Bookishly Ever After (Ever After #1)(3)

He sat back, but not before tugging on my ponytail. “And yet again, my hotness works against me.” Someone waved at him from across the room and he stood, gathering his things. “Sorry to deprive you all of this awesomeness, but my regular lunch table calls. See you in band.”

Em watched him walk away for a few seconds, brows knit together, before turning her attention back to me. “So, the homecoming dance.”

I picked at the crust on my sandwich. “What about it?”

“You’re going, right? Now that they made it a masquerade, it’s totally up your alley.” She paused, then added, “Up our alley, because who doesn’t love costumes?”

“You made me buy a ticket and talked my sister into making me a costume, so I doubt I have a choice anymore, do I?” The whole dancing in front of my classmates thing held no interest for me, even though a part of me thrilled at the idea of becoming someone I was not and maybe catching Kris’ attention. But my friends didn’t need to know about that.

“Actually, you do,” Grace said before Em could answer back. “I’m skipping. Leia’s really not into costumes.”

Alec looked up from his hoagie in mock shock. “I thought Homecoming was one of those things cheerleaders had to do, along with pyramids and cartwheels.”

“My girlfriend’s discomfort trumps disappointing the squad. We’re going to Marranos after the game, instead. You can come with us, Feebs.”

“No, she can’t. Jon’s going.” Em looked directly at me. “And you’re going to look cute for him.”

Eyes wide, I looked over at Grace and Alec who both shook their heads to show they weren’t getting involved. With a dirty look at both of them, I tried not to groan. “Em—”

“What?” She stared me down in that intense no-excuses Em way. “You need to get out more. Plus, I’m not letting you get stuck in this whole only wanting to crush on guys who fit descriptions of guys in books thing. He’s hot. I get that you’ve got Kris on a pedestal, but Jon’s in Junior ROTC. Hello, pushups and uniform.” Em fanned herself dramatically.

A cough came from across the table. Alec raised his hand. “Remember, guy at the table.”

Em grinned at him. “Sorry, forgot you were there.”

“I really need to find a table with more testosterone.”

I slumped in my seat, pulled out my book, and prayed for the bell to ring.





2


Family meals at the Martins house were like the compulsories at the Olympics. If you wanted to keep living in the house, you showed up on time and made it through dinner. Even if the entire place was on fire, we’d still sit at the table until Mom gave us the signal to start cleaning up. Mom and Dad were firm believers in the bonding power of food.

I shoveled mashed potatoes in my mouth while flipping to the next page in my book.

“Phoebe, are you listening?”

Food and conversation, even though Dad was just as bad as me about bringing scholarly journals or books to the table, and I’d seen Mom sneak her own books under the table, too. I scrunched my nose and stuck my napkin in my book to hold my place. “Yes, Dad?”

“We’re heading up to Massachusetts this weekend.” “Aunt Terry,” Mom said the name as if it tasted bad,

“finally decided she was going to throw your grandmother a birthday party and invited us. And I know it’s only two days’ notice, but we shouldn’t miss it.” She plopped another scoop of mashed potatoes onto Dad’s plate with a little more force than necessary.

“Ok-ay,” I said slowly, waiting for the ‘you should go even though this is insanely last minute’ guilt trip to start.

“Grandmom Clara isn’t going to be here forever, you know,” Dad said, echoing mom’s tone. Oh, boy. Even he was getting in on the guilt piling.

I shifted in my seat, pretending to focus on my book. “I know, but— the dance and work—I promised Cassandra I’d teach this weekend…” I heard the front door open and popped out of my chair. Saved by the big sister. Trixie would talk them out of making me go. “Trixie!”

Rushing into the foyer, I grabbed Trixie and swung her around, heedless of all of the bags in her arms. She was about my height, but her frame was so small that she looked delicate, as if she were going to collapse under the weight of her bags and momentum of my spin. “Save me from Massachusetts,” I whispered.

“I’ll try,” she whispered back, conspiratorially, and added an exaggerated wink. “I didn’t come down to Lambertfield for the weekend just to go even more north than NYC.”

I gave her another hug, then tugged at her bags. “So? Do you have it?”

She scrunched up her little button nose and dropped her bags in the middle of the floor, spreading her arms and legs like a goalie to keep me from getting to any of them. “No ‘how’s sophomore year, Trixie?’ ‘Glad you’re home for a visit, Trixie?’ ‘Did any of your work get into any good fashion magazines lately, Trixie?’ I’m really feeling the love, Feebs.”

I tossed her an amused look before reaching around her to dig into one bag that had hints of green fabric peeking out of the top. “Oh, it’s good to see you, but even better to see the dress.”