The Girl Who Invented Romance Read online

  Praise for The Girl Who Invented Romance

  An ALA Quick Pick

  “Cooney writes with such clarity of her characters’ entanglements that she brings fresh perspective to the game.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Cooney has a gift for humor; Kelly and her friends are likable, and readers will easily identify with them.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cooney excels at conveying the not-knowingness of both one’s own and other people’s heartaches.”

  —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Well-written, funny yet thought-provoking, this novel has fully developed characters and a clever plot.”

  —Voice of Youth Advocates

  Novels by Caroline B. Cooney

  The Lost Songs

  Three Black Swans

  They Never Came Back

  If the Witness Lied

  Diamonds in the Shadow

  A Friend at Midnight

  Hit the Road

  Code Orange

  The Girl Who Invented Romance

  Family Reunion

  Goddess of Yesterday

  The Ransom of Mercy Carter

  Tune In Anytime

  Burning Up

  What Child Is This?

  Driver’s Ed

  Twenty Pageants Later

  Among Friends

  The Time Travelers, Volumes I and II

  The Janie Books

  The Face on the Milk Carton

  Whatever Happened to Janie?

  The Voice on the Radio

  What Janie Found

  What Janie Saw (an ebook original short story)

  Janie Face to Face

  The Time Travel Quartet

  Both Sides of Time

  Out of Time

  Prisoner of Time

  For All Time

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1988 by Caroline B. Cooney

  Cover illustration copyright © 2005 by Jackie Parsons

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, New York, in 1988.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the trade paperback edition of this work as follows:

  Cooney, Caroline B.

  The girl who invented romance.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While waiting for her first big romance and observing the sometimes rocky love affairs of her parents and brother, sixteen-year-old Kelly develops a board game called Romance.

  [1. Love—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C7834 Gi 1988

  [Fic]—dc22

  87037436

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81885-0

  First Delacorte Ebook Edition 2012

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Beverly, who made the game better

  and for Sayre, who named them Flops and Swaps

  and with thanks to Phill Marth, art teacher

  at Westbrook High School

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  1

  I was filling out a magazine quiz to see if my marriage was stable.

  “You’re sixteen, Kelly,” said my best friend. “You don’t have a boyfriend, let alone an unstable marriage.”

  “That just makes it more challenging. I have to dream up a husband, work my way through five years of marriage, and analyze our relationship.”

  We sprawled on the blue denim bedspread in my room while I finished the quiz. “I got a seventy-three, Faith,” I told her.

  “What does seventy-three mean?”

  I flipped pages. “It means my husband and I are not yet verging on divorce, but we should be aware that we have serious marital difficulties that are going to pose major problems if we don’t face them right now.”

  I dropped the magazine on the floor and lowered my face right into the bedspread. I’ve been trying to destroy this denim since the day I bought it, so I can have something fragile and pretty instead. But nothing can damage a denim coverlet. Not dirty shoes, spilled perfume, pizza topping or aerobic exercises.

  “It makes me sad,” said Faith. “You haven’t even met this guy yet, and already your marriage is in trouble.”

  The magazine had fallen open to a home-decorating page. Here was a bedroom for dreams: open and airy, in soft pale colors, no junk around (like my hair dryer, books, makeup, souvenirs, sweaters that don’t fit, sweaters that do fit, homework, new laptop). The magazine model was also soft and pale, but you knew that lined up outside her door were dozens of men yearning for her. She just had that confident look.

  “That confident look,” said Faith, “is because she’s getting paid so much. She probably doesn’t have a date tonight either, Kelly.”

  “We should have gone to the basketball game,” I said. “Then at least we’d be having fun.”

  “We were at basketball games Tuesday and Thursday,” she said. “How many times a week can a girl watch Will, Scott, Mario, Angie and Jeep?”

  I looked at her.

  “You’re right,” she admitted instantly. “A girl could admire those guys every night of the week.”

  I rolled over. My cheek had a trench line from being pressed against a seam in the denim. If we went to the basketball game now, I’d have to wear a mask. “You know what let’s do?” I said, struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s invent a romance game.”

  “I’m sick of games. I want a real romance.”

  “Maybe one will come out of this. Three of the five starters on our basketball team are in sociology class with us, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And sociology is a totally boring forty-five-minute stretch of time five days a week. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So let’s turn the classroom into a game room. Let’s make up rules and play for boys.”

  “Oh, Kelly,” said Faith, really annoyed with me. “I’m not like Megan or Honey. I can’t glance a boy’s way and have him get all excited and flirty. What do you mean, ‘play for boys’? I’ve been going in and out of crushes since I was twelve and what do I have to show for it? Not a single date. I’ve read every romance book there is, and every article in every magazine from Seventeen to Cosmo, and what do I have junior year? Every weekend free. Don’t let’s talk about playing for boys. I can’t do it, I don’t know how, I’ve given up. Tomorrow I plan to hurl myself down the cellar
stairs anyway.”

