Bookishly Ever After (11 page)

I almost said yes, but then decided not to since she’d probably confiscate my wonderfully Maeve-y carved bow until after my next competition. “No…I just can’t focus today.” At least that was the truth. Another disastrous lunch period, where I’d ended up stumbling in the heels I’d worn in an attempt to be more Marissa-like and barely missed dumping my lunch on Dev by inches kept haunting me, popping up when I needed to focus.

Coach Rentz raised one eyebrow and shook her head,
letting me know she didn’t buy my excuse, then tapped my hand before moving over to fix another archer’s stance. “Relax that grip,” she said to me over her shoulder.

I shook out my bow hand, then took a deep breath and aimed, my arms shaking the tiniest bit as I tried to get my sight perfectly dead center. My bowl of southwestern quinoa salad landing right next to Dev’s feet popped into my head again and I lost focus as I released the arrow. It wasn’t a huge surprise that it almost missed the target altogether. I needed a break to clear my head. I stepped off the line and tried to look like I was checking my bow.

“Phoebe, do you have a minute?”

I paused midway through adjusting my sight and smiled up at Coach Rentz. “Sorry, I promise I’ll do better at tomorrow’s practice. I’m just a little distracted today.”

Coach shook her head, but smiled as she did it. “A lot distracted, and that other bow of yours isn’t helping. But,” she waved a paper at me, “that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

She hadn’t mentioned any new competitions in her team announcements, but the paper looked suspiciously like an application.

“Okay?” I said, warily, squinting at the paper to try to make out the writing on it.

“They want to run an archery range at sixth grade camp this year and Mr. Cooper asked me if any of my archers would be able to help out. Since you’re certified to teach, I thought this might be a good experience for you.”

I regretted letting Coach talk me into getting my level one certification last summer. The thought of teaching a bunch of eleven year olds about aiming at targets and not at each other made my stomach turn. Instead of looking back up at her, I twirled one of my arrows between my fingers, watching the teal and black vanes blur together.

“I don’t know. I’m not really good at this kind of thing.” A camp book series I’d read over the summer popped into my head, tempting me with the idea of s’mores and cute campers singing around campfires and hot counselors, but I pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they had come. “I don’t think I’m good at teaching.”

“You really don’t give yourself enough credit. I’ve seen you helping out new archers and think you do a great job.” She handed me the application and pat me on the arm. “Think about it.” As she walked away, she turned around and walked backwards to look at me while adding, “And if I catch you with that other bow, I’m confiscating it. Understand?”

“Um, okay,” I said with crossed fingers. As soon as she turned around again, I shoved the application into the black hole at the bottom of my bow bag, down under a few folded up old targets. Camp, just like shooting a perfect session a few minutes earlier, wasn’t going to happen.

Propping my bow in its stand, I checked the gym bleachers behind me. Dad always came for the last half of practice, waiting on the bleachers with the two or three other parents who came to watch. Most of the other kids hated when their
parents watched practice, but I kind of loved that archery was something he and I shared, even though he refused to even
hold
a bow.

I dropped down next to his feet and looked up at him, slipping my blue shooting glasses onto the top of my head. “You know, most people who come to watch practice actually watch.” I pointed with one of my arrows at the thick mystery bestseller he was balancing on his knees.

“They do,” he said calmly, slipping a bookmark into the book and gently shutting it. “But usually the shooting is much better.”

“That’s harsh.”

He let out a laugh and shook his head. “That’s me, your really harsh Dad. So, are you done?”

“I think it’s best for everyone involved if I stop before I hurt anyone.” Maeve
never
had bad archery days. But, then again, her destiny kind-of made it impossible for her to mess up. I thought of the paper now squished in my bow bag. “And after seeing me shoot like this, can you believe Coach Rentz wants me to volunteer to teach archery at the sixth grade camp?”

He looked up again over the rim of his glasses and suppressed a laugh. “Sixth grade camp? Did anyone tell her about the cryogenically frozen Jesus fiasco?”

I didn’t need to be reminded of my last, disastrous attempt to volunteer with kids. “It’s not my fault people let six year olds watch the Science Channel. You would think Father Sam would be the first to forgive and forget.”

