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"Boy Next Story" - Chapter Excerpt
"Boy Next Story" - Chapter Excerpt
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A L S O, F O R R AS C A L — M Y S N U G G LY
TO D D L E R S I D E K I C K .
I
wasn’t one of those artists who thought you had to be a tor-
tured soul to create. I could concentrate on a painting while
still remembering to eat, sleep, and shower. I liked both my
ears where they were, so there was no risk of me going Van
Gogh, and I was just as inspired when I was in a good mood as
when I was in a funk.
But if I did require torture, I was pretty sure driving to
school with the boy I loved—and the girl he loved—qualified.
Especially when the girl he loved was my sister.
“Rory, come on,” Merrilee called from the front hall.
“Toby’s beeped twice.”
For the first two weeks of school, I’d been the one nudg-
ing her—and helpfully reminding her about things like
coats, backpacks, and the annoying crossover-tie part of our
uniform—but Merri had a whole new motivation for Hero
High mornings: The faster she got out the door, the sooner
she got to see her boyfriend, Fielding Williams.
Have I mentioned she was oblivious to Toby’s feelings?
And obliviously never shut up about how happy she was, dat-
ing his friend.
“Come on! Come on!” she called from the open shotgun
seat of Toby’s car. “Today’s the day Fielding’s wearing the socks
I picked out for him.”
That didn’t mean anything to me. Merri, my oldest older
sister Lilly, and I had gone out for manicures two nights ago so
Merri could fill us in on her newest boyfriend. But if she’d said
something about socks, I’d missed it. Or it’d happened while
I was in the bathroom. I was still surprised I’d been invited
at all. Mom always said that three was the hardest number
for including people—“It’s all points and corners”—and the
default duo in our house was Merri plus Lilly.
Fielding was an impressive upgrade from Merri’s first
emo-jerk ex, Monroe expelled-from-school-already Stratford,
but I had no idea why she was excited about his socks. Maybe
my sister had a foot fetish? Ew, gross.
I mentally deleted that thought as I opened the car door
and slid into the back seat, passing Merri her forgotten cross-
country bag. “Hey, Toby.”
“Morning, Roar.” The flash of a smile he directed at me
as he turned around to back out of our driveway was better
than any cup of coffee. Toby’s grin was 99 percent perfect, but
the 1 percent that would keep him from starring in ads for
orthodontists was my favorite part: His second tooth was just
the teeniest bit crooked. The type of crooked you’d notice only
if you’d sketched it dozens of times. Like, if maybe you had
a portfolio hidden in the back of your closet that contained
nothing but drawings of a certain olive-skinned, dark-eyed,
dark-haired Latino boy whose eyelashes made your heart race
and whose long fingers gripped the steering wheel of the car
driving you to your new school.
“What do you mean, socks?” he asked Merri as he turned
down the stereo’s volume and pulled onto our street. It was
some movie’s musical score—always. I don’t think Toby
owned songs with lyrics. Sometimes I recognized which film
and sometimes Merri commandeered the radio. This time
she clicked it off.
“Didn’t I tell you this story?” And, just like yesterday, I got
to watch from the back seat as Merri—the copilot of Toby’s
dreams, the girl with a permanent claim on shotgun and his
heart—twisted the knife in his back. “It’s so cute—who knew
Fielding Williams could be cute? But I don’t know if it’ll be
funny to anyone that’s not me. Or him. It’s an inside thing—
but make sure to compliment his socks today, okay?”
She giggled. I wanted to growl.
Because here’s the thing about my “big” sister: She was a
peanut. Maybe five whole feet if she had on shoes and used
her best posture. Her height paired with her personality (think
sugar rush, no sugar needed), her looks (a complete checklist
for adorable: freckles, perky nose, huge blue-gray eyes, pointy
chin), and her intelligence (hello, Mensa) meant that she was
irresistible. Merri was the type of girl people instantly loved.