  This was Faith’s biggest threat. Her house happens to be a ranch built on a slab. But hey, it sounds impressive.

  “Who’s your crush on this week?” I said. Faith is always in the grip of a crush. The crush seizes her, rules her life and guides her activities. The worst of it is, the boy never notices. I take that back. Once, in ninth grade, the boy noticed. He fled so thoroughly, she never saw him again to keep the crush alive.

  “Angie,” Faith said dreamily.

  That was definitely a dream. Angie—actually Angelo Angelotti—is the beloved star of the Cummington basketball team. All five of our starters are stars, but it’s hard to get excited about, say, the stardom of Will, who is very tall, very bony and so conceited I think he may have spoken to six people in the last year, all of whom were teammates or the coach. It’s also hard to get excited about the stardom of Scott, who is personality-free and has the IQ of a cold day in January.

  That leaves you with Angie, who has such a terrific time playing basketball that you can’t keep your eyes off him (you wouldn’t keep your eyes off him anyway, because he’s so totally cute), and with Jeep—actually George Peters, initials G.P., leads to Jeep—who is centerfold material. Handsome like a soap opera star, with strong memorable features, thick windblown dark hair and soft sad dark eyes.

  I forgot Mario.

  Everybody forgets Mario. I’m sure nobody ever has a crush on him. He scores almost as often as Will, but while Will is very tall, so you can distinguish him from the other players, Mario is just sort of there. This is probably the last time I’ll need to mention Mario.

  If Faith had a crush on Angie, she was standing in line with a lot of other girls, and Angie has never been known to date a girl twice.

  “There are eleven boys in sociology class,” I said to Faith. “There are three basketball stars, right? Will, Jeep and Angie. Right?”

  “Right. And two of the other boys are Stephen and Alan, who both have steady girlfriends. And two are Avery and Kenny, who are both extremely total losers. And—”

  “Be quiet. I’m planning the game. Don’t interrupt.”

  Faith rolled her eyes. She got off the bed, wandered around my room and landed in front of my fingernail polish collection. Last Christmas my two grandmothers, my aunt and the neighbor I babysit for all gave me enormous gift sets of nail polish. I could go into retail right off my dresser. “Can I try the silver decals and the Roseblush Frost?” said Faith.

  “You may have the silver decals and the Roseblush Frost. Here’s how our game will go, Faith. I’ve worked it out in my mind. We’ll walk into sociology class on Monday.”

  “I’m with you. We’re walking into sociology.”

  “And there are eleven boys in the room.”

  “If you count Chuckie, who in my opinion does not qualify as human, never mind being the right gender.”

  “I am counting Chuckie. This is a game of chance. You take risks.”

  “I hate chance. I like skill,” said Faith.

  “If we had any skill, we’d be off somewhere tonight with the boys of our choice.”

  “Good point.” Faith stroked Roseblush Frost onto her left-hand fingernails with precision. Faith’s hands never quiver. Mine do, so my nails have a sticky, confused look. When even your fingernails are confused, you know you’re in trouble. “Okay,” I said. “We each have to pick a boy and we’ll work on him. The selections will be by chance.”

  Faith shuddered. “If chance gives me Chuckie, or Avery, or Kenny, I’m leaving town.”

  “Maybe you’ll get Angie, though.”

  Faith started to tell me about how wonderful Angie was, but I knew that as well as she did, so it was a boring conversation. If she went and had a crush on, say, Kenny, who belongs on zoo-cage-cleanup detail, it would be interesting.

  Sickening. Humiliating. But interesting.

  So I interrupted her. “We’ll figure out some kind of countdown that we cannot know until class begins. Then we’ll do some sort of Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Mo and find out who each of us plays the game with.”

  “But what’s the game?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. Don’t rush me. We creative types need time.”

  “If we’re going to spend that much time,” said Faith, who, when it comes to me, does not have as much faith as I would like, “I’ll get out the Monopoly game, because we’re going to be up till dawn anyway.”

  Faith and I began playing board games with Candy Land when we were really little, and we’ve never abandoned the pleasure of board games. They’re always waiting for you in those rectangular boxes, full of surprises and satisfactions. You know how when you’re in the car, you can talk over anything, whether the driver is your parent or your friend? Cars just help you talk? It’s true of board games. They help you talk.

  Not that I am usually needy in that area.

