Bookish and the Beast

“Should we stop it?” Annie asks.

“I don’t know. I’m sort of rooting for Vance,” Quinn replies thoughtfully. “He likes Rosie the way she is and he gave her a freaking library.”

“Yes, but he apparently doesn’t trust her.”

“But Garrett thinks negging is flirting,” Quinn replies.

“Oof, this is a hard one to call.”

I look to the rafters. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, and pry Annie and Quinn’s arms from around me. Then I step up and grab Garrett by the shoulder as he rises to stand again. “Hey, asshole.”

He spins around, his face crumbling into anger. There is a mini-donut stuck to the front of his tux. He says, “I can’t believe he has the nerve to show up here and—”

My dad taught me a lot of things. He taught me how to ride my first bike. He taught me how to rhyme in iambic pentameter. He taught me how to put books back where they belong on the library shelves.

But my mother taught me how to punch. Thumb out, fingers curled in, reel back with your body weight and—

To be fair, I probably should’ve warned him before I postmarked his nose to the North Pole, but I don’t like him enough to bat an eye at his future in modeling. I just send my fist flying into his face. He stumbles back as his nose starts gushing blood all down the front of his stark white tuxedo.

I shake my hand out, hissing in pain. Mom never told me how much punching actually hurts.

He holds his nose, cursing. He glares at me, then at Vance, disheveled, beside me. “What does he have that I don’t?” he asks.

“The ability to take no for an answer,” I reply, and then I steel myself, and I turn around and I face the boy who broke my heart. “But he better have a good reason to interrupt my Homecoming.”

PANIC CLAWS UP MY THROAT. She’s absolutely frightening when she’s angry. The way her eyebrows furrow, crinkling the skin between them, her bowlike lips turned down into the most disdainful frown. I should leave, I think, but as I turn around to escape out the side exit I came in from—preferably not running—Rosie turns to me, in that golden dress as beautiful as a sun—the same color, I imagine, Amara would have worn on page three hundred forty-seven of The Starless Throne.

My throat tightens, but I force out, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“You keep saying that. You know I didn’t release that video. I wouldn’t.”

I wince. “I know. That’s why I’m here. To apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I should’ve trusted you.”

“Yeah,” she replies, “you should have.”

I stare down at the ground, because I can feel all her classmates looking at me, I can hear them whispering, judging, though that shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. It’s par for the course for my life in LA. But this isn’t LA.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “and I know that isn’t going to be enough, but before I leave I just wanted to tell you the truth.” And I take a deep breath. My fingers are shaking. Everything is shaking. “I like to read now because I imagine your voice in every word, and I like how happy you look in that library, and I like how you’re so stubborn, and I like how you make me want to be better, and I like how you don’t give me an inch when I mess up and—”

“Get to the point,” a redhead interrupts impatiently, and the teal-haired person beside them ribs them in the side with a look.

“The point is,” and I swallow the knot in my throat. Why is this so much harder than anything I’ve ever done before? “The point is—I’m here because I want to dance with you. Once. As myself. No masks, no fake accents, no pretenses, but now that I’m here I realize how absolutely entitled that sounds and so I just—I’m an idiot, Rosie. I’m an idiot and I love you, and I’ll understand if you tell me no, and I’ll go away, and I’ll never bother you aga—”

She presses a finger to my lips. Everyone around us begins to whisper. I see her father out of the corner of my eye, watching us carefully. I want to tell her that she is the kind of story I have been looking for, and I want to be a part of it.

So, so badly.

And I’m here, standing in the middle of this dark gymnasium, hoping that she wants me still in hers, too.

She slowly drops her fingers from my mouth, cups my face, and smiles.

“THERE YOU ARE,” I SAY.

He tilts his head into my hand. “Here I am,” he echoes back, and squeezes his eyes shut. I rub a tear off his cheek with my thumb. His chest shudders, like he’s trying to keep himself from crying.

Oh, you stupid boy.

