Glasses: Book 1 in the Ace and Monroe Trilogy

By Jennifer C. Weil

She's fifteen, and she hates her name. So, in 1970, Angelica Christine Elgin answers only to "Ace." The acronym suits her because she only does what she believes she will do well. She wants a boyfriend who likes adventure and is savvy and at least as

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human Writes Ink
• Release date: May 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959086031

Book preview

Contents

About Glasses

Dedication

I: 1970: Of Rummage Quests and Kissing

II: Ah, M. W. M.

III: What This May Mean

IV: The Glasses

V: My First Try and Monroe Monroe

VI: Play’s the Thing

VII: Soloman

VIII: The Romance of It

IX: More

X: Pocketsful of Gold

XI: The Further Romance of it All

XII: Victory

XIII: New Horizons

XIV: What Superman Doesn’t Know …

XV: Fall from Glory, or: How Monroe Regained My Undying Affection

XVI: Partners

XVII: Socrates and the Commonplace … Almost

XVIII: Future Shock

XIX: Would You Like to Touch the Stars?

XX: The Big Deal and the Bigger One

XXI: Fame (and Fortune?)

XXII: Sigh Time

XXIII: Nothing Very New

XXIV: Closer to the Present

XXV: Mario’s Mystery

XXVI: And so …

Acknowledgements

Dear Readers

For Discussion

Meet the Author

Other Books by Jennifer C. Weil

Copyright

I

1970: Of Rummage Quests and Kissing

Before I tell you anything about the glasses, I have to know if I can trust you. I want to trust you. I think it's definitely important that you know something about me because you’re going to need to trust me, too. First of all, my chosen name is Ace. If you’re laughing right now, I can’t trust you, so read something else. Ace defines my approach to life. I like succeeding, so I tend to do the stuff I think I’ll be good at, like vocabulary. I'm into words. Maybe I seem too smart. This can really annoy people.

Maybe I am smart, but not smart enough, because lately I've been facing probably the most perplexing problem of my nearly fifteen-year-old life. Failure makes me break out; right now, I have five really disgusting zits in various sizes of gross because I am experiencing record failure. I said exactly that to my mirror yesterday. These five foothills prove I'm experiencing record failure. I was under a lot of pressure to find an acceptable boyfriend immediately for reasons I will let you in on later. The prospects were looking pretty bad.

The only boys who pay me any respect at all are one boy––Jimmy Holland––and he doesn't count since I've known him all my life. Fourteen years have clued me in: he is simply not my type. He lacks interests and qualities that the Acceptable He must definitely have. He's got to be turned on by antiques, first of all. Almost a dork about them, actually. If he’s not passionate enough about antique and junk-store hopping to skip meals for a glimpse of a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old unicycle or stereopticon, forget it! Also, he’s got to possess courage above and beyond, be willing to be scared breathless in pursuit of adventure. or he's not worth my time and will Not Do. It's pretty much that simple. Now I’ve got these hideous pimples because my research hasn’t been going well. In fact, it was a total disappointment. I made up a questionnaire to sort of interview for the job of being my boyfriend. Jimmy Holland is a definite Not-Do because except for his name, age and height, he didn’t answer a single question correctly. Here’s an example: Do antiques

A. interest you;

B. excite you; or

C. make you gag?

What did Jimmy Holland choose? C! I could have thrown out his questionnaire right then. It was so boring, I almost fell asleep, but I wanted to be fair and give him the benefit of the doubt. The results showed Jimmy could only like me out of habit because we have NOTHING in common.

I thought the questionnaire would save lots of time. But no. And it’s not because of kissing and parties and stuff that I’m in a big hurry. Kissing is great and I wouldn’t want to give it up, but the reason for the rush is the glasses, which I really am going to tell Monroe, who turned out to be an Acceptable He. Monroe didn’t even fill out the questionnaire at first, and I could still see the potential.

Here’s how it didn’t happen. I didn’t just walk right up to him and say, Hi, my name is Ace, you're cute, what's yours? I could have, you understand, but I would've ended up with some ego-freak and not the partner I was looking for. Besides, people named Ace don't do it like that. And speaking of my name: my parents showed really barf judgment when they gave my real name to me. Angelica Christine Elgin. It makes me blush, it's so embarrassing. Maybe if I used that name, though, I could be excused for doing something definitely no-class like telling a guy he’s cute before I know he’s got his wits about him, as my mom would say.

