One
“And that,” Mr. Beckett says, leaning against the edge of his desk in third-period AP English, ankles crossed and dark eyes shining, “is the story of how Hemingway and Fitzgerald became the most famous literary frenemies of the twentieth century. Full disclosure, it probably won’t be that useful to you on the AP exam, since for some reason they don’t test your knowledge of hundred-year-old publishing gossip. But you can keep it in your back pocket and use it to impress your friends at parties.” He grins, standing up and tugging a whiteboard marker out of the back pocket of his dark blue khakis.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s talk homework.”
We let out a collective groan, and Bex—which is what we all call him—waves us off as a bunch of bellyachers, then assigns the first forty pages of A Farewell to Arms for us to read that night.
“It’ll go fast,” he promises, twirling the marker between his fingers like a magician with a deck of cards. “One of the great things about Hemingway—and there are a lot of great things about Hemingway, and we’ll talk about them tomorrow—is that he’s not much for big words.”
“Well, that’s good,” cracks Gray Kendall, a long-legged lacrosse player who just started here back in September. He’s sprawled in his chair a couple of rows behind me, a dimple appearing briefly in the apple of his cheek. “Neither am I.”
Eventually the bell rings for the end of the period and we all shuffle toward the door, the scrape of chair legs on linoleum and the smell of chicken sandwich day in the cafeteria wafting down the hallway.
“You ready?” I ask Chloe, stopping by her desk at the front of the room. She’s wearing her signature red lipstick and huge hipster glasses, her yellow-blond hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. A tiny lapel pin in the shape of a pink flamingo is affixed to the collar of her uniform blouse.
“Um,” she says, glancing over my shoulder at where Bex is erasing the whiteboard, elegant shoulders moving inside his gray cashmere sweater.
I raise my eyebrows at her blatant gawking, and she makes a face at me in return.
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. Right.” I offer her an exaggerated nod and sling my backpack over one shoulder; we’re just about to go when Bex looks up.
“Oh, Marin, hey,” he says with a guilty shake of his head. “I managed to space on your book again today, if you can believe it. But I’ll bring it in tomorrow for sure.”
“Oh! No worries.” I smile.
Bex has been telling me for the better part of two weeks that he’s going to lend me his copy of The Corrections, which he says I’ll love, but he keeps forgetting to bring it in.
“Whenever is good. Honestly, it’s not like I have a ton of time to read for pleasure anyway.”
“I know, I know.” Bex makes a mischievous face. “You’re all too busy posting unboxing videos to your YouTube channels, or whatever it is you people do for fun.”
My mouth drops open. “Not true!” I say, though my whole body is flushing pleasantly. “Getting buried in AP English homework is more like it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bex says, but he’s smiling. “Get out of my classroom. I’ve got lunch duty; I’ll see you down there.”
“Lucky you,” Chloe teases.
“Uh-huh.” Bex grins, setting the eraser on the ledge and wiping his hands on the seat of his pants. “You’re making fun of me, but joke’s on you because you’re underestimating how excited I get about chicken sandwich day. Now go.”
The cafeteria at Bridgewater Prep is actually a combination auditorium/gym, with a stage at one end and tables that fold down and slide into a storage room during phys ed periods. Ours is already crowded by the time Chloe and I show up, with the same slightly incongruous mix of honors kids from Bex’s class and lacrosse bros we’ve been sitting with since I started dating Jacob.
“Hey, babe,” he says now, tweaking me in the side by way of hello. “How’s your day?”
“You checking to make sure she’s not getting fat?” his buddy Joey cracks, reaching over like he’s going to give me a pinch of his own.
I duck out of the way and flip him the finger, rolling my eyes. “Shove it, Joey.” Then, nudging Jacob in the shoulder: “Defend my honor, will you?”
“You heard the lady,” Jacob says, which is admittedly a little bit weak as far as honor defending goes, but he’s pulling me into his lap and pressing a kiss against my cheek, and for a second I forget to be annoyed. Jacob and I have been dating since last spring in AP US History, when we happened to be sitting side by side as Ms. Shah assigned partners for our final research project. I was hoping for somebody who’d let me boss him around and get us both As, which has been my strategy for group projects for basically as long as I’ve been doing them, but to my surprise, Jacob had actual opinions about which primary sources would be most useful to build a document-based question on the social reforms that led up to the Civil War. We argued for two full weeks before we figured out how to work together. When we got our A he lifted me up and twirled me around right there in the middle of class.
Now I sit down in my own chair and pull a turkey sandwich out of my bag, nodding at Dean Shepherd as he sets his tray down beside Chloe. The two of them went to homecoming together earlier this year and since then he’s been not at all subtle about trying to date her.
“You going to this thing at Emily Cerato’s on Friday?” he asks, cracking the cap on his bottle of Dr Pepper and offering her the first sip.
Chloe shrugs, peeling her clementine industriously. “I was thinking about it,” she allows. “You?”
I miss Dean’s answer—and, thankfully, most of Joey’s ensuing monologue about how hot Emily and her dance team friends all are—catching sight of Bex perched on the stage at the far end of the room, next to Ms. Klein, a bio teacher who was new back in September. She’s youngish, in her late twenties maybe, with curly dark hair and glasses and a wardrobe that seems to consist almost entirely of belted shirtdresses from Banana Republic. She’s sitting with her ankles crossed inside a pair of boots with blocky wooden heels, eating a cup of fancy yogurt while Bex laughs at something she said.
Chloe flicks a clementine peel at me. “Now look who’s gawking,” she says, lifting her chin in Bex’s direction.
“I am not!” I whisper-yell.
/> “Uh-huh. Wipe the drool, why don’t you,” Chloe says with a laugh.
I sigh dramatically. “I can’t help it. You know I’m a sucker for a man in khakis.” I glance back at Bex and Ms. Klein. “Do you think there’s something going on there?” I’d be lying if I said Chloe and I aren’t the tiniest bit obsessed with Bex’s romantic life.
“What?” Right away, Chloe shakes her head. “No.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Ms. Klein is cute.”
“I mean, I guess.” Chloe looks unconvinced. “In like, a local newscaster kind of way.”
“I’d nail her,” Joey puts in helpfully.