Meant to Be Page 7

  “Will do,” he says, miming a zipper across his lips. But that only lasts a split second before he unzips and says, “But first I need to hear the story.”

  “What story?” I ask impatiently.

  “The one about this Chris character. Who is he?” Jason’s face looks like he’s doing his best not to start laughing hysterically, which makes me more furious than ever.

  “I don’t know!” My headache is starting to return, so I once again head to the nearest bench and plop onto it.

  “You don’t know?” Jason, of course, sits right next to me, since apparently he has decided that today we’re besties.

  Maybe because I want him to stop bothering me, maybe because I hope he has a clue to Chris’s identity, or maybe (in fact, definitely) because I’m too exhausted to resist anymore, I tell him the whole story: about Gabe and the shattered table, about Avery and giving out my number, and about all the rest of them, one of whom is named Chris and sent me the text message Jason is now grinning about.

  “Let the teasing commence,” I say, dropping my throbbing head into my hands.

  “What? Tease you? Me? Surely you jest,” he says, reaching for my cell inside my bag. “I only want to help.”

  “Yeah, help me right into a suspension,” I reply, jerking it away.

  “Julia, you are my ‘buddy,’ ” he says, using the requisite air quotes. “I would never put you in harm’s way.”

  “Oh, right. You’d only take me to a party full of strangers in a foreign country and abandon me. Then get me caught in a street brawl, where I lose all my stuff including my pocket Shakespeare.”

  “Your pocket what?” He raises an eyebrow. He probably thinks I’m talking about a mini-Shakespeare action figure. (Actually, I do have one of those. But I left it back in Newton, thankyouverymuch.)

  “Never mind. The point is, why would I accept help from you?”

  “Look, I can get anyone to fall in love with me,” Jason says.

  I snort. “That seems highly improbable.”

  Jason doesn’t take offense. “Okay, okay. I can get anyone to fall in serious like with me. Anyone. Guaranteed. And I would like to extend that talent to you. Want this dude to fall for you? I can make it happen.” He holds out his hand to shake on the deal.

  “Oh, and you’re going to help me out of the goodness of your heart?” I ask, eyeing him.

  “Hell no,” he says brightly. “You’re going to help me out, too.”

  I stare at him suspiciously. “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You’re going to write my reflection papers for me,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Are you kidding?” I cry out. “You want me to help you cheat?”

  “No such thing as a free lunch, Book Licker.” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “Take it or leave it.”

  “No way,” I say. I walk away from him before I can change my mind. I expect him to come after me, pecking at me like some rampant chicken, but he doesn’t move.

  “Then good luck in your texting adventures,” he calls out. “May the force be with you.”

  I stop right in the middle of the gallery. My phone feels heavy in my bag. When I pull it out and flip it open, I see the text from Chris still floating on the screen as though it’s taunting me.

  “Oh, come on, Book Licker,” Jason says. I yelp and spin around. I didn’t notice him oozing his way off the bench and slinking up right behind me. “So you write a few extra essays. It won’t kill you. Besides, I’m sure you’re already worried about how badly my writing is going to hurt your average. What better way to protect your GPA than to do it yourself?”

  My mind flashes to my cell phone number. Four. My perfect GPA. The number I’ve worked so hard to achieve.

  “Is that a threat?” I ask. I try to keep my tone steely, but I can hear the slight quiver in my voice.

  “Not at all!” he says, but he grins at me in a way that’s no longer just mischievous. It’s devious. “I’m just saying I’m not the best with the spelling. Or the grammar. Or the finishing things on time.”

  “You are threatening me!” I say.

  “I’m giving you all the facts,” he retorts. “What you do with them is your concern.”

  “You sound like a lawyer,” I say, loosening my grip on the phone.

  “Like father, like son,” he replies. “C’mon, Julia. It’s a couple extra essays. You’ll probably even like it. Now would you give me that thing?”

  He takes the phone from my hand and flips it open, then types furiously on the keypad. “You need to sound confident, even cocky. Guys like confidence.” He hits a couple more keys. “That should do the trick.”

