“You’re saying … the number just sprang into your head,” Mr. Kaye says.
“When you do enough practice questions, it’s entirely possible,” Julius says. “And I thought the school wanted to encourage us to learn using the method that best suits us. Thisisthe method that best suits me.”
Mr. Kaye hesitates.
Julius seizes the beat of silence. “Even if you can’t award me thefullmarks, Mr. Kaye, surely I don’t deserve zero marks for getting the correct answer?”
“I suppose your answerwascorrect,” Mr. Kaye allows, and maybe it’s because he can sense that Julius is both willing and able to debate this point until lunchtime and is simply too tired for this, or because Julius has accrued enough credit after completing his challenge questions every week since the start of school, but he picks up Julius’s paper. Considers it for a moment longer, then adds one mark next to the question.
Sadie makes an indignant sound. “What? That’s—”
“Thank yousomuch, Mr. Kaye,” Julius calls after the teacher as he returns to his desk. Now it’s his turn to grin at Sadie. “According to the calculations I just did in my head, that brings my overall percentage up to ninety-seven, which makes it a tie.”
“You can’t be serious,” Sadie grumbles, prodding him in the ribs with her pen, but gently. “You negotiated your way to victory.”
“As many brilliant strategists have done,” Julius says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fair.”
“Yeah, right. Since when did you ever play fair?”
“Since now,” he says sweetly. “How about I plan out the first half of the trip, and you plan out the second? That gives us a whole week of activities each. But if I’m taking the first half, I do think it makes sense for me to decide on the accommodation.”
“I’m just concerned you’re going to book us a deluxe suite in that horribly overpriced five-star hotel,” Sadie says.
“Rest assured that if Iwereto book a deluxe suite, I’d book the honeymoon suite for us,” he tells her. “But you’ll see.”
Sadie prods him one final time, but Julius just laughs, catches the pen in his fingers, and tugs her toward him until she’s only a couple of inches away. She stares up at him, annoyance warring with affection on her face and ultimately losing, color spreading fast through her cheeks. God, he loves sitting next to her. Can’t believe he’s wasted all this time resisting, trying to run away, when she’s the only one he’s ever wanted to run toward. “I hate you,” she grumbles without conviction, her voice soft enough to be a sigh.
He tugs her closer still, taking his time to take her in, his smile widening slowly. “I know you don’t,” he says.
And she doesn’t disagree.
I keep waiting for a Pegasus to appear, but when our Uber pulls into the driveway, there are no statues of mythical creatures in sight. There isn’t even a lobby, just a three-story building with robin-blue walls and wisteria draped over the iron gate, blending in perfectly with the other houses lining the streets.
“Are we … in the right place?” I ask Julius. “Where’s our hotel?”
“There is no hotel,” he says, sliding out of the back seat. He rounds the car from behind, then opens the door for me. “This is where we’ll be staying. I booked us an Airbnb.”
“What?” I hop outside, into the sun, following him as he unloads our luggage from the trunk. Well, it’s mostlymyluggage; he’s somehow managed to condense two weeks of clothing into a single suitcase. Meanwhile, I’ve packed everything from my most trusted, dermatologist-approved brand of shampoo and sunscreen to my emergency supply of fuzzy socks. “But what about that fancy hotel you wanted—”
“I decided against it,” he says with a shrug. “I know it’s expensive, and you’d get all weird and guilty if I offered to pay for it on your behalf. Plus, the hotel was in a famously noisy area, and you’re a super light sleeper.”
I stare at him. Somehow, even though he’s already proven over and over that he can be shockingly sweet and considerate and always thinks of me, he still manages to surprise me. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Very,” he says. “Don’t worry, I get to stay in fancy hotels all the time. I’m not exactly missing out.”
This, I do believe.
The gate rattles open, and we both turn to find a slender woman in her fifties waving enthusiastically over at us. Her hair fans out in wild dark-blonde curls around her heart-shaped face, the woolen scarf around her neck fluttering in the breeze.
“Welcome, welcome,” she calls out to us. Her voice sounds tailor-made for her slight build and fashion sense: high and sweet and kind of airy. “Do you need help with the luggage? Your room is up on the second floor, and I’m afraid it’s a bit steep—”
“No, we’ve got it,” Julius calls back, picking up both my massive suitcases and carrying them up the stairs with ease like they weigh nothing. This is unfortunately devastatingly attractive to me, and I have to give myself a mental shake to stop from gawking as I climb up to join him at the entrance.
“Her name’s Margaret,” Julius murmurs to me. “Says in her bio that she’s an artist.”
“What kind of artist?” I murmur back.
This is what we try to figure out as she shows us inside. The house does look like it was decorated by someone with a trained artistic eye; everything has been carefully selected in matching shades of mahogany and olive and burgundy, stylish in a muted, timeless way. The fireplace has been set with stone owl sculptures and sand-speckled vases, fresh jasmines left inside an empty Firefly Ridge wine bottle. Over the dining table hangs a poster titledFive Surrealistsfrom the Menil Collectionsin the National Gallery of Art, according to the description below.