And it was a good thing she wasn’t evil, because she would’ve
made an alluring cult leader. People leaned in when she talked,
squished closer to her in crowds, raced for the seat beside hers
at tables. Everyone got sucked into her orbit, because it was a
place you felt entertained, safe, cherished.
the truth. I’d been up late studying and staring at the bright
yellow academic warning I’d gotten in math the week before.
I was supposed to have returned it on Monday. But Monday
at Hero High had been mayhem. The entire school had been
dealing with the fallout from the Rogue Romeo party thrown
last Friday by Merri’s ex-boyfriend. It was the type of party
that was already part of Hero High lore—Remember that time
Monroe Stratford broke into the school theater and stole the cos-
tumes from the school play, and got in a fight with that new girl
onstage, and then the party got busted?
Unlike most of the people who lied and said they’d been
there, I did remember, because I’d had the starring role of
idiot new girl who threw paint on him. I had two Saturday
detentions to prove it.
Eventually Mrs. Roberts was going to remember to ask for
the academic warning. I could easily forge a signature—hand-
writing wasn’t that different from line drawing. But forgery
was purposefully deceptive. Forgetfulness was passive. So I’d
been crossing my fingers through every sixth period and hop-
ing it was contagious.
“Hey, sleeping beauty!” Merri turned around in her seat
and held out her I like big books and I cannot lie travel mug.
“You awake back there? I’m out of princes to kiss you. Want
my coffee instead?”
“No, I’m fine.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and gritted
my teeth. Rory might be short for Aurora, but Merri knew I
hated Sleeping Beauty jokes.
“You sure? It’s good.” Merri shook her mug, which
would’ve been a better idea if she’d had the lid closed. Instead
T
he best portion of Merri’s morning began as mine was
ending. Waiting to open her car door was the head-
master’s son. A perfect specimen of dignity and deco-
rum—at least until my sister launched herself out of
her seat and into his arms.
“Mer-ri-lee,” Fielding sputtered as she twined her arms
around his neck and nuzzled into his cheek, messing up his
perfect hair and hugging wrinkles into his blazer. But for all
his (weak) protests and throat clearing, he grinned down at
her like she was some sort of impish miracle. A week ago, they
weren’t dating; and a week ago Toby would’ve been smiling
as he greeted one of his closest friends and talked lacrosse
strategies and weekend plans.
Toby sighed behind me, and a better person might have
given him privacy to wear whatever emotion he needed to. I
wasn’t a better person. I was a self-punishing one. I wanted to
see his face as he watched them. I wondered if it mirrored my
own watching him.
With a grimace, he turned away from the world’s most
infatuated couple. “Ride home?” he asked me, pointing to the
knee brace he now wore over his khakis, courtesy of an idiot
from St. Joe’s lacrosse team last week. “I’m out for the season,
so I can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, please.” This Friday was looking up. All I had to do
was make it through seven periods and I’d get to ride home
with just him.
Toby scooped his faded red backpack out of the trunk and
closed it with white knuckles. Not looking at Merri or Fielding
in a way that felt purposeful, he called a hollow “Bye, guys”
before gifting me a small smile. “Have a good day, Roar.”
“You too.” I waved, then curled my fingers in tight, like I
could hold on to that smile and use it to float me through my
first two obstacles: Advanced Art and English.
The first should have been my favorite class; I couldn’t re-
member a time when art hadn’t been the axis my life revolved
around. While most of my elementary school classmates had
been dressing up like superheroes and Disney characters for
Halloween, I’d been Degas’s Star dancer, Singer Sargent’s Ma-
dame X, Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, and, on the last
year Merri let me tag along with her and Toby, Picasso’s Dora
Maar—I’ll admit, that one was a mistake. It required way too
much explanation and cut down on our candy haul.
From the days of crayons and Batman stickers until my
first few days of high school, I’d never doubted my artistic
ability. If you gave me an easel and almost any medium, I’d
give you something worthy of appreciation. Creating was
what I did; it was who I was.
