I’m going to stop you before you get to the bottom bot tom of your page. Don’t be sur surpri prised sed when whe n I int inter errup rupt. t.”” Keene’s page was a description of Gatsby’s party prep. Clara took over for even more description descri ption—an —an endless thread about his juicer and its two-hundred-orange capacity. Was that exciting back in Fitzgerald’s day? Was that their small talk? Instead of showing off their latest cell phone, they’d brag about the size of their juicer? I sighed and tried to follow along,, but what even was “yellow cocktail along cockt ail music music”? ”? I did didn’t n’t be belon longg in this cla classro ssroom. om. Not wit with h the them m all grab bing pens to underline and annotate while we read. I could eithe ei therr mov move e my finger along or try tr y to proces processs it. At lea least st som someth ething ing had fina finally lly happened happe ned.. By the time Elinor Elino r read, the narrator—new narrator —new boy in town, Nick Carraway—had Carraway —had been invited to one of Gatsby’s famous parties. He spent the whole of Gemma’s page walking around and feeling uncomfortable. Maybe May be this was it? Mayb Maybe e thi thiss was me fina finally lly having havi ng my mom moment ent of textual connection? connectio n? Because painful awkwardness awkwardne ss at par parties ties was my MO MO.. Nick’ Nick’ss descrip description tion of the way people stared at him when he asked where to find Gatsby— Gatsby—that’ that’ss exactl exactly y how I’ I’d d felt at the Rogue Romeo Rome o par party ty last week when I was given give n end endles lesss Who Wh o are you and why are you here? here ? l ooks.
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
25
“Annnnnd, stop,” Ms. Gregoire told Huck. “Good class today, tod ay, people. peop le.”” But wait. We were forty-four pages in and hadn’t met Gatsby! Was that what made him “great”? Did he not appear anywhere any where on these 180 page pages? s? Was this one of those trick endings to make the reader feel dumb? Like that play Merri dragged me to where they waited the whole time for that guy Godot to show up and he never did? “Aurora?” Ms. Gregoire stopped by my desk as everyone else packed up. “I’d like to speak to you after class. I’ll write you a pass for your next teacher teache r. Or would you rather talk after school?” I’d rather not do it at all. Was that a choice? I picked C: Let’ss pretend this conversatio Let’ conversation n never happened.
I stared stare d at a smudge smudg e of cha charco rcoal al I’d I’d missed misse d on my pinkie. pink ie. “Af Afte terr class cla ss is fine. fine .” Clara Cla ra paused pause d to give me a gri grim m nod of sup suppor port. t. Huck gave me a salute with two fingers from the forehead. I managed a half smile in response before Ms. Gregoire shooed them out the door. “Aurora, let’s talk about you and how you’re handling handl ing this t his book. book .” I gripped the cover with both hands, feeling the paper back’s corners curl under my fingers. “What about it?” “ Whe When n we met aft after er school schoo l on Monday, Monda y, we discusse discu ssed d the trouble troub le you were having connecting conne cting to the short shor t stori stories. es.”” “ Yes es..” Wh What at more mor e wa wass th ther ere e to say? say? I’d be been en there the re for that tha t conversati conve rsation on on my failings; failin gs; I didn’t need to relive it.
26 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
“I’ve since read your paper on Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’—and it almost seemed like you were equating being admitted to Advanced Art to being selected for the titular titu lar lotte lottery. ry.” “What? No. I want to be in Advanced Art. I don’t think anyone any one wants wan ts to be chosen chose n to be stoned sto ned..” Which I was pretty prett y sure was what happened to the lottery winner in the story. And I was telling the truth, or at least mostly. Unless subconsci con scious ously ly I was writing writi ng abo about ut how awful awfu l ar artt cla class ss was was?? “I— “I—II didn’t mean it?” “Uh-hu “Uh -huh, h,”” sai said d Ms. Gre Gregoi goire. re. “Well, “Well , rega regardle rdless, ss, I’m hoping hopin g to see you form a stronger connection with this novel. How do you feel you’re doing?” “Fine?” “Good.” She smiled at me. “So which characters are you identifying with the most?” “Um . . .” I wa wass not prepare prep ared d for this thi s pop quiz. quiz. She’ She ’d leaned lean ed forward for ward.. Wit With h her folded fold ed hands and her eye contact, contac t, she was a portrait of attentiveness and interest. Now I just needed an answer ans wer.. Who was I supposed to identify with? Nick Carraway—the newbie newbi e in town, an outsider with plenty plent y of privi privilege lege and connections but not nearly as much money? Daisy Buchanan— the pretty girl who whisper-talked and was either vapid or fake-vapid? It certainly wasn’t Tom, Daisy’s racist, abusive, cheating husband. “ Wha Whatt if I don’t identif ident ify y wit with h any of the them? m? These characchara cters all feel the same. Everyone’s rich, white, and beautiful.
