Now & When - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sara Bennett Wealer grew up in Manhattan, Kansas (the "Little Apple"), where she sang in all the choirs and wrote for the high school newspaper. She majored in voice performance at the University of Kansas before transferring to journalism school and becoming a reporter covering everything from house fires to Hollywood premieres. She now works in marketing and lives in Cincinnati with her husband, two daughters, and a growing menagerie of pets. When she's not writing, you can find her at the ballet, or obsessively watching ballet on YouTube and Instagram.

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@sbennettwealer

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Chapter One

There’s nothing I hate, and nothing Truman Alexander loves, more than the sound of Truman Alexander’s voice. 

“I found the ending solipsistic, manipulative, and metaphorically facile.” 

That’s Truman now, treating sixth period to his opinion of The House of Mirth. And yes, vocab bombs like solipsistic are part of Truman Alexander’s everyday speech. 

“I can understand why some people would be moved by it,” he says, lacing his fingers on top of his desk. He shoots a glance in my direction. “But they’re just playing into the author’s hands. At the end of the day, it’s not very sophisticated.” 

I note the emphasis on that last word at the same time Truman’s eyes dart away, as if to leave just the trace of a doubt in my mind whom he was referring to. He’s both courting and dodging one of our legendary arguments. Because the last time we clashed, I wiped the institutional tile floor of the AP English classroom with him. 

Metaphorically, of course. 

“Lily Bart’s ridiculous pride is what killed her,” Truman continues, his tone growing even more self-important. He’s forgotten yet again that he is in a classroom, and not one of his precious debate tournaments. “She had plenty of opportunities to improve her situation, but she insisted on maintaining a façade of misplaced honor that was, frankly, tiresome.” 

I have to roll my eyes at that one. Because Truman Alexander is the very definition of tiresome. He sits across the aisle in a button-down shirt, freshly pressed shorts, and loafers--a formal island in a sea of sweatshirts and slides--pontificating as he stares with that unblinking gaze that lets everybody know Genius Truman is in the house. We’ve all been listening to Truman since he was a seventh-grade brainiac with a compulsive need to tell everyone exactly what was on his mind. 

High school Truman isn’t much of an improvement. You’d think being Alton High’s master debater would give him all the outlet he needs for listening to himself talk. Instead, it’s rendered him even more in love with the sound of his own voice--a voice that makes my skin crawl. Especially when Truman seems to have completely and, I suspect, willfully missed the point of a book I absolutely loved. 

Rather than give him the satisfaction of knowing I noticed his passive-aggressive digs, I sneak a text under my desk. Jordan and her prom committee cochairs are out scouting locations right now.

Where you at?

Jordan responds with a photo. It’s the courtyard garden from the Blessing mansion where Harper, the third in our trio of best-friends-since-toddlerhood, volunteers every weekend. Harper calls it her “happy place,” and who could argue with that? Sculptures peek from behind shrubberies, and trellises of budding flowers frame an open space that manages to be sprawling and intimate all at once. In the background, an old brick wall supports masses of ivy and the skeletons of what look like climbing roses.

This is THE place. Search over. It’s perfect.

Ten other pics follow, and it’s clear Jordan has embarked on one of her epic party-planning crusades--more than embarked; the boat has left the harbor and is sailing away to Prom Paradise. Looking at that garden, I envy her. Today is the first truly pretty day of spring: crystal-blue sky, warm enough to go without a jacket but chilly in the shade. The world outside the window behind Ms. Laramie’s desk sparkles. Jordan is out there while I am stuck in here, listening to Truman freaking Alexander’s freaking infuriating voice. 

“Furthermore,” he adds, “if Lily hadn’t been so spineless and indecisive, she wouldn’t have made such a mess for herself in the first place.”

“Okay, that’s just wrong,” I blurt out. I told myself I wouldn’t engage Truman today, but he’s managed to pull me in as only Truman can. “First of all, Lily Bart’s mistakes are part of what make her an interesting and realistic character. Second, Lily might be the only truly honest person in the circles within which she has no choice but to sink or swim. Which leads me to my third point, which is that Lily is backed into a corner. She has no other options.” 

“Lily has options left and right,” Truman counters. “She either doesn’t choose, or she chooses the wrong ones.” 

This is rich coming from Truman. His family is one of the wealthiest in Alton. There’s no way he could identify with a well-born but penniless girl who falls prey to the schemes of those whose acceptance she needs to survive. 

“Every option is one that forces her to subvert her true self,” I inform him. 

“Everyone in the book is subverting themselves in one way or another. Do they overdose on chloral hydrate?” 

“Have you ever been a woman without choices?” 

“Have you?” 

I feel my cheeks redden, feel my grip on the discussion start to slide. “I don’t think you’re exactly qualified to talk about this book.” 

“That’s an ad hominem argument. So I win.” 

He sits back smugly, while the heat in my face dissolves into the sensation of a million tiny worms wriggling down my neck and arms. I can’t be the only person who’s repulsed by Truman right now. I look around for confirmation of this, only to see that everyone else in the room is half-asleep. Even Ms. Laramie looks like she’s nodding off on her perch at the edge of her desk. 

The bell rings, jolting them all awake. I snatch up my bag, ready to bolt. But Truman isn’t done arguing. Of course. He decided years ago that I was his extra-superfun intellectual punching bag--the one person who can never be allowed to express an opinion without challenge. It’s probably because I’m the one person who ever challenges him. Everybody else is smarter than me; they let Truman talk in class so they don’t have to deal with him after. 

I put my bag back down on my desk. I rummage around for some lip balm. I take my time unwrapping a piece of gum and putting it into my mouth. I pray Truman will get tired of waiting and leave. 

He remains at his desk. And I can’t hang out here forever. I have to walk by him in order to get out of the room. I gather my things and make a beeline for the door. 

“Skyler.” 

“Truman.” 

I avoid eye contact, leaving no opening for further conversation. The last time we sparred in class he followed me afterward, trying to argue that Jay Gatsby was a tragic figure and not a social-climbing thug. He used words like archetype. He recommended websites I might like to check out for additional reading. He made me want to punch him in the throat. 

I can’t do that today--deal with Truman in general or punch him in the throat specifically. I have to let it go, if for no other reason than that boring to sleep an entire roomful of our classmates is bad karma. I’m not boring. Nor am I anywhere near as hateful as hating Truman makes me seem. If you asked any random person who knows me, they’d say, “Oh, Skyler Finch? She’s cool. Fun. Just your average cool, fun girl.” 

Truman Alexander brings out the worst in me. Of all the reasons to hate him, that is probably the biggest. 

Second biggest? His refusal to take a hint and back off. 

“When...