Dad choked back a laugh. “You and kids just aren’t a good mix. It might be a good idea if you volunteer with inanimate objects, instead.”

“Yeah. I’ll stick to knitting chemo caps and preemie hats. Less chance of getting calls from angry parents. Still,” I side-eyed him with a fake annoyed look, “thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Always, kiddo.” He pointed me back towards my bow and opened his book again. “Now, pack up and let me finish this chapter. I was just getting to the next clue in this mystery.”

“Sunglasses, Ms. Martins,” Mr. MacKenzie said as he passed in his usual morning “just a reminder I actually get out of my office” stroll through the hallways before the first bell.

I straightened up by pressing my back against the wall next to Em’s locker and reached up to pull off my sunglasses. The hallway was way too bright for that hour in the morning. “Okay.”

Em poured me another handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans. “You do this to yourself, you know.”

“I couldn’t stop.
Timeswitch
was too good.” I slouched again and dropped my sunglasses back into place. “I think it was maybe five-thirty when I finished and got to sleep.” I yawned.

“You’re the only person I know who has book hangovers.”

The first handful of espresso beans were finally starting to kick in—the world was getting a little less fuzzy. “It was worth it. I had to know if Lara and Fabien got together and saved the world.”

“Spoiler alert: they always do.” Em slammed her locker shut and I jumped at the sound. “You could have just skipped ahead and read the end.” She shouldered her
bookbag and added, “That’s how I figure out if something’s even worth reading.”

“No, that ruins everything.” I yawned. “Part of a really good book is
how
they get to the end. And holy love triangles, it was good.”

Em opened her mouth to say something, but then she shut it and wrinkled her nose like she’d just tried some sour milk. “Ego alert.”

“Breaking the dress code rules, Phoebe?” Kris came into my line of sight, stopping and looking straight at me. He pushed back his hair in a smooth movement, even though it was already perfect, just like the rest of him. I prayed he hadn’t heard the love triangle comment.

It took a minute to remember to breathe. “Huh?” He pointed at my sunglasses and I quickly reached up to push them down and look over them like Maeve did when she first met Aedan on the hill of Tara. “Oh, I’m just rebelling against the social restrictions at this school that you try so hard to protect.” I hoped my dark circles weren’t too huge and that my sweater looked Maeve-y and wasn’t bunched weirdly at my waistband or anything.

Em poked the hand that I was using to prop up my sunglasses. “Stop doing that. You look like my Great-Aunt Simone trying to read the newspaper,” she hissed at me under her breath.

Frak
. I tried to look cool as I quickly pulled the glasses off my face but I scratched my cheek in the process.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Kris said with a wry grin. He
leaned closer, making my heart stop, and said, in a loud whisper, “I’d join in your rebellion if I wasn’t class president. Sunglasses are cool.”

Before I could come up with any witty banter, one of the seniors mock-punched Kris in the arm as he passed us and said, “Hey, cuz, you gonna be at the club later?”

Kris did some sort of midair guy-high-five/handshake hybrid with the senior. “Yeah, Aunt Rose needs me to help with the gala. It’ll be epic.”

“Always is.” The guy kept walking and called over his shoulder. “See you at four, then.”

Em’s expression was a combination of boredom and annoyance. “Do people even say stuff like ‘epic’ anymore?”

He ignored her comment, but gave me a little wave. “I gotta go talk to Matt before homeroom, but don’t worry, I won’t report you to the dress code police. Your rebelling is safe with me, Phoebe.”

“Thanks.” I tried to make my smile cool and mysterious, like Maeve’s, but it moved at light speed straight into what had to be an embarrassingly goofy grin.

“See you in homeroom, Katsaros.” Kris disappeared down the hallway and I leaned back against the wall to watch him.

“Not like I have a choice,” Em muttered.

Her dark cloud of disapproval popped the bubble of happy in the air around me. “Do you always have to be so rude to him?”

“Rude? That ‘club’ he was talking about is the country club
off Lake Crest. You know, the fancy one that only lets people with personal gold mines and sticks up their butts join?”

I waited patiently for her point, and when one didn’t come, I said, “So? I think he just flirted with me. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that? Everything.” She started pushing me towards homeroom. “You’re way too nice for uppity jerks like him.”