Check it out for yourself: People named Angelica Christine can get away with truly serious social no-no's because people take pity on them. And, consider this: maybe they can’t even help it! People named Ace, however, who make that choice? Well, they have to try very hard not to give themselves a lousy reputation by slopping things up. I almost never slop things up. If I did, I simply would not have finally had such good luck finding Monroe. Don’t get impatient; we’re almost to that part, but first you have a right to know about the others; maybe it will help you make the right decisions yourself and save you from the embarrassment of Failure Pimples. That's a good thing, right? Yeah.

II

Ah, M. W. M.

I forgot to tell you that Jimmy Holland laughed out loud at my questionnaire, but not till I told him he had failed. You know I only gave it to him out of courtesy and a sort of warped sentimentality anyway, so I did not much care about his failure or his laugh attack. Maybe, somehow he knew that, and that’s why he guffawed till he drooled, which was sort of disgusting, but what could I expect? Poor Jimmy. Probably trapped in mediocrity forever. I coolly removed the mimeographed paper from his sweaty palm and glided past him on my way to homeroom. Then I glided into homeroom, which was a particularly neat feat since the place was simply wall-to-wall bodies like gnarled branches in a stand of apple trees. Nevertheless, I glided (I’m always tempted to say glid for the past tense of glide, but I catch myself in time.)¹ Things like that matter a lot to some folks, like my English teacher, who is always telling me that words like definitely and simply can be overused. I definitely do not agree, even if he’s right.

So, back to how I met Monroe. There were only a couple of seats left. I chose the one next to Laura Blaylock, whom I detest—sorry, but it’s true, and when I lie, I feel like bugs are crawling all over me. After I sat down, I began taking a count of Likely or even Possible prospects from my survey. That’s why I sat next to Laura. She doesn’t like me either, so we never talk to each other, which was perfect. I didn’t want to be distracted and Laura didn’t say one word to me. Since not many people agreed to take my survey, my tally didn’t take long. By the time the homeroom teacher showed up, I was finished.

All in all, I had seven Possibles. It was hard to say if there were any Likelies until the Possibles opened their mouths, but I was not impatient yet and trusted my questionnaire to weed out the truly impossible. After all, I wrote it; there was no reason why it should fail. Jimmy Holland, of course, being a reasonable exception to almost anything. I do admire his dedication to consistency. That, little though it is, counts for something, anyway. I gave him three points out of a hundred for spelling his name right.

Impatience finally got me on the fourth day after the written survey. This was the follow-up, where I managed to talk to all the Possibles. I began by thanking each of them for taking my survey. By the end of the fourth day, I was in agony. My curiosity was getting dumped on by disappointment. For three days, I had been fighting with myself over whether to eat record amounts of junk food. That usually works to sidetrack my unwanted feelings, but I figured it wouldn’t work this time. It was hard enough finding a suitable guy. How much worse would it be if I became a grounded Goodyear-style blimp, a fat rival to the real thing. If I continued eating the way I thought I would, once I got started, I would be the world’s first Guiness Book of World Records human Blimpess. It’s a good thing I’m vain. I crave peanut butter and hot fudge and French fries, but I avoid anything more dangerous than rhubarb-strawberry yogurt , which is not available at any fast food place I’ve ever seen. I have to mix up my own. Vanity has kept me healthy and thin. Have you noticed that a person has to make some big sacrifices in life to be distinguished in any way? I don’t like the idea much, and I have a lot of trouble believing it, actually. It seems melodramatic.

So, eight-six hours into the post-survey, active talking period, and only one pound heavier (I confess, I gave into some peanut butter), I had all my questionnaires spread out before me on the living room rug. I was on the verge of desperate. I felt queasy. I could have upchucked my dinner. Was I truly going to fail? All my Possibles turned out to be Impossibles, with one possible exception. That’s cutting the odds too close, I think, but what could I do? Craig Hiller wasn’t so bad, and he might have been an acceptable Possible, but he wears squeaky shoes and has hay fever. No good for stealth, and stealth is a critical quality. At all the most crucial moments, Craig Hiller could be counted on to sneeze and wheeze and squeak away all chances for secrecy. Crucial and critical are beautiful words, aren’t they? They totally relate to crisis, and I love a good crisis now and then. Stealthless Craig Hiller is. I just know he would create absolutely the wrong sort of crisis. Craig Hiller fails pretty miserably.

I reconsidered Harry Parkins for about thirty seconds. He’s a nice person. Like Craig and Jimmy, though, he’s a definite NO. One of the