Sometimes, I wondered how Emily became so cultured. Her parents own a drugstore. They aren’t the kind of people who know what’s playing on Broadway or what wine goes with what entrée. But I guess I’m not all that much like my parents either, so maybe it’s not that weird.
“I just keep wondering about him,” I said to Emily.
“Who?” she asked, her eyes not moving from the book in front of her.
“Him. Lorenzo Calvetti.”
Emily looked up at me, clearly drawing a blank.
“Lizzie’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, jeez, Hawthorn. Let it go.” She went back to making notes in her neat, cramped cursive.
“He didn’t look special. Just a regular boy. Man, I guess, not boy. The paper said he’s twenty-five. But there was something boyish about him, you know? Anyway, I keep thinking he must be special for Lizzie to be with him.”
Emily looked up again. “I know plenty of guys Lizzie has been with, and there’s not a special one in the bunch.”
“Really? Like who? She dated that Kyle guy through most of high school, didn’t she?”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. This is stupid gossip.”
“People I know? From when we were in high school together?” Then a thought struck. “My brother?”
Emily sighed. “I don’t know, Hawthorn. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t think I ever heard about her and Rush.”
“They were in the same clique. I think he was in love with her. Or in lust with her at least.”
“Look. I’m really trying to get my work done, OK? I don’t care who some girl who used to go to our school might have slept with.”
“I don’t care either. I was just making conversation,” I said.
Emily raised her eyebrows. I decided to busy myself with the stack of books in front of me. I grabbed one about the Ohio canals, which a lot of people have never heard of. I found the section that mentioned the Mills and almost started reading.
“Those guys were special though. The guys like Kyle or even Rush. Not that they’re super interesting or bright, but they’re talented in their own athletic way. They look like models, and everyone loves them.”
“Not me. Or you.”
“But you understand what I mean. Lorenzo Calvetti isn’t like them.”
Emily slammed her book shut, and the people around us turned to stare. That’s how I knew I’d crossed a line. Emily wasn’t one for public displays of emotion.
“Hawthorn, you’re my best friend, and I’m glad you found something to care about so deeply. But I don’t have a parent who teaches at a university. I don’t have guaranteed acceptance into a good school. I work hard to keep my grades above average, and right now, I just want to do my research paper, not talk about Lizzie Lovett.”
I felt my face flush. “You’re right. I should go.”
“You probably should.”
“Will you be able to get a ride home later?”
“It’s fine. Just go.”
“Why can’t we do the research online anyway?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hawthorn.”
I walked out of the library with my shoulders slumped and decided the incident was one more reason to hate Lizzie.
• • •
Both Rush and I were pushing food around on our plates instead of eating. I was doing it because I wasn’t a fan of Indian food. I suspected Rush still had no appetite because he was pouting over Lizzie.
“Then he goes on to argue that putting Clarence on the throne would have actually kept the Plantagenets in power,” my dad was saying.
My mom chuckled like my dad’s student was totally absurd, but I was pretty sure she didn’t actually know or care one way or another. She was probably thinking about her garden.
“So I reminded him Clarence had been off his rocker for years and drowning in Malmsey was a better end than he deserved.”
“Malmsey?” my mom asked, though I was sure my dad had told this story before.
“A type of wine. See, George of Clarence was quite the drinker. So when his brother, King Edward, ordered him executed for treason—”
“My car is making really weird noises.”
“Hawthorn! Your father was talking,” my mom said.
“Sorry. I guess I don’t feel like talking about Edward IV all night.”
Sometimes, I felt like I knew Edward IV better than I knew my dad. I’d heard the story about his brother, George, drowning in a barrel of wine. Just like I’d heard all about their other brother, Richard, the hunchbacked murderer. These were the bedtime stories I grew up with. I didn’t get how my dad could give lectures on medieval history all day and still have energy to talk about it at home.
But maybe he did get bored with it, because instead of being annoyed with me like my mom, he said, “It’s fine, Sparrow. I’m sure there are more interesting things in Hawthorn’s life than dead kings.”
“I doubt it,” Rush muttered.
“Rushford,” my mom said in her warning tone.
My dad tried to keep dinner from going completely downhill, which was a role he took on a lot. “What sound is your car making?”
“It’s sort of roaring, like it’s on the verge of taking flight.”
“It’s an old car,” my mom reminded me. “You knew this was a risk.”