Chapter Eight
“Better Than Revenge”
by Taylor Swift
Lucy
“Hmm.” Natalie peers at the flyer as we wait in line for the three buses taking the seniors to the Museum of Modern Art. “This is weird.”
Meera has been handing out the book club flyers to everyone in school all morning.
The QR code on the flyer links to Café Kismat’s Instagram, where more details are available, including the book I chose for our first meeting two weeks from now.
Obviously, it’s my favorite young adult retelling of Pride and Prejudice.
The head librarian who ghosted me after my interview might find this choice silly, but, hey, it’s my book club, and I’ll run it how I see fit.
“What’s wrong?” I raise an eyebrow and try to see which part of the flyer Natalie’s looking at. Is there a typo? Or some sort of problem I should have pointed out to Meera?
“This!” She points to the photo of me front and center on the flyer, a grin on her lips, which are red to match my look this morning. “I took this picture of you, and I don’t get photography credit?”
I put my arm around her waist and press my cheek against hers. “You’re adorable. Want me to announce to the whole school that you took this photo?” I raise my voice. “Hey, everyone—”
With a laugh and a shake of her head, Natalie asks, “Listen, do you need any help with the book club? I’m gonna be there on the day of, obviously, so if you want someone to take photos for Café Kismat’s Insta—”
Meera must have overheard her, because she springs in front of us out of nowhere and says, “Natalie, that’d be great. I was going to ask Danny to handle the photos for social media when he’s not busy making coffee.”
“I’ll bring my camera,” Natalie says, smiling. Then she pats the side of Meera’s arm almost…patronizingly? “Thank you for doing this for Lucy. She’s my best friend, and I’m so grateful to you for offering this job to her even though you two aren’t close anymore.”
Maybe Natalie doesn’t see how Meera’s face crumples, for the smallest of seconds, at the phrase “she’s my best friend.” To her credit, Meera only nods politely and steps back to where her friends are waiting. “Cool. I’ll see y’all around.”
Shit. My eyes burn with tears that I refuse to let fall.
Hearing someone else call me their best friend must have stung.
I know, because every time I go through Meera’s Instagram and see a new photo of her with Ron and Valeria, my heart breaks a little.
When she indirectly called me a friend that day at the café, I had to rein in the hope fluttering in my chest. There’s no room for it anymore.
Anyway. I sigh out a deep breath and choose to let it go.
Natalie’s looking at Café Kismat’s Instagram page, probably to familiarize herself with their branding and style, so I search the line of students for Julien Perrin.
He’s my study partner for Art History—not to mention Calculus and Chemistry—so I have to write a report with him once we’re done with the school trip.
It’s a pity he’s not my partner for French; there’s so much I could have learned from him.
If only he’d talk as much in French as he does in English.
I spot him walking up to Meera, perhaps asking if she’s seen me. She nudges her head in my direction, then gives me a little wave and a wide grin, even though we literally spoke a minute ago. Confused, I wave back.
“Hello, Lucy, Natalie.” Julien makes a show of sticking his palm out to Natalie, then laughs when she eagerly returns the handshake. “I’m learning the American way of life already, aren’t I?”
I press my lips together. “Yeah, if this were a job interview, maybe.”
Natalie throws her arms around Julien and hugs him tight until he puts a tentative hand on the small of her back. Pulling away, she beams. “That’s how we do it in Madre Maria.” It’s not, but I bet she’d use any excuse to touch him. Honestly, I don’t blame her.
Julien smiles approvingly. “You smell lovely, Natalie. Like spring is coming.”
I make a snort-like noise that comes from the back of my throat, then put a hand over my mouth and control my giggle. They’d be so cute together. Natalie might actually be able to tolerate his speed talking.
When the bus drivers call for us, we pile into the buses. Natalie and Julien laugh and chat about Paris the whole way there, and I play Taylor Swift on my earphones, pretending it’s the soundtrack to their budding romance.
