PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-2860-0
eISBN 978-1-68335-266-2

Text copyright © 2018 Tiffany Schmidt
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2018 Danielle Kroll
Book design by Alyssa Nassner

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TO MY PARENTS,
WHO TRIED TO STOP ME FROM
READING UNDER THE COVERS . . .
BUT NEVER TRIED TOO HARD.

“SHE IS A GREAT READER,
AND HAS NO PLEASURE
IN ANYTHING ELSE.”

—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

1

“Merrilee Rose Campbell, what are you doing?”

I barely heard Eliza’s question over her pounding on my bedroom door. Not that she waited for me to answer it—the door or her question. My best friend flung it open and stood in my doorway wearing her brand-new uniform and an exasperated expression. Despite her frown, she looked perfect. Her skirt and shirt were as crisp as a new book’s pages. Her blond hair gleamed in my room’s twinkle lights.

My uniform—well, if Eliza’s was a new hardcover, mine was a well-loved paperback. And my brown hair was only half dried because I’d gotten distracted—again—by the novel propped on my dresser. It was held open by my hair dryer and brush as I hopped on one foot and tugged a tall sock to my knee without taking my eyes off the page.

I offered her an apologetic shrug. “Reading.”

She stormed into my room, eyebrows and voice high. “We’re going to be late! On the first day!”

I nodded solemnly, then turned back to fiddle with the contents of my jewelry box while I gulped in the last paragraphs of chapter twenty-three.

“Merrilee!”

“I’m looking for earrings,” I said. The hero, swoon-worthy Blake, leaned in, closing his eyes—

“You are not! I can see you in the mirror!” “It’s the end of a chapter!” I protested as she yanked the book away.

“Late! First day!”

“Kissing scene!”

“New school!”

If she was going to kidnap my book, I was going to retaliate. “There’s no rush. We can always catch a ride with Toby and Rory. If he drives, we’ve got an extra thirty minutes.” Nothing irritated Eliza more than my other best friend, Tobias May.

Her fair skin flushed prettily when she was mad—much like the heroine Blake was about to kiss. Of course, Blake’s heroine was half angel, so she had a reason for being that gorgeous. Eliza was just the genetics equivalent of a Megabucks winner. Most of our former classmates at our all-girls charter school would’ve killed for her eyebrows alone.

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes before answering. “I already agreed to ride with Toby and your sister for the rest of the year . . . but this is our tradition. Doughnut Day! So, please, can’t the kissing scene wait until later? I promise to listen to you talk all about your new book boyfriend on the walk.”

I twisted my remaining sock into a pretzel. “He’s pretty drool-inspiring. Hot, British, rich, brilliant, and an actor.”

“You’re not dressed or walking. I don’t want to hear about him until you’re doing both.”

“Compromise.” I picked up my hairbrush. “You read aloud while I get ready.”

“Fine.” She snapped the book open, and I fought the urge to clap. Eliza read better than any audiobook narrator—a fact I’d learned during last spring’s reading-on-the-treadmill concussion mishap, when I was given strict instructions for “brain rest” while in the middle of an addictive series. She read with clarity and feeling—even when her own feelings about the books were those of complete disdain. Have I mentioned she’s the best friend?

“Okay, here’s what you need to know—”

Eliza held up her hand. “I don’t need context. I’ll read. You dress.”

“No teasing.”

“No stalling! You have five minutes or I’m heading to the Donut Hut without you.”

“Relax,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”

I brushed my hair into a ponytail and fussed with my shirt while Eliza skimmed the page. We could wear any white button-down shirt, but as I toyed with the navy-and-red crossover tie that was a mandatory part of my new uniform, I started to second-guess the Peter Pan collar on mine. And the red heart-shaped buttons. “Is fifteen too old for heart-shaped buttons?” I asked, then shook my head. “Whatever. I like them. I think of my style as toddler-chic. Lots of color and sparkles are a bonus.” I turned to get Eliza’s opinion.

She lifted her eyes from the pages and gave me a scan. “It works. It’s a very you look,” she said, then turned back to the book and scowled. “I’m not reading this.” She flipped to the next page and her eyes went wide. “I can’t believe you are reading this. I don’t think this scenario is possible—she doesn’t notice she’s not breathing? And, biologically, that’s not correct; the pupils of his eyes wouldn’t constrict, they’d dilate.” She pointed to a paragraph. “Also, the body dynamics here don’t make sense. Is Blake an alien? Because he appears to have three hands: one on her neck, one around her waist, and the third—”

“Give it back before you ruin it for me. You’re supposed to read it, not dissect it.” I tossed the book onto my bed. It landed in the mound of throw pillows I used to disguise the lumpy, unmade state of my blankets. “Anyway, how do I look? I’m still not sold on uniforms.”

“You’re good.” She paused. “But are those the socks you’re wearing?”

I crossed one leg behind the other. Purple unicorns reached halfway up my left calf, while flying pigs soared around my right. I liked them both and had no idea where their pairs were hiding. “Yes?”