  “ ‘Actually, I think I should have been the one kissing you,’ ” he reads aloud, and I instantly flush.

  “You must be hungover if you think that’s even in the same universe as something I would say,” I reply. “There is no way I’m sending that to him.”

  “You just did,” he says, snapping the phone shut and pressing it into my hand.

  “What!” I flip it back open and scour the message log, hoping he’s lying just to scare me. But alas, there’s the message in the “sent” folder.

  “Well, you were yapping about how you’d never do it, so I did it for you,” he says. He’s clearly proud of his good work.

  I am about to have a total meltdown when the phone vibrates in my hand. I’m so shocked I nearly send it right to the wood floor.

  “What’s it say?” Jason asks, leaning over the display, eager to find out the result of his little experiment.

  At this point I’m so sick and shocked and at a total loss for words that I simply pass the phone to him.

  “ ‘There’s always tonight …,’ ” he reads aloud. “See? I told you I could do it,” he says to me, grinning hugely.

  “But what now? He wants to meet tonight!” My mind is racing.

  “Which you cannot do,” he says firmly, flipping the phone shut.

  “What? Why not?”

  “First of all, you don’t even know who this guy is. He’s a total stranger; you can’t meet up with him after two text messages. Too dangerous. But more importantly, you don’t want to seem too eager. Play hard to get a little. It’s old school, but it works.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course,” he says. “And let’s be honest: you’re going to need a lot of help before you can handle Chris on your own. Without my guidance and tutelage, you will royally screw this up.”

  Sadly, I realize Jason is right. I was reckless last night, and I was lucky to escape with only a fun, mysterious, sexy text message. And what will Chris think when he discovers I’m not some gorgeous supermodel, but a Book Licker from Newton, Massachusetts? He’ll probably run screaming in the opposite direction. I need time to think.

  “Besides, you told this guy you’re at a photo shoot,” Jason points out, as if reading my mind. “You can’t see him until that’s over, Kate Moss.” He chuckles to himself.

  “Shut up.” I fake-punch his arm but can’t help cracking a smile.

  “Hey, I’m not the one who claimed supermodel roots!” he says, holding his hands up.

  “I never called myself a supermodel!”

  “Oh, you didn’t tell him about your runway work in Milan, supermodel?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at my nose. I swat at him. He jerks away from me, tripping over the toe of his sneaker, and then springs to his feet.

  “What, are you gonna throw that phone at me, Naomi Campbell?” He laughs, shielding his face with his hands in mock fright.

  “Maybe!” I say, playfully tossing it at him. He catches it with ease, flipping it open to dash off another text, then tosses it back to me. He looks like a little kid who stole an entire birthday cake. What did he do? When I see what he’s written, I flush so deep I’m afraid I look purple.

  You couldn’t handle me tonight.

  Ack!

  “You jerk!” I swat at him agai
n.

  “Such language and violence, my lady.” He ducks from the blow, and I only get a whiff of his jacket. I lunge to get him again when the phone rings. I look down and see Chris’s number blinking at me. Not a text message—an actual phone call. In my frozen shock, Jason has time to grab the phone back from me and flip it open.

  “Hello there, sexy,” he answers, making his voice phone-sex-operator deep.

  That does it. I totally break every museum rule known to man or beast and launch myself at him, taking us both down to the hardwood floor. He rolls away, but I reach out and grab a handful of his shirttail, pulling him back. Just as soon as his hand is within reach, he holds his lanky (and surprisingly muscular) arm over his head. I have no choice but to climb on top of him if I’m going to have any chance of getting the phone back.

  “Having fun?” he asks before executing some kind of ninja flip that finds him over me, pressing my shoulders into the floor. “Because I am.”

  With the call ended, Jason rolls off me and sprawls out on the floor next to me. He’s laughing and sighing, happy with his victory. Great. What will Chris think after Jason answered the phone? I never should have trusted him.

