Will smoothed his ruffled hair as he leaned back in his chair, straining to glimpse Julia Hancock through his peripheral vision. She was deep into conversation with her friends, and did not happen to notice him, the big red-headed senior. He sighed slightly and focused on the front of the room where the teacher stood, writing something on the white-board. He surveyed the rest of the room till his eyes lighted on the lanky form seated at a desk near the window. Meriwether’s back was slightly arched forward, his chin cupped in one hand, his other hand resting upon an open book before him. Hamlet. For a moment Will thought that Meriwether stared at the blond girl a few desks ahead of him, but then after closer study he realized that his friend had drifted off into a world of his own, leaving the classroom behind.

After class ended Will met Meriwether in the hallway, where they continued together to their lockers. For a few moments silence hung between them until Will began, unable to keep himself from speaking up, “Do you think you could help me again tonight? With—” his voice broke off and he flushed, grinning.

Meriwether turned jovial eyes to Will. “I suppose I could.”

“Thanks.”

“But,” a smirk curved at the corners of Meriwether’s sensitive mouth, “I don’t see why you can’t try it yourself.”

“I have,” Will retorted, for the sake of defending his honor. “I told you, I’ve tried too many times, and it just doesn’t take . . .”

“And I of all people, should be able to change that? Me?”

Will scowled. “You’re the poet here, Merne.”

Meriwether freed Hamlet from his grasp on his Physics notebook. “But I suffer the pangs of despised love.”

“That’s proof, right there. You’re always reciting Shakespeare. It gives you a sort of power. Heck, I would give anything to write a love letter like you can.”

Meriwether’s smile became tight, but he said nothing as he flipped open the book and began to read it, even as he walked.

Will realized that his friend was trying to shut him off. At once he felt a sweep of remorse. Of course Meriwether would dislike any talk of romance. After he had tried and failed repeatedly to find a girl for himself. He had it all, the intellect, the physical appeal, and a touch of mild melancholy that set him apart from most boys, lending to his manner an air of distance and mystery. It puzzled Will as much as it bemused and saddened poor Meriwether. He never mentioned it after the last sour turn. Will remembered that all too well.


It had been a week before junior year prom. Will caught himself a comely girl with bright hazel eyes and hair the color of golden butter. Everything about her reminded him of sunlight on a field of yellow grass, so vital and full of energy. He would have asked Julia Hancock, but then he overheard her telling some of her friends that she would be out of town the weekend of the prom. He decided to spare himself the disappointment and turned to Emma instead. Emma proved a comfortable escort throughout the evening, though he wished she had been Julia instead.

Merne, on the other hand . . . Four weeks before the prom Will asked who he meant to take to prom. The two of them had just stopped to rest on their Saturday-morning bike ride through the park. Merne took a sip of water and drew in a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”

“Well you’d better start deciding. Prom’s only four weeks away, and my mom told me that you need to give the girl at least two-weeks-notice.”

“Of course,” Meriwether exclaimed with exasperation, as if Will had questioned his gallantry.

“So, who are you thinking of asking?”

A gentle, abstract smile appeared at Meriwether’s mouth, the smile that one only saw when he thought of something that really pleased him.

“So, who is it?” Will repeated, gesturing impatiently.

“Do you know of the fair nymph with eyes as green as the sea, lips as red as a rose? Hair as fine as copper?”

Will just barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “Who’s the nymph? What’s her name?”

“She sits a seat away from me to my left in Latin.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Olivia.” Meriwether spoke her name caressingly, so full of tenderness that Will wondered if it radiated from him during Latin.

“Have you talked to her yet?”

“I am not sure about her IQ, but I am fairly certain that—”

“Have you said ‘hi’ to her?”

“She’s very helpful to the teacher, which must mean—”

“Merne!” Will reached out and punched Meriwether playfully on the shoulder, to bring him back to earth. “Have you introduced yourself?”

Meriwether snorted, lifting an eyebrow. “Well, of course. Do you think I avoid her?”

“Have you had any conversations with her yet?”

“Only one. She came to me, asked me for advice. I have reason to believe that she’ll want a tutoring session. Our conversation led me to believe that.”

“Oh.” Will endeavored to grin brightly, and hurried to say, “Maybe she will. But in the meantime you should think outside of the box.”

