A Novel Idea

One

I’m not a hopeless romantic. I don’t believe in love at first sight or destiny or soul mates. I’m happiest wearing a charcoal zip-up hoodie and vintage jeans, not some floaty pastel dress with kitten-heeled mules. I hate bouquets of roses, boxes of chocolate, and Jessica Simpson ballads. And most of all, I despise Valentine’s Day.

February fourteen of my junior year was especially rough. The halls of my high school, Edna St. Vincent Millay, were decorated with heart-shaped pink balloons and tacky plastic cupids. I spent the day skirting cuddly couples kissing against lockers and giggly girls carrying heaps of carnations. By the time I arrived for my three o’clock meeting with Ms. Bliss, the college counselor, I was beat.

Norah Bloom. Ms. Bliss greeted me, flashing a grin as she glanced up from a file on her desk. She had wavy blond hair, a pert nose, and, under her prim lavender suit, an ultra-curvy figure. I remembered the rumor my friend Scott Harper had told me earlier that year—that Ms. Bliss was an undercover Victoria’s Secret model sent to our high school to terrorize insecure teenage girls. Maybe it was true; already I felt way too pale, dark-haired, and flat-chested in her presence.

Hey, I muttered. I flopped in a chair across from her and stared down at my orange Pumas. The fluorescent office lights buzzed rudely.

"Norah, I am so sorry to keep you after school on a holiday, Ms. Bliss began, crossing her long legs and tapping a French-manicured nail on a sheet of paper. I’m sure you have plans tonight, like me."

Instantly, my eyes shot to the wooden frame on Ms. Bliss’s desk, which held a photo of a square-jawed possible gym trainer.

Not really, I said. My Valentine’s plan was: meet my best friend, Audre Legrand, for coffee at the Book Nook, endure dinner with my family, and slink off to my room to reread my tattered copy of Weetzie Bat, blast my Postal Service CD, and ignore my homework.

Sexy, huh?

Oh, that’s too bad, Ms. Bliss purred, her glossy lips curling up in a smug smile. But let’s jump right in, shall we? Since second semester started in January, I’ve been meeting individually with each junior to discuss his or her college goals.

I sat up straighter, brushing my bangs off my forehead. College. I couldn’t freaking wait. I was dying for sunny green campuses, cozy library stacks, and noisy freshman dorms. I wanted to stay up all night with my roommates, eating cold pizza and arguing about the meaning of life. In college, I was sure, the stresses of high school—popularity and acne and standardized tests—would disappear. And in college I might meet a poetic, dark-eyed philosophy major who, unlike every other boy in the world, would finally notice me.

Where do I start? I asked excitedly, practically bursting out of my seat. Ms. Bliss, clearly startled by my sudden spike in energy, leaned back in her swivel chair with a tiny gasp. "I have such college goals, Ms. Bliss, I went on breathlessly. I mean, my friends and I all feel like we’ve, I don’t know, outgrown high school or something. I want—I paused, searching for just the right phrase. Audre always teases me about being a stickler for words—time away from my parents, and amazing classes that will flip my world upside down and—" A boyfriend, I wanted to add. But, thankfully, didn’t.

I’ve even checked out some schools’ Web sites, I said instead, like, Sarah Lawrence and Vassar—

That’s all very well and good, Norah. Ms. Bliss cut me off, her eyes skimming down what appeared to be my report card. However. She glanced back up at me and shook her head in disappointment.

I bit my lip and adjusted my cat-eyed, tortoiseshell glasses, trying to look serious and academic. My palms were turning clammy. However what? As far as I remembered, my grades—especially in English and history—were pretty good. Okay, maybe my C plus in chemistry didn’t make my GPA glitter, but I hadn’t said I was shooting for Harvard.

Uh, did I do something wrong? I managed to ask, my voice—to my horror—coming out in a squeak. My problem is, I get embarrassed too easily, by pretty much anything I do. I’m less painfully shy than I was back in grade school, when talking to anyone other than Audre would cause me to break out in hives. But I’m still pretty bad.

I have one word for you, dear. Ms. Bliss grinned again to show how well her Crest Whitestrips were working. Extracurriculars.

Extracurriculars? I repeated, my stomach sinking. I knew that after-school activities were super-important to colleges—Millay students had that drilled into their brains starting in freshman year. And I’d tried. It wasn’t my fault that I got kicked off the girls’ volleyball team after one day. (Apparently, being able to serve over the net is really, really important.) And it wasn’t like I’d planned to pass out over the frog guts when my mom hooked me up with a volunteer job at her research lab. So by junior year I was seriously lacking in the activities department. I was about to explain myself, until, with a burst of relief, I remembered my stint at Millay’s literary magazine.

"Blank Canvas! I exclaimed, my face flushing in triumph. I joined in September and edited some stories—"

Seems you were a member for only a few months, Ms. Bliss interrupted.

How did she know that? Sometimes I wonder if school guidance counselors have a direct line to the CIA.

The poems sucked, I replied with a sigh. There was this one I had to edit that was called The Scent of My Agony.’ I swear. I think that put me over the edge. That, I recalled, and my unrequited crush on Seamus Higgins, the hot but asshole-ish editor in chief.

Ms. Bliss sighed too. Norah, colleges aren’t going to care about excuses. They want to see commitment and initiative. So, starting this semester, I’d advise you to get busy.

I tensed up, paranoid that the all-knowing Ms. Bliss somehow was aware that I had never gotten busy in that other sense.

Join the yearbook, the school paper, the photography club, she went on, fixing her ice-blue eyes on me. Or start your own club—but with a teacher’s permission, of course. She extended a finger toward my midsection and I drew in a breath, feeling like I was under attack. Just get some extracurriculars under that faux-diamond-studded belt … or you can forget about Vassar.

