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He doesn’t need to know that every so often over the course of that year, I found myself wishing he hadn’t turned out t
o be the worst kind of lit snob so I could resume my English-class daydreams, the ones where we lounged beneath an oak tree and read sonnets aloud to each other. I was so disappointed he wasn’t the guy I’d dreamed up. He doesn’t need to know that a couple times, when our shoulders brushed in the hall, I felt this flip in my belly because I was fourteen and boys were a mysterious new species. Touching one, even by accident, was like passing your hand through a flame. I wasn’t proud of it, but my body hadn’t quite caught up with my brain. And my brain had decided twelve days into freshman year that Neil McNair was to be despised, his destruction earning slot number ten on my success guide. By sophomore year, all those belly-flips were gone, and I could barely remember having a crush on him at all.
He also doesn’t need to know about the dream I had a few months ago. It wasn’t my fault—we’d been texting before bed, and it had screwed with my subconscious. For all I know, his subconscious gave him wacky dreams too. We were at a fancy restaurant eating math tests and lab reports when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. He tasted like printer ink. My logical side intervened and woke me up, but I couldn’t look him in the eye for an entire week after that. I’d dream-cheated on Spencer with Neil McNair. It was horrifying.
Neil’s full-on grinning now. “But I was like… the dorkiest fourteen-year-old.”
“And I was so cool?”
“You were,” he insists. “Aside from your inability to acknowledge The Great Gatsby as the quintessential American novel.”
“Ah, yes, The Great Gatsby. A feminist text,” I say, though my mind stumbles over his profession of my coolness. “Nick is a piece of white bread. Daisy deserved better than that ending.”
He snorts at this. But I can’t deny he seems to be feeling much better. His complexion has gone from ashen back to his regular shade of pale. Debating books in a library—this is our natural state, perhaps.
“So like. This crush,” he continues. “Did you write poems about me? Did you doodle my name in your notebook with a heart on the i? Or—oh! Did you imagine me as the hero of a romance novel? Please say yes. Please say I was a cowboy.”
“It sounds like you’re feeling a lot better.” I stretch out my legs, eager to get moving again.
He glances down at his arms. “I didn’t even realize—am I exposing too much skin? I don’t want to be parading myself in front of you, taunting you with what you can’t have. I have a hoodie in my backpack. I can put it on if you’re—”
“You’re definitely better. We’re leaving.”
* * *
My mom calls when we get to the main floor of the library.
“We made it!” she announces. Her phone’s on speaker, and my dad is cheering in the background. “The book is done!”
“Congratulations!” I motion for Neil to follow me around the corner so we won’t disturb anyone. “Is it going to come out the same time as the next Excavated book?”
“A few months before. Next summer.”
“And most importantly, is this going to be the one that finally gets made into a movie?”
“Ha ha,” she says dryly. She and my dad are still salty about the Riley movie getting stalled years ago. “We’ll see about that.”
“How was your last day, Ro-Ro?” my dad asks. “Did you make valedictorian?”
His words peel the Band-Aid off the wound. “No,” I say, glancing at Neil. “I’m salutatorian.”
“That’s great. Congratulations!” my mom says. “Where are you? It’s almost sundown. Are you coming home for Shabbat dinner?”
Neil is watching me with an odd expression. “I don’t know if I can. We’re—I’m in the middle of Howl. Is the power still out?”
“Unfortunately. But we can do takeout from your favorite Italian place. It’ll take an hour. Please. Your last Shabbat dinner of high school?”
This is what gets me. Plus, Neil and I are solidly in the lead, and it would be a chance to change my clothes. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
When I end the call and the background photo of Kirby, Mara, and me reappears, my stomach twists. I switch off the screen to find McNair gaping at me.
“Your parents,” he says, his tone full of reverence, “are Jared Roth and Ilana García Roth.”
“Yeah…?”
“I read their books. All of them. I was obsessed.”
Now it’s my turn to gape back at him. This happens on occasion, sure, but I never suspected Neil McNair was a fan of my parents’ books.
