Bookishly Ever After (13 page)

“Prove it.” The sunlight brought out the green coloring in his eyes, and there was a little note of challenge in his voice. Very Aedan-like in that moment. I tugged on the arrow until he released it.

“Okay,” I breathed. My fingers gripped the carved wood of my bow, taking comfort in its warmth. I was Maeve guarding the gates. I had killed the first goblin to rush me and only had to prove my skill. And I would prove it. She wouldn’t let a cute guy throw her off-aim. She’d also be insanely dramatic.

I nocked my arrow and, before I could change my mind, whipped around, raised my bow, pulled back, and released in a split-second shot. And like something straight off the pages of
Golden
, it hit the bullseye. Slightly off-center, but still awesome.

“Damn, that was cool,” Dev said for me, his eyes focused on the target. “Like something out of a movie.”

“Yeah, she does that all the time, Little Miss Robin Hood, etcetera,” Em said in a bored tone. “Now, can I go steal Wilhelm away?”

It took a second to make my own voice work. I tore my eyes away from the target to look down at her. I was good, but that had been a one-in-a-million trick shot, at least for
me. “You have such a one track mind.”

While Dev’s back was still to us, Em mouthed, “
Oh my God.
”

And I mimed back, “
I know.”

Dev turned back to us and we quickly resumed our carefully cultivated looks—Em’s of boredom, mine of confidence.

“Uh, yeah, Wilhelm. Actually, we’re meeting some of the other guys for a game, so I’ve gotta go. I only came over to say hi.” He stared at the target. “Maybe I’ll stop by afterwards if you’re still here.”

I waved my bow at him. “Maybe.”

“Great.” He jogged off, waving. “And remind me not to tease you about your hobbies.”

I tried that slow smile again and scrapped it for a normal grin. “Mission accomplished.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Em grabbed at my arm. “Holy crap, where the hell did you pull that from?”

I looked back at the target, wishing someone had caught that on camera. “I wish I knew. ‘Little Miss Robin Hood?’”

“It was either that, or jump up and down in shock. You officially impressed me.”

“I—” but before I could finish, a yell came from Dev’s direction.

“Am I knitworthy yet?”

I burst into laughter and ignored the confused look Em threw my way.

By the time I got to English class on Wednesday morning, Dev was already in the seat in front of mine. He and Sarah had been in a mini desk war for the past few weeks and it looked like he had beaten her today. I never realized my desk was in prime sitting territory.

Dev turned around without even saying hi and said, “Are you doing anything for Thanksgiving?”

I made a face. “Driving up to Massachusetts. My aunt’s hosting this year. You?”

“Quiet. Mom’s talking about making tofurkey and inviting my sister’s boyfriend over for dinner. Dad’s been sharpening his sword collection.”

I let out a laugh. “Sounds better than watching Gran look for her false teeth and Aunt Sophia’s soap turkey.” His brows knit together and, laughing some more, I explained. “It actually tastes like soap. I swear, it’s like she scrubs it down every year with bar soap and never rinses or something.”

“That’s…wow.” Dev leaned closer, propping an elbow on my desk. “I guess I can’t complain about tofurkey anymore.”

“Nope. Sounds delicious. Your mom can adopt me if she wants.” I tried not to get flustered by his closeness and
instead forced myself to lean closer. “We’re leaving tonight. Wanna trade?”

“As tempting as soap turkey sounds, no. But it’s too bad. I’d been hoping you would show me how to use a bow this weekend. I guess I’ll have to go looking for something else to entertain me.” He really did seem disappointed.

Dev’s cellphone sat on top of his desk. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled a Marissa-like move and reached around him to grab it, quickly programming my number into it.

“In case watching your dad threaten to kill someone isn’t entertainment enough, text me if you need any book recommendations,” I whispered as I handed it back to him. His fingers brushed mine and I couldn’t tell if the little shock I felt was from static, the phone, or him.

“Ms. Martins, Mr. Jacobs. Will I have to separate you two?” Ms. Zhdanova asked as she stood up from her desk, earning a few giggles from somewhere in the back of the classroom.

