Meant to Be Read online

  “Well, Sarah and Evie are shallow,” I retort. “Especially Sarah. Why can’t she mind her own business? She acts like other people’s lives are her personal Us Weekly.”

  “You don’t even know her,” he replies. “If you spent a second reading a Sarah Finder guidebook, you’d know she’s in everyone’s business because she wants to protect her friends. You’re too busy in Julia Land to notice anyone else.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter. My throat is having spasms. Jason makes me sound like an awful, uptight, self-involved monster. I’m not like that! He thinks he knows me! He doesn’t know me at all. I inhale deeply and lower my voice. “Mark is none of your business, okay? Just because you’ve dated a bunch of girls doesn’t make you an expert on love. I mean, yeah you’ve had girlfriends, but have any hung around for more than like a week?” I bite my lip, regretting the words as soon as I’ve said them.

  “If I’m such an idiot, then why did you ask for my help?” He tosses something small and silver at me. I catch it before it smacks me in the cheek. My phone! “Here. Good luck with your texting.”

  “What? How did you—When did you—” I sputter.

  “Slimeballs like me have sticky fingers,” he deadpans.

  Oh my God. The drapes. When he was trying to “help” me out, he must have snatched my phone. My breaths are coming fast and deep, like I’ve just climbed out of the pool after a hard sprint. Everything is upside down. If there is such a thing as spontaneous human combustion, I fear I’m about to experience it.

  “Leave me alone” is all I can whisper.

  “Gladly.” Jason brushes past me, bumping me hard with his shoulder. I take a stumbling step backward … and run smack into a suit of armor.

  The whole thing starts to teeter on its tiny base. I reach out to grab it, but it’s too late. It seems like slow motion as the armor, surprisingly heavy for a mini replica, crashes to the ground. The sound bounces across the marble floor and swirls around the room like a tornado. I stand frozen in horror. Everyone is looking at me, including Jason, his face registering a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  Our tour guide gives a tight, choking laugh and says to the staring faces, “Just a reproduction, just a reproduction. Do be more careful, though, won’t you, miss?”

  “Julia Lichtenstein, what has gotten into you?” Mrs. Tennison stage-whispers through clenched teeth. It’s clear she doesn’t want to make even more of a scene in front of our tour guide, but she is capital-P Pissed. She plods heavily across the floor in a pair of beat-up Uggs, which Mrs. Tennison probably thinks make her look trendy, though actually she looks like she has clubfeet. She takes me by the arm and leads me quickly over to a side hallway.

  “Miss Lichtenstein,” she begins, winding up for a serious talking-to, “your behavior on this trip has been completely unacceptable. I was hoping you would be a role model for your classmates, but instead you have been impulsive, thoughtless, and disrespectful. I did not expect this from you, of all people.”

  Her words pack a punch right to my gut. I feel like all the wind has been knocked out of me, and my eyes burn with tears. I’ve never been talked to like this by a teacher. Ever.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Suddenly, my throat is squeezing shut and I realize I’m about to cry.

  “Really. What has gotten into you?” she asks, staring me hard in the face, eyes narrowed. She turns on her heel toward the rest of the group, waving me along after her. Apparently she wasn’t looking for an answer, which is good, because I don’t have one. What is wrong with me? Did a teacher just seriously refer to me as impulsive? And disrespectful? Jason’s calling me shallow; Mrs. Tennison is calling me thoughtless.… What’s next?

  I trudge after Mrs. Tennison, rejoining my classmates. As I wipe the tears from my cheeks, I catch a glimpse of Sarah Finder, standing near the back of the room. I expect to see a smirk, but all I can see is … pity. She actually looks like she feels sorry for me. Which doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse. Maybe I am shallow. Whatever. I just know that I’m sick of being ignored, pitied, judged … by everyone.