Of course she loved the uniforms—even in a boring, no-frills white shirt, school tie, and navy skirt, she looked stunning. Without a single fleck of makeup or hair product. She was flaxen haired, long legged, hourglass-y. Her eyes were large and expressive. And paired with her dark lashes and brows, their blue “fathomless depths” “blazed” and “flashed” in all the ways novelists described. She was a romance heroine, a fairy-tale princess, a Helen of Troy. Or, as stupid Brandy Erlich at our old school had dubbed her, “Brainiac Barbie.”

It was obvious where she got her genius from, but I still wasn’t convinced her parents hadn’t genetically engineered the biologically ideal appearance for their daughter. Except . . . beauty was the exact opposite of what they valued.

I couldn’t do beautiful, or hot, or breathtaking. My nose was too perky, slightly upturned. I had freckles—not a coat of them, but a healthy sprinkling across the bridge of my nose. My brown hair was lost somewhere between light and dark, and it was a flyaway static magnet. My gray-blue eyes were too big and my mouth was too small.

I got “cute.” I got “adorable.” I got “feisty”—which doesn’t even describe appearance. Or “pixie,” which made no sense since I was average height, or at least I would be once I hit a growth spurt. Both my sisters were five-six, and there was no way I’d let them stay taller than me—it interfered with borrowing their clothing.

But if I couldn’t be glamorous, or chic, or gorgeous, then I was certainly going to make the best of cute. If Eliza tried fighting me on my socks, she’d get to see feisty. I lifted my pointy pixie chin defiantly.

She sighed. “We don’t have time to discuss your issues with matching—but, boots?” She went through the beaded curtain that served as my closet door and returned with a light brown leather pair.

“I’m glad the uniform doesn’t stipulate footwear. At least my feet get to have personality.” I straightened the waist of my navy pleated skirt and zipped my calves into the boots. “Can you believe we’re going to be in classes with boys!? I bet the Hero High guys look amazing in uniforms. . . . Though do you think they’re still the same unromantic mouth breathers we had in elementary school? If so, what a waste. Someday, I’ll have my first kiss/boyfriend/love—hopefully before I’m ancient—but until then . . .” I shrugged and looked longingly at the book on my pillow. “Boys are so much better in books.”

Eliza was hunting among the paperbacks and clutter on my desk, adding pens, notebooks, and the folder containing Reginald R. Hero Preparatory School sophomore schedule/orientation papers to my satchel. I’d meant to do that last night, but . . . I glanced again at the book. Black cover, the title, Fall with Me, in fancy script. Oh, Blake, you plot-tastic distraction.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

“Yes.” She held out the strap and I ducked into it. “Boys are better in books. It’s your latest maxim, I know.”

“So much better,” I corrected as I grabbed a stack of bangles off my dresser and slid them onto my wrist. Eh, they clanged too much. I took them off. “Fingers crossed we find our own heroes at Hero High.”

“Don’t lump me in that we—I’m not interested. Adolescent girls involved in romantic relationships are more likely to experience depression and lowered levels of academic success.” Facts her parents had drummed into her head the same way she drummed her fingers against my doorframe while I checked that my balcony door was closed and unplugged my twinkle lights.

“Ready.” I tapped on the corner of the Fibonacci poster on the back of my door, shut it behind us, and started down the long hallway to the stairs. The walls were covered with photos of my two sisters and me at all ages of awkward and all seasons of apparel. Thank goodness Mom couldn’t dress Lilly, Rory, and me in matching holiday outfits anymore. Nope, now Rory, Eliza, and I would just have matching uniforms, every single day. Gag.

“So if you don’t want real-life romance, you should agree with me—about boys and books.” I waggled my eyebrows, but she just shook her head. “Speaking of books, do you think we’ll be reading a lot of them?”

“Probably. It’s private school. Parents expect to see more homework. It makes them feel like they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“I hope our . . .” I looked over my shoulder at her and shrugged. “Syllabuses?”

“Syllabi.”

“Aren’t full of stupid war stories. I mean, I love a good classic—you know how I feel about The Great Gatsby—but why do teachers always seem to assign war books by old dudes?”

“Classics become classics for a reason.” Eliza paused to straighten a photo of Mom and Dad at their twentieth anniversary party. “And usually that reason has to do with our patriarchal society and the authors being privileged white men.”

“Yawn. I want it noted: if we have to read The Catcher in the Rye again I’m staging a protest. I’m so over Holden and his privileged ennui.” I jumped down the last two stairs, my skirt blooming out like the bell cap on a mushroom.

“Noted,” said Eliza with a smile. “And agree. I loathe that—”

She was interrupted by my parents rushing into the foyer. They were already in work polos because our family-owned dog boutique opened early to catch the morning leashes and lattes power-walking crowd.

“There you are!” Mom’s lipstick was the same peach color as in all the photos in the upstairs hallway. I’m sure it had been trendy at some point in the past twenty years, but I only cared that it was as familiar as her wide smile.

“Good luck to our sophomores.” Dad tweaked my nose and grinned at Eliza, whose cheeks turned pink as she fought a smile. I loved him for making her a part of their “our,” since her parents were off at the South Pole, more interested in being the first to discover new species than in being around for first days of school. I bumped a shoulder against Eliza’s.

“You girls look so grown-up in your uniforms. Pictures? Pictures!” Mom fumbled in her pockets for her phone. When she didn’t come up with it, Dad brought out his own and snapped a pic.