I quickly sat up straight, trying not to look guilty. But Dev tossed a small grin over his shoulder before turning to face her, looking incredibly cool and composed as he pulled out his copy of
1984
. A minute later, my bag vibrated. I snuck my cell out and checked it under my desk. Zhdanova turned back from what she was writing on the board at my stifled laugh.

Do you think Zhdanova would die of shock if I used dystopian in a sentence?

I froze, and when she started writing again, texted as fast as I could.
I dare you.
As soon as I hit send, I regretted it. Counter witty sentence with a fifth-grade dare. Yeah, really intelligent. I held my breath as he looked down at his phone.

His shoulders shook in silent laughter and I breathed a sigh of relief, until he looked back over his shoulder. “Watch me,” he said so softly I practically had to read his lips. “Ms. Zhdanova, would this be classified as a dystopian?”

Our English teacher froze before nodding with a surprised expression. “It looks like Ms. Martins is rubbing off on you. But, yes, it would be.” She broke into a discussion of the future worldview in the book and I started taking furious notes.

My phone vibrated, this time rattling against the underside of my desk. I glanced down and felt that electric shock run through me one more time.
I agree. You are definitely a bad influence on me.
I started to try and write a not-stupid reply when Zhdanova’s voice cut through the air:

“Phones!” The woman had eyes in the back of her head, I swear.

Fifth-grade me whacked Dev in the back with my copy of
1984
.

As a concession for surviving Thanksgiving dinner and Great-Aunt Amelia’s two-hour breakdown of every health problem she had had in the past year, including a TMI blow-by-blow of her UTI, Trixie and I were given a pass from the rest of the family visits in Massachusetts on Friday. Dad dropped Trixie off in the part of Boston packed full of fabric shops and I was left in front of The Midnight Read. The indie bookstore was probably my favorite part of family visits.

I snapped a picture of the bookstore’s logo of a book on horseback with a tri-corner hat and sent it to Alec before stepping inside. With all the weird video game characters he’d come up with, he’d get a kick out of that. The smell of old and new books mixed with coffee hit me the second I opened the door and I broke into a grin.
Home.
Lambertfield didn’t have anything this awesome. I ordered a gingerbread latte and settled into one of the big couches in the antique book section. Just being in the same space as them was amazing. The store even had the peacock-feather-cover version of
Pride and Prejudice
and a first-edition
Anne of Green Gables
behind carved wood and glass doors. I angled my seat
so I faced them. My eyes traced the pattern of the covers as I sipped at my latte. Maybe if I took quadruple shifts at Oh, Knit!, I could afford them. In a year or two or three.

My phone buzzed and I nearly dropped my latte. Balancing it on the arm of my chair, I pulled up the text. After Wednesday, I hadn’t gotten any texts from Dev, so I was surprised to see his name on my screen.

What are you up to?

I stared at the books in front of me and felt bolder than I ever was in person.

Soaking up literary greatness.
Let him think I was weird.

???

Before I could really think or stop myself, I placed my latte on the floor, stood, and took a picture of myself grinning and pointing at the rare bookcase. That would totally be something Marissa would do. At least I was wearing eyeliner and what was left of this morning’s lipgloss application. I texted the pic, and sat back down to finish the latte and wait for his response.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Don’t most people go to Boston to see the Old North Church or something?

Don’t hate on the book geekishness,
I typed back and then quickly followed with,
How was Thanksgiving? Any dead boyfriends?
It was so easy to be flirty via text.

My latte finished, I got up and started making my way to the YA section. With some of the pocket money slipped to me by both sets of grandparents and Aunt Sophia, I had
enough money for a few new releases and another gingerbread latte, but I needed to space the two coffees out.

Dev’s next text made me laugh.

Mom and I hid Dad’s swords. Could have been bad. How was the soap turkey?

I paused mid-book-fondle to answer.
Extra soapy. No near-homicides here.

Ha! GTG, last minute rugby lesson. When are you back?

Sunday afternoon.

Silence. The raised title on the new Emma Sanderson book had probably permanently imprinted itself on my palm at this point. When he finally answered, my heart nearly stopped.

We’ll have to hang out then and compare notes. Text me later?