I ignored her comment and pointed at the ceiling as the bell started going off. “You’re going to be late.”

“I’ll be fine. Now, you, don’t be late for lunch. I have a plan.” Em gave me one last push into my homeroom and hurried off before I could say anything else.

“Oh, joy.” I said to myself as I took my seat and lay my head down on my arms.

“She’s so freakin’ desperate,” Em muttered before taking a fierce bite out of her sandwich.

I hadn’t been paying attention. Looking up from where I was making notes on a Maeve/Aedan scene in my notebook, I asked, “Who are you talking about?”

She pointed the corner of her sandwich in the direction of the lunch line. “Lexie Rossel. She’s the stage manager for
Phantom
and, ever since we started rehearsals, she’s been using the whole stage manager thing as an excuse to hang all over Dev.”

I looked down the line until a familiar head of messy black hair jumped out at me. I couldn’t help but grin at the
book spine sticking out of his backpack. Even from all the way over here, I recognized the cover art for the
Sentinel
series. Next to Dev, Lexie laughed at something he must have said. She reached out to untwist his backpack strap, her fingers lingering on his shoulder for a few seconds too long, and something unfamiliar rose up in me. It was like the scene in
Golden
where Maeve saw Deirdre flirting with Aedan. My fingers twitched and I promptly shoved my hands under my thighs to keep them from doing anything I’d regret.

“Does Dev like her?” I asked, softly. The senior always reminded me of Dax from
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
. Long, shiny brown hair that, unlike mine, was naturally straight, a model’s body, and she was so confident. There wasn’t one ungainly thing about her.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Em pursed her lips when Dev let out a loud laugh, loud enough that we heard it across the lunchroom. “But it looks like he really likes the attention,” she added. She reached over the table and grabbed my arm, making me turn around to look at her. “You have to start coming to rehearsals.”

I shook free of her hand. “Like I don’t have a life outside of being stalker-y?”

“Since you refuse to be on the crew, bring a book or knit something. You can get a ride home with me afterwards. He won’t even think about Lexie if you’re there.”

“You do realize that sounds creepy, right?”

“You realize that I saw your claw hands come out, right?” My eyes widened and I curled my fingers under the bench.
“Last time you did that, it was for the last copy of that book, when the mom almost got it.”

“I did not do claw hands.”

My skin felt the warmth behind me, like a force field, before a tray slid next to my lunch bag.

“What are ‘claw hands’?” Dev asked, stepping over the bench to sit next to me. Lexie followed, like the other slice of bread in a Dev sandwich.

“Notebook,” Alec said, covering the word up with a cough, and before it could even fully register in my brain, Grace quickly reached over to shove my notebook under her lunch tray.

Em’s lips turned up in the type of smile she usually reserved for her particularly evil little plots. “Oh, that’s when Feebs wants something really badly and is willing to kill for it. Her fingers get all claw-y.” She demonstrated in an exaggerated, monster-movie way.

Dev glanced curiously down to where my hands were glued to the bench and under my knees, before looking back up at the two of us. “So, what did you want?”

I threw an acidic look at Em. “Not like the whole clawhand thing actually exists, but since I wasn’t doing them, obviously nothing.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Em sing-song hummed before taking a sip of her soda.

My nails dug into the bottom of the bench—
not claw hands
—when I saw Lexie touch Dev’s arm to draw his attention. “So, like I was saying, I think we need to get
the shop class to help us find a chain long enough for the chandelier scene.”

Maeve knew exactly what to say in a situation like this. My notebook’s blue, sparkly corner taunted me from where it peeked out from under Grace’s tray.

Dev nodded. “Em, what do you think of Lexie’s idea? She thinks we can pull off the chandelier part of the musical in the auditorium.”

Em blinked, her fingers tapping in a rolling motion up and down her soda can. “I don’t know,
Lexie
. Don’t you think the stage crew might be better to answer this better than me or Dev?”

Lexie looked surprised. “Whatever. It’s my job and I just want us to have a great show. Dev
did
come up with the zombie theme. I thought we could brainstorm about this, too.” At
we
, she stared pointedly at Dev.