  lovers quarrel? do tell! —SF

  I quickly type back as if in response to Sarah’s text, then wander through the rest of the tour like a zombie, trying to remain expressionless and emotionless. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  When the tour ends, we make our way to a pub curiously named the Only Running Footman. It’s listed in my guidebook as one of the best places for “true British grub,” though unfortunately, my book doesn’t tell me where it got its wacky name. It’s located in what my book tells me is the Mayfair district. I want to flip and cross-check just what that is, but my head hurts too badly to focus on the index. Once inside, my classmates spread out among the tables and the black vinyl booths. They place orders for shepherd’s pie and fish-and-chips, giddy over the delicious-smelling pub fare. Ryan attempts to order a pint, but he has to laugh it off like it’s all a big joke when Mrs. Tennison whips around and shoots him the evil eye. This would be the ideal place to continue my quest for the perfect fish-and-chips. They even offer what the menu calls “proper mushy peas” as a side, but I’m not hungry. I keep thinking back to Mrs. Tennison’s angry voice, her finger wagging in my face.

  Instead of ordering, I take a small table in the corner and flip open my notebook, hoping I can focus on going over my notes and drafting some of today’s reflection paper, but what I see on the pages are not my standard, neatly lined-up notes with indents and symbols. My system is nonexistent and my notes are a hot mess. I can’t get anything right today. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  A shadow swallows my notebook. I look up to see Jason. He’s holding two porcelain white plates of fish-and-chips, perfectly rounded scoops of tartar sauce and mushy peas on the sides. He has two bottled waters tucked under his arms.

  “You can’t leave England without eating some fish-and-chips,” he says. When I don’t respond, he says, more softly, “Come on, Julia. I know you can eat like a running back.”

  He drops one of the plates in front of me, and it clangs loudly on the table. One of the fries escapes its pile and plops down on top of the mountain of tartar sauce. I instinctively reach for it, dabbing the sauce on the side of the plate before returning it to its pile.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, but I have to push the plate back across the table. The smell of the beer batter reminds me of our night of drinking at the house party, the start of all the rule breaking that led me here. I drop my head onto my folded arms, my messy curls spread out across the table.

  “Mind if I sit?” He doesn’t wait for a response, of course; he deposits the other plate in front of the empty chair next to mine and plops down beside me. A few minutes pass in silence, other than the sounds of his noisy chewing. I keep my head down, but the smell of the French fries is starting to work its telltale magic. I finally raise my head, and Jason immediately slides my lunch in front of me.

  “Listen, I really appreciate that you didn’t bring my name into that,” he says, passing the malt vinegar my way.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Back at the palace. You were mad at me; it was my fault you ran into that suit of armor.” He has to swallow back a laugh as he says it, which only reminds me of how awful and embarrassing the whole situation was. He quickly continues, “Anyway, I appreciate that you didn’t say anything to Tennison. If Mrs. T gives me a terrible grade for this trip, my grade for the semester is screwed, and frankly so is my GPA.”

  “What happened to that seven twenty verbal score?” I reply, an edge in my voice. “Shouldn’t you be cruising through classes with those smarts?”

  “I’m very smart,” Jason says matter-of-factly. “But as you yourself have pointed out, I’m also not the most … serious student in the world. If my GPA takes another hit, I won’t get into a good college. And if I don’t get into a good college, I won’t get into a good law school. Doth sayeth my father, an
yway. And if I don’t get into a good law school, trust me—I won’t even be welcome at family holidays anymore.” His laugh comes out forced.

  I want to continue being mad, but I feel a stab of sympathy for him. My dad wouldn’t have cared what I did with my life, as long as I was happy. I can’t imagine having pressure like that from my parents. So I swallow back my snotty retort and instead stare at my plate.

  “Look, you’re pissed. I get that. I’m sorry for what I said before, okay? I want to make it up to you.” For once, he seems sincere.

  “How do you plan on doing that?” I sigh.

  “Well, that text from Chris …,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper; it looks like a receipt, with his trademark chicken scratch on the back. “He mentioned having a burnt caramel mocha. Turns out there’re only two places in London that have them on the menu. I Googled,” he explains as he holds the paper out to me. I see that he’s written the addresses on it.

  “Where in the hell did you Google?”

  “The girl sitting at the security desk. She was cute. She thought I was cute.…” He trails off, and I get it.

  “So she was blind?” I say.

