The Truth About Books and Boys

prologue

A/N: I needed to get back to my roots. Just a simple teen fiction story written with big words and stuff. Hope y'all like it. 

The Truth About Books and Boys

Sophie Anna

prologue

His name was Thomas Miller, but everybody called him Tommy. A lot of people at my school had names like that—long and proper and needful of a nickname. Tommy was a year older than me. He was a sophomore when I was a friendless freshman. Well, I wasn’t exactly friendless, but in comparison to a guy like Tommy, I might as well have been. Tommy was popular. He knew practically the entire campus, and they knew him, too. I had seen him around a few times, but because we were in different grades, we rarely interacted. Though, sometimes on the weekends I would see him on the quads, playing soccer or lacrosse with his friends. Considering his popularity status, he was obviously a looker, but with a name like Tommy Miller, how couldn’t he be? Essentially, as just a sophomore, Tommy had managed to single-handedly win over the entire school. And then there was me.

I was a freshman. I was quiet. I had about three friends, and we were only friends by default. We were all in similar classes and sat towards the front of the room. We weren’t the girls in class who challenged the teachers or claimed to know everything. We just liked to learn. So because of this commonality, we figured that being friends couldn’t be the worst thing on the planet, so settled for each other. It was better than the alternative of having no one at all. Besides, these girls weren’t mean or bitchy or snobby like the majority of other girls here. They were just kind of wallpaper quiet, like me, which was why our friendship worked. We weren’t looking for adventure like some of the other kids—we just wanted to learn and make it out of high school alive.

There were four of us: Felicity, Hadley, Nancy, and me—Emily. We should’ve been called the “Y Clique,” because all of our names ended with Y. There weren’t that many similarities between us, but there also weren’t a ton of differences, either. The common thread that kept us together was that we were all quiet and liked to learn. Lunches with the girls were practically torture, because they either consisted of discussing that day’s assignments or absolute silence. There was no in between. I would’ve much rather hidden under a big oak tree and read a book while I wasted away my lunch hour, but in order to survive high school, society dictated that I needed friends (no matter how boring or low on the social hierarchy they/we were), so I sat with the girls every day at lunch.

None of us were roommates, which was good and bad. If I had lived with any of them, that would’ve been really awful, because two school-obsessed introverts sharing a room just sounded like a bad idea to me. Though, in place of one of the girls, I was stuck with one of the many princesses of my school that called her parents the minute the tip of her pencil broke or she stepped on dirt. Her name was Thalia Thornton, which I thought was both beautiful and a bit of a tongue twister. It was a shame that Thalia’s name didn’t really reflect her. Well, maybe it did.

On the outside, Thalia was gorgeous. Anyone could see it. But on the inside, she was one of the nastiest people I had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Thankfully, I was under her radar, even though we lived together. She would occasionally ask me for help with homework or complain about my wardrobe, but for the most part, she ignored me. And I was fine with that. I was happy to be on Thalia’s good and blind side, rather than right in front of her face and on her bad side. I had seen how Thalia acted around people who she didn’t like—and I did not want to become one of those people.

Despite all of Thalia’s faults, she was what people at my school considered to be “popular,” because she had money, looks, and a mean streak. Tommy wasn’t mean. At least, that was what I had initially thought. He always seemed nice, saying hi to people in the hallways and on the lawns. Sometimes I wished that I was as outgoing as Tommy, but I knew the consequences that came with being an extrovert, so I stuck to the shadows.

I stuck there so well that most people in my grade didn’t know who I was. To them, I was just a girl that might have been in their English class—or maybe it was History? I was fine not being a Thalia Thornton, because that meant that I had more time to focus on school, which was why I was there. My parents didn’t send me off to an expensive boarding school so that I could make lifelong friends (okay, so maybe they did—my social life back home was pretty pathetic, even in comparison to at school). They sent me so that I could learn and study and hopefully get into a top college, ensuring myself a good future. So during freshman year, I tried my hardest to stay on track and not get mixed up in anything. But then one afternoon when I was heading to the library, I tripped on a soccer ball—Tommy Miller’s soccer ball, to be precise.

After I tripped, everything happened so fast. My butt went plummeting down to the ground and I wasn’t really sure what was occurring. Then I felt a hand on my hand, pulling me up as someone asked if I was okay. It was Tommy. I told (well, more like stammered out to) him that I was fine. He said that he didn’t think we had met before (that was because we hadn’t), so he asked what my name was. My cheeks blushed as I introduced myself, and then he said, “Emily Albert, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I made up some excuse about having to go, but after that interaction I knew that I was no longer entirely under the radar. Tommy Miller and I had had a conversation, and while he may not have been able to pick my face out of a lineup, I was pretty sure that my invisibility cloak had been lifted.

And I was right. About a week after the soccer ball incident, I ran into Tommy again. Literally. He was texting and I was reading, and then BAM! We collided. He smiled at me and said, “Hello, Emily Albert. How are you?”

“Good,” I gulped, “and you?”

“I’m doing well,” he nodded amiably. “Can I ask you something?”

I said, “Uh, sure.”

So then he asked me: “Now, I know this is a little random, but can I kiss you? You just look really beautiful today, and I’m in the mood to kiss a beautiful girl.” As I would later learn, not all guys were as direct as Tommy Miller. Will Brooks was, but he, along with Tommy, was an anomaly.

We were both outside on a nice autumn day, and the trees around us were rusting and losing their leaves. The sky was clear and there was a breeze, but nothing that a light sweater couldn’t fix. And Tommy Miller had just asked to kiss me. Out of the blue. Which confused me, because I was a nobody and he was a somebody. I also wasn’t the prettiest girl in the world (and that wasn’t just insecurity talking—I had mirrors, so I knew that I was nothing special), and on a campus with girls like Thalia Thornton, it didn’t make any sense as to why Tommy was asking me this question. But he was. And because I was too afraid to say anything else, I mindlessly stuttered out, “Uh, s—sure.”

Tommy then gently leaned in closer to me and placed his lips on my lips. It was my first kiss. I didn’t know what I was doing and since we were in public, I felt a little uncomfortable. So I pulled away from Tommy right as he seemed to get into it, and I apologized.

“It’s fine,” he assured me, even though it wasn’t. He smiled at me and said, “I guess I’ll see you around, Emily Albert.” That was a lie, though. He wouldn’t see me around.

I never talked to Tommy after that kiss, and he never talked to me. People talked about that kiss, because some idiot with a smartphone had captured the moment, but after that whole debacle (Thalia demanded to know how I, of all people, had “landed” Tommy Miller), not a word was mentioned. Tommy didn’t even acknowledge me when we passed by on the quads. All that was left was a chilled breeze and awkwardness (mainly from my end, because Tommy couldn’t be awkward, even if he tried), stemmed from unresolved issues from an act that occurred before the foundations to an association could even be built. Tommy should’ve talked to me after he stole my kissing chastity. But he didn’t, and because he didn’t, I was able to come to the accurate conclusion that boys sucked—a lot—and that I needed to stick to books. Which, for the most part, I did. Until of course, I met Oliver Dobson. And to think, it all started because of a book…