But this was Hero High, where even art betrayed me.
Mrs. Mundhenk had told me that being the only fresh-
man in Advanced Art was an honor and a privilege. She hadn’t
Byron held out his hand, palm up. I was pretty sure we’d all
given up high fives back in grade school—at least unless sports
or grandpas were involved—but I didn’t want to leave him
hanging, and I didn’t have a clue what was cool at Hero High.
Feeling more than a little ridiculous, I smacked my palm
against his.
He tilted his head. “Oh, well. Sure. Right on, I guess? But
actually I wanted your phone. You know, so I can give you
my number.”
And if it wasn’t abundantly clear I wasn’t cool before, it
was then. But no one had kicked me all period. The only dis-
tractions were Byron’s frequent requests for help. It didn’t
bother me, but apparently Mrs. Mundhenk felt differently.
“Byron, enough. Let Aurora do her own painting and you do
yours. Over there.”
He sighed as he packed up his materials to move to the
other side of the studio. I thought I was in for another of Mrs.
Mundhenk’s lectures where she mentioned all my “potential”
and then made it clear I wasn’t living up to it. Instead, she
pointed to the boy standing a step behind her. “Have you
two met? You’re both freshmen, so you must have some
classes together.”
I nodded. English. Maybe history? “Chuck, right?”
“Huck,” he corrected, and before I could cringe, he added,
“Let’s pretend I thought your name was ‘Dory’ to make
things equal.”
As he spoke, he leaned a hip against a metal stool; only, the
seat began to spin down, causing him to stumble. He laughed
H
uck and I didn’t talk for the rest of class. Maybe we
were both worried about doing or saying something
awkward and scaring each other off . . . Or maybe
that was just me.
When the bell rang, I shoved my pencil bag in my back-
pack and rinsed off my charcoal-smudged fingers. Normally I
raced out of the room, like the side-eyes and snide comments
were chasing me, but that day I paused with my hand on
the door. On the wall beside me was a giant display about
the school’s founder: Reginald R. Hero. He’d been an artist—a
famous tile maker—and because of that, the arts program here
was endowed and supplied in ways I’d only dreamed about in
my charter school classes last year. When Huck caught up, I
shuffled my feet. “Um, ready for English?”
My personal answer was No, never, but he flashed his dim-
ples. “Let’s go get our Gatsby on.”
I groaned and my fingers tightened around the strap of
my bag. “Don’t tell me you’re enjoying that book.”
Huck pulled a water bottle out of his backpack. “So far
it’s a story about rich people and parties. What’s not to like?”
both have it. Lots of intrigue and dazzle, but no one is allowed
too close. And the speculation—well, it just swirls about
you both.”
Speculation? About me? That I hadn’t heard, but my
teacher had. Great.
She was still looking at me expectantly. “Um, I hope no
one here thinks I killed a man.” I swallowed and clarified. “You
know, like how the party guests whisper that about Gatsby?”
Ms. Gregoire tittered. “So you were listening. I wondered.
You looked a million miles away during class.”
“I don’t get this book,” I confessed. “Yellow music, orange
juice . . .” I flipped to the page where we’d stopped. “What does
‘spectroscopic gayety’ even mean? And if I don’t understand
the words, how am I going to get symbols and stuff ?”
Ms. Gregoire waved away my question with a graceful
swipe of gold fingernails. “I’m much less concerned about
your vocabulary or grasp of symbolism than I am about what
this book means to you. You’ve got so much to say. You just
need to be willing to risk trying.”
I reached up to cup my forehead with both hands while I
stared down at my desk. “I’m not smart like Merri. I’m going
to disappoint you if you expect that.”
“Oh, Aurora, no. That’s simply not true.” She sat back
in her seat like she was stunned. “There are so many ways
to be smart.” I caught the pointed look she gave at my
charcoal-stained fingers. “Your talents aren’t lesser, they’re
just different. And I know you Campbell girls are going to do
extraordinary things here.”