About an hour later, we’re walking into the art museum.
The chaperones, including our Art History teacher, Mr. Lany, lead the way through the exhibitions.
They talk about brushwork, color gradients, and the meaning behind each frame hanging on the walls, but my mind is on the upcoming book club discussion.
Café Kismat already got two hundred likes on the announcement and sign-up post. Sharon is going to be pissed when five or six teens walk in asking if the town library has a copy of Prada, Purrs, and Prejudice.
I grin just thinking about it.
We pause in front of a large pink sculpture of a woman made entirely out of what looks like rose quartz crystal.
It reminds me of the woman from the Star tarot card that Mr. Rao pulled for Natalie all those weeks ago.
“This is beautiful,” Julien breathes, and hands me his phone. “Can you take a picture of me with it?”
“Uh.” I hesitate, spotting a signboard behind us. “I don’t think photography is allowed in this museum.”
His eyes widen. “Really? That is not the case in my favorite museum back home. America is an interesting country.” He takes his phone back and continues walking. After one last look at the rose quartz sculpture, I follow behind.
As Julien starts a conversation about the aforementioned museum in Paris and how it’s his go-to first-date place, I tune him out somewhat as my eyes find Meera with her friends.
They’re speaking in low voices and hanging away from the rest of the students.
Meera’s study partner is a few paces behind them.
They collectively look my way, as if they’re talking about me, then avert their gazes when I raise a brow at them.
“—and my ex-boyfriend was obsessed with this one painting that never made sense to me,” Julien says, and my attention springs back to him. Did he just say—
“Boyfriend?” I ask, my voice dropping automatically. If he’s sharing this with me in confidence, I don’t want to out him.
“Yeah, ex-boyfriend.” Julien looks unfazed, speaking at a normal volume.
“But you said you broke up with a girlfriend before coming here…” I trail off awkwardly when he wrinkles his nose.
“Is this how all Americans perceive sexuality?” he wonders aloud, clearly disapproving.
“Lucy, I am a person, and I am attracted to all kinds of people. What matters to me is what’s in here”—he puts a hand over his heart—“and not anything anywhere else. And I think that’s a beautiful way to love, is it not? ”
“Oh,” I whisper. My pulse speeds through my veins, my head spins just the slightest bit, and I can tell from Julien’s widened eyes that my face has probably drained of color. What he just described, that sounds like—it sounds like me.
“Lucy, are you all right?” Julien asks. He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks around. “Would you like some water?”
I wave off his concerns as I regain control of my senses. “I’m fine. I just— So are you, um, bisexual? Since you like more than one gender?”
Julien stops in front of an oil painting that shows the dark silhouette of two people kissing in front of a red background that fades to white. He smiles, and it’s like a mask has come off to reveal who he truly is. “I’m pansexual, Lucy.”
“Pansexual,” I whisper. The word feels familiar, even though I don’t quite know what it means, and it wakes up some part of me that has lain dormant, unconscious, ever since I closed the door on my friendship with Meera.
It tugs at my heartstrings, seeps its way into my bones, and lights me up inside exactly the way it’s lighting up Julien right now.
“To me, it means I’m attracted to people for who they are on the inside, regardless of gender,” Julien says, drawing himself up to his full height. “I prefer labels that empower me, and this one does exactly that.”
“It does,” I agree softly. “When did you—”
“Seniors, this way!” Mr. Lany yells, and the spell breaks. I clear my throat, raise my head ever so slightly, and remind myself that thinking like this is not going to help me. That’s not an option. Not for me.
“Come on,” I mumble to Julien from the corner of my mouth, whipping out a small notebook from my purse. “We should take some notes for the report.”
Julien frowns. “All right.” He pulls out his phone and opens a voice recorder app, and we spend the rest of the museum tour ignoring the giant elephant in the room.
Meera
When Ron and Valeria go ahead to catch up to Mr. Lany, I ditch my study partner—a studious guy named Henry, who’ll hopefully write the report for both of us—and walk over to Sushant.
