In the kitchen, I laid out my humble food offerings—dry cereal, peanut butter, and toast—to the grumbles of “Oh, man, that’s it?” and “I knew we should’ve gone to a diner” and “Norah, have I taught you nothing?” (that was Audre, of course). But I didn’t feel too guilty—I had the mother of all excuses.
“Well, I was standing in line to get tastier stuff,” I explained huffily as we all settled down around the butcher-block table. “But that mission kind of got put on hold when I saw, oh yeah, Philippa freaking Askance.”
An excited hush fell over the table, so I eagerly told the whole story—from my minor stalking, to my obsessive-fan quoting, to the weird but wonderful conversation. I could feel James watching me, but though the others gave me enthusiastic props for my bravery, he remained silent. I wondered if he was envious that he hadn’t had been the one to chat up his beloved Philippa.
“So it’s set,” über-organized Scott declared, checking the planner in his T-Mobile Sidekick. “The Bitter Ironies meeting is gonna be at the end of May, and then we’re all on summer vacation, right? Does everyone already have summer plans?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, forgetting Philippa for a moment. “My glamorous shelving job at the local library starts in June.”
Summers were always the same for me: weekdays spent at the library—reading the books when I was supposed to be shelving them—and weekends spent wandering around Prospect Park, getting a sunburn on my arms and neck and wishing that this would be the summer I’d fall in love. Or at least have a fling—that seemed to be a summer trend among a lot of my friends. It hadn’t happened to me yet.
James smiled, almost to himself. “I’ll be interning at an independent book publisher in the neighborhood.” He said this modestly, but I realized how surprisingly together James was. He probably would have no trouble getting into college.
“I applied to work at Ozzy’s,” Audre offered anxiously between bites of toast. Ozzy’s is this other mellow writers-and-lattes café in the Slope, and Audre had recently auditioned for an assistant baker position in their kitchen. She hadn’t heard yet, but getting the job would score her big points with her skeptical parents.
“Art camp in July for me,” Scott chimed in, pretending to be annoyed—but I knew he secretly loved it.
“Science day camp for me.” Neil grinned—he made no bones about loving that.
We all looked at Francesca, who was playing with the emerald ring on her finger. “Packing for Dartmouth,” she replied shortly. I wondered if she had other plans—perhaps ones that involved her Physics Girl past—but I wasn’t about to ask.
“Anyway,” Scott said, anally going back to his planner, “does that mean the May meeting will be our last?”
Our last! My throat tightened.
The others nodded, looking as depressed as I felt. Which was bizarre.
Sure, the six of us had sort of bonded since February. After the Great Geek Discovery, Audre had been downright, well, polite to Francesca. And everyone else’s tension also seemed to have lessened, making us feel almost like … friends. But I knew that wasn’t why I was crushed to end the book group. Without our monthly meetings—and the Philippa hunt—I’d most likely never see James again. And Audre, similarly, was upset because she’d miss seeing so much of Griffin. But what was everyone else’s problem?
Unless they all had a different hidden agenda keeping them loyal to the group.
But that would be way too freaky.
We’d just started discussing The Devil Wears Prada (“What was everyone’s favorite outfit description?” Francesca asked, in all seriousness) when my doorbell rang. Audre and Scott immediately glanced at me, looking as wide-eyed and worried as I suddenly felt.
The flowers had arrived.
“I wonder who that could be!” I exclaimed, trying not to cringe at how fake I sounded. Have I mentioned what a heinous actress I am? Excusing myself from the table, I hurried out of the kitchen, racing to the front door in the living room.
“Bloom?” the delivery boy asked from behind a quivering mountain of red roses.
I took a deep breath. I hate roses; I’d wanted to get something more unusual, like a tiger-lily-and-lilac bouquet. But I couldn’t afford be subtle here. Things had to be as clear as possible: Lots of boys like me!
I barely looked at the sheet the delivery boy gave me—I just signed and then lugged the heavy vase into the kitchen.
“Wow,” Francesca said. “Somebody’s spending the big bucks on you, Norah.”
James sat up straighter, and Neil, probably feeling guilty about what he’d done at Audre’s party, said nothing.
So far, so good.
“Hey, who are they from?” Audre asked, delivering her line perfectly as I set the vase on the counter.
“I have no clue!” I giggled, hoping to sound overwhelmed by my zillions of admirers.
When I’d placed my order with the florist I’d asked that the card come from a “Sebastian” (I’d picked the name randomly from one of Irene O’Dell’s books). Now, I plucked the small white card out of the bouquet, expecting to see “Sebastian’s” message (Norah, mon amour—you fill me with passion. These flowers are as stunning as you are. Kisses, Sebastian). Instead, this is what the card said:
Stacey, baby. I’m SO sorry about last night. Girl, will u ever forgive me? I luv u. Dylan.
Oh … God. This wasn’t my bouquet at all. I pictured my sister’s boyfriend—gelled blond hair, clear braces, boy-band fashion sense. Of course Dylan would send Stacey roses—he had no imagination.
