Bookishly Ever After Read online

  Em handed me another arrow from her perch on the grass beside me and heaved a theatrical sigh. “Status quo. He wasn’t able to get another foreign exchange year. Something about visas or whatever.”

  “That sucks.” I took aim again and this time hit slightly off-center. With a sigh, I dropped to the ground next to Em. “Do you want to try?” I asked, gesturing my bow towards Em. “Turning targets into Swiss cheese always makes me feel better.”

  Em laughed, poking at my bow with her finger as if it were a snake. “I never hit the target.”

  I gestured around us at the empty football field and baseball diamond. With school out for the teacher’s convention, we had the athletic fields to ourselves. Coach Rentz never locked our practice shed and didn’t care if we dragged out the targets as long as we put them back again afterwards.

  “No one’s here to see if you miss.” I wiggled my bow at her temptingly.

  “I’ll probably stab myself, become one of Rentz’s horror stories, or shoot you. No, thanks.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.” I rubbed my thumb gently along the smooth wood grain of my Maeve bow. It was hand carved and beautiful, no sight, no stabilizer, definitely not for competition, and Coach would have a fit if she saw me sneaking in a practice with it. Maeve would definitely love a weapon like this one.

  Em’s burst of laughter made me look up. “Do you want me to leave you two alone? You look pretty cozy.”

  I tossed a handful of leaves at her, most of which didn’t even make it half the distance. “You need to get a hobby. Preferably something that keeps you too busy to talk.”

  “Oh, I have that. His name is Wilhelm.”

  “Making out in the movie theater isn’t a hobby.”

  “I disagree. Plus, the people who called it French kissing apparently never made out with a German.”

  Em’s retort was so fast, it took a minute for her sentence to fully register. I resisted the urge to facepalm. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

  “You’re the one who mentioned making out.”

  “Believe me, I’ll never make that mistake again.” I rubbed at a spot of dirt on my bow that had lodged in one of the carvings. “You’ll need something to keep yourself busy this summer when Wilhelm’s not around,” I said, trying to really lightly gloss over the “not around” part. “Are you going to do community theater again?”

  “Actually,” she said, while pulling apart a clover, leaf-by-leaf, “I was thinking of auditioning to be one of those historical interpreters in Philly. How cool would it be to get paid to dress up, talk about the revolution, maybe sing a colonial song every now and then, and do improv all day long?”

  It actually sounded like Em heaven. “Cool? In the city in the summer? Only if they let you wear ice packs under all those skirts.”

  “I’ll just make sure I’m so dazzling in the audition, they’ll have to give me an indoor job.” She put her hand to her chest and put on a starry-eyed ingénue expression. “I could be the daughter of a wealthy merchant from the islands. Maybe you can teach me how to fake that I’m knitting something, like a sock. Or maybe embroidery—I can stick a needle in the fabric every now and then and make it look like I’m making a tapestry or something.”

  “Or you can just learn how to really knit.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. For someone who loved history, she wasn’t big on actually learning historically accurate handicrafts. “Who has time to do that? I have a life, you know.”

  “I know,” I said dryly.

  “So, what do you think?” She looked up at me, and a little bit of insecure Em shone through her confident grin.

  “It sounds awesome and you’re awesome, so how can they not pick you?” When the worry melted away from her features, I knew I’d said the right thing. “Can I sneak in when you’re on shift and play with the spinning wheel if they have one?”

  “Maybe. Can you make it look like I was the one who used it so I can get extra awesome reenactor points?”

  “Deal.”

  “Great.” She leaned back on her elbows, letting the sunlight wash over her. After a minute of basking in the sun, she reached up to look over her sunglasses and said, lazily, “Looks like we weren’t the only ones who thought this might be a nice place to hang out.” I looked up to see Dev and a group of his friends dribbling around what appeared to be a soccer ball, then turned back to Em with a frown. She tried to shrug but only succeeded in wiggling her shoulders. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell them you were here.”

  Dev seemed to say something to his friends before jogging over to us. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  I floundered for a good response. Witty. Maeve was always smart and witty. I changed around her prebattle comeback from Glittering to make it fit.

  Rolling back my shoulders and tilting up my chin like she would in a situation like this, I said, “Do you think I just sit inside all day and read?” I did a mental inventory of my outfit. Sporty and loose, but nothing awful today. Grace would be pleased.

  “Actually, yeah. And knit.” Dev said, and Em choked on a laugh.

  “Well, then.” I tried to let my lips slowly grow into a smile like Maeve’s always did, and stood. Confident. This had to be awesome. “If I sat around eating bonbons all day, would I be able to do this?” I bent over to grab an arrow from the pile and ignored my racing heart. This was my turf. I could do this. Giving him one last glance, I took a deep breath and pulled back on my bowstring, counting my heartbeats. This wasn’t States, just practice. With a guy watching me.

  A guy who, for some crazy reason, I was trying to impress.

  I let out my breath and, with fingers that shook a little bit more than I would have liked, released the arrow. I grimaced as it skimmed the top of the target and landed somewhere in the grass behind it.

  “Maybe you could.” Em said with a little note of snark in her voice. She looked over at the group of guys and sat up. “Is that Wilhelm?”

  My sneaker suddenly planted itself right on the back of her sweater, jerking her back down. “No extracurricular activities, Em. We were supposed to hang out today.”

  She extracted her sweater and rubbed at the dirt I had gotten on it. “God, just land a bullseye and impress Dev so I can go work on my German.” Both Dev and I stared at her. She rolled her eyes. “What?”

  Dev shook his head and turned to me. He bent over to pick up an arrow and held it out. “Try again?”

  All of my Maeve-esque bravado had melted into a slouch, a furious blush, and an overwhelming wish to roll back time. “I’m usually not that bad,” I said softly as I took the arrow. A little voice inside of me corrected that statement. Never that bad. At least not at this distance on this target.

  “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.

  19

  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.

  20

  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.

  21

  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.”