“Say cheeseboogers,” he said, undermining her statement about growing up. He grinned at the photo on his screen, which was probably a super-flattering shot of me giggle-snorting. “It’s nice to know that even though you’re a high school sophomore, you’ll always be the little girl who laughs at her ol’ dad’s jokes.”

“Emphasis on little,” said my younger sister, Rory. She was slumped at the kitchen table eating some sort of sticks-and-dirt healthy cereal with her eyes half shut.

Mom turned and gave my sister a stern, full-name warning. “Aurora.” Then Mom and Eliza said in unison, “Ignore her.”

“I will,” I said, but couldn’t resist muttering, “I do, as often as possible.”

Rory’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something wrong with you two. No doughnut is worth getting up earlier and walking.”

I rolled my eyes. “Good thing you’re not invited, then.”

Rory turned back toward her cereal, unsuccessfully hiding her smug smile and pink cheeks. “When I’m sitting in Toby’s car enjoying air-conditioning and someone who knows where we’re going, I’ll try not to feel jealous.”

Now Eliza was the one rolling her eyes. It was her automatic reaction to Toby’s name. Rory’s was blushing.

“Now, girls . . .” said Mom. She sighed and clasped her hands together, pressing them against her chest. “You know, I met your father in high school. First day.”

Rory mumbled, “We know.” But I loved that story, so I nodded.

She kissed my cheek. “Maybe you girls will meet your special someones at Hero High.”

I raised my eyebrows at Eliza as Dad added his kisses to both our cheeks. See! I come by my sappiness genetically. Eliza knew my family well enough to interpret the sentiment in a single glance.

“Good-bye, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell.” She grabbed my arm and I let her drag me away, stopping only to give my dog, Gatsby, a kiss on his adorable muttsy nose. Outside on the sidewalk, I took a deep breath. Eliza groaned and gave a pointed look at her watch, but I stayed still, looking from my house to Toby’s next door to the road that led in one direction toward our old school and in the other toward our new one. Counting two years of preschool and kindergarten, this was my thirteenth first day of school.

The number felt a little ominous.

“Ready for Hero High?” Eliza asked, her eyes already focused down the sidewalk like she was picturing the state-of-the-art bio labs that awaited us on the other side of doughnuts.

Ready? To be the new girl in an unfamiliar school where boys and the potential for humiliation waited around every picturesque corner? Not really.

I slid my satchel higher on my shoulder and lifted my chin. “Please,” I said with a wink. “Hero High should be asking if it’s ready for me.”

2

Once we’d braved the lines at the Donut Hut and started walking toward our new school, Eliza looked at her watch and visibly relaxed.

“Told you we had time.” I licked powdered sugar from the corner of my lips, savoring it and the rare experience of being the one who was right.

She took a delicate bite of her cinnamon doughnut. “I like being punctual.”

Mine was a not-so-delicate bite, and I jumped backward as jelly filling shot out the other side. Luckily, it missed my uniform and landed only on my boot.

Eliza handed me a napkin and I knelt to wipe at the Ohio-shaped spot on my toe. Hopefully Mom or Google knew jelly-on-suede stain removal tricks, because now that I’d thought about it, the boots actually belonged to my older sister, Lillian.

I stared at the stain as every glossy photo from the school’s website shuffled through my memory. Would I find a place among the smiling clusters on the benches or in the labs? I wanted one, oh, how I wanted one. But. Those students were as crisp as kale . . . and I wore jelly as a boot accessory.

Eliza pulled me up. “Stop rubbing it. That’s making it worse.”

I stretched the fingers of my non-doughnut hand wide, like I was reaching for something I couldn’t grasp. This wasn’t just about the boot. “You know that shimmy you get in your stomach and throat when you listen to Disney movie soundtracks? And you feel like you can do more—be more? That you should want to see how far you can go?”

Eliza paused and considered this. “Yearning?”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” I fit the word in the Mad Libs of emotions in my brain. It clicked. “But I don’t know what I’m yearning for.” I opened and closed my hand, but it was still empty, whatever I needed elusive. “I want to spin on a mountaintop, or in a blizzard, or under the sea, or on a boat. I want a purpose. I want so much more than this suburban life.”

Eliza smiled and ducked the arms I’d flung outward. “It’s a little too early for improv show tunes.”

I smiled back, but weakly. “You have science. Lilly has her wedding and law school applications. Rory has her art. I want . . . something that’s mine. Something I’m good at. I need something. I hope I find it here.”

I started down the sidewalk, because technically here was still two blocks away. “This is a fresh start. I no longer have to be known as the girl who still believed in Santa in the fifth grade. Or the one sent to the nurse because she couldn’t stop crying over Where the Red Fern Grows. Or—who could forget the super-fun first week when I couldn’t find my gym locker, and I had to wear my sweaty clothes to class? Can I just not be that person?”

I wasn’t a fan of Lilly’s future mother-in-law, but I was grateful for her insistence that Rory and I switch from the charter school we’d attended since sixth grade to this “much more prestigious” private school.

“I promise to remember where your locker is,” said Eliza. “And I called to confirm that our schedules are identical.”