  “Hardee har har. I guess I deserved that.” He nudges me with an elbow. “After lunch is cultural time. So what do you say? I say burnt caramel mochas are very culturally relevant.”

  I fiddle with my napkin. I know Jason is trying, but I’m not totally ready to forgive him yet. Still, maybe the café is somewhere Chris hangs out regularly. He might even be there right now, even though he sent the text a while ago; Phoebe and I used to practically live at the Beanstalk.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine. But you write your own paper this time.”

  “We’ll leave that discussion for later,” he says. He pumps his fist in the air. “Oh, and you should write back to that text. Say … say ‘wish I could be there to warm you up.’ ”

  I stare at him like his red hair is actually on fire, but when he doesn’t flinch, I give up. I pull out my phone and type it in, word for embarrassing word. What have I got to lose, anyway?

  When we finish lunch, we walk the eight blocks to the first café he’s noted, but from the moment I walk in, I’m sure this cannot be the place. The wall is plastered with heavy wallpaper covered in roses the size of my head. There’re so many of them, red and pink and fuchsia, in a repeating pattern that I start to worry that they’re closing in on me. Each round table is topped with a handmade doily, and cross-stitched Bible verses in wooden frames adorn the walls. The only patrons in the café are of the blue-haired set, and they appear to be holding a book club focused on the latest Nicholas Sparks sob fest.

  “Can we please get out of here?” Jason whispers to me as the elderly woman at the counter waves a porcelain floral teapot threateningly in our direction.

  “God yes,” I whisper back, a fake smile plastered on my face for the patrons. We rush out before they start showing us pictures of their grandchildren.

  We have to take the tube to the second café, and I notice that Jason is nice enough to stand between me and the creepy guy who smells like oatmeal and sweat. Turns out even Europe has subway weirdos. Or tube weirdos, I guess they say in London.

  When the train glides to a stop, Jason leaps out. Then he bolts toward the exit. I make it out of the train right before the doors slide shut again, and take off after him. He’s weaving through crowds of commuters, dodging around people like he’s on a slalom course. When he gets to the base of the escalator, he barely gives me enough time to catch up.

  “What was that about?” I ask, but the words are barely out of my mouth before he takes off again, running up the escalator, taking the steps two and even three at a time on his long legs. I run after him, and when we finally burst out onto the street, we’re both panting and laughing.

  “Where’s the fire?” I ask through gasps.

  “Daily cardio, Book Licker,” he says. He’s bent over slightly, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. He stands up and raises a hand high. I have to hop a little to return his high five. “Nice work,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I reply. I ball my fists and hold them up like the track champion I’m definitely not. Even though I’m winded, I feel incredibly energized. “So what’s with the mad dash?”

  “Don’t you want to meet this mysterious Chris? Isn’t he worth running for?” Jason gives me a strange look. I open my mouth but realize I don’t have anything to say.

  An uncomfortable feeling worms its way into my stomach. The truth is I’m not sure how I feel about seeing Chris. All I know is it feels nice to be wanted, to be pursued, to be flirting for once.

  And a tiny little minuscule piece of me might be enjoying Jason’s company, too.

  Jason guides me across a square and toward a narrow coffee shop squished between a used-book shop and an Internet café. When we get inside, I hustle straight to the register to take a peek at the menu. Sure enough, burnt caramel mochas are listed right at the top, a house specialty.

  “Think we should order one?” Jason asks, coming up behind me in line. “We did scour all of London to find them.”

  “Nah,” I say, gazing around the shop. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” I’m not much for caffeine of any kind. It makes me so jittery that I feel like I could read the entire Harvard library in one night, or flap my arms and take flight off the roof of the Hancock Building. The last time I drank a latte, I decided the best way to study for the SATs would be to memorize the entire dictionary. My mom found me the next morning surrounded by multicolored flash cards that looked like they had been written by a serial killer. I was drooling in the middle of the Ks. It was a month before I could look at a K word without getting the shakes.

  There are a few people in the shop, and most of them look older, like graduate students. One is pounding away angrily on his laptop, and I’m pretty sure he can’t be Chris. I would have remembered the jagged scar across his cheek (I hope). Another is engrossed in a paperback novel, but I don’t think he’s Chris, either, as I’m certain a chest-length red beard would have been fairly memorable.

