Dear Diary,
Today I’m going to see a movie without reading the book first.
Mea culpa.
M.P.M.
lined with neatly manicured lots, Arden’s house was decorated in the same palette as her beloved coffee drinks: not quite brown, not quite beige, but with hints of each swirled into the creamy background fluff. Terry called it dulce de leche, and said it made her want cake. To someone raised in a warren of lamp-lit rooms scaled to the tastes of a previous century, the newness was endlessly fascinating, as was her pantry full of the kind of snacks that get advertised on TV. I didn’t see the words superfood or non-GMO anywhere.
After hauling our colorful bags of junk food to the basement, we sank into the mammoth L-shaped couch facing the flat-screen TV.
“Are you ready?” Arden asked me, remote pointed at the screen.
I nodded solemnly.
She closed her eyes as a shiver passed through her narrow frame. “I can’t believe this is your first time. It’s like the one classic you don’t know.”
I pasted a pleased smile to my face as the movie began, ready to be amazed. But what was all this dappled sunlight? Whence the rowboats and waterfowl and old people? It reminded me of a greeting card, and not the fancy letterpress kind. This is what happens when you don’t read the book first, whispered a critical voice inside my head.
Once the action moved to the past I felt more in my element. The old “rich girl, poor boy” scenario; the picture was coming into focus. I settled more deeply into the cushions, box of chocolate sandwich cookies at my side.
When the final credits rolled, Arden reached for the remote to mute the sound. “Gets me every time,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “What a relief.”
“The way it ended?” I ventured. “Or just that it’s over?”
“I needed a good cry.” She blew out a long breath. “That’s what’s so great about movies like that. Once you start crying, you can cry about anything.” She turned to me with a watery smile. “What did you think?”
“It was definitely intense,” I said, borrowing a term from her. She nodded eagerly, the look on her face saying, And?
“I was a little confused about one thing. Why was the other guy—her fiancé—no good?”
“Same,” said Lydia. “What’s wrong with having a steady job and getting your hair cut on the regular?”
“But that’s the whole point.” Arden gestured at the silent television. “There’s nothing really bad about him except that he’s not Ryan Gosling, and, you know, destiny. That’s why it’s so bittersweet.”
And just a tad unconvincing, I silently added. “Then the theme is basically—”
“Follow your heart,” Arden said at once. “Don’t be afraid to put yourself out there.”
“Go with the guy who supports your career,” offered Lydia.
We paused to give Terry a chance to weigh in.
“Do crosswords and stuff? It keeps your memory sharp.”
“Valid point.” Arden patted her hand. “Then he wouldn’t need to tell her the whole story every day. They could travel.”
On the coffee table, Arden’s phone lit up. She lunged for it, sighing as she read the incoming message.
“What?” Lydia asked.
“I thought it was Miles. He was supposed to call me when he got back to the hotel. Maybe they’re still at dinner.” Her smile lacked conviction.
Lydia took a careful sip from her water bottle, eyes never leaving Arden. “You’re still worried about what’s-her-face?”
“Not all the time. I’ve been keeping busy, you know, concentrating on other things—”
“Like Winter Formal.” Lydia did not sound entirely approving.
Arden rubbed her forehead with the heel of one hand. “In case you haven’t noticed, we are up against the wall, time-wise. It’s the same thing every year. As soon as the weather gets colder, everybody’s like, ‘Okay, fantasy time is over, who can I realistically expect to go out with me?’ And now they’re scrambling to seal the deal. If we wait much longer, every eligible person at our school will be taken! Plus there’s Thanksgiving to worry about.”
Terry and I exchanged a quick look of consternation. “What happens then?” she asked.
“We lose almost a week of school. Which means no one is asking anyone to go anywhere!”
“That’s true. Good point.” Lydia’s voice had taken on a soothing tone I’d never heard before. “But I still think it might be a good idea to give it a rest, just for a little bit. Take a break from all this who’s-dating-who stuff. Think about something besides people’s love lives.”
Arden stared at her, crumpling a tissue in her white-knuckled fist. “Why? Because Miles is going to dump me? Is that why you want me to stop caring about love—because my heart is about to be ripped out?”
“No!” Lydia’s eyes widened. “I just thought maybe you were putting too much pressure on yourself with all this”—she held her hands to the sides of her face, suggesting the shape of a tunnel—“extreme focus. It happens, it doesn’t happen, it’s okay.”
Terry and I nodded.
“As for Miles,” Lydia continued, choosing her words with care, “isn’t it always like this when the debate season kicks into high gear?”
“I don’t know,” Arden said bleakly. “It feels different this time. Worse.” She turned to me. “Was there ever something like this in a book?”
“An elite debate team?”
She shook her head. “Where it seems like the other person might be losing interest. Or even possibly . . . cheating.”
Talk about a minefield! There were dozens of depressing examples I could have shared, but it was hard to see how that would be helpful to Arden.
“Most philanderers are pretty obvious,” I said slowly, grasping at a positive spin. “Like this horrible count who marries a young American named Isabel for her money and then tells her, ‘Oh, we have to hang out with my old friend, she should vacation with us,’ and obviously the lady is his mistress, which everyone but Isabel figured out in seconds, only by then it’s too late because she’s already stuck raising her husband’s love child.”
“See?” Lydia pointed at Arden. “Miles would never do that to you.”
“Or this other guy whose wife came up to him in the garden one night and he started kissing her passionately and she was like, ‘Oh good, maybe he’s going to stop being such a jerk to me.’ Then she said something, and he jumped back like, ‘Helen! What are you doing here?’”