Ouch. Instinctively, my hands flew to my favorite Urban Outfitters belt as if to shield myself, but it was too late. Ms. Bliss’s remark had hit her target.

I’ll try? I mumbled, unsure what else to say.

Ms. Bliss beamed, as if she hadn’t spent the last few minutes tearing me to shreds. Terrific, she chirped, and wriggled up out of her chair, a sign that I was to follow. She scribbled a date in May on a Post-it and handed it to me. Best of luck to you, dear. Let’s meet again at the end of the year to reassess.

I nodded and dragged myself out the door, fighting down the lump in my throat. The halls were empty of students now, but the cupids and balloons still floated forlornly around.

Oh, and Norah? Ms. Bliss called out from behind me. Happy Valentines Day.

The weather outside matched my mood. Sideways sleet hammered down from an angry gray sky, and Christopher Street was slick with ice. Yanking on my hood and jamming my hands into the pockets of my denim jacket, I tried to forget my Bliss-induced misery and concentrate on making my way to West 4th Street. A block ahead of me, Plum Anderson, the girl in my grade with the shiniest hair (extracurricular activities: shopping and sex) skidded in her furry mukluks and did the crazed I-don’t-want-to-fall dance that everyone—even Plum Anderson—looks ridiculous doing. That cheered me up a little.

Millay is in New York City’s Greenwich Village, which is home to lots of girls Audre and I like to call Plums—model-skinny types who chain-smoke and hide under tweed newsboy caps and oversized shades as if they’re actual celebs. I feel lucky to live outside Manhattan, in the mellow, funky neighborhood of Park Slope, Brooklyn, where there is a very nice absence of Plums. Every afternoon, I catch the F train at the West 4th subway station and ride it all the way downtown, under the Manhattan Bridge, and into Brooklyn. The whole trip takes about half an hour, but the time goes quickly if I’m gossiping with Audre or reading a good book. And it’s worth it. I love Park Slope; even though it’s an urban neighborhood, its indie bookstores, boutiques, and cafés give it a small-town vibe.

That afternoon, I was more eager than ever to swipe my MetroCard, hurry down to the platform, and board the cramped train. As we bounced and swerved along the track, I gazed at the ads lining the car, wondering if any might give me an idea for my missing extracurricular activity. Most of them were for roach motels or aftershave—not that inspiring. Then I noticed the couple standing under the roach motel ad. They looked around my age, or maybe seventeen. The boy had spiky black hair and was bending down to kiss his scarlet-haired, punkette girlfriend. She was standing on her tiptoes, arms wrapped around his neck. From her left hand swung a paper cone of bright red tulips. Great. Even on the subway I couldn’t avoid Valentine’s Day.

Get a room, I said under my breath, but I kept watching them. She must have been thanking him for the flowers. Maybe they were going out for a candlelit dinner later. Now his hands were in her hair as their kiss deepened. I was so focused on the couple that I gave a start when the train pulled into my station. Whatever, I thought, turning away. That kind of stuff doesn’t get to me. Like I said, I’m not a hopeless romantic. Not at all.

When I got to the Book Nook, I spotted Audre sitting on a plump sofa in the back, pretending to knit a scarf. What she was really doing, of course, was checking out Griffin McCarthy, the hottie who works at the register.

Audre and I are obsessed with the Book Nook, and not only because of Griffin. It’s this adorable bookstore that’s right between our houses. The air smells of fresh coffee beans and the best music is always playing in the background. Today, the Pixies were serenading us. In the front of the store, where I was wringing the rain out of my low ponytail, are rows of shelves spilling over with a crazy mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. The owner’s inkblack cats, who are all named after famous authors, roam around on the bright orange-and-blue rugs. In the back is a small café full of squishy chairs and couches where people sip vanilla cappuccinos and click away on their laptops. Actual writers hang there; I always hoped I would run into Philippa Askance, this Brooklyn punk poetess I worship, but I hadn’t yet.

You survived, Audre said as I plopped down beside her. She moved her knitting needles and tangle of yellow yarn aside, then pecked my cheek.

You changed, I said, gesturing to her outfit.

To school that day, Audre had worn skinny cords, a purple cowl-neck, and her leopard-print flats. Now she was wearing an off-the-shoulder striped shirt and denim mini over fishnets and fuzzy boots. Her hair was pulled back in a curly dark pouf, big gold hoops dangled from her ears, and the shimmery blush on her cheekbones turned her cocoa-colored skin all glowy. It was obvious she’d made the special effort for Griffin. He doesn’t work at the Book Nook every afternoon, but Audre has his schedule tacked up on the wall in her bedroom so she knows when shell see him.

I’m serious.

What’s your point? Audre grinned as she ran her pinkie over her full, glossy bottom lip.

"That you did not come here to knit, I teased. Have you talked to him yet? I turned to look at the register, where I’d seen Griffin a second before. Another guy was now in his place, so I glanced toward the coffee counter, where a tattooed girl was tending to some customers. Hey, Aud, where’d your loverboy go—"

Norah, Audre. What’s up? There was no mistaking that deep, slow-as-honey voice. I looked behind me, feeling my cheeks redden. There stood the loverboy in question, holding two steaming mugs and smiling at us from under his mop of shaggy golden hair.

Griffin! Audre and I exclaimed at the same instant, then looked at each other and burst into giggles.

Hello, mortification. My name is Norah. Perhaps we’ve met before?

Griffin didn’t seem to notice our girly reaction. He simply set the mugs on the table in front of us and stretched his six-foot surfer’s frame into