My fingers moved jumpily over the keys, misspelling so many words that I could never blame them all on autocorrect. I slowed down and retyped everything.

Sounds good. Have fun. Don’t break anything.
Cute and not desperate.

I’ll try. Later.

After that last text, I slid down to the ground. Surrounded by the best instruction manuals on the planet, I reread our entire text conversation at least three times, cringing over some of the stuff I had written. Not awful, but I couldn’t wait for round two. I had ideas.

Ideas like texting a picture of myself in front of Old North Church, even though I’d been there a million times. And a picture of me with Bryan Forster, the author of the
Sentinel
series, who just so happened to work at the same high school as Aunt Teresa, with a copy of Sentinel Twenty he’d signed for me. It was like I was a different girl—a girl with a quirky sense of humor and witty responses. Like someone had mashed Marissa and Maeve together and shoved them into my phone. Problem was, I didn’t think I could be that person in real life.

When we pulled into our driveway on Sunday afternoon, I shoved my reference notebook into my bag, wiping away the telltale blue sparkles on my jeans. I’d studied every cute interaction scene I’d copied into that notebook, just in case. At that point, I could almost quote every flirty line Marissa ever used on Dan or Cyril. Grace was sitting on our front steps, and I practically jumped out of the car and into Grace’s arms.

“Thanks for coming. Make me pretty.”

Grace laughed and held me at arm’s length as my parents watched with confused looks on their faces.

“You really don’t need my help for that.” She held up one of those reusable shopping bags filled to the brim with stuff. “But I grabbed what I could when I got your text and I’ll see what I can do.”

I pulled my knitting bag and duffel from the car and dragged Grace up to my room, flinging open my closet to stare at its contents. “Dev texted to see if I wanted to meet him at the diner in half an hour. I look like crud. And I don’t think I fit in anything after this weekend.”

Grace pulled a makeup and hair tackle box-like thing out of her bag and started laying some of her more alienlooking items on my desk. “You’re wearing your skinny jeans and those boots I made you buy last week. And that cute grey sweater you knit that actually makes your eyes almost blue.” Before I could protest that none of those would fit— except maybe the boots, she shoved me none-too-gently to the closet. “I doubt you expanded that much.”

“You’re like a fairy godmother with an evil streak.”

“And you’re the one who asked me for help on the last day of a four-day weekend. Get changed.”

As soon as I changed into the outfit that surprisingly still fit, she sat me down and started attacking my hair with her straightener.

“So, he texted you?” she asked.

“Yeah. All weekend.” I watched in fascination as she used the straightener to make perfect spirals, like she was curling ribbon.

“Huh, maybe he’s not as big a chicken as I thought.”
She put the straightener down and gathered my hair into a ponytail.

“Dev, chicken? No, that’s me.” I grimaced as I saw all that hard work get smushed in a hair elastic. “A ponytail?”

“You’re supposed to look like you came back from a five-hour road trip and this is just natural for you.”

“You’ve done this before,” I said while she held my face in place to line my eyes and apply some shimmery liquid stuff to my cheeks and eyelids.

“I run with the A-crowd, hon. Looking naturally stunning is a part of the job description.” Grace stepped back to check out her work. “So, why the sudden ‘go get him’ attitude? The Phoebe I know would have begged off and said she’d catch up on Monday.”

She turned me around to face the mirror and I spoke to her reflection.

“Remember how last time I said I didn’t know if I had a crush on Dev or not?” She nodded at me to go on. “I think I’m definitely crushing on him now. Not as much as Kris,” I added quickly, “but Dev’s actually really funny and now that I’m paying attention to him
that
way, kind-of hot.”

Grace fluffed my ponytail. “And he doesn’t look like what’s-his-face from your book? Be still my heart.”

“No more soul bearing for you if you keep up the sarcasm.” I checked my reflection. Whatever she had done to me was amazing. I still looked like me, just a me that had spent a weekend relaxing on a beach somewhere instead of bouncing from house to house and staying up late knitting
in suburban Massachusetts. “Even if you have the magical ability to make me date-worthy.”

She rolled her eyes and started repacking her stuff. “You’re dateworthy with or without makeup. Now,” she added, “want me to walk with you to the diner?”