“Thank you.” Bless this girl for transferring schools with me and Eliza’ing her way into matching schedules. Of course her parents had always wanted her to go to Hero High and had only begrudgingly settled on Woodcreek Charter School for Girls because of studies about the benefits of an all-girls’ educational environment on confidence and achievement. But, as they’d been happy to point out, those advantages weren’t significant enough to make up for a lack of lab facilities, AP classes, or International Baccalaureate programmes—all of which Reginald R. Hero Preparatory School had in spades. This was a rare moment when my parents’ lack of finances and Eliza’s stubborn refusal to go without me were finally not obstacles in the Gordon-Ferguses’ plans. So, if I was blessing things, I should include the financial aid and scholarship committees.

Eliza looked mournfully at her last bite of doughnut before popping it in her mouth and chewing slowly. She swallowed and asked, “May I make a suggestion?”

I gave her some serious side-eye, but her poker face was inscrutable. “Maybe.”

She began, “You know you’re my favorite human on the planet—”

I interrupted to add, “And Gatsby is your favorite canine.”

She laughed. “Sure.” Then she continued, “And I love your fearless optimism and imagination. But . . . maybe don’t spend the whole day starry-eyed. I know you’re excited about going coed and don’t intentionally get so lost in your thoughts—but at least on the first day, try to focus on what people actually say—not the narratives you’re inventing for them.”

I dragged the toe of my boot along the pavement—then winced when it added a scuff to the stain. There was no way I could return these without facing capital punishment from Lilly. I’d have to bury them in the back of my closet with her pink blouse (blueberry pie) and Rory’s white skirt (impromptu Slip ’N Slide—though to be fair, Toby had dared me).

Eliza cleared her throat and I blinked, realizing I owed her an answer. “Oh. I do try.”

She laughed. “You know what? Be you. If they don’t adore you, that’s their problem. And we’ll try every club until we figure out what you’re yearning for. Now, what about me?”

Because that was the thing about Eliza—she gave lots of advice, but she also asked for my opinion and listened.

“Try not to be so sensitive if your parents come up.” Since she was nodding and receptive, I added, “And be nicer to Toby.”

Eliza scowled. “I can’t believe we’re going to have to see him every single day.”

He lived next door. I already saw him every day, but I didn’t remind her. I also didn’t say, You need to learn to share me, because I’d said it—and they’d ignored it—a gazillion times.

“We’re here.” My stomach tightened as the long driveway to Hero High loomed large across the street. I dropped the last piece of my doughnut back into the bag and stared at the stone arch and, beyond that, a campus that looked much too perfect and pristine for someone with scuffed and jelly-spotted boots, someone who frequently got grass stains by just looking at lawns and who hadn’t yet managed to wear tights for an entire day without snagging them. Someone who occasionally still forgot to raise her hand and blurted out the answer in math class before the teacher finished explaining the problem.

I took a deep breath and a moment to absorb the beauty of the campus—my new campus. There was a double row of trees that arched over the drive leading to the stone mansions where classes were held. The grass was Technicolor green and so temptingly lush that I wanted to climb the gentle slope off to our left and roll down it.

Okay, so maybe there was a reason I was prone to grass stains.

“Ohhh, who’s that under the maples?” I pointed across the drive to a guy pacing beneath the row of trees. It reminded me of a scene from a book—I just couldn’t remember which one.

“Those are sycamores,” said Eliza. “And the only male I know here is Toby, so your guess is as good as mine.”

I studied the way the mystery student’s head was bent. Sunlight and shadows played across the black curls that spilled around his ears. “Does he look upset? Do you think we should—” I stepped off the path in his direction, but Eliza grabbed my arm.

“No, I don’t think you should bother the brooding boy who’s choosing to be by himself. He’s a stranger, not a stray puppy.”

But he was so alone beneath the trees. So alone and so picturesque with his dark pants and white shirt against the green backdrop and dappled shade. His tie wasn’t fastened, just draped around his collar, and his sleeves were rolled up. A blazer was slung over a book bag at the base of a tree. The guy’s face was hidden by the angle and those touch-me curls, so I couldn’t see if his expression was as emotional as his posture and pacing, but I could practically hear his sighs as he clenched and unclenched a fist in time with his footsteps. It was something right off the pages of a half dozen romance novels. Only it was happening, real, live, right in front of me.

Color me emo-intrigued.

School with boys was awesome.

“Earth to Merri.” Eliza shook my arm.

“He’s so mysterious.”

“You can’t solve all the school’s mysteries on your first day.” Eliza spun me back in the right direction. “Today, let’s focus on the mystery of locating our classes. He’s probably just angsty about summer being over.”

“I doubt it. Today’s Friday. Who gets that moody about one day of classes? Though maybe his weekend plans are as exciting as mine.” I wagged one finger in faux enthusiasm. “It’s finally here—Lilly and Trent’s engagement party is tonight.”

I’d never understand what Lilly saw in Trent—what anyone did. Sure, he was handsome, in an entirely generic soap opera actor way. But before he’d put a ring on it—it being my sister’s finger—he’d been on a list of the state’s most eligible bachelors. Everything about Lilly’s relationship and fiancé were yawn-inducing. The party would be a total snoozefest, too—full of his mom’s politics and fussy food. Gah, neither the election nor the wedding could come fast enough.