Terry clucked her tongue. “He thought she was someone else.”
“And that’s when she figured out he was cheating?” Arden whispered.
“Pretty soon after that,” I hedged. “She was a little slow.”
“Okay,” Lydia said briskly. “Those are warning signs. Miles is not one of those guys. He’s not a drama magnet, and he is definitely not sneaky. You have to be rational about this.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “This is Miles we’re talking about, okay? Not some sleazy cheater. You know who Miles isn’t?” She extended a hand in my direction.
“Alex Ritter,” I said, recognizing my cue. His name left a sour taste on my tongue. This was a rotten way to repay him for his help, but I shoved that thought aside.
“I rest my case,” said Lydia. “If there was a problem you would know, because Miles would tell you instead of running around behind your back. You guys are rock solid.”
Arden flopped backwards, arm crooked over her eyes. “Unless there’s a landslide.”
Lydia stretched out a socked foot to kick her in the shin. “Where is the real Arden and what have you done with her?”
“I’m just saying love is a risk.” Her chin jutted stubbornly. “It makes you vulnerable.”
It would have been easier to argue if she didn’t have centuries of literary tradition on her side.
Grabbing the remote, Lydia switched off the television, which had reverted to a still of the star-crossed lovers wrapped in each other’s arms. “Enough of the gloom and doom. Let’s talk about something else. What’s next on our social calendar? Besides the dance.”
“I was thinking music.” Arden dabbed at her nose with the rumpled tissue. “Like an all-ages show, so we can dress up like rocker chicks and get our hands stamped and dance around.”
“Sounds awesome,” Lydia said with uncharacteristic perkiness. “When is it?”
“I don’t know,” Arden admitted with a sigh. “I haven’t even looked up concert listings. I’m sorry, you guys. I’m totally falling down on the job.”
“Nope,” said Lydia, holding up a hand. “No more tears. We’re going to figure this out together. Anybody know a good show coming up?”
“Not really,” Terry said, with a shrug of apology. Lydia sent me a desperate look.
“Um, there’s Improv Opera?”
“Huh.” Lydia scratched her head. “Is that—pretty much what it sounds like?”
“People making up operas on the spot? Yeah.” I looked down, regretting the suggestion more keenly with every breath. An evening of arias about women dying of lovesickness: Good call, Mary! That’ll cheer everyone up.
“I think it sounds very elegant,” said Arden, supportive even in the throes of her own misery.
“I just feel like we need something to get our blood pumping. Leave it all on the dance floor.” Lydia made a growling sound, pretending to claw the air with her hand.
“Oh!” I bolted upright, forgetting my resolve to never make another suggestion.
“What is it?” Lydia clenched her fists in anticipation.
“Trivia Night. It’s hardcore,” I assured them. “All the different college departments have a team—”
“College?” Arden interrupted. “As in, college students?”
I nodded. “Also faculty, staff, family, alums. Anyone with a connection to the college. There’s a townie team, too.”
Arden waved this off. “Back to the students.”
“Dude. They’re all going to be over eighteen.” Lydia looked to me for confirmation.
I felt bad about dashing Arden’s hopes, which must have been why I added, “Except for Neill.”
“Neill,” Arden repeated, eyes gleaming. “Tell me more.”
“Technically he’s a junior, but he skipped two grades in elementary school, so he’s only seventeen.” As he would happily inform anyone within hearing range. Unlike Neill himself, I refused to use the word prodigy.
“And?” Arden prompted. “What does he look like?”
“Dark hair, kind of stocky—”
“So he’s built,” she translated.
I shrugged, never having paid much attention to his physique. “Supposedly he does martial arts. He volunteered to choreograph the fights for Othello.” I didn’t add that Jasper and I suspected he’d made up his own style of fighting in order to be the undisputed expert.
“Think how impressive it would be to go to Winter Formal with a college student,” Arden mused. “Everyone would be talking about it.”
Anjuli’s face danced across my thoughts.
“We could shop for dresses together! Definitely a different store this time. You might even inspire these two”—Arden swept a finger between Lydia and Terry—“to step outside their comfort zones and live a little. And then we’d all be there together, and it would be the Best Night Ever.”
For a moment, I could see it: the flowing gowns and sparkling jewels, couples spinning gracefully around the dance floor. If I squinted at it sideways, the picture didn’t even include Neill. “I guess I could try. He’ll definitely be at Trivia Night.”
Arden picked up her phone, swiping until she reached the calendar. “When and where does this trivia business go down?”
“Third Wednesday of the month, at Mung the Merciless,” I said. “It’s a vegetarian restaurant. Kind of a sci-fi theme.”
“Drat.” Arden clucked her tongue. “I have my Malaysian cooking class.” She looked hopefully at Terry.
“I do Jazzercise with Mami on Wednesdays.”
“And my mom is addressing her Rotary Club that night,” Lydia informed us, setting down her phone. “She wants the whole family there.”
Arden’s lips pursed. “Lady Mary will just have to get the ball rolling on her own.”
“Right.” I took a deep breath. “How would I do that exactly?”
“First, you strike up a conversation,” Arden began, counting off the points on her fingers. “Then you find out if he’s single. If he is, ask if he wants to hang out sometime. Simple, right?” She smiled at me.
I nodded uncertainly.
“Think about it this way. Even if we can’t get him to the dance, it’s still a great chance to practice your social skills—which is totally on my list for your season.” Arden waved her phone at me.
A chime sounded, and the screen lit up. “It’s Miles,” she announced, jumping to her feet. She clutched the phone to her chest. “Everything’s coming together!”
I forced a smile, wishing I shared her confidence.