  There’s only one other candidate, and he’s reading what looks like … No. It can’t be.

  It is. A pocket Shakespeare sits on the table next to his mug (a burnt caramel mocha, perhaps?).

  It’s him. It has to be.

  My stomach flips. He’s got horn-rimmed glasses and short, messy black hair. He’s that kind of rugged, nerdy handsome. Part emo, part mountain man. In a word, the boy is hot. If he has a British accent, I might actually suffer a romance-induced stroke and keel over dead right here in this coffee shop.

  My hands instantly go clammy and the blood drains from my face.

  “Think that’s him?” Jason nudges me.

  “Dunno,” I say, limited to one-word answers by my fear.

  “Are you going to go over there?”

  “Nope.” I hope I don’t look as panicked as I feel. I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants so no one can tell they’re getting so sweaty it’s like I dipped them in a vat of movie theater popcorn butter. My heart is beating as if someone is playing speed metal inside my rib cage.

  Jason studies me for a second. I catch myself bouncing up and down on my toes. Okay. So I almost definitely look as panicked as I feel.

  “Fine,” he says, brushing past me. “Then I will.”

  “No!” I shout, drawing the attention of the few patrons. I reach out and grab the hem of his shirt, pulling hard.

  He jerks backward, then whirls around to face me. “What is going on? We’ve been running all over London to find this guy. Now there he is, and you can’t go over there? You’ve got to take the training wheels off sometime, Julia.”

  “I … I just …” My mouth bobs open and shut like I’m some poor fish that’s been plucked out of the ocean. I don’t know what to say. The truth is now that I’ve seen him, I can’t go up to him. He’s HOT. And I’m … well, I’m me. Not to mention I�
�ve been telling him I’m a supermodel. He probably only believed it because he was as drunk at the party as I was. One look at me in the sober light of day, and the whole thing crumbles to the ground about my short little legs.

  “I can’t do it,” I finally manage to croak.

  “Isn’t that your book?” Jason prods. “Your pocket Shakespeare, or whatever?”

  I’m shocked he remembers. Last time I mentioned my pocket Shakespeare, he looked at me like I’d been carrying a live fish in my purse.

  “I’m not ready,” I say quietly, almost in a whisper. I turn away and head toward the door. Jason trots after me.

  “You’re serious?” he asks.

  I can only nod.

  I feel a thousand emotions, everything from fear to anxiety to sadness.… I wish I had the confidence to stroll right up to Chris and smile at him. Evie and Sarah would. Phoebe definitely would. But I don’t. I can’t. I’d say something to screw it up, or I’d trip over myself or knock coffee into his lap, and I wouldn’t be able to stand the disappointed look on his face.

  When we get out to the street, I have to lean over and take a few deep breaths. My legs buzz with energy, and I want to take off running. Instead, I inhale three more breaths, then turn and face Jason. “I think I need some more time.”

  Jason looks at me for a moment, and I brace for the teasing. But shockingly, it doesn’t come.

  Jason scans the street and suddenly brightens. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. He grabs my arms and starts pulling me down the sidewalk. “This’ll cheer you up.” He ducks into the used-book shop next door, which appears to specialize in antiques and rare editions. The place smells like a library attic, and from the moment I step through the door, the little bell tinkling behind me, signaling my arrival to the shopkeeper, I’m in heaven. This is definitely more fun than standing in that café, morphing into a quivering pile of nerves.

  Shelves jammed with books of all sizes take up nearly every square inch of the store, leaving only narrow aisles down which you can browse. A fat gray cat snoozes in the corner on a lumpy red pillow, a basket of yellowed Penguin Classics next to him. Soft strains of music are wafting through the shop, a familiar tune I can’t quite place, but I hum along anyway. I walk over to the glass display case where highly polished leather volumes with gilded pages and borders practically sparkle. As I stare at a copy of The Collected Works of Shakespeare, I realize I’ve been holding my breath since I walked in. I let it out in one long, satisfied sigh.