Aria squeezed her eyes closed. You’re not thinking about it, she thought. She poured some grapefruit juice into a glass. “Ella?” she asked. “I need some love advice.”
“Love advice?” her mother teased, securing her jet-black bun with a take-out chopstick that had been lying on the table.
“Yeah,” Aria said. “I like this guy, but he’s kind of…unattainable. I’m out of ideas on how to convince him he should like me.”
“Be yourself!” Ella said.
Aria groaned. “I’ve tried that.”
“Go out with an attainable boy, then!”
Aria rolled her eyes. “Are you going to help or not?”
“Ooh, someone’s sensitive!” Ella smiled, then snapped her fingers. “I just read this study in the paper.” She held up the Times. “It was a survey about what men find most attractive in women. You know what was the number-one thing? Intelligence. Here, let me find it for you….” Sherifled through the paper and handed the page to Aria.
“Aria likes a guy?” Mike swept into the kitchen and grabbed a glazed donut from the box on the island.
“No!” Aria quickly responded.
“Well, someone likes you,” Mike said. “Gross as that is.” He made a barfing sound.
“Who?” Ella asked in an excited voice.
“Noel Kahn,” Mike answered, talking with a huge, chewed-up bite of donut in his mouth. “He asked about you at lacrosse practice.”
“Noel Kahn?” Ella echoed, looking back and forth from Mike to Aria. “Which one is he? Was he here three years ago? Do I know him?”
Aria groaned and rolled her eyes. “He’s nobody.”
“Nobody?” Mike sounded disgusted. “He’s, like, the coolest guy in your grade.”
“Whatever,” Aria said, kissing her mother on the top of her head. She headed to the hallway, staring at the newspaper clipping in her hands. So men liked brains? Well, Icelandic Aria could certainly be brainy.
“Why don’t you like Noel Kahn?” Mike’s voice made Aria jump. He stood a few feet away from Aria with a carton of orange juice in his hand. “He’s the man.”
Aria groaned. “If you like him so much, why don’t you go out with him?”
Mike drank straight from the carton, wiped his mouth, and stared at her. “You’ve been acting freaky. Are you high? Can I have some if you are?”
Aria snorted. In Iceland, Mike had been constantly trying to score drugs and freaked when some guys at the harbor sold him a dime bag of pot. The stuff turned out to be skunky, but Mike proudly smoked it anyway.
Mike started stroking his chin. “I think I know why you’re acting freaky.”
Aria turned back to the closet. “You’re full of crap.”
“You think so?” Mike answered. “I don’t. And you know what? I’m going to find out if my suspicions are true.”
“Good luck, Sherlock.” Aria pulled at her jacket. Even though she knew Mike was probably full of shit, she hoped he hadn’t noticed the quiver in her voice.
As the other kids filed into English—most of the boys sporting a few days’ growth of stubble and most of the girls in copycat Mona-and-Hanna platform sandals and charm bracelets—Aria reviewed her just-scrawled stack of note cards. Today, they had to give an oral report about a play called Waiting for Godot. Aria adored oral reports—she had the perfect, sexy, gravelly voice for them—and she happened to know the play really well. Once, she’d spent a whole Sunday in a Reykjavík bar, vehemently arguing with an Adrien Brody look-alike about its theme…between swilling delicious apple vodka martinis and playing footsie with him under the table, that is. So not only was this an excellent day to become über student, it was also a great opportunity to show everyone how cool Icelandic Aria was.
Ezra strolled in, looking rumpled, bookish, and completely edible, and clapped his hands. “Okay, class,” he said. “We have a lot of stuff to get through today. Quiet down.”
Hanna Marin turned around and smirked at Aria. “What kind of underwear do you think he’s wearing?”
Aria smiled blandly—striped cotton boxers, of course—but snapped her attention back to Ezra.
“All right.” Ezra walked to the chalkboard. “Everyone did the reading, right? Everyone has a report? Who wants to go first?”
Aria’s hand shot up. Ezra nodded at her. She walked to the podium at the front of the room, arranged her black hair around her shoulders so that it looked extra gorgeous, and made sure that her chunky coral necklace wasn’t caught in the collar of her shirt. Quickly, she reread the first few scene-setting sentences on her index cards.
“Last year, I attended a performance of Waiting for Godot in Paris,” she began.
She noticed Ezra raise his eyebrow just the tiniest bit.
“It was a small theater off the Seine, and the air smelled like the cheese brioche baking next door.” She paused. “Picture the scene: a huge line of people waiting to go in, a woman toting her two little white poodles, the Eiffel Tower in the distance.”
She briefly looked up. Everyone seemed so transfixed! “I could feel the energy, the excitement, the passion in the air. And it wasn’t just the beer they were selling to everyone—even my little brother,” she added.
“Nice!” Noel Kahn interjected.
Aria smiled. “The seats were very velvety and purple, and smelled like this type of butter in France that’s sweeter than American butter. It’s what makes the pastries so delicious.”
“Aria,” Ezra said.
“It’s the kind of butter that even makes escargot taste good!”
“Aria!”
Aria stopped. Ezra leaned against the chalkboard with his arms crossed over his Rosewood blazer. “Yes?” She smiled.
“I have to stop you.”