I let Eliza drag me farther down the path but glanced over my shoulder. The boy was leaning against a tree. Not back against it. He was facing it, one palm pressed flat against the trunk as he bowed his head, the other hand fisted tightly by his side. He was so broody and so mysterious. The broodiest boys in books were also the ones who made my heart c’thunk, and this guy was a Brontë hero: Heathcliff and Rochester combined. The mysterious ones brought out my inner sleuth—and this guy made me want to dig up Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie.

I wished he would look up so I could offer an encouraging smile or a friendly wave. Heck, if Eliza wouldn’t have killed me for even thinking it, I would have given him a cheer-up hug. Since I couldn’t, really, shouldn’t—Stranger Hugger was not the reputation I wanted at Hero High—I just gave him one last look and vowed that as soon as possible, I’d solve his mystery.

3

The closer we got to the gray stone buildings of the campus, the faster Eliza walked. When we heard the voices of other students, her pace forced me to jog. She wasn’t overanxious to get to homeroom; she was just anxious. Fast footsteps, clipped tone, jerky gestures—these were Eliza’s tells. Distraction mode: activated.

“The scenery here is certainly better,” I teased, raising my eyebrows and tilting my head to indicate yet another pretty guy made prettier and preppier by a perfectly cut blazer and pants. Since Eliza didn’t answer, I poked her and added, “By ‘scenery,’ I mean ‘guys.’”

The boy I’d indicated was standing in front of a trash can. And since I was still holding a sticky doughnut bag, this had all the ingredients of a perfectly book-worthy meet cute. As gorgeous as the tree boy had been, this one was an upgrade. Like, an are-you-kidding specimen of teenage perfection. If all the Hero High guys looked this good, I was in serious danger of flunking out. Or maybe I just needed some time to build up a tolerance? Like with caffeine. Either way, I gave this tall, dark double espresso my best attempt at a flirty, not-pixie smile and said, “Excuse me,” as I leaned around him to toss my bag in the trash.

“Wait!” he called.

Oh, I waited. I so willingly waited for whatever would come out of his mouth next. And while I waited, I tried to picture how he’d be described in a Mick Flame novel. Everything about him was crisp and corners, from the collar and cuffs on his shirt—were those cuff links?—to the angles of his cheekbones and jaw line. Lips that any romance writer would write raptures over: just this side of sulky and, in a word, bitable. Eyes, rich brown, intense, alert like he was taking note of everything—and I didn’t mind being noted. His posture would make an etiquette teacher drool; yet, like his clothing, it seemed a natural part of him. His hair was dark brown and neat—except for one piece that dared to droop onto his forehead. Oh, I liked that piece. I bet it annoyed him, but a girl could go swoony just thinking about fixing it. Even his voice was sharp—sharp enough to pierce my heart and make me—

“You can’t do that!” I jerked backward from his scolding. His scowl made me want to apologize, even though I didn’t know what for. “You’re not going to leave it like that, are you?”

“If you could use a more specific noun than ‘that’ or ‘it,’ perhaps we’d have a clue what you’re complaining about,” snapped Eliza.

“That’s recycling.” He pointed to the can behind him, then aimed his intense dark eyes back at me. “Your trash was not recyclable.”

“Oh.” Breath whooshed out of my lungs in a relieved gust. “That’s easy enough to fix. My mistake. Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for making a mistake,” lectured Eliza, and I bit my tongue so I didn’t say sorry to her as well. Usually I would, just to see her cheeks flush and hear her speech on female disempowerment through the narrative of apologies and self-blame, but leaning elbow-deep into the recycling can, I was willing to let this chance pass.

“You know, they should really mark these better,” I chattered as I leaned deeper into the can, hoping my skirt still covered all the parts it should. This wasn’t a scenario I’d tested for accidental exposure.

The guy’s eyes widened like I’d just told a particularly cutting “yo’ momma” joke or insulted his puppy. “Most of our students don’t have difficulty reading.”

I gasped—which was apparently the last boost I needed, because my fingertips finally brushed against my doughnut trash. I stood and crushed the bag in my hand before tossing it in the next can.

“Did—” I swallowed and took a deep breath, because I must have misunderstood. “Did you just accuse me of not knowing how to read?”

The accusation was so preposterous that I couldn’t help but giggle. Everyone said I was practically born with my nose in a book. I stopped laughing when he didn’t smile. His eyebrows arched like perfectly graceful, perfectly disdainful punctuation on his perfect and disdainful face. He tapped a polished loafer on the tiles that read “trash” and “recycling.”

“Who puts signs on the ground? That’s hardly practical.” I looked to Eliza—who nodded in agreement—then back to the guy.

“Like I said before, most of our students don’t struggle with this concept.” And since he’d saved the planet from my waxed-paper bag, he gave me one last haughty sniff and started walking away.

I chased after him, determined to coax a grin and win him over, because this had to be fake. Some sort of new-kid hazing, or Toby had set this up as one of his pranks. “Hey,” I called when I caught up. I held out my palm. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”

I knew I was vertically challenged, but no one had ever actually looked down their nose at me before. And, gah, the intensity in his gaze—if this was how he looked when he was annoyed with someone, imagine being on the receiving end when he gazed on someone he adored. Not that I wanted to be that someone. Not at all. Despite all the enemies-turned-love-interests books I’d read, I was okay with this guy keeping his pretty scorn to himself. Especially when he paired it with a slow, measured, are you an idiot? voice. “That hand was just in the garbage. Do you really expect me to shake it?”