I chewed on the pad of my thumb, wondering what to do. I could just fess up the sad truth: My little sister had a better love life than I ever would. But I hadn’t yet received my delivery, and I was worried the florist might have messed up and forgotten. At least I had some flowers now. And Stacey was sound asleep; she’d never know the difference.
I went for it.
“They’re from Sebastian,” I told the group, my face hot. I stuffed the card into my jeans pocket, hoping no one would ask to see it.
“Is this the same guy who sent you the other note?” Scott asked, right on cue, clearly not aware anything was wrong.
“Nope,” I replied after a beat, channeling Rosamund. You are the most wanted girl in New York City. “I was already going out with Sebastian when I got that letter.”
“You were?” Francesca piped up, looking suspicious. “Why didn’t you bring him to the party?”
Oh, what a tangled web we weave. “Well—we’re not that serious,” I fudged, looking at Scott and Audre for help. But then, thankfully, I was saved by not one bell, but two: first the house phone and then the doorbell. The phone stopped ringing abruptly—it must have roused Stacey from her dead-to-the-world slumber—so I excused myself and ran to the front door for the second time that morning.
And, naturally, there was my actual flower delivery.
“No,” I told the delivery girl, feeling my stomach churn. “There’s been some mistake.” And it’s called my life.
“No mistake,” the girl chirped, thrusting the flowers at me. “Bloom, Eighth Street. Sign here, please.”
I signed my dignity away, and then reluctantly dragged myself back into the house with my rightful roses.
“Again?” Scott cried when I entered the kitchen, which was so not part of his script.
Audre, knowing something was seriously off, made a panicked face at me.
“Gosh, you’ve been busy lately, Norah,” Francesca commented.
“I’m not saying anything,” Neil said.
But the worst was James. He was looking down at the table, looking like he might be fighting back laughter.
For a split second, I saw a way to salvage this debacle—I could simply and sanely tell the group that these flowers were for my sister, and then move ahead with our harmless book talk. After all, I already had one bouquet to back me up.
But now, with the second vase of roses in my hand, and the whole group watching me
, I felt a tumbling mix of greed and recklessness. If I wanted to go all-out Rosamund, weren’t two bouquets better than one? The more admirers, the merrier.
Yes. I know. I was diving off the deep end. But I was also hoping—foolishly—that this impromptu change of plans could work in my favor.
“I guess I have been busy,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I held the vase aloft. “These are from another guy I’ve been seeing. His name is …” I thought fast and desperately. “Lorenzo.”
Audre choked on her toast, James coughed, and Neil said, “You actually know someone named Lorenzo?”
Did I ever.
Before I could respond, I heard a girl’s voice cry out from the living room.
“Where are my flowers?” the voice demanded imperiously.
I froze.
As the kitchen door swung open, I turned slowly to see Stacey rushing toward me in her pajamas, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink.
When Stacey and I were younger, we’d pretend we had ESP. We would each close our eyes, try to figure out what the other was thinking (usually, for both of us, it was “I want ice cream”) and shriek when we were right. Now I once again tried to send my sister a mental message: Get out of here. Turn around and walk out and forget about your flowers.
She didn’t hear me.
“Dylan just called,” Stacey said, grabbing for the vase in my hand. “He said he sent roses—ooh! They’re so pretty.”
I jerked back, fear gripping me. “These are—these are mine,” I managed to stammer, which was pretty much my first nonlie of the morning.
Stacey stuck her tongue out at me and pointed to the roses on the counter. “Then those are mine!”
I heard murmurs from the table. I was reminded of Audre’s party and the awful, sinking realization that my scheme was collapsing.
“You’re wrong,” I told Stacey, backing up. “Those are, um, for me too.”
Stacey squinted. My little sister may be a little too into sparkly lip gloss and Jesse McCartney, but she’s not stupid.
“Norah,” she hissed, slowly walking toward me. “Stop lying. There’s no way you got two bouquets.”
The devil, I realized, does not wear Prada. She wears pink pj’s and fluffy It’s Happy Bunny slippers.
“How do you know?” I snapped. Suddenly, I was sick of always being boyless and flowerless. The lame Bloom sister. Stacey never saw me any other way—and that was how I saw myself too. It wasn’t fair. “Not everything is about you, you little brat,” I added, gritting my teeth and glaring at my sister.
“Give … me … my flowers!” she whined, pushing past me toward the counter. “I’m gonna tell Mom!” she added, lunging for the bouquet.
I grabbed Stacey’s arm to stop her, but then I realized that the entire book group was about to witness me wrestling with my little sister.
Not the mature and sexy image I’d been going for.
So I gave in, stepping out of her way and shrugging. Stacey promptly scooped up the vase and flounced out of the kitchen, but not before yelling “I hate you!” over her shoulder.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, hoping I wouldn’t dig myself in even deeper by bursting into tears. Too bad I couldn’t repeat the out-of-body experience from Audre’s party. Remembering that disaster, I felt another tug of grief. Strike two. What was wrong with me? Why did Rosamund’s risky stunts always run so smoothly, so neatly? And why were all of mine flopping?