“Of what?” Meriwether ran his arm across his forehead, managing to pull off the stance of a philosophizing athlete. His body leaned slightly against a trail-side birch, his face lifted to the sky, eyes half-closed as a breeze slipped past.

“I mean, outside the box of school.”

“Olivia is at school,” Meriwether used a matter-of-fact tone. “Why shouldn’t I take school as an incentive for something . . . more than platonic?”

Will made another gesture of frustration. How could he explain? He himself was still trying to catch the attention of a girl he’d eyed since middle school. A deep instinct told him that a relationship that remained stiffly within the property-border of school would be . . . ineffective, at best. And that point already seemed apparent where his relationship with Julia was concerned. Who was he to criticize Meriwether’s romantic approaches? Of course, Will had already engaged Julia in several conversations, and her calm smile told him that she didn’t not underappreciate his overtures. The mirror constantly reminded him that he would always be ‘plain’—Meriwether had been blessed by striking features that would probably prove valuable once he struck the right cord with a girl. Certainly, most of the girls inside and outside of school would come to him even if he beckoned them without a glance in their direction. He took home intimidatingly impressive report cards, and intellect exuded from him. He only took physical ed., since science projects and other pursuits of mind-jarring logic took up most of his spare time. But it didn’t take a psychologist to see that he drew the ladies like a magnet.

But he had never enjoyed a steady girlfriend.

Will himself had not really “dated” in every sense of the word, but he had gone steady with a couple girls since middle school, the whole time keeping his eye on little Julia. Only this first semester of his senior year did it hit him hard that she could be someone who meant more than a fleeting crush. Everything about her appealed to her, and he knew enough about her that made him want to know her even more. He wanted to read her layer by layer, savoring each describing line with tender attention.

As far as Will knew, Meriwether had not even approached the suburbs of romance. He never mentioned interactions with girl beyond the saying “hi”, talking to her sometimes in class, holding a conversation in the school parking lot, something like that. No dates. No homecoming. No prom.

Will tried to shrug it off. After all, what did he know?

He understood that Meriwether had written love-letters to rival Cyrano de Bergerac, but never ended up sending them to the girl who had inspired such florid expressions of interest. Will always caught paragraphs that Meriwether would sometimes agree to impart. But Will never heard of the sonnet’s delivery, if the epistle had been successful or ignored. Never an explanation. Just a smirk, or a brittle laugh. A bantering witticism to shrug it off.

And then Olivia happened. Perhaps because the prom approached, when everyone would have a date, everyone would be embracing and kissing in every corner of the school . . . Meriwether suddenly livened up and talked about Olivia constantly, burbling over her, murmuring her name in that caressing way. Amused, Will humored him and listened to his friend’s monologues, hoping that it would turn out. In fact, he couldn’t see why it wouldn’t. After Meriwether’s first conversation with Olivia, Will began to pay close attention, and watched Meriwether edge up to her one day before AP American History class, to where she stood by the big windows in the classroom, talking to her friends, twirling her fingers in her auburn hair. Olivia Mason had just enrolled in the school that January, but her winsomeness won her universal appeal.

Perhaps her charm, her affinity with certain segments of certain subjects, her elegant hand, her eagerness to participate in discussions, activities, and presentations, gave her an edge in Meriwether’s opinion. All of this must have attracted him, and he must have begun to fill in the blanks that came of his lack of knowing her as completely as he would have liked. In any case, he waited until she finished talking, and then tried to join in her conversation. Conversations are highly delicate grounds to tread upon. With a slender finger she flicked away a glinting strand of hair, watching Meriwether with cat-like wariness.

Will couldn’t hear what was being said, so he edged a bit closer, meanwhile watching the expressions of each person, hoping for his friend that their response was warm and inviting. Olivia surveyed Meriwether with a fringe of satisfaction, and a great berth of uncertainty.

He was addressing the girls—Olivia particularly—in the musical deep voice that so many took note of straight off. “You must be impressive, as a student—I’ve been meaning to tell you. I think it’s always remarkable for a girl to be . . .”

“What, are you surprised girls can cut it in AP classes?” a girl named Finlay broke in. Her black eyes snapped, and her mouth twisted into a scowl.

“I was paying Olivia a compliment,” Meriwether answered, rather tartly.