  Faith finished her right hand and began peeling tiny silver decals and placing them diagonally on her long perfect nails. Faith is very pretty in a sweet, plump way. Plump is an exaggeration. She’s a little thick in the waist. It’s just that I’m so thin, I get carried away by other people’s figures. I’m not thin-attractive, calling to mind words like willowy or slender. I’m thin-scary, so that other people’s mothers are always muttering in undertones, “Does she have anorexia?” “No, Mom, Kelly’s shaped like a pencil. There’s nothing she can do about it.” “She could try eating.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” I told Faith. “We get our boy. Then we have to start down a path, like squares on a Monopoly board, to attract him.”

  “If it’s Angie, I like it. If it’s Kenny, pardon me while I gag.”

  “Just gag over the denim spread, will you? I’m trying to ruin it.”

  “Nothing will ruin it. You will give it in perfect condition to your grandchildren.”

  “Now there’s a happy thought. It implies that I’m going to get married one day, which means I will surely go out with at least one boy.”

  “You won’t be so happy if you draw Kenny.”

  I ignored her. “We’re going to take dice into class. The first number we roll is the vertical seat row. The second number we roll is the seat within that row. That’s the boy we get.”

  “Except what if you roll a girl?” said Faith.

  I had forgotten about girls. There were quite a few in sociology.

  “We’ll come back to that,” said Faith kindly. “Get to the good part. What are the moves?”

  I tapped my palm with a pencil. I always think better with a pencil. It’s a problem in computer class. I have to hold the thinking pencil in my teeth. “Square one,” I said, reflecting on every magazine quiz, self-help article and lovelorn letter I have ever read. Thousands. Possibly millions. And how improved am I? Maybe I should ask for my money back on all those issues. “First move is, you have to smile at him.”

  “I can handle that,” said Faith. “My braces are off and my lip gloss is new.”

  “Square two. Notice him.”

  “You said that very intensely, Kelly. In what way are we supposed to notice him?”

  “Absorb every detail. Be terribly aware. Soak it up.”

  “Why?”

  “Future reference.”

  “Okay,” agreed Faith. “Square two, I’m noticing him. What’s square three?”

  “Talk to him.”

  “In public? If I land on Kenny, I’d rather have anthrax.”

  “Everything has to be in public. That way we develop poise.”

  “I doubt it,” said Faith. “This already sounds like something a ten-year-old would do and we’re sixteen.”

  “You have no faith,” I accused her.

  Faith just looked at me. She detests her name. She feels that F names are frowsy and frumpy and fat. Whereas Jodie or Laurie or Ally (taking the traditional name route) or Swin or Cherith or Zandra (the nontraditional route)—those are names romance can take and run with.

  “Square four,” I said
, “will be sit next to him.”

  Now we were at the tricky part.

  We do not have assigned seats in sociology or anywhere else except study hall, where there are so many of us, they don’t check off by name, but by position on a grid—which leads to a lot of deceit and cover-up—but nevertheless, people tend to sit in the same places every day. Back-row people get tense and anxious if forced to approach the front row, and outer-edge people get very worked up when placed in the middle. People who have to be next to a best friend or die, and people who have to be at a great distance from an enemy or kill—they tolerate no change.

  Sociology class is not full. I think there are nineteen or twenty of us. So there are extra desks but the same ones are always empty. If Faith or I suddenly shifted into one, people would get all confused. And if one of us took somebody else’s seat, that person would get all irritable. And what would the explanation be? “Oh, I’m just in square four; don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Hmmm,” said Faith, regarding seat position.

  “You are willing to do anything for Angie, aren’t you?” I coaxed.

  “Yes, but this is a game of chance. If I get Chuckie or Kenny, the only thing I’m willing to do for them is destroy their photographs so the yearbook editor doesn’t know they exist.”

  It was at this moment that my bedroom door was flung open hard enough for the handle to dent the wall. Megan came in sobbing and my life changed.

  Megan did not come in with that purpose in mind. She came in hoping to change her life. (Actually she wanted to change her boyfriend Jimmy’s life; she wanted him dead, which is as major a change as most of us will ever encounter, but she was pretending she wanted to change her life.)

  “He dumped me,” said Megan dramatically, shaking so hard with sobs that her tears spattered on Faith and on me.

  “Have a seat,” said Faith, patting the bed.

  Megan, Faith and I have shared things forever. That’s the trouble with living in a development. All our parents bought new houses in Fox Meadow when we were babies. There was never a meadow, let alone foxes, but there were supposed to be hundreds of houses. Something went wrong and they built only a few dozen. I’ve known every family in Fox Meadow since nursery school. When I was little, I loved this. If your mother didn’t have any good snacks around, you could wander through Megan’s kitchen or Faith’s kitchen. And if Faith’s mother wouldn’t let her watch a particular television show, there was sure to be room in front of the Smith television, and Mrs. Smith had so many little kids, she never noticed one more or less in front of the tube, and she certainly never cared what they watched.