He stands with a girl I don’t know in front of a statue of a stork carrying a bag in its mouth.
But instead of a baby, the bag holds a decaying skull.
“This is art, huh?” I say, elbowing him in the side as a greeting.
“Apparently.” He smiles, those beautiful dimples peeking out, and looks around the room. “Where’s your partner?”
“He’s taking notes for us.” I scratch the underside of my neck and turn to his study partner. “Hey, I’m Meera.” She’s clearly popular, given her lean legs and flowing blond hair, so of course she gives me a weird look and stalks off with her notepad and pen.
Sushant puts a hand to his firm stomach and laughs loud enough for the sound to echo in the room. When someone shushes us, he bites his lip and gestures for me to keep walking with him. “You like art?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’m not much of a visual person. Does music count as art?”
“It does. Music is definitely art.” We stop in front of a vase that has a naked man popping out of its depths. Sushant looks around surreptitiously, then pokes the man’s left nipple. “Boop,” he says.
Now I have to keep myself from laughing. Gosh, this boy is perfect for me. I bet Lucy wouldn’t have laughed at that. She could never get his jokes like I do.
“Who’s your favorite musician?” I ask Sushant. One of the teachers spots us hanging back and directs us to the line of students. We reluctantly follow.
He shrugs. “I don’t have one. I guess I don’t listen to a lot of music. You?”
“Gryffin,” I answer instantly. When Sushant’s brows furrow, I add, “He’s not super popular, so you probably don’t know him. He’s a DJ who collaborates with all these nonmainstream, thoroughly underrated artists. I’ve discovered a ton of singers thanks to him.”
“No, I know him.” Sushant grabs his notebook and pretends to write something down when Mr. Lany walks past us, although I don’t bother. “Lucy has a whole playlist full of Gryffin songs on our shared Spotify.”
I’m not the most emotional person on the block, but a blend of confusion and anger surges through me.
Confusion, because I didn’t think EDM was Lucy’s thing.
She always preferred Taylor Swift, whose music I don’t care for.
And anger, because the love of my life has a shared Spotify account with the girl I hate?
Wow. She’s really got her manicured nails in him, doesn’t she?
Not for long.
“The playlist has a weird name too,” Sushant goes on as we catch up to the front of the group of students and our partners walk closer to us.
“It’s called ‘MSG’ or something like that.
I asked her what that means, but she said it’s a reference to something personal. Maybe that’s Gryffin’s real name?”
“No, but whatever,” I reply, already mentally done with this conversation.
Julien and Lucy are a few feet ahead of us.
They’re not talking to each other, but the little psychic ability I’ve inherited from Appa tells me there’s some sort of weird energy between them.
Emotional tension? Sexual chemistry? I can’t tell.
“Hey.” I nudge Sushant, switching to speaking in Hindi so no one can eavesdrop. “What do you think of the new kid?”
“Julien?” Sushant says his name in his usual Indian American accent instead of its correct pronunciation.
He might be trilingual like me—he speaks English, Hindi, and Punjabi; I speak English, Hindi, and Kannada—but we both suck at French.
Another thing we have in common. “He’s a hoot,” he says in Hindi, following my lead. “I love that guy.”
“Lucy seems to like him too,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction from the corner of my eye. “I hope you don’t feel threatened. I mean, he is really hot. And nice. And funny.”
Sushant’s face seems expressionless at first, but I catch his jaw growing tight. He switches back to English. “He’s all right, Meera, but he’s not a threat. I’m all those things too.”
As my study partner walks toward the exhibit in the next room and gestures for me to follow, I turn to Sushant one last time and say, “I’m glad you’re so confident in your relationship. If I were you, I don’t think I would be.”
I don’t turn back to see his reaction. I don’t need to. The seeds of doubt have been sown—and with any luck, they’ll sprout into jealousy soon enough. Thank you, Angels.