Enthusiasm (20 page)

“Nope—Limited Junior License: may drive alone for school course or activity. This is a school activity.”

I gave Ashleigh a help-me look. “Great!” she said. “North Byz—that’s where Yv and Yo live. You can take the three of us with you and drop us off.”

Seth gave her a look of fake concern. “Sorry, Ashleigh, I wish I could, but it’s a Limited Junior License. No more than two underage passengers.”

I tried a last-ditch effort to discourage him. “I better call my dad and see if it’s okay. I’m not sure he’ll want me driving with someone who just got his license last week.”

“Let me talk to him, then,” said Seth.

Worse and worse.

Terri, Dad’s receptionist, put me through. “Dad, is it okay if I come home a little late? I need to go with my friend Seth to pick up the bound copies of
Sailing to Byzantium
. The literary magazine, remember? He’ll be driving—he got his driver’s license last week.”

Dad expressed concern, as I’d hoped he would.

“Yes, just last week. I don’t know, I’ve never seen him drive, but I’m sure it’ll be fine, he’s very energetic,” I said in an attempt to alarm my father further while making Seth think I was calming him down.

Seth tugged on my arm to ask for the phone. “Hang on,” I told Dad, “he wants to talk to you.”

“Hello, Dr. Lefkowitz?” said Seth. “Seth Young. I just wanted to assure you that I’m a very safe driver and I’ll take good care of your daughter. I had sixty hours of practice before I took my road test—twice the recommended state guidelines. I got perfect scores on all the exams, including the road test. I’m certified in first aid and CPR. Not that I expect them to be necessary this afternoon, of course, but I think it speaks to my character. What? Yes, my parents’ Volvo. . . . No, never. . . . Of course. . . . Oh, that sounds wonderful, thank you very much, I’ll just have to ask my parents.” He handed me the phone back. “He wants to talk to you again.”

“Your friend sounds like a very responsible young man,” said my father. “I invited him to dinner. Amy’s roasting a leg of lamb.”

Seth drove exactly at the speed limit the whole way to the printer, coming to a complete stop at every stop sign. He held the steering wheel with both hands and checked his mirrors five times a minute.

We handed over our paperwork in the storefront office and sat down to wait on the mahogany-red vinyl sofa. Seth draped his arm along the back, a little too close to me, but not quite close enough that I could shrug it off. I stood up and wandered around the room to look at the framed handbills hanging on the walls, samples of the printer’s work. After a few minutes, we heard the thumping trundle of our order approaching on a dolly.

“Here you go, kids,” said the printer. “There’s your disk back, and your receipt.”

Seth insisted on opening a box and inspecting a copy of the magazine. He flipped through it, snapping the pages to feel the weight of the paper, and studied the cover picture through a magnifying frame he found on the counter. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.

The printer winked at me. “Everything look okay?” he asked Seth.

Seth completed his inspection. “It’s all good,” he pronounced.

We rolled the boxes out to the car, Seth pulling, me steadying, the dolly doing its best to make a break for it, and loaded them into the trunk. They were heavier than they looked. “Bend from the knees,” instructed Seth. “Use your legs, not your back.”

On the way back to school, I made up my mind to find out whether Seth was responsible for the sonnet on the tree. I hoped not, but if so, perhaps there was more to him than I thought.

“Seth, have you ever written a sonnet?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, several. I had one in the issue before last of
Sailing
—don’t you remember? My most recent was for Ms. Nettleton’s class, for the creative writing assignment in October. It was about moral responsibility. Why do you ask? Are you writing one? Would you like me to read it and give you advice? It’s a tricky form, but I’m sure you can learn.”

Seth, I concluded with a silent sigh of relief, could not be our secret arboreal author. Last weekend’s sonnet, with its references to snow, must have been written more recently than October, and if Seth
had
written it, he would have made sure I knew.

After we unloaded the boxes in the English Department office—Seth had Ms. Nettleton’s elevator key, a sign of supreme favor—he asked, “Want to stop at the Java Jail? It’s only four-thirty, so we have plenty of time before your dad expects us. Come on, let’s get a mocharetto. This is cause for celebration!”

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “Just one.”

The Java Jail was crowded when we got there. I grabbed the only table left, a tippy, drafty one near the door, while Seth went to order.

Looking around, I saw with alarm that most of the customers were boys in Forefield uniforms. What if someone I knew saw me with Seth?

He came back with our steaming drinks. “Here you go.” He moved his chair closer to mine and lifted his paper cup in its dimpled cardboard sleeve. “A toast: to
Sailing
, the magazine that brought us together!”

As I lifted my cup in return, I felt a cold blast run down my neck. Foreboding? Air from outside? It seemed rude not to return the toast. But I couldn’t quite bear to meet Seth’s eyes, so I turned mine away—and met, instead, the eyes of Grandison Parr, standing at the door.

“Hello, Julia,” said Parr, with a formal smile.

“Parr! What are—I thought you guys had finals.”

“They ended today. We get the afternoon out to blow off steam.”

Seth cleared his throat.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” I said. “Seth Young—Grandison Parr. Seth—Seth and I—we work on the literary magazine—he’s in my English class—we just . . .” I trailed off.

“How do you do?” said Seth stiffly, offering his hand, as if he expected a Forefield boy to have fancy manners and wanted to prove that his were just as good.

Parr took his hand and shook it. “A pleasure. Well, don’t let me interrupt.” He gave me another formal smile and moved on into the café.