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
27
I mean, I’m white, but . . .” I trailed off, cheeks blazing. Did thatt sound like I was fishing tha fishin g for her to say I was beauti bea utiful ful?? Not what I meant. Dangit. “Fair point.” She nodded. “Thankfully the books we read throughout throug hout the year will contain diverse dive rse characters, characte rs, but I’m also als o not asking aski ng you or you yourr cla classm ssmate atess whi which ch one you look the mostt lik mos like. e. I’d I’d hop hope e tha thatt reg regardl ardless ess of gen gender, der, race race,, app appear earanc ance, e, orientati orie ntation, on, background, backgrou nd, or abil abilitie ities, s, there’s a shared level of humanity and common ground you could connect with. Or even ev en reject. reje ct.”” She paused. pause d. “That’s “Th at’s a rea reacti ction on too. I don’t exp expect ect your default to be agreement. agreement.”” “Oh.”” I fa “Oh. fanne nned d the pages pag es with my thu thumbn mbnail ail.. “ The Then n may maybe be Nick Nic k Ca Carra rraway way?? I’m new too and definite defin itely ly an out outsid sider. er.” “Reall “Re ally?” y?” Ms. Gre Gregoi goire re gav gave e her head a sma small ll sha shake. ke. “That’s “Th at’s unexpecte unexp ected. d. Hmm. Nick? A re you sure?” So clearly clea rly there ther e had bee been n a right answer answ er and I had hadn’t n’t giv given en it. “Who “Wh o were you think thinking?” ing?” “ Whi While le I see where you’re com coming ing from abo about ut the outside outs iderr perspective—Hero High is a tough assimilation—Nick isn’t the only onl y out outsid sider er in the book. boo k.”” She lea leaned ned back bac k and wai waited ted for me to con connec nectt the dots. dots . Whe When n I did didn’t, n’t, she spread sprea d her hands han ds like lik e she was lifting lift ing up a tra tray. y. “Gat “Gatsby sby!” !” “Gatsby?” I gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “But we haven’t even met him.” Had we? Was I so confused that I’d missed miss ed the part where he appe appeared? ared? “Exact “Ex actly! ly!”” Ms. Gregoire Grego ire thumped thump ed her hands hand s on her lap lik like e I’d mad made e a bri brilli lliant ant point. poi nt. “And “And most mos t of your classma clas smates tes would woul d say the same thing about you. It’s that enigma piece—you
28 |
TIFFANY SCHMIDT
both have it. Lots of intrigue and dazzle, but no one is allowed too close. And the speculation—well, it just swirls about you both. both.”” Speculation? About me? That I hadn’t heard, but my teacher had. Great. She was still looking at me expectantly. “Um, I hope no one here he re thinks thin ks I kil killed led a man.” man.” I swa swallo llowed wed and clarifi cla rified. ed. “Y “ You know, like how the party part y guests whisper whispe r that about Gats Gatsby?” by?” Ms. Gre Gregoi goire re tit titter tered. ed. “So you were list listening ening.. I wondere wondered. d. You Y ou looked a million miles away during class.” “I don’t get this book, boo k,”” I con confes fessed sed.. “Yell “Yellow ow music, musi c, orange orang e juice . . .” I flipped to the page where we’ we’d d stopped. “Wha “Whatt does ‘spectroscopi ‘spectro scopicc gayety’ gayety ’ even mean? And if I don’t understand the words, how am I going to get symbols and stuff ?” Ms. Gregoire waved away my question with a graceful swipe of gold fingernails. “I’m much less concerned about your vocabular vocabulary y or grasp of symbolism than I am about what this book means to you. You’ve got so much to say. You just need nee d to be willing will ing to risk ris k tr tryin ying. g.”” I reached reach ed up to cup my for forehe ehead ad with both bot h hands while whil e I stared sta red down at my desk. desk . “I’ “I’m m not smart smar t lik like e Mer Merri. ri. I’m going to disappo disa ppoint int you if you expect expec t tha that. t.”” “Oh, Aurora, no. That’s simply not true.” She sat back in her seat like she was stunned. “There are so many ways to be smart.” I caught the pointed look she gave at my charcoal-stained charcoalstained fingers. “Your talents aren’t lesser, they’re just different. And I know you Campbell girls are going to do extraordina extra ordinary ry things th ings here.” here.”
THE BOY NEXT STORY |
29
I wasn’t sure about this Campbell girl, but maybe Merri could be extraordinary enough for both of us. The bell rang and I shoved shove d my boo book k in my bag. “I need nee d to get to science scie nce,, but I’ll I’ ll do bette be tter. r. I prom promise ise..” “Ror “R ory. y.” Ms. Gregoi Greg oire re put a hand on my arm as I st stoo ood. d. “Al “Alll you need to do is be yourself. People are here to know you, help hel p you. You You just need nee d to be.” I scrunche scrun ched d my fac face e up. I would not cry. cr y. I wouldn’t. wouldn’t . “I’m tryin tr yingg so hard.” hard.” “Maybe you’re putting all your effort into the wrong things,” said Ms. Gregoire gently as she handed me a pass. “Using it to keep people out instead of letting them in or lettin let tingg them help.” help.” “Maybe,” I answered, but her voice sounded hopeful and mine did di d not.
