Oliver #2
“Something like that.” The sea of students parts around us, as if we are stones in a river.
I think about how I would have done anything to be with Delilah, how there was no point being in any world unless she was with me.
“The very reason I moved here is because I believe that everyone should have the right to be with the person they love.”
James stares at me for a long moment, as if he is trying to gauge my sincerity. Finally he nods. “You should think about joining the LGBT Alliance,” he says. “We could use more allies like you.” He fiddles with a pin on the strap of his pack and affixes it to my chest like a knight’s medal.
I glance down and see the rainbow fastened on my shirt.
James glances over his shoulder as he walks off. “Sorry I messed up your face.” He grins. “It was pretty.”
Inside room 322, a woman with frizzy gray hair stands facing the whiteboard, scrawling Ms. Pingree in perfect cursive.
She turns around as the bell rings again and surveys the class, her eyes lighting on each of our faces.
“ ‘What’s in a name?’ ” she asks. “ ‘That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet; / so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d / Retain that dear perfection which he owes / Without that title….’ ”
The other pupils in the class are fidgeting and yawning, ignoring this impromptu performance.
But I recognize a great actress when I see one…
and I even know the script from which she is quoting.
It was one of the books on Rapscullio’s shelves that Queen Maureen read over and over—the most classic of classic love stories.
Ms. Pingree finishes her recitation and I jump to my feet, strolling up the central aisle until I stand only a few feet away from her.
I fall to one knee, professing my undying love.
“ ‘I take thee at thy word,’ ” I say, letting loose the reins on my British accent.
“ ‘Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d; / Henceforth I never will be Romeo. ’ ”
Her jaw drops; two bright spots of color appear on her cheeks. For a moment, she’s speechless, no doubt swooning at my excellent thespian chops. “Well, well,” she says, recovering. “I see the gods have granted my wishes and finally given me a student worth teaching. Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”
“Am I a fan of Shakespeare?” I repeat. “Is Hamlet indecisive? Is Lady Macbeth mad? Is Falstaff…portly?” I realize, midsentence, that I am still speaking in my British accent, and clear my throat. “I’m Edgar,” I say, mimicking the flat American sounds of everyone else’s speech. “New kid in town.”
“And one I hope to see in the drama club this year. Thank you, Edgar, for joining me in a rousing performance from our first reading assignment this semester: Romeo and Juliet. Mark, Helen, Allie, come help me pass out books.”
I take my seat again, feeling awfully chuffed. Wait until Delilah hears about this. And she thought I wouldn’t fit in. I have a sense that English is going to be my strong suit. Perhaps I will even advance a grade level, or be asked to proctor a course….
Suddenly a book is slipped onto my desk, pushed closer by a slender hand with red polish.
I look up to find the very girl who precipitated the fight that led to my morning beating.
Delilah’s nemesis, Allie McAndrews, stands before me.
Her sleek blond hair is shoulder length, and she has so much makeup on her eyes that when she flutters her lashes, all I can think of are spiders.
Her lips turn up in a half smile, as if she knows a secret and I don’t.
“Maybe for once,” she says, “English will be interesting.”
At midday, when I enter the cafeteria, I see that Delilah is pacing.
“You made it,” she says, grabbing my arm, as if she needs to convince herself I’m still really here.
I understand; I feel the same way about her.
“I thought maybe you’d end up in the principal’s office.
” She scrutinizes my face. “You don’t have a black eye.
” In truth, I’ve forgotten about the fight—so much has happened.
“Delilah, this place is spectacular!” I say, beaming.
She looks up at me, quizzical. “Maybe you got hit harder than I thought.”
“No, truly—there must be hundreds of students in this school, and each one is a mystery! And in chemistry, I get to choose who my scene partner is, instead of being told with whom I have to work—”
“Lab partner?”
“Yes, right, that’s what it’s called. And the best part is that nothing about my day has anything to do with saving a princess.”
“Congratulations,” Delilah says. “But trust me, the novelty wears off.”
She pulls me into a line and hands me a lime-green tray. Behind a plastic shield, what appears to be a troll in a hairnet is glumping slop onto a plate. “What is that?” I ask Delilah.
“Lunch.”
“But it’s…alive.”
“It’s not quite a royal banquet, but it meets the federal nutrition standards, apparently.”
Reluctantly I take the plate as it is offered to me.