Should I have asked him to join us? But I wouldn’t have been able to bear it, having Parr see Seth at his most pompous, having Parr think that this was the sort of person I would choose to associate with. My mocharetto scorched my mouth. I edged my chair around so that I had my back to Parr. For the duration of our drinks, I felt my back burning like a sacked and fallen city.

Naturally, my father was pulling into the garage just as Seth and I drove up. He stood at the door and watched Seth perform a perfect, though unnecessary, parallel parking maneuver.

“Come on in,” he said. “Seth, I presume? You’re staying to dinner, right?”

“Oh, yes, thanks,” said Seth, stepping out of the car and following Dad into the house.

“Amy, this is Julie’s friend Seth,” said my father.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lefkowitz,” said Seth.

“Hello, Seth. I’m glad you can stay,” said the Irresistible. “There’s plenty of food—I roasted a leg of lamb.” She turned to me. “And I made that mint sauce you like, sweetie, with fresh mint from the Lius’ greenhouse.”

The thought of the Lius’ greenhouse, on top of everything else, made my stomach lurch.

While I struggled to eat dinner, Seth regaled Dad and Amy with details of our
Sailing
responsibilities and my improvement in Ms. Nettleton’s eyes since I’d taken them on. I watched my father and stepmother inflating with approval, like Aunt Ruth’s air mattress. (I wondered how soon, also like the air mattress, it would all leak out again.)

“Seth,” I said when dinner was over, “don’t you have to get going? Doesn’t the Limited Junior License come with a curfew?”

“Yes, you’re right: 9 P.M.,” said Seth reluctantly. “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Lefkowitz—it was delicious. Julie? Walk me to the car?”

Dinner with my folks had clearly boosted his confidence. He looked as though he might try to kiss me once my father and Amy were out of sight. “No shoes,” I said, wiggling my toes in his direction. I stayed firmly seated and let Amy show him out.

“Thanks again, Mrs. Lefkowitz. See you tomorrow, Julie.”

“What a nice young man! Good-looking too,” said Amy after the door shut. “You sly girl, is
that
why you joined the literary magazine! Why didn’t you tell us?”

Chapter 18

My first appearance in Print
~
Ashleigh interferes
~
A Midnight Visitor
~
A Quatrain.

A
shleigh loyally bought four copies of
Sailing
: one for herself, one for each of her parents, and one, she said, for Ned. Although it would have been the depths of ingratitude to ask her not to, I wished she hadn’t. The editorial board had chosen a poem of mine that I now felt was perhaps a trifle too personal—too open to interpretation—too revealing. They had published it under my initials, not my full name, but I was afraid that anyone who knew me would easily figure out what they stood for. Indeed, Ashleigh already had. I’ll spare you the details, but if you want to get the flavor, imagine what a girl of some sensitivity might have written in her first flush of excitement at meeting the person who was to become the Magnet of Her Thoughts.

Plus, the rhymes were pretty lame.

“I don’t think it’s lame at all! I think it’s beautiful!” insisted Ashleigh, handing over the nineteen dollars. “A fitting tribute to—all right, all right, don’t hit me. I won’t say it. But I still don’t see why you won’t admit it. Your poem’s about a million times better than Seth’s three essays, anyway—
yours
is sincere. Speaking of which, sorry I couldn’t chaperone you yesterday. How did it go?”

“Oh, my God, Ash, it was awful! He somehow managed to charm Dad into inviting him to dinner, and now he thinks he’s my boyfriend.”

“How can he?”

“He clearly thinks it’s like getting your driver’s license, or A’s in math, or getting the Nettle to like you. You just follow the steps right, and that’s it, you’re done.”

“What if you told him you already have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, I don’t know—I thought about it—but I
don’t
have a boyfriend. I can’t quite bring myself to just lie straight out.”

“It’s not actually so much of a lie. At the rate you’re going, you will soon.”

“At the rate I’m going, if I do, it’ll be Seth. But it’s weird, isn’t it? I really don’t get it. What is it about me? If
I
were a guy, I wouldn’t look at me twice. I’m so tall and gawky.”

“Don’t say those things about my best friend! You’re beautiful! You look like a model, only not weird. You don’t have that overgrown-grasshopper thing. And you’re more approachable. You have this quality of agreeableness that guys find . . . well, agreeable. You go along with things. What you need is for the right one to give you something good to go along with.”

I saw the Right One quite a bit once the
Insomnia
rehearsals began again—which they did that week, with a vengeance. There were, after all, very few weeks left until February 2, opening night. But he gave me nothing but measured politeness, with the occasional smoldering look.

“Has Ned said anything yet?” asked Ashleigh one evening, absently scratching Juniper behind the ears. He was no longer a kitten, but a rangy young cat. We were doing our homework in her room, which was far better heated than mine.

“Has Ned said anything about what?”

“You know—has he explained himself, has he declared his intentions? I thought he would have by now. I gave him a strong hint last week.”

“Ashleigh! You didn’t! You . . . What did you say?”

“I told him he’d better get moving if he didn’t want to miss his chance, because you had a serious suitor.”

“Ash! I’m going to kill you! How could you do that?”

“I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t stand it anymore, watching you wait and wait. The suspense was driving
me
nuts too.”

“But Ashleigh—I keep telling you—oh, never mind, it’s pointless. I think I’m going to die of embarrassment.” I buried my head in my hands and moaned. “What did he say?” I asked.