  “Mr. Lippincott! Miss Lichtenstein!” Mrs. Tennison comes flying up to us, her Birkenstocks slapping angrily on the floor. “What in God’s name are you doing on the floor of the Tate?”

  Instantly I scramble to my feet, mortified. I haven’t been chastised by a teacher since the fourth grade, when I got caught hiding in the locker room during a game of dodgeball.

  “Uh, falling into some culture?” Jason, still on the floor, says with his trademark smirk, which has probably gotten him out of legions of situations just like this with teachers just like Mrs. Tennison.

  I step consciously away from him, as though I can physically shake off his bad influence. “Mrs. Tennison, I’m so sorry. What happened was—”

  Mrs. Tennison doesn’t let me finish. “Honestly, Julia, I am shocked by this behavior from you. You’re acting like children, and in one of the greatest museums in the world!” Her hideous necklace, which looks like it’s made out of adobe Christmas ornaments, rattles as she gesticulates angrily.

  There’s no point in trying to explain. Instead, I croak, “It’ll never happen again.”

  “Well, lucky for you, you’re going to get another shot at appreciating fine art,” she says in a tone reserved for teachers who have devised the perfect educational punishment. “Since you’ve wasted your time here at the Tate, you and Mr. Lippincott will be visiting another museum of your choice during your cultural hours. I want a thousand words from you on the cultural importance of art.”

  “A thousand words?” Jason asks, barely able to choke out the number.

  “Not another comment from you, or I’ll make it two thousand,” she snaps. “Now rejoin the class. It’s time to move on.” She straightens her flower-print blouse and marches off, her shoes smacking against the floor as she goes.

  “You are a jerk,” I say to him in a low voice as soon as Mrs. T is out of hearing range.

  “You started it,” he replies, shrugging as he attempts to de-wrinkle his gray polo.

  “What are you, five?”

  “I’m rubber and you’re glue.” He sticks out his tongue at me.

  “Great. I hope you can bring those creative writing skills to this essay.”

  “Uh, no. That’s all you. Remember our deal?” Jason spots Evie and Sarah in a corner, huddled around Sarah’s phone, and heads in their direction. He gets about four steps away, then turns back to me. “Cheer up, Book Licker. It’s extra homework. Your favorite thing, right?”

  “It’s Julia!” I fume, but he’s already jogged off to join the rest of the class.

  What is going on w/you and JL? Back off already —SF

  Embarrassment, anger, misery: SF. Sarah Finder. Has to be. It’s hardly a secret that she looks at Jason as though he’s the best thing to happen to the world since fat-free cookies. I feel like my head is going to spin off my shoulders. Thank God she didn’t bother to confront me in person, because I’m certain that would have pushed me over the edge. I would have barfed for sure.

  I read the text again. Back off? I can’t believe she thinks I’m on. She must have thought our wrestling match was flirting (gag). Apparently, she missed the part where I actually wanted to grind Jason into a bloody pulp. I chuck my phone into my bag in disgust.

  “Would you please hurry up?” I call back to Jason. The afternoon has gone from bad to worse. First we went the wrong way when we left the Tate; then Jason made fun of me when I pulled out my guidebook, complete with Post-it notes and a flagged foldout map; then I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and nearly tumbled into a group of tourists.

  “What is your freakin’ rush?” Jason snaps, trotting up to walk beside me. “Look around. It’s gorgeous. Can’t you calm down for one hot second?”

  He’s right, of course, but I won’t admit it. We’re finally heading the right way, east along the river through Millbank. The buildings all around us are carved stone and rusty brick and copper that’s turned green over hundreds of years of rain. I know from my reading back in Boston that we’re breezing past enough history to fill more than ten volumes. I nearly stop to point out the Chelsea College of Art and Design, which used to be the Royal Army Medical College, where they developed the vaccine for typhoid. But I know any mention of nineteenth-century history and disease will only be met with some epic eye rolling from Jason, so instead, I charge on along our path, shaded by trees and curving with the river.

