Authors: Aimee Friedman
Francesca swallowed hard, clearly trying not to cry. I was kind of close to tears myself.
“God, that’s so romantic, I’m going to bawl!” the woman at the next table whispered to her boyfriend.
“But don’t get me wrong,” Neil went on, a grin spreading over his face. “I like you this way, too.”
“You do?” Francesca asked, her lower lip trembling, and I saw a glimpse of the awkward girl she had once been.
Neil nodded, and moved his chair closer so he could put his arm around her. Francesca’s face brightened, and then she dropped her head onto his shoulder. Neil gave her a hesitant kiss on the cheek, and she sighed with happiness.
In the weirdest, most
who would have ever guessed it?
way, Francesca Cantone and Neil Singh were … cute together. They made sense.
Francesca
wasn’t
insane, I realized. She was just in love. And people will do completely crazy things for love—myself included, of course.
Suddenly, I felt wrong being there with the two of them. I stood quickly, pulling my wallet out of my bag. “Uh, guys?” I said. “I’m just gonna, you know, go….”
Neil looked at me, his eyes widening. “Oh, Norah,” he gasped. “Right. Um, listen. I’m so sorry about this—I like you and all, but—”
I held up my hand. “Neil. Don’t worry. Fm not heartbroken.”
Francesca didn’t pay any attention to me; she was too busy nuzzling Neil’s neck. She sure moved fast. So maybe Neil
would
get action tonight, after all.
I put some money on the table, and, as I hurried away, I saw the woman at the table next to us blowing her nose as her boyfriend patted her arm.
Without warning, I felt a little like crying myself. Not because Francesca and Neil’s surprise reunion was choking me up, but because of what Neil had told me
before
Francesca’s grand entrance: that James liked someone in the book group—but not me.
Which meant that now I’d never be able to rest my head on James’s shoulder, the way Francesca had done so easily with Neil. And though I’d told Neil otherwise, that realization
did
sort of break my heart.
Thirteen
Ring. Ring.
I grabbed for my cell phone, my eyes still half-shut.
“Audre?” I mumbled. “Didn’t we just talk, like, two hours ago?”
When I’d returned home the night before, the first thing I’d done was call Audre. We spent hours analyzing the entire surreal date, from Neil’s sketchiness to Francesca’s shocking confession to Griffin’s being “totally into” someone mysterious—who we could only hope was Audre herself. But I
didn’t
say anything about James also liking someone else—the possibility that James and Audre might end up together was too bizarre and painful to consider.
When Audre and I finally clicked off near morning, I’d semi-dozed, dreaming restlessly about tofu and physics. Now that it was morning, my head was throbbing.
“It’s not Audre,” a male voice said. There was a pause. “It’s James.”
Oh.
“James?” I said, struggling to sit up. James Roth? I looked at my bedside clock, wondering if I’d overslept and missed the reading. It was kind of late—I had only fifteen minutes to shower and change—but there was still time. I figured James was calling with some emergency question.
And it was weird, but now that I knew that I had no chance with James, I felt surprisingly calm. Maybe I
was
finally over him.
“I’m glad you called,” I said, swinging my legs off the bed and stretching. “I need to get ready for Philippa. Are you at the Book Nook now?”
“No,” James replied distractedly. “I’m still at home. So, how was your date?”
I paused, the phone tucked against my ear. “With Neil?”
“Yeah.” James swallowed. “He told me that you asked him out.”
“I know,” I said, my pulse speeding up. “He told me he told you.”
“He did?” James was quiet for a second and I pictured him, pacing in his room, like I was pacing now. His voice sounded kind of tense, but I figured that had to do with the Philippa reading. “Well … how did it go? Are you guys … a couple?”
I started laughing. “Wait—you didn’t talk to Neil this morning? You don’t know about Francesca?”
“
Francesca?
” James repeated, sounding rattled. “What do you mean?”
“Norah!” Stacey yelled from the hall. “I’m about to get in the shower! Do you need to use the bathroom?” After our bonding last night, my usually selfish sis was still in considerate mode.
“Oh, God,” I said to James, looking at the time again. There were now only ten minutes left before we had to be at the Book Nook. “I should go. We both should—we’re gonna be late to the Philippa reading!” Then I clicked off and sprinted out into the hall to stop Stacey. I had a reading
and
the last session of my book group to attend. I didn’t have time now to ponder the meaning behind James’s odd phone call.
I ran into the Book Nook, out of breath, tripping over one of the store cats. My hair was still wet and I was wearing the denim skirt from last night paired with my old Belle & Sebastian T-shirt—the first things I could grab off my floor.
The place was mobbed. It seemed that all of Park Slope had turned out. Endless rows of chairs—each one filled—stretched out in front of the podium near the door. One entire row was filled with people carrying cameras and notepads and wearing official-looking badges around their necks—probably reporters or journalists. A friendly-looking fortyish woman with shaggy-chic blond hair—whom I guessed was Philippa’s editor—was helping Patrick stack signed copies of
Bitter Ironies
on a counter. This was
huge
.
I noticed a group of Griffin’s NYU buddies, Eva among them, clustered in one corner, but I couldn’t find Griffin himself. Then I saw Audre holding court at a table near the back, proudly passing around slices of the “bitter” lemon pie she’d baked for the occasion. (She’d finished the pie last night during our phone marathon.) The rest of our book group was sitting in the front row seats Griffin had reserved for us; Scott and James (he’d beaten me there!) were comparing their copies of
Bitter Ironies
while Francesca and Neil held hands and stared at each other lovingly.
Suddenly Griffin jogged up to me, out of breath. “Dude, thank God you’re here,” he said. His blond hair was sticking out all over the place and he looked, possibly for the first time in his life, stressed. “Philippa hasn’t shown yet.”