“I’ll go get us water,” Delilah says. I wander toward students clustered in small groups at tables.
This, according to my schedule, is Lunch Period.
The freedom is almost unbearable: imagine a half hour every day when you are able to do whatever you want, without worrying that someone is going to open the book and force you back into place on page one.
I take stock of the scene, marveling at how lucky I am to live this charmed life.
Then I notice someone waving. It’s Allie, from my English class, seated with her ladies-in-waiting, who all look unnervingly similar.
“Edgar,” she says as I walk over with my tray. “You can sit with us.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Delilah standing on the periphery, looking for me. “I’m so sorry, I already have plans for Lunch Period.”
Allie’s gaze follows mine to light on Delilah.
Her hand touches my arm. “Just so you know,” she says coolly, “I’m kind of a big deal at this school.
So when you’re done geeking out with the village loser, text me.
” She pulls out a sparkly pink pen and writes a series of numbers on my forearm, punctuating it with a fat heart.
I walk back to Delilah and tap her on her shoulder. “Looking for me?”
She grins. “Always.” Delilah leads me to a table where Jules sits, trying to sculpt her mound of food with her utensils.
“Nice artwork,” I say.
“Does it look like those Easter Island heads to you? ’Cause that’s what I’m going for,” Jules says.
I try to pull Delilah’s chair out for her, because that’s what princes do, but the chair is oddly attached to the table and doesn’t budge.
“It was a nice gesture, Oliver,” she murmurs, putting her hand on my arm—and then her fingers slide down to my wrist, pulling my hand up so she can read what’s written on my skin. “What’s this?”
“Allie requested a text from me,” I say. “I’m thinking she might enjoy Beowulf.”
Jules spits her chocolate milk across the table as Delilah’s eyes fly to mine. “Why do you even know her?”
“She’s in my English class. Which, by the way, I stoned.”
“You mean rocked?” Jules corrects me.
“Were you flirting with her?” Delilah says.
“It was nothing more than a conversation,” I explain. “Why would I be interested in Allie McAndrews?” I wait for her to meet my gaze. “I’ve got you.”
Jules puts down her fork. “I’m barfing rainbows.”
“Do you know Snow White?” Delilah asks.
“Not personally…”
“Well, that apple might look pretty on the outside, but just remember, she’s poison at the core.”
“Mind if I sit down?” a voice says, and I turn to find Chris standing behind us.
“Please do! You already know Delilah. And this is Jules. Jules, Chris. He just moved here from Detroit.”
“Welcome to hell,” Jules says. “I hope you got your complimentary brimstone cocktail when you checked in.”
“And my free hundred dollars in chips,” Chris replies smoothly. “Or is the casino on the fourth floor just a prank they play on the new kids?”
“There’s no casino,” Jules laughs. “But don’t miss the Olympic-sized pool up there.”
I nudge Delilah’s shoulder. “There’s no fourth floor,” I whisper.
“It’s a joke,” she answers.
I reach for her hand, and as I do, I notice the numbers crawling up my forearm.
Twisting it so that they can’t be seen, I thread my fingers through Delilah’s.
I’ve held her hand enough times now that it shouldn’t feel like electricity running up and down my skin, but just touching her, there are still sparks.
“So,” I say quietly. “You and I…are we okay?”
She looks away. “Sure,” she says, but her smile doesn’t quite light up her eyes.
I smile back. Or try to, anyway. Because if there’s anything I know, it’s when someone’s acting.
When I get home from my first day of high school, the woman who is not my mother—yet who created me—is waiting. “How did it go?” Jessamyn asks. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Five hundred,” I reply. “It was spectacular.”
She seems surprised. “Is it that much better than school on Cape Cod?”
“Infinitely.”
She folds her arms. “You’ve never been such a big fan of school before.”
“I never had a girlfriend there before.” As the words escape, I hope they’re true.
Jessamyn purses her lips. Delilah didn’t make the strongest of first impressions on her.
In fact, she came off as a little insane—a crazed sycophant who’d run away from home and traveled four hours to beg a reclusive ex-author to change the ending of her book.
When Mrs. McPhee arrived to pick Delilah up, she was not amused.
It took weeks of apologies before her mother even let her out of the house.
Luckily, in the brief hours between our realization that I was really, truly, wholly free from the book and her mother’s arrival to drag her home, Delilah created a magical portal for us, so that we could communicate even from afar.
She calls it Skype.