  “I want to get this over with so I can get back to the hotel and swim some laps before dinner,” I reply, gazing over the low stone wall and on to the dark waters of the Thames. The fresh air rushing down is helping my headache, but I still want to dive into the pool and work out some of this tension. The invitational is today, and I can’t help wishing I were there, especially after what happened this morning.

  “Laps?” Jason arches one eyebrow.

  “You have your hangover cures; I have mine.”

  “You any good?” he asks, quickening his pace to walk next to me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Swimming. You any good?”

  “I’m okay,” I reply, wondering what kind of answer he’s looking for.

  “Just okay?” he says incredulously. “Didn’t you win state in the women’s hundred-meter butterfly the last two years in a row?”

  “And the hundred-meter freestyle,” I add. Then I stop. “How did you know that?” I whip around on the street so I’m face to face with him. He immediately takes a step back.

  “I mean, I think I saw something about it in the paper or whatever. Don’t get all obsessed with yourself over it,” he says, pushing his hands deep into his jeans pockets, walking past me with his bobbing strut. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “I figured we could hit the National Gallery,” I say, now matching his pace. “It’s easy to get to, and it’ll be easy to find good material for the essay. They have van Gogh’s Sunflowers on display, and I would totally love to see that. Van Gogh always makes an interesting essay. Or we could write about a series of Renaissance paintings and their historical context.”

  “And by ‘we,’ you mean you,” Jason says, still marching forward, dodging tourists taking photos of the view along and across the Thames.

  “No way.” I have to double my pace to keep time with his long, lanky legs, and I have the sudden realization that I’m now following him. “Our deal was for the reflection papers, which are only three hundred words. Thanks to you, we owe Tennison an extra thousand words, so I think you’ll be helping.”

  “Actually, you jumped me. So I think that knocks my liability down to somewhere in the range of two hundred fifty words.” Jason nearly walks into a woman teetering around on platform wedges. He jumps to her right to avoid a full-on takedown. “It takes two to tango … or wrestle on the floor of the Tate, as the case may be.”

  “You
forced me into it!” I say. “Five hundred words, minimum.” As the words come out of my mouth, I can hardly believe I’m negotiating with him.

  “Three hundred twenty-five, and that’s my final offer,” he says over his shoulder.

  “Whatever.” I am not interested in starting another fight, and I clearly can’t trust him to do the work, anyway. I’m starting to wish he would go back to ignoring me, as he has always done in the past. “If you could just cooperate with me for the next hour, we could get this essay done and actually learn something. I really want to see the Caravaggio!”

  “Snooze!” Jason drops onto a bench along the path, tilts his head back, pulls his ball cap over his eyes, and starts loudly snoring. A giant red tour bus is emptying out right in front of us, its passengers already armed with cameras, ready to snap shots of the boats cruising along the Thames. An elderly man actually turns his camera on Jason, snapping a photo as if he’s some kind of performance artist.

  “And you have a better suggestion?” I say, trying to suppress my bubbling rage. He springs back to his feet and starts marching down the sidewalk, continuing east along the curved river.

  “I do, actually. Follow me.”

  Jason gives me a wave and then mimes a dive right into a knot of camera-toting tourists. Americans, if the American-flag T-shirts are to be believed. I’m imagining what might happen if I ditch him and head to the National Gallery on my own when I catch a flash of Jason’s Sox cap bobbing through the crowd. Before I can question the decision, I take off after it.

  As we walk, the sun disappears behind a patch of clouds. The day instantly becomes one of those classic cloudy London-fog days. A cool breeze blows off the Thames. The river is dotted with rowers, clad in rugby shirts and Windbreakers, slicing through the water in shiny red boats. The low stone wall gives way to a wrought iron fence spiking up out of the grass. I can see the towers of Westminster Abbey peeking through the trees and buildings ahead. It’s just like a movie. And even though I’m hungover, following Jason to god knows where, I am overcome with love for London. It has yet to let me down. Dad was right. Screw Paris; London is the city for me.