A Novel Idea (10 page)

“Nope,” Theo said, jumping to his feet.

“Not at all,” Neil added, leaping up too. This was obviously going to be a race to the food table. But Neil had shot up so fast that he dropped his plate with a clatter. When he knelt down to pick it up, he glanced at the paper next to James’s shoe. “Did someone lose a napkin?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

And then reached for letter.

Yes
, I should have said.
That’s
my
napkin
. I should have jumped up and snatched the letter from Neil’s grasp.

But instead I sat there, girl-in-the-headlights, wondering in terror where this was going to lead. I hadn’t once stopped to consider that someone
other
than James might pick up the love letter.

But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Neil would only glance at the note and hand it over to James and everything would happen just as Irene O’Dell had intended.

It didn’t work out that way.

Neil stood up slowly, unfolding the note, and his dark eyes skimmed down the letter. He glanced up at me and his face broke into a wicked smile. I felt fear climbing up my chest, into my throat, silencing me.

“No …
way
,” Neil whispered. “This is for
you
, Norah!”

Finally, I kicked myself into action. “That fell out of my book, Neil,” I stammered, stumbling to my feet and reaching for the note. “Give it back.”

In classic elementary school style, Neil held the letter over his head. “Nuh-uh. Come and get it!”

Theo laughed. A few kids sitting on a nearby couch glanced over curiously, and I heard a girl giggle. My stomach twisted; this wasn’t looking promising.

“Ooh, read it out loud!” Francesca cried, for the second time that night. I wondered if her extreme makeover had seriously limited her vocabulary.

More people, sniffing out potential gossip, started drifting over. Even Mimi and Jorge stopped groping each other to watch the action. I heard murmurs of “What’s going on?” and “Something with Norah.” I remained paralyzed, watching Neil, not letting myself breathe. Turning around to look at James—or anyone else—was out of the question.

Neil cleared this throat, held the note to his face, and began: “‘Norah, this is kind of embarrassing, but I think you’re one of the coolest girls I’ve ever known. And you’re pretty cute, too.’” He paused to chuckle. I cringed at the words I’d written in the privacy of my room—words meant for James’s eyes only. Audre had been right. This was all going so, so wrong. Laughter and whispers buzzed around me. “It’s a secret admirer!” someone said, and somebody else turned off the music, the better for Neil to perform. And Neil kept performing, reading in a loud, clear voice, adding gestures for emphasis, obviously loving the spotlight. I’d always thought Neil was shy, but now that he had this chance to mortify me, he seemed to be blossoming right before my eyes.

The bastard.

By the time he got to the classic “girls like you are never single” line, most of the party was squished into the living room and I was enjoying a very pleasant out-of-body experience. I floated somewhere above the crowd, feeling very, very sorry for the dumb girl in the green dress and cowboy boots.

“Excuse me—let me through—what’s going on here?—this is
my
party!”

I turned around, practically fainting with relief at the sound of Audre’s voice.

My peeved-looking best friend was elbowing her way through the crush of people. When she saw me, and Neil holding the letter, and the crowd, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She gave me a look that was half
I’m so sorry
and half
I told you so
.

“Norah, who do you think it s from?” Olivia was crying from the other side of the room. “Maybe he’s here tonight!”

“Yeah!” Ha-Jin called out. “Hey, if you’re Norah’s secret lover, raise your beer!” There was more laughter.

“This is ludicrous,” Audre sputtered, storming up to Neil and yanking the letter from his hand. “Neil, I think the bus to the local
kindergarten
is waiting outside for you,” she snapped. Then, rolling her eyes, she turned to the rest of the crowd and made a
shoo!
motion with her floury hands. “Show’s over, peeps. Would someone please turn the music back on so we can return to our regularly scheduled party?”

What would I do without this girl? The crowd thinned out. Mimi and Jorge started kissing again. The Futureheads CD came back on. My love letter was forgotten—at least for the moment. I threw my arms gratefully around Andre. She hugged me back, hard, stuffing the doomed love letter into my hand.