I turned back to my book group, defeated. There was a long silence as James, Neil, and Francesca gawked at me and Scott and Audre exchanged mournful glances. Nobody was even pretending to look at their copies of The Devil Wears Prada. Apparently, my train wreck of an existence was much more interesting than high fashion and the bitchy people who work at magazines.
“That was my sister,” I finally said, as if that explained things.
“But why did you let her take the bouquet?” Francesca asked, still looking suspicious.
I sighed and set down my “real” bouquet. A wave of fatigue washed over me. I didn’t have the slightest energy to invent another lie.
“It’s a long story,” I replied with a sigh.
And that, I realized, was all it was. A story. Rosamund’s story. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t follow in the footsteps of a fictional character. Of course Rosamund’s plans ended up successful—she wasn’t real! There are no evil little sisters or teasing boys or random mishaps in romance novels. But life is rife with that stuff. Life is not fiction, and fiction is not life, and I needed to stop confusing the two.
Francesca resumed the fascinating Devil discussion (“Let’s talk about the use of shoes, okay, guys?”) and the rest of the group turned their attention to her. But I dropped my chin in my hands, spacing out and wondering if I should give Rosamund a breather. So far, she’d brought me nothing but humiliation—which I could have achieved fine on my own, without her help. The Rosamund plan had only taken my natural ability to embarrass myself and multiplied it by a thousand. Ever since I’d begun the wild schemes, I’d lost all sense of reason. The only thing To Catch a Duke would catch me, it seemed, was a spot in the crazy house.
I studied James across the table—his long-fingered hands, soulful lips, and blue eyes—and, heart aching, accepted that there was no point in pursuing him anymore. I’d tried, and failed. Rosamund and Lorenzo would simply go back under my bed, where they belonged. I’d simply wait for the book group to end, and my crush on James to run its course, kind of like a high fever.
Ten
Spring fever. It usually sets in around May, and this year’s case was stronger than ever. Why? Three little letters: SAT.
The exam itself was a hellish Saturday morning full of headaches and hand cramps that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Then a few agonizing weeks later came the tense Wednesday when our scores were posted online.
Clutching hands in the Millay computer lab, Audre and I held our respective breaths as our respective pages loaded. When the scores came up, we both shrieked, but for different reasons. We both did better than expected, which was a giant relief for me, but a huge letdown for Audre. As twisted as it sounds, she was literally hoping to get a really bad score so she could avoid the whole Yale issue with her parents. Meanwhile, my euphoria at scoring higher than a four hundred on the math section lasted until homeroom, when my teacher reminded me that I had my sure-to-be-awful follow-up meeting with Ms. Bliss the next day. I’d written the appointment down on my calendar at home ages ago, but had since pushed the whole thing out of my mind. Somehow, I suspected Ms. Bliss would find a way to shoot down my good score.
Stressed, Audre and I decided to treat ourselves to a movie after school. There was a Japanese film showing at the Angelika, this trendy theater near Millay that’s always showing foreign and indie films. Since Scott was out on a blind date with some guy Ha-Jin had set him up with, Audre invited her brother along to fill the “boy” slot. Langston was done with college for the year, and his girlfriend was living in London for the summer, so he was totally available.
Which was a nice treat. Even though Langston is practically the brother I never had, I still think he’s drool-worthy, and extremely smart.
While we were sitting in the theater, waiting for the previews to start, I was asking Langston all the college questions I’m usually too timid to ask Griffin.
I was crossing my legs and just getting to “What’s your favorite course?” when Audre leaned across Langston to poke me in the arm.
“Could we not talk about college for two seconds?” she grumbled. “I swear, I get it enough at home.” She pulled her wallet out of her green patent leather hobo bag. “It’s always ‘Langston takes the best classes at Yale’ and ‘You know, when Langston was a high school junior, he spent twelve hundred and fifty hours on his homework every night.’”
I giggled, because Audre had just done a pitch-perfect imitation of her dad.
Langston laughed too, his big brown eyes twinkling. “Oh,
Aud. You know it doesn’t make any difference. You’re still our parents’ favorite.”
“Uh-huh,” Audre muttered. She jumped up and brushed past us into the aisle. “I’m getting popcorn.”
This was a bad sign; Audre usually thinks movie theater popcorn is junk and only eats it when she’s royally pissed. I watched her walk off, and turned back to Langston with a sigh.
“Excuse the sibling rivalry,” he said, grinning.
“Please,” I said. “I’m an expert.” Stacey and I had been avoiding each other ever since our kitchen smackdown in April. My sister was all wrapped up in her gooey reunion with Dylan. And, after putting an end to my Rosamund schemes, I had thrown myself into homework and rereading Bitter Ironies for our last session—which was that coming weekend.