Tandem

ONE

“What are you reading?”

I glanced up from my book to see Grant Davis towering over me. I turned my head, trying to figure out who he was talking to, because it couldn’t be me. Grant Davis hadn’t spoken more than three words to me in the whole time we’d been in school together. But the room was empty except for him and me. I must’ve looked completely baffled; Grant laughed and flopped down into the chair beside mine. This is weird, I thought in passing, but I decided to go with it. How often does the most popular guy in school show up in your favorite bookshop and start talking to you?

Grant Davis was, to put it bluntly, the finest human specimen that had ever come into existence. I’d had a crush on him since I was in the fourth grade and he was in fifth. It burned pretty hot for a while there in late middle school, but over the years it had been reduced to a few smoldering coals. My heart gave a small, involuntary flutter as I took him in out of the corner of my eye. Grant was just my type—tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes the color of new spring grass, strong, perfect features, and thick blond hair that always looked slightly rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. But he wasn’t just handsome; I knew a lot of cute guys I’d never in a million years want to talk to. Grant was also good-natured and charming, beloved by students, teachers, and administrators alike. He always seemed so laid-back and carefree. Even now, he sprawled in his seat, looking relaxed and comfortable, while I sat there tense and nervous, clutching a worn paperback edition of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night like it was the only thing in the world I owned.

“What are you looking for, Sasha?” he asked, with an amused glint in his eye.

“Whoever it is you’re talking to,” I told him, raising my eyebrows.

“I’m talking to you.” He flung his arms outward, gesturing around the room. We were in the reading lounge of 57th Street Books, tucked away deep in the store’s underground, labyrinthine stacks. It was my favorite bookshop in Hyde Park, a quaint old university neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago where I lived with my grandfather. I almost never ran into anyone I knew at the shop, and seeing Grant among the bookshelves was kind of like spotting a polar bear sunning itself on a Malibu beach. “Do you notice anyone else around? I think we might be the only two people here.”

“That’s what I like about this place,” I said. “It’s usually so quiet.”

“Is that a hint?” Grant asked, his tone still playful.

“Maybe.” I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “What are you doing here?” The fact that he had no books in his possession hadn’t escaped my attention.

“Hey.” He affected a hurt tone. “I love to read. Books are my life.”

I shot him a dubious look. “The last time we took an English class together, you tried to turn in a book report on The Matrix.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, grinning. “In my defense, I had it on pretty good authority that The Matrix was based on a book.”

“And whose authority would that be?”

“Johnny Hogan’s,” he admitted reluctantly. I covered my eyes in embarrassment for him.

“Johnny Hogan!” I cried. “Well, then you deserve whatever you got. I don’t think Johnny’s read a book since Hop on Pop.”

His smile faltered a bit, and I realized that he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. “The Dr. Seuss book? Hop on Pop?”

“I know what Hop on Pop is.” Grant rolled his eyes.

“It sure seemed like you didn’t,” I teased.

Grant shrugged and leaned toward me. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. “So, are you going to answer my question? What are you reading?”

I turned the book so that he could get a look at the cover. “Twelfth Night, huh? Never heard of it.”

“It’s for Ms. Dunne’s English class. But I’ve read it before.” Several times, actually. It was one of my favorites. I couldn’t imagine Grant was interested in my schoolwork, but hey, he’d asked.

“What’s it about?” Grant settled back in his chair, as if preparing himself for story time.

“Really?” He nodded. “Well, okay. It’s about this girl, Viola, who gets shipwrecked in a foreign country and has to pretend to be somebody else to keep her identity a secret.” That got his attention; he sat up straighter, and his eyes widened a bit. “But she ends up falling in love with this guy she’s supposed to be working for, and all the while the woman her boss is courting starts falling in love with Viola, who’s disguised as a boy. It’s a comedy.”

“Sure sounds like one.”

“Believe me, it’s very funny. If you like Shakespeare.”

“I’m assuming you do, judging by the state of your copy,” he said. I glanced down at my battered paperback. The pages were curled and yellow, the cover so tattered that it was only connected to the spine by a small tab of paper that seemed liable to rip any second. For some reason, Twelfth Night spoke to me, in the same way that A Wrinkle in Time and Alice in Wonderland had when I was younger. I was a lucky girl; considering the way things could have gone, I’d had a wonderful life so far. But there was always a part of me, even before my parents died, that yearned to be plucked out of my everyday life and thrust into some great adventure. My favorite heroines were girls who suddenly found themselves having to live by their wits in a world they didn’t quite understand. I couldn’t help but envy them; their experiences made them stronger, smarter, better—or, rather, it proved to them that they had been those things all along.

“Absolutely. Twelfth Night is my favorite play of his. Most girls prefer Romeo and Juliet, because they think it’s so romantic.” I fiddled with the charm I wore around my neck, a crescent moon with a little star hanging beneath it. It was a sixteenth birthday present from my grandfather, and playing with it was a nervous habit of mine.

“And you disagree?”

“It’s okay. The poetry is beautiful. But I’ve always thought Romeo and Juliet themselves were sort of silly.” Why was I telling him all this? What did he care about my opinions on fictional characters? But he gazed at me with interest, as if he was hanging on my every word, which was unnerving. The experience of sitting side by side with Grant Davis was more than a little bit surreal, like a pleasant dream in which everything was slightly off- kilter.

“How so?”

“This isn’t exactly an original opinion, but it seems to me that there’s almost always a better way of solving romantic problems than killing yourself,” I told him. He chuckled. I glanced at my watch. “Oh, crap. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’ve got to get home.” I gathered my things and stood. Grant rose as well.

“It was nice … chatting with you, Grant,” I said, unsure of how best to leave things. Had he come over to talk to me for a reason, or was he just killing time? And what was he doing in 57th Street Books, anyway? I was pretty sure he hadn’t come to browse.

“Let me walk you,” he offered.

“That’s okay,” I said, suddenly shy. The heat of a blush rose up in my cheeks. “You don’t have to.” Part of me was desperate to stay and keep talking to him. I was curious, and I could feel that old crush I’d nursed through junior high starting to rekindle. But another part of me wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. Talking and joking with Grant while nobody else was around was one thing, but Grant was one of the most popular kids in school, and I was … not. It was hard to imagine spending time with him out in the world, as if we were friends.

“I insist,” he said, taking the bag from my hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go. I don’t want you to be late.”

It was almost six o’clock, but it was early May and the light outside was still bright enough that I had to shield my eyes as we emerged from the dim cave of the bookshop. We started down Fifty-Seventh Street, then took a left on South Kenwood and passed through Bixler Park in awkward silence. I knew Hyde Park like the back