“It’s over,” she said firmly, pulling away.

“Where
were
you?” I asked, still shaking.

Audre frowned. “Recovering from Griffin. He came up to me in the kitchen with this weird girl who refused to speak, and then he just
left
. He gave me a hug good-bye and told me he had to go study da Vinci.”

Then Audre glanced over my shoulder and her face lit up.
Is Griffin back?
Still a little unsteady, I turned around and saw Scott walking through the door, looking sheepish in his confetti-sprinkled, wrinkled tux. Of course. I knew he’d choose Audre’s bash over the Spring Formal eventually.

“So,” Audre said, crossing her arms over her chest in triumph as Scott loped over. “Look who the cat dragged in.”

Scott grinned and wrapped his arm around my waist. “All right, all right. You win. I couldn’t bear to be apart from my girls for
too
long. Besides,” he sighed. “Despite my endless hours of planning, the formal was a total letdown. Think, like, Usher slow jams, tasteless fruit punch, and Plum and her cronies in matching Trina Turk dresses.” Then he paused, clearly noticing the traumatized expression on my face. “Oh, God. What did I miss
here?
”

By now, Scott was more than aware of my James crush, but didn’t yet know the Rosamund details. I started to tell him—maybe he’d be able to give me a helpful boy perspective—when Audre suddenly glanced over my shoulder again and promptly grabbed Scott’s arm. Yanking him away, she told me, “Norah, we have to go. See you later.”

And then she and Scott darted off past me.

My heart sank. Why were my best friends abandoning me in my time of need?

“You guys, come back!” I cried, spinning around.

And I found myself face-to-face with James.

Okay,
that
was why they’d left.

“Um, hi,” James said, hands in his pockets, hair in his eyes, as always. My pulse spiked. “Listen, I’m sorry about what Neil just did. He can be—” James shrugged. “Immature.” At James’s words, I glanced around and saw Neil back at the food table, talking to Francesca and Theo. “He’s not a bad guy, though,” James added.

I nodded, loving James even more. So he
was
sweet, somewhere underneath that aloof attitude.

“Oh, whatever. It was funny,” I lied, crumpling up the letter in my fist as if it were garbage.

James studied the carpet, his ears red. “So … who
do
you think gave it to you?” he asked. Then he looked up and flashed his crooked grin.

I almost gasped. After all that humiliation, had the stupid letter actually … done its job? I barely dared believe it, but James seemed intrigued—by
me
! Irene O’Dell was a goddess!

I tried to bat my lashes—I’d never done it before so I may have messed it up—and said, “Hmm. I’m not sure. I got it in school this morning, so really, it might be lots of guys …”

Rosamund herself couldn’t have said it better.

James nodded, and it looked for a second like he wanted to laugh—but not in a mean way. Still, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I told James I needed to get a drink—which I did kind of need right then—and headed toward the kitchen. I also needed to find Audre and tell her that things hadn’t gone so wrong after all.

And
I needed to figure out what kind of bouquet to send myself for when I next saw James.

It was time for step two.

Nine

“Good morning, Park Slope Florist. How may I help you?”

“I’m just calling to—ouch—confirm a delivery,” I said as an empty can of oatmeal landed on my foot. My hands were full, so I tossed
To Catch a Duke
down on the counter. “A bouquet of roses for Norah Bloom? Today at eleven thirty?”

“Got it,” the woman chirped. “Bloom, Eighth Street. We’ll be there.”

“Thanks!” I said, clicking off and almost spilling a box of stale Cheerios all over myself. I was on a step stool, hunting through our kitchen cabinets for stuff to feed the book group.