“Actually, as you were so quick to point out, it was in the recycling.”

He stared at my fingers like they were crawling with salmonella, which . . . maybe they were. The longer he stared at them, the more I was tempted to run for the closest sink or dig through Eliza’s bag for her anti-bac.

In the half second before I convinced myself I could actually see the germs crawling across my nails—had that freckle always been there?—Eliza tugged on my arm.

But I didn’t look at her. I looked up at him. He was looking at me too. Still arrogant. And maybe . . . as his dark eyes narrowed and searched mine—just a tiny bit surprised or confused or intrigued or . . .? Whatever emotion had sparked between us, he blinked it away. Covered it with annoyance and amped up the wattage of his glower. I was tempted to rub my germy hand all over his perfectly pressed shirt. Except my parents trained me better than that.

“Forget it. He’s rude,” Eliza said.

His gaze slid from me, to her, to away. I did a subtle fist pump by my side. It might be bad dog-training advice to commence an eye-contact contest with a pup, but it sure felt good to win one against this jerk. “Did you hear that?” I demanded of Eliza. “He said I couldn’t read.”

Eliza looked gratifyingly pissed, and her angry looks were way more murderous than mine. A hazard of cute is that it is incompatible with scary. “You sleep with books under your pillow. You read more pages than anyone else in the Chester Elementary read-a-thon. You can recite Keats and Dickinson like the alphabet. You were the first in our class to complete all seven Harry Pot—”

I held up a hand to cut her off—and because I really wanted the anti-bac she kept in her bag. While I loved her defensive mode, I didn’t need a recitation of all the evidence that he was wrong. Not that he seemed to care or even acknowledge that she’d spoken. Well, I wasn’t going to directly acknowledge him either.

“Wow, the welcoming committee at Hero High is top-notch,” I said while slathering anti-bac all over my fingers. I’d said it louder than I should. Loud enough—I hoped—that it carried to his reddening ears as he walked away.

It certainly reached the ears of several other students, because I caught two girls giggling, and a guy stopped and asked, “Do you need help?”

“No.” Eliza turned her back and tapped an impatient ballet flat on the path.

This new guy couldn’t be more different from the Recycling Can Enforcement Squad. He was rumpled. One side of his shirt untucked. One cuff unbuttoned, revealing a wiry wrist and more of his rich brown skin. He had the hopeful eyes and eager smile of a well-loved puppy and looked like he was going through a puppylike growth spurt too. Oversize hands and long limbs he hadn’t quite mastered yet. I glanced at his feet, because if shoes were the only nonstandard part of the uniform, I wanted to see what his said about him. Unlike the polished loafers of the jerk, this guy had on flip-flops. Their madras straps were shades of red, gray, and navy, which made me smile, because those were the school colors.

“Hey, I’m Curtis. What’s your first class?” he asked me, which I appreciated since from my experiences around town at the mall and movies and parks, most guys forgot I existed once they’d seen Eliza. Maybe I just needed her to turn around whenever a boy approached.

“Um . . .” I never wasted headspace on things like schedules. Eliza picked our classes, then I followed her around and let her badger me into studying. She loved time management and any excuse to be bossy.

“Biology,” she answered.

“Seriously? Bio first thing?” I stopped just short of stomping my foot. Instead I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “No wonder you were so excited to get here. Science before eight a.m. is cruel and unusual punishment!”

“I’ve got bio too. And I’ll have to respectfully disagree—it’s my favorite cla-ahh—” He got his first glimpse of Eliza and choked on his words or his tongue or his drool.

I winced. Yes, my best friend had a face and body that made guys stupid. But since stupidity and being objectified were her biggest turnoffs, this guy was not doing himself any favors.

“Um.” Curtis cleared his throat and his voice came out octaves higher. “The bio teacher’s—uh, really good. And you’re . . . wow.”

Eliza glowered, and I cursed her parents for the way they’d drilled into her head that her beauty was a liability. They were away on research trips ten months out of the year and still managed to convince her that—since she fit a narrow beauty standard of privileged perfection with her Caucasian features and her blond-and-blue combination—no one would take her seriously.

I needed to change the topic before either of them made things worse. Clearly she was interpreting his bio-ramble as a reference to her parents, and clearly he was about to build an altar to sacrifice himself upon. I said the first thing I could think of: “Don’t you agree the trash cans aren’t well labeled?”

“Um.” He blinked at me. “What?”

“Never mind.” Gah, five minutes on campus and I was already ruining my chances of being seen as normal. I sighed and walked the last five steps to where the sidewalks intersected.

Hero High didn’t believe in signposts. On the ground at the places where paths crossed, inlaid mosaics indicated direction. The design style paid homage to Reginald R. Hero, the school’s founder, who’d made his fortune in artisan tiles. None of the ones in the ground were his, though. Those were in glass cases in museums or ornamenting the historic homes of the superwealthy. The ones students stepped on were reproductions. Tiles shaped like books with opened covers spilled pages toward the library. Balls bounced toward the athletic fields and gymnasium. The masks of comedy and tragedy nodded at the theater. They’d charmed me on my tour of the school. They charmed me again today. I did a clumsy spin on top of a globe-shaped tile. “I love these.”