“She
hasn’t
?” I felt a prickle of panic. “Isn’t the reading supposed to start, like,
now
?” The plan was that Philippa would sweep in, do the reading, and then join us in the back for the book group meeting.
Griffin nodded. “Her agent has been calling her every two seconds, but she’s not having any luck.” He groaned. “If this reading doesn’t happen, my boss is going to eat me for brunch.” He glanced over his shoulder at the fidgety audience. “And the natives are getting restless,” he added. “You know, the editor of
Teen Vogue
is here.”
“Crap,” I muttered. Had Philippa actually bailed? After our conversation on Seventh Avenue, I’d somehow believed she really was coming. Was that insanely naive of me? “What are we going to do?” I groaned.
“You mean,” Griffin corrected, “what are
you
going to do.” He put his hands on my shoulders—I forgot to blush—and grinned at me. “You need to say something to the crowd, Norah, just to distract them. At least until Philippa gets here,
If
she gets here.”
My skin turning cold, I glanced at the empty podium. Do I even need to tell you that I have horrible stage fright?
“Please,” Griffin said, all but pulling me toward the podium. “It’ll be fine. You just have to be, like, ‘Hi, I’m Norah Bloom, and welcome to this glorious event.’ Then just say a few words about why you like to read Philippa’s stuff and hope like hell that she walks in the door. You can do it, Norah. You’re the leader of this book group, after all.”
“I am?” I whispered, my feet stuck to the floor. One of the cats—I think it was Virginia Woolf—rubbed against my legs, as if to remind me:
Yeah, you are, idiot
.
Somehow, with Griffin steering me, I made it to the podium and faced the noisy crowd, trying not to think about the
Teen Vogue
person, or the fact that Philippa’s important agent and editor were out there. My legs felt wobbly. I didn’t think fainting would even be all that bad in that moment—at least it would take me away for a little while, like a nice vacation.
When I glanced at the front row, where Audre and the rest of the book group sat, I saw them smiling and waving at me. It was kind of calming to know I had their support, though Scott giving me the thumbs-up was making me even more anxious. Then I looked at James. He was watching me, his blue eyes warm and thoughtful, and suddenly, I felt safe. Like I couldn’t mess up if James was out there.
“Hi,” I spoke into the microphone. The sound of my own voice boomed in my ears, loud and crackly—
ugh
. But I kept going. “i’m Norah Bloom, and I’d like to welcome everyone to this glorious event.” A few people laughed, but not in a teasing way.
Say a few words about why you like to read Philippa’s stuff,
Griffin had said. “Reading Philippa Askance is …” What could I say? I remembered meeting the author on Seventh Avenue, and how easily we’d been able to talk.
“Like hanging out with a friend,” I finished. “A really smart, cool friend you wish you could take with you everywhere. And I feel like that s what the best writers
should
be to their readers—friends. People you can rely on and come back to again and again.”
That was even true about Irene O’Dell, I realized—
and
my real-life friends. I smiled at Audre and Scott, feeling the tiniest bit choked up. “By now, it’s almost like Philippa Askance is a member of our book group,” I added on a whim. “We talk about her enough. And”—I was remembering how I’d almost ended the group before we decided to take on the Philippa mission—“we’d probably have broken up a long time ago if it wasn’t for her.” Everyone laughed again.
“Go, Norah!” Scott whooped. I’d have to yell at him for that afterward.
I was wondering how to wrap things up when the door to the Book Nook opened. Relieved, I turned, expecting to see Philippa in all her punky, bleached-hair glory.
But it wasn’t Philippa at the door. It was a tall, skinny teenage bike messenger holding a padded envelope. Griffin hurried over to attend to him, but I listened to their exchange.
“This is kind of weird,” the bike messenger said, his eyes darting around the store, “but Philippa Askance asked me to deliver this to”—he looked at what was written on the back of the envelope—“‘The Girl from the Book Group with the Long Dark Hair and Dark Eyes who followed me and quoted
Bitter Ironies
’” he read out loud, then let out a breath and glanced up in confusion. “Is there anyone here who thinks that’s supposed to be them?”
I swallowed hard. That was supposed to be
me
.
“That’s got to be Norah,” Griffin said with a grin—clearly, he’d been filled in on my Philippa stalkage by possibly Francesca. He signed for the package and walked it to me.
My pulse was racing as I stood at the podium and tore open the envelope. I could feel the whole crowd watching me, holding their collective breath.
Inside the envelope was a thick stack of typed pages, and on top of that, a typed letter:
Dear girl who followed me,
As you’ve probably guessed by now, I won’t be coming to the reading today. In the end, it’s just not my style. But it’s also not my style to blow off a devoted reader who understands all about being better one-on-one. So, enclosed, you’ll find the manuscript for my second novel. It will be in bookstores exactly a year from now. Besides my agent and my editor, no one has seen this manuscript yet. I ask that you please not read this out loud at the Book Nook. I’d rather you just read it alone—or share it with other members of your book group if you’d like.
I’m calling the novel Innocent Abandon. It’s a love story.
Your friend,
Philippa Askance
I read the letter a couple times more, to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. The fact that Philippa wasn’t coming today suddenly meant nothing. I had this note—and the knowledge that I’d inspired her second book. What more could I ask for?
I looked up, and spoke into the microphone again. “Philippa Askance can’t make it today,” I said, hugging the secret manuscript to my chest.
“No way!” a guy hollered from the middle row.
“I demand a refund!” a girl screeched, even though the reading had been free.
“But didn’t she
promise
?” I heard Audre ask from the front row.
I grinned, feeling immune to all the chaos. What was it Philippa had told me?
I’ll be there in some form. I promise
. And she’d certainly made good on her word.