Free The Girl Who Invented Romance by Caroline B. Cooney

think she did know. It was just unbearable to contemplate—being rejected. Both she and Parker were walking wounded. Parker bled internally and never talked, but Faith talked endlessly. I never told her about Will. There was nothing to tell. And yet my emotions were incredibly strong and totally private.
    In sociology, Wendy was her usual bubbly self.
    “How could she go out with Park for three months,” I whispered to Faith, “and it doesn’t show? There’s nothing left of it?”
    “It’s as if they wrote that love in the sand at low tide,” said Faith, “and the waves wiped it away, leaving no record.”
    Wendy continued to write her soap operas. They continued to be funny. Whatever happened to Octavia was not announced over the public-address system. School jokes about possible endings were told for days, however, and Wendy thrived on the attention. She wrote her dialogue exclusively during sociology now, passing the scripts over to Jeep for his approval. Jeep always told her that that day’s soap was the best ever.
    At home, the game of romance now included history.
    “For God’s sake, Violet!” shouted my father one night at dinner. “It’s nothing but a meal. Three hundred people having overcooked roast beef or underdone salmon and telling each other we don’t look any different. That’s all the reunion will be.”
    “I understand, George. I understand perfectly.”
    “Good. Ellen is in the past, that’s all. We’ll have this one dinner the following night with her husband what’s-his-name and that’s it.”
    My mother stared into her water glass and whirled it until the ice cubes tinkled against each other.
    “Ellen was always a very kind and understanding person,” said my father.
    “Oh? Am I going to require extra kindness and understanding?”
    “Violet! Ellen will be an excellent hostess. You’ll love her.”
    “You mean you’ll love her.”
    “I do not love Ellen.”
    “Then why do you keep bringing her up?”
    A week of this and we were all ready to shoot somebody. It was just that nobody could agree who deserved to be shot. Ellen for existing? Mom for overreacting? Dad for losing his temper and stomping off?
    “See what I mean?” Parker said to me. “See how ridiculous this is? Mom is weak. Dad is dumb.”
    “That’s not true,” I said, although it appeared to be.
    “I don’t know what Mom thinks is going to happen,” muttered Park. “Does she think old Ellen is going to snatch Dad away from her? That Ellen will divorce what’s-his-name and Dad will divorce Mom?”
    It terrified me. “I suppose that could happen.” If it did, I would definitely find that counselor. Forget my intimacy quotient. I would never survive my parents’ divorce.
    “It could not happen,” said Parker sharply.
    “You had faith in Wendy and look what happened when the competition showed up.”
    Parker did not argue. He just faded. The lines in his face deepened until he could have been Dad’s age.
    “What did happen, anyway?” I asked. I hated not knowing. Not only did it mean I couldn’t answer when the entireschool asked me about Park and Wendy, it meant I couldn’t help Park either.
    My brother’s answer was the last I could ever have expected.
    “I yelled at her for mocking you,” he told me.
    “But—but you were so worried about
her
when we sat in the kitchen with Mom. You didn’t say one word about her using me.”
    “I didn’t know then. She told me later when we went out. She said she found your quiz in the magazine and saw your score written in the margin and decided to use it.”
    “You defended me?” I said slowly. I thought, His love life ended because he was his usual nice self. And about his dumb little sister who’s always a pain when he has a chance to use the car.
    “She picked a fight. It was like she wanted a fight so she could storm off and go back to Jeep. I felt like we were following one of her scripts. She was laughing at you. She said you were a—”