“They’re a pain to clean, so don’t get too many demerits, or you’ll spend your Saturday scraping gum, moss, and weeds from the cracks.” His grin was pure troublemaker—I bet he was a substitute’s worst nightmare.

When Eliza tutted—like the idea of demerits made her itchy, which, let’s be honest, it probably did—his smile turned sheepish and he ran a hand across his hair. It was dark, closer to black than the bronze of his skin, and short, but looked like it might curl if it grew longer.

A warm, tan hand landed on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Spoken by someone who’s logged many hours in detention, so listen to Curtis, Rowboat.”

Toby looked dapper—as always—in a uniform cut to showcase his long limbs and dark hair and eyes. But I’d never been so dismayed by his use of that nickname. Especially once I saw Curtis mouth it with a puzzled look. He turned to Eliza. “What is ‘Rowboat’ short for?”

Eliza ignored him and grasped my arm. “Let’s go.”

“Where are you headed? I can show you to your first class,” said Toby.

“No need.” Curtis took a micro-step closer to Eliza. “I’ve got this.”

She pointed to a mosaic of test tubes and beakers. The smoke that poured out of the top pointed down the path on the right. “Thanks, but we don’t need an escort.”

“Maybe not,” Toby said, “but I’m in bio, too, so you’re stuck with me.”

Toby and Eliza had long ago stopped treating each other with what most considered general manners or human decency. But they liked each other. Deep down they must. Possibly, way deep down.

“You’re stuck with us,” Curtis said, his grin turning impish when he added, “Just wait till you check me out in my lab goggles. Sizzle.”

“And suddenly I’m not looking forward to bio anymore,” Eliza muttered.

“Ouch.” Curtis said it lightly, but his smile flickered. “I’m hurt.”

Eliza glanced at the paths and pointed left. “The health center is that way.”

Toby laughed and reached for a high-five she would never, ever grant him, then chuckled again as he linked his arm through my other one, causing a brief moment of panic that they might literally play tug-of-war with me.

“Welcome to Hero High.” Toby smiled at us. “I’m going to like having you here.”

4

Eliza wore her post-biology high like a secret, tucked close to her heart so no one could tell how much she’d loved the class. It lasted through history, a trip to our lockers (so much shinier and bigger than our old lockers—though they still had that sweat-and-overripe-apple smell) and through Latin too.

All I could think on our walk to English was: Eliza’s parents had better remember to call her tonight! I didn’t care about the weather at the South Pole, the fickleness of their satellite phone, or how busy they were with their “important work”—I cared about Eliza. She deserved a phone call where she could rehash or gush—in her restrained, not-at-all-gushy way—about her first day at a new school.

The tiles pointing the way to English were a quill pen whose calligraphy spiraled off of a roll of parchment to form an arrow. While we walked the crowded paths, while Eliza was busy suppressing her still-lingering smile, I mentally composed an email about priorities and What the double helix is wrong with you? Because if they didn’t call, I was overdue to give them a piece of my mind. It was one of my emails six years ago that had gotten them to grant Eliza the leniency to have a doughnut on the first day of school (as long as the rest of her nutrition followed their absurd regimen). I’d also been the one to convince them she was terrified of the python they gotten as a pet/experiment.

And as long as they hadn’t changed their email addresses or blocked mine, I was more than willing to remind the famous Drs. Gordon and Fergus that their best achievement was being parents to the most awesome girl on the planet.

“Hey!” Toby called from a classroom doorway. “We’re in here. I saved you seats.”

My smile widened; Eliza’s dimmed. “Just how many classes do you share with us?”

“Not as many as you have with each other, so calm down.”

Ha! Point to Toby . . . except the seats he’d saved were in the back corner, and Eliza only liked sitting in what she called the “classroom T-zone”—first row across and single row up the center. There was some study or other that proved those seats were linked to higher performance.

“You’ll be okay,” I assured her, dismayed that all traces of her smile were gone. “At least they’re together. Thanks, Toby.”

“Ms. Gregoire is one of the most popular teachers on campus. I was only one building over, and it was almost full by the time I got here,” he said with a shrug.

“Full” clearly had a different meaning in private school, because while almost all the desks were claimed, there were only twelve students in them. I leaned toward his. “What’s she like?”

“You’re going to like her.” Toby nodded toward the door, which was opening to reveal a petite woman with red hair. She balanced two leather bags, a stack of papers, and a coffee mug.

“Welcome, sophomores!” Ms. Gregoire punctuated the statement by dropping everything but the coffee on her desk. “If you’re not a sophomore, scram. If you are, get out your laptop and turn it on. Open a file and add today’s date. We’ve no time for laziness.”

The class scrambled to do her bidding, and I was grateful I’d taken the time to download the software to make Eliza’s and my laptops “school-ready”—more grateful Toby had installed some under-the-radar messaging program, which I opened along with my blank document.

“If you were in my class last year, you’ll remember we surveyed American literature. This year’s curriculum is going to focus on Brit lit.”

