Free A Novel Idea by Aimee Friedman Page A

this could very well be the best night of my life. Or the worst.
     

Eight
    Trying to stay awake, I slipped a Modest Mouse CD into Audre’s player and turned the volume way up just as Audre bumped into me from behind, almost dropping her tray of mini éclairs.
     
    “Watch it!” she cried over the opening chords of the first track. “You’re supposed to be helping, not ruining everything.”
     
    “Sorry,” I replied, but it came out as a yawn. Then I stepped out of her warpath. Audre turns into a bit of a lunatic when she’s setting up for a party. I watched as she stomped toward the table in her purple satin pumps and added the éclairs to the mouth-watering spread of goodies and drinks. The bottles of wine on the table were courtesy of Langston, who’d bought them for Audre the last time he was home. He’s the best.
     
    “Isn’t Langston just the best?” I heard Audre’s mom, Mrs. Legrand, say. “He reserved us a room at the hotel in New Haven.” She was floating regally down the stairs, and Mr. Legrand was behind her, carrying their bags. They were going to visit Langston at Yale that weekend, conveniently leaving the brownstone to Audre for the party. Needless to say, the Legrands are very cool in this way; my parents would barely understand what a “party” was, let alone let me throw one alone in the house.
     
    The Legrands are only not cool when they’re shooting down Audre’s dreams of her own pastry empire. Which was happening that very moment.
     
    “Honey, this looks lovely, but perhaps you’ve gone overboard,” Mrs. Legrand was saying, hands on her impressive hips as she met Audre at the table. Audre is curvy in a cute/sexy way, but Mrs. Legrand looks as if she may have enjoyed one too many mini éclairs. She swept her chubby, chocolate-colored hand across the living room and sighed dramatically. After school that day, Audre and I had strung white and silver streamers and lit cinnamon-scented candles; the place was absolutely party-ready. “I hope you took some time to finish your homework,” Mrs. Legrand added worriedly.
     
    “Mom, it’s Friday,” Audre grumbled, smoothing out the glittery white tablecloth she’d sewn herself. “I’ll do it on Sunday at midnight, like always.”
     
    Mr. Legrand, who is as short and thin as Mrs. Legrand is, well, grand and imposing, cleared his throat as he walked by Audre with the bags. “That’s not a wise idea, Audre. You know what an important time of year this is. I’m sure Norah is doing all she can to prepare for college.” He turned to beam at me and I blushed. It’s a rule: Parents pretty much always seem to prefer your best friend to you.
     
    I shrugged. “Well, not really,” I mumbled, feeling guilty. It was true that, since starting the book group, I’d felt more inspired to get all my homework done and even— shudder —study a little more. But I still wasn’t exactly a role model for college prep.
     
    After Audre’s parents left, calling over their shoulders that we shouldn’t break anything, Audre stormed back toward the kitchen, fuming.
     
    “Homework,” she muttered to herself. “That’s the last thing on my mind! I have to make sure my pies haven’t burned before the guests arrive.”
     
    I also had other—but different—things on my mind. My book of Shakespeare sonnets—fake love letter included—was sitting on the coffee table, worrying me. While Audrea and I had been decorating that afternoon, I’d spilled the whole Rosamund scheme to my best friend. When I was finished, Audre had put down her streamer, raised one eyebrow, and asked, “You do realize how much can go wrong?”
     
    So now I was worried and dead tired. A tip: When you’re about to go after the boy of your dreams, do not—I repeat, do not—stay up all night. I felt like a zombie and didn’t think I looked much better, even in my favorite green belted dress and cowboy boots.
     
    I was reaching down to pick up the book of