The Literary Misadventures of Juniper Rosewood

4- The One with the Most Love

When my mother crashed into the room, she found Dalton and I standing at least three feet apart and contemplating the bookshelf with equally focused expressions. She stared at us blankly, and, without saying anything, left the door wide open and retreated downstairs. As soon as she had done so, Dalton and I immediately burst into fits of laughter. He doubled over and had to lean on one of my bookshelves for support.

"Her face... I can't," He wheezed.

It didn't take too long for our laughter to subside, and we turned our attention back to the bookshelves.

"Wow, you have almost as many books as I do," He remarked. I gaped at him. The wall we were currently staring at had four overflowing bookcases leant up against it, and a further three wall-mounted shelves stacked haphazardly with yet more books. My collection was higgledy-piggledy and disorganized as ever, with books spilling from the shelves and onto the floor.

"You have more books than this?" I asked incredulously.

"Our house has a library of sorts," He said, but he was not bragging. If anything, judging by the small smile that was curling upwards from the corner of his mouth, there was something he wasn't telling me.

"Wow. I'll have to come check it out sometime."

"Yeah," He said, his voice clouded with an emotion I didn't quite recognise. Irony, perhaps, if that could be called an emotion. He didn't sound sure.

We stared at the books for a while longer, neither of us saying anything. Dalton was much more studious than I had originally anticipated. He ran his long fingers down the spines of a few well-worn books, flipping them over and perusing the blurbs.

"These pages have a lot of love in them too," He said quietly. I scoffed at him.

"You made fun of me for that."

"Before I realised that you were actually right," He shrugged, as if an entirely new version of Dalton hadn't just sauntered into my head, a Dalton who could actually admit his mistakes.

"You aren't at all like I thought you would be," I said.

"Good," He said, his eyebrows furrowing as he found the shoddiest, most loved book on the shelf he was perusing. "What about this one," He said, holding up the fragile bindings of my copy of The Picture of Dorian Grey.

"If you'd like," I said.

"I want the one with the most love in it. That way I know it's you who's in there," He said. Had I any less sense, I might have swooned as he said that. He didn't seem to notice though, as he slipped The Picture of Dorian Grey back onto the shelf and went in search of another.

"Maybe you should be a poet," I said, but he didn't hear me. His brow was still furrowed with concentration, subtle lines eating away at his confident and charming façade. He stepped back and looked at me expectantly.

"Which one has the most love in it?" He asked.

I retrieved my desk chair from the other side of the room and pulled it towards the highest shelf. I then stood on it, searching the shelves for the book I now knew he had to read. He had surprised me in his poetry and his gentility, and despite my initial misgivings, it seemed to me like he could be trusted. At least with something as trivial as a book, anyway. The Penguin English Library edition of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott found its way into my hands, and I handed it down to him from the chair. He turned it over and read the blurb with a small smile on his face, once again cracking the smooth, porcelain veneer of his face. I got down from the chair.

"This... This will do nicely," He said, as he thumbed the broken spine. He checked his watch. "I have to go," He said.

We headed back downstairs so that he could retrieve his bag and jacket. He waved goodbye to my mother and headed outside. Just before he left, he turned to me, gesturing at the book in my hand.

"If you really want to pretend to know me, read the notes in the margins," He said.

"Will do," I replied with a small smile, and turned back inside.

"Goodnight, Rosewood"

The door clicked shut behind me, and I headed into the living room, where my mother still sat with a book in her hand. She looked up at me and smiled briefly, before returning to the story.

"When is dad getting home?" I asked.

"Not until later tonight," She said, "So if you want dinner you'll have to make it yourself, I'm afraid."

"That's fine."

My mother was purposefully skirting around Dalton as a topic of conversation, and I wasn't quite sure why. I went back into the kitchen, laid his book on the table, and cleared away the mugs that we had left there, lost in vague thought. He had been a little different this evening than he had been in school. Maybe because my mother was watching, or because his friends weren't. Either way, I knew I'd have my work cut out for me trying to get to know him in a week. I wasn't sure how to go about writing this essay at all.

After I had tidied up, I went upstairs to my bedroom, clutching the book between my fingers. It was silly really, since I had my own copy, but I knew that if I read my copy, I could only feel my own thoughts about the book. The point of the project was to feel his, so that I could write about them, which meant I needed his copy, with all of his thoughts and all of his love between the pages. Then I realized why all of my friends considered me excessively emotional.

I picked up my phone and saw about three messages from Circe, who was anxious to know how the evening had panned out. I also had a message from Emma asking if I knew of any good books she could give to Rashid since she wasn't much of a reader. I answered all of them, and then looked at the clock. Finding that it was almost ten o'clock, I decided I might as well go to bed, and I did just that. I barely registered when my father stuck his head around the door to whisper an affectionate goodnight, nor did I register when Barley, our cat, came and curled up by my legs.

༓࿇༓

It was at breakfast the next morning when the questions started.

"Your mother tells me you had a boy over yesterday," My father said over his morning toast and coffee. I stared into my cereal.

"Yes. We were working on a project for English," I said.

"I thought you already had a boyfriend," He said.

"Who?" I asked.

"That smart boy, what's his name, with the dark hair." I rolled my eyes.

"Preston is not my boyfriend, dad. There is a very large difference between a boy who is a friend and a boyfriend. And besides, Dalton isn't my boyfriend either. We're just working on a project."

"He seems quite nice, if a little obnoxious," my mother said from her seat opposite my father.

"Well it doesn't much matter, because after the next few weeks I'll probably never speak to him again," I said truthfully.

"We're just looking out for you, kiddo," My dad said, "Trying to be invested in your life and whatnot."

"It may be easier to be invested in my life if you would actually listen to what I was telling you," I huffed. I hadn't planned on becoming annoyed at my parents that morning, but sometimes it was unavoidable. My father sipped his coffee and looked at my mother. I checked my watch.

"I've got to get going," I said, "I'll see you both later."

"We won't be home when you get back from school, I'm taking your mother to an appointment," My dad said. I looked up, feeling a little guilty as I slung my school bag over my shoulder.

"Oh. I hope it goes okay," I said, standing awkwardly for a moment, "I love you both," I added, before hurrying out of the door.

As soon as I left, Emma pulled up to my driveway, the radio blasting some rock song. She turned it down a little as I approached.

"I figured you could use a ride," She said.

"Thanks," I said, sliding into the passenger's seat. We drove to school in comfortable silence, which wasn't unusual with Emma. She didn't often say much if it wasn't worth saying, a quality that I admired. She was quietly creative, a talented photographer who excelled at capturing the beauty of every moment, perhaps even the one we drove into as we pulled up outside the school.

Dalton seemed to have got himself into a fight.