A week ago Griffin had e-mailed us to say that there was a reading at the Book Nook on the same day as our
The Devil Wears Prada
meeting, so the café would be closedto the public, and Griffin had to work double shifts. Seeing an incredible opportunity for my second Rosamund plan, I invited the group to my house for a Saturday brunch. Plus, since I had that week off for spring break—which Audre and I, boringly, spent going shopping, renting cheesy romantic comedies, and studying for our SATs—I’d had time to review my Rosamund notes, order my secret-admirer flowers,
and
beg Stacey and my parents that they stay out of my hair while the group was here.

But I’d forgotten about the minor detail of
food
. I am so not like Audre.

I glanced at my watch: It was ten o’clock, and the meeting was supposed to start at eleven. There was plenty of time to run out to the corner deli and pick up a few things.

Twenty harried minutes later I was on line, waiting to pay for my bagels, cream cheese, and cherry tomatoes, when I noticed a familiar figure ahead of me. Spiky bleached hair, tattoos, torn overalls, combat boots. My breath caught.

“Philippa!” I whispered. Again! What were the chances? I looked around at the other customers; no one else in the store seemed to notice that a famous writer was standing about two feet away. I rose up on my tiptoes and tried to peek into her food basket; what did Philippa Askance
eat?
I wondered if she was a vegetarian like me, and I grinned at the thought.

But I couldn’t make out her purchases, because by then she was paying. I felt a stab of panic; I didn’t want her to leave yet! If I could get Philippa’s attention now, this might be my big chance to redeem myself for that last embarrassing encounter in front of her house. And if I actually spoke to her, it would make a great story for James—and the others.

Clutching her bags, Philippa headed out the electronic doors. Without thinking too much about it, I dumped my basket on a crate—I could come back later—and tore out of the store. Feeling like a stalker, I trailed the punk poet down Seventh Avenue.

I could tell, from the fast, almost nervous way she walked, that Philippa Askance was insanely shy; I almost saw a bit of
myself
in her. Her shyness would explain why she was such a hermit, even if it didn’t match the fearless and raw voice in
Bitter Ironies
. Maybe writers’ personalities don’t always fit with how you imagine them from their books.

That’s it
, I realized.
Bitter Ironies
—that was how I could get Philippa to talk to me! I’m always less timid when I can start off talking about books; somehow I sensed Philippa would be the same.

I walked faster until I was right behind her and forced myself to speak. “‘Under the lemon moon / So bitter / I hide in the shadows / Haunted by memory,’” I quoted, remembering a few of my favorite lines from her book. This was maybe the bravest—and stupidest—thing I’d ever done. Not counting the fake love letter, of course.

Philippa stopped walking, turned around, and snapped off her shades. Her eyes were so dark blue they were almost purple, and she blinked them at me. I froze, wishing I’d thrown on something funkier than torn jeans and a Brooklyn Dodgers T-shirt. It was too bad Audre and I had chickened out when we went to get our noses pierced in the East Village last summer; maybe Philippa would think I was cooler if I had some face jewelry.

To my surprise, Philippa smiled at me. “Thanks,” she whispered. “I like that part a lot.”

“Me too. Well, I like the whole book.” I laughed nervously. “I, um, can’t wait for the next one.”
I am talking to Philippa Askance!

She studied me for a second. “I know you,” she said quietly.

“You do?” I gulped.

Philippa nodded. “You and a boy were sitting outside my house about a month ago. You tried to talk to me?” She shook her head, biting her pierced bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I get weird about stuff like that. I’m more of a one-on-one person, you know?”

“I can relate,” I said, then I shook
my
head. “I mean, I’m not famous or anything so I can’t really….” I blushed, telling myself to shut up.

Philippa smiled again, her dark blue eyes thoughtful. “I understand.” She shifted her bags to her other arm. “So what did you guys want to say?” she asked, sounding curious. I was surprised at how much this felt like talking to a friend. Quickly, I explained about our book group’s mission, and how we’d been in touch with her agent, and she nodded.

“I remember now,” Philippa murmured. “My agent e-mailed me. The high school book group. The end of May, at the Book Nook. Just a reading, right?”