He snorts at this. But I can’t deny he seems to be feeling much better. His complexion has gone from ashen back to his regular shade of pale. Debating books in a library—this is our natural state, perhaps.
“So like. This crush,” he continues. “Did you write poems about me? Did you doodle my name in your notebook with a heart on the i? Or—oh! Did you imagine me as the hero of a romance novel? Please say yes. Please say I was a cowboy.”
“It sounds like you’re feeling a lot better.” I stretch out my legs, eager to get moving again.
He glances down at his arms. “I didn’t even realize—am I exposing too much skin? I don’t want to be parading myself in front of you, taunting you with what you can’t have. I have a hoodie in my backpack. I can put it on if you’re—”
“You’re definitely better. We’re leaving.”
* * *
My mom calls when we get to the main floor of the library.
“We made it!” she announces. Her phone’s on speaker, and my dad is cheering in the background. “The book is done!”
“Congratulations!” I motion for Neil to follow me around the corner so we won’t disturb anyone. “Is it going to come out the same time as the next Excavated book?”
“A few months before. Next summer.”
“And most importantly, is this going to be the one that finally gets made into a movie?”
“Ha ha,” she says dryly. She and my dad are still salty about the Riley movie getting stalled years ago. “We’ll see about that.”
“How was your last day, Ro-Ro?” my dad asks. “Did you make valedictorian?”
His words peel the Band-Aid off the wound. “No,” I say, glancing at Neil. “I’m salutatorian.”
“That’s great. Congratulations!” my mom says. “Where are you? It’s almost sundown. Are you coming home for Shabbat dinner?”
Neil is watching me with an odd expression. “I don’t know if I can. We’re—I’m in the middle of Howl. Is the power still out?”
“Unfortunately. But we can do takeout from your favorite Italian place. It’ll take an hour. Please. Your last Shabbat dinner of high school?”
This is what gets me. Plus, Neil and I are solidly in the lead, and it would be a chance to change my clothes. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
When I end the call and the background photo of Kirby, Mara, and me reappears, my stomach twists. I switch off the screen to find McNair gaping at me.
“Your parents,” he says, his tone full of reverence, “are Jared Roth and Ilana García Roth.”
“Yeah…?”
“I read their books. All of them. I was obsessed.”
Now it’s my turn to gape back at him. This happens on occasion, sure, but I never suspected Neil McNair was a fan of my parents’ books.
“Which book is your favorite?” I ask, testing him.
He responds without missing a beat. “The Excavated series, hands down.”
“Riley’s pretty great,” I agree. I used to dress up as her for my parents’ events, in her red cardigan and trademark pterodactyl stockings they had custom made, my hair in two messy little buns.
Neil gets nostalgic. “The one where she had her bat mitzvah, and her abuela and abuelo visited from Mexico City and learned all about Jewish traditions… Artoo, I bawled.”
“Number twelve, Mi Maravillosa Bat Mitzvah?” It was based on my own bat mitzvah, although it wasn’t quite the ideal exchange of cultures presented in the book. Rather, my mom’s family from Mexico was convinced that my dad’s family was avoiding them, and my dad’s family complained about the food and that they hadn’t been able to hear the rabbi. I wished, not for the first time, that I knew more Spanish, even as I read the Hebrew.
“Yes. I read that one all the time.” He says it in present tense.
“Wait. You still read them?”
Pink spots appear on his cheeks. “Maybe.”
If we’d been closer to friends than rivals, I wonder if he’d have told me this sooner. All this time, he’s only been half the lit snob I thought he was. It’s unnerving, realizing how much I have in common with someone I spent so much time plotting to destroy.
“I’m not judging. I’m just surprised. Why haven’t you been to any of their signings?”
“I didn’t want to be the creepy guy in the back who’s clearly too old for the books.”
“You’re never too anything for books,” I say. “We like what we like. My parents have plenty of adult fans, and yet they hate romance novels.”
The pink on his cheeks deepens. “Once again, I’m sorry. Your parents really don’t approve of what you read? Shouldn’t they be, I don’t know, glad that you’re reading at all?”
“That’s never been an issue with me,” I say. “Children’s books, those are fine, but romance novels?” If they knew about Delilah’s book signing, they’d shake their heads and purse their lips and I’d know, before they even said anything, that they were judging not just me but Delilah and her fans. “I’ve sort of started hiding my books from them. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“My mom likes them,” Neil offers. “If that helps at all.”
“I hope you don’t ever give her shit for them.”
He grimaces. “Not anymore.”
I slip my phone back into my pocket. “I have to go home for Shabbat dinner,” I explain. “It’s the Jewish Sabbath. We’re not, like, the best Jews, but we try to have Shabbat dinner every Friday, and—”
“I know what Shabbat is,” he says, and points to himself. “Also Jewish.”
“Wait. What?”
How has he blown my mind twice in the span of a single minute?
“I’m Jewish. My mom is Jewish, and I was raised Jewish.”
“Where do you go to temple?” I ask, still unconvinced.
“I had my bar mitzvah at Temple Beth Am. ‘Vezot Hab’rachah’ was my Torah portion.”
“I go to Temple De Hirsch Sinai,” I say. That’s the only other Reform synagogue in Seattle. In our city of nearly eight hundred thousand people, we get two. Within three blocks of my house, there are five churches.
I examine him, as though looking for some obvious Jewishness I missed. Of course, there isn’t any—just his objectively cute face. I usually have this instant connection with other Jews. It’s happened my entire life, despite how few Jews I know.
Neil McNair is Jewish, and there’s that tug in my chest, the one I feel when I learn I share a religion with someone.
“Faulty Jewdar?” he asks.
“Guess so. It’s the last name, too.”
He makes an odd face. “My dad’s. I was planning to change it when I turned eighteen. My mom’s maiden name is Perlman. But then I… didn’t.” His voice falls flat.
“Oh,” I say, sensing some awkwardness there but unsure how to deal with it. “So… I do have to go home for this.” But it doesn’t feel right to split up yet, not when an entire army of seniors is out there plotting our demise.