There were so many things I wanted to tell Eliza. At Woodcreek Charter, I would’ve whispered, or scrawled a note, or texted in my lap. At Hero High, texting was “absolutely verboten.” They broke out fancy vocab words and cellular signal blockers that were only turned off at lunch and dismissal.

I sent a quick: I’m so grateful for your hacker skills right now to MAYbeToby. He sent back a gif I’d have to ask him how to access.

Then I opened a messenger box to ElizaGF. My screen name riffed off Toby’s nickname for me—one he’d given me back in preschool when he’d thought “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” went “Merrilee, Merrilee, Merrilee, Merrilee, life is but a dream.”

RowboatReads: Do you think Rory has Ms. G. too?

What books do you think they studied last year?

Do you think next year is Australian? Canadian?

Or what about an Asian country?

Or African?

Or other parts of Europe?

French or German or Roman or Romanian . . .

Eliza still hadn’t responded, though I could see the boxes filling up her screen, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

Narnia.

Neverland.

Hogwarts.

Endor.

I finally heard her fingers move on the keyboard. Score one for persistent badgering.

ElizaGF: I’m buying you a globe for your birthday.

Now PAY ATTENTION!

Then the spoilsport signed out.

For once, paying attention was easy. It wasn’t her clothing—though Ms. Gregoire’s jade-green dress with subtle gold pinstripes made me super jealous I was stuck in a uniform. And it wasn’t her hair—awesome, deep red, worn in a crown of braids around her head. Or the tone of her voice—rich and breathy, like she was whispering magical secrets, though she wasn’t actually whispering at all.

It was all of these. Plus the swoop and curl of her letters on the electronic whiteboard in handwriting that made me think of quills and inkwells. And her graceful hand flourishes that seemed to invite us all in to “take an educational journey with me.”

No one laughed when she said this. Instead we leaned forward in our seats.

“This year you will fall in love—” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. I swear the mug had been regular brushed steel—but as she locked eyes with me over its rim, light reflected off it like it was covered in rhinestones. It made my mind spin, and for a moment time seemed to pause so her words could echo in my head: This year you will fall in love. In love. In love. She kept sipping as she stepped around her desk, closer and closer to my mine—I didn’t dare break eye contact even though I still had messenger open on my screen.

When she was a step or two away, the mug blazed so bright that I had to close my eyes. By the time I’d opened them, she’d shifted her gaze to someone else. “—with books.

“This year you’ll fall in love with books,” she repeated. She put her mug down on her desk. I stared at it—plain dull silver with the school crest—then typed frantically in messenger.

RowboatReads: Did you see that?

MAYbeToby: See what?

RowboatReads: Her mug. It glowed! You didn’t see it?

MAYbeToby: Um. No???

Well, he was useless. Luckily Eliza’s nosiness must have gotten the best of her, because she’d logged back in.

RowboatReads: Did you see that thing with her mug? Tell me you did.

ElizaGF: ??? Did she spill coffee or something?

Ugh. I wanted to slam my laptop shut. They were both useless. How had they missed it? It had glowed, flashed. I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t!

Ms. Gregoire paused in the center of the room. “We’ll be starting with a story you all think you know.” She flung her arms wide and spun around—and if she’d sprinkled us with pixie dust and told us we could fly, I would’ve been the first one to the windowsill. “I’m going to break your expectations over and over and over again.”

“What book?” asked a guy in the first row. All I could see was the back of his head, his neck, and his shoulders—but they were a nice head, neck, and shoulders: blond hair, muscles and lines and tanned skin that made the uniform do all sorts of attractive things. Maybe I would fall in love in this room after all.

Except he groaned when Ms. Gregoire answered, “Actually, Lance, it’s a play. . . .” So, maybe not.

She hopped onto her desk and swung her feet—clad in gold-trimmed navy heels that inspired English bulldog levels of drool. She let the dramatic pause stretch until all eyes were on her, but not so long that we started to turn to one another and exchange she’s lost it looks. “The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.”

She painted the title in the air with her fingers and then shushed the grumbles with a gentle plucking motion. “None of that—though each of your reactions, moan or smile, prove my point. You think you know this story. You don’t.” She paused to make eye contact with each of us. She was looking at me when she said, “But you will. You’ll know it like you’ve lived it by the time we’re done.”

I turned to see if Eliza was equally spellbound, but she was typing.

ElizaGF: So much for academic rigor. We read that in eighth grade at Woodcreek Charter.

“I know some of you are probably already dismissing this as an easy class—after all, those of you who attended Mayfield Middle Academy already studied Romeo and Juliet, in, what, sixth grade?” Ms. Gregoire paused, and everyone in class except for Eliza and me nodded.

Eliza signed off again.

“Like I said before, you think you know this play. But you’re wrong. And you’re not preteens anymore. You’re not going to be stumbling over ‘thees’ and ‘eres’ or have the bawdy humor slide over your heads. There is so much more to this story than Leonardo DiCaprio or that hideous remake with Chuck from Gossip Girl. Seriously, if you’re going to try and cheat by watching a movie, skip that one.”

We laughed.

“Okay, I had you turn on those laptops for a reason—and not so you can talk about me on whatever new chat program bypasses the school firewalls. I’d like you to write yourselves a letter about this play—quotes, feelings, themes, scenes, whatever comes to mind. Romeo and Juliet is a play that reveals a lot about the reader