I want to tell him that he should have talked to me. I want to tell him that it will be okay. I want to tell him that I forgive him, and that in an infuriating way it was sweet that he wanted to protect me, and also kick him in the shins for thinking that I couldn’t protect myself.

But none of those words seem right in this moment.

“Sir! Excuse me, you don’t have a ticket, you can’t be here,” one of the flustered parents says, finally clawing his way through the students to get to us. “I’ll have to politely ask you to leave.”

I give Vance a wide-eyed look. “You broke in?”

“I didn’t have a ticket,” he replies sheepishly.

“Sir,” the parent tries again.

“He’s my date,” I reply, and when the parent again repeats that he doesn’t have a ticket, I pull the extra one out from the hidden pocket of my dress, which is probably the second-best part of my dress. The first being the neckline. Because I have definitely, totally caught Vance sneaking a look at it. “He just forgot his ticket.”

“Date?” someone mutters.

“Vance Reigns?”

“But didn’t he coerce her?”

“Who’s going to tell her this is Stockholm syndrome?”

The parent takes the ticket and tears off the admittance side, and balefully hands it back to us. I don’t know if Vance takes the ticket, because I can’t quite believe he’s here.

“I’m sorry,” he says, soft and uncertain, “for yesterday. I know I’ll have to win back your trust, and I know it’s not going to be easy, but…can you let me try? Or start to try? Or—”

“Vance,” I interrupt, and he gives me a hesitant look, before I grab his cravat and pull him down toward me. “Amara up.”

And I kiss him under the starry lights of Homecoming.

SIX MONTHS LATER.

It’s the perfect night for a double feature. The skies are clear and the stars are bright, and it’s just cold enough to still need a blanket and snuggle up with your friends and eat nachos with plastic cheese and warm pretzels. The back of Quinn’s truck is parked in the dead center of the drive-in, in the perfect spot to watch the double feature of Starfield and Starfield: Resonance.

“I really hope this is gonna be good,” Annie says as she reaches over to steal a nacho from Quinn.

“No pressure or anything,” Vance mumbles, pulling the blanket tighter around us. He shivers. “It’s so bloody cold—why are drive-ins charming, again?”

“Your spoiled is showing,” I remind him, and he mutters something to himself and puts his cheek on my shoulder. “And I’m sure the movie will be fantastic.”

I’m not just saying that because we’re sharing a flatbed truck with Darien Freeman and Elle Wittimer, either, though we most definitely are. I’m trying not to stare at them too much, but honestly how can I not stare? It’s Darien Freeman! With Elle! And they’re holding hands! There hasn’t been any official news in the media about them getting back together, and I’ve had to stop Annie from asking more than a few times tonight, but honestly I want to know.

“Why couldn’t Jess come?” Elle asks.

Imogen rolls her eyes. “You know her,” she says. “She’s supporting her girlfriend’s art exhibit in Chicago this weekend.” She takes a pack of Twizzlers out of her purse, breaks open the package, and sticks one in Ethan’s mouth. “There’s no Pokémon out here, babe.”

“I know.” He sighs. “I guess I’ll just have to converse with all of you instead.”

“What a travesty,” she agrees sarcastically.

The large screen at the front of the drive-in flickers, and an animated popcorn scene jumps to life.

“Ooh, it’s starting!” Annie taps Quinn on the leg and tells Darien, “Turn on the radio!”

He reaches up behind him and fiddles with the dial. As he does, I take out a letter from my back pocket and I show it to Vance. In surprise, he also shows me a folded-up piece of paper.

“Oh, you too?” I ask, and we trade papers.

He opens mine, first. His breath catches. “You got in?”

“Full ride,” I reply, smiling. “Your girlfriend’s about to be an English major at NYU.”

“I’m so proud of you.” He laughs and kisses my forehead. “I knew that nerdy head of yours was good for something.”

“Hey! I expect you to come visit.”

“Visit? My stepfather owns an apartment in SoHo. I might just move in. Always fancied New York City.”