Four Truths and a Lie (3 page)

“That's okay!” the woman, who I am now referring to in my mind as Coach Crazy, says, writing my name down on her clipboard. “No experience necessary! Most of the girls are new, especially on the freshman team, mm-hmm, mm-hmmm.” She makes a clucking noise with her tongue. The student activities center is filled with folding tables, each set up with a different extracurricular activity. Somehow, as soon as I walked in, I was accosted by this woman, who is apparently in charge of basketball. And apparently, for some ridiculous reason, wants me on her team. Is she blind? I'm wearing a short black skirt over leggings, a lacy button-up shirt, and ballet flats. I do not look in any way, shape, or form, like a basketball player.

“But I'm actually not a freshman,” I try. “I'm only in eighth grade, so … ”

“That's okay,” she says. “The freshman team is for eighth AND ninth graders. And we've lost a couple to JV. Now, we'll need your uniform size.” I have no idea what she's talking about. Who is JV? And why is he taking her players? Oh. Right. Junior Varsity. There was this totally hot ninth grader on the JV team last year at my old school, and me and my friend Brianna used to go to his games and scream, “Go, Nathan!” even though he had no idea who we were. Quite fun.

Coach Crazy pulls out a measuring tape and comes out from behind the table. She shoves it around my waist. “Hmm, you're a medium.” She looks down at her clipboard. “That's probably going to be a problem, since we don't have any mediums available. Budget constraints, you know?” She shrugs as if to say
What can you do?

“Um, I don't actually need a uniform,” I say. “Because I'm not going to be—”

“No, no, it's okay,” Coach Crazy says. “We'll just put you in a large, and hope for the best!” She smiles, revealing slightly yellow teeth. Is she kidding? I will certainly not wear something that doesn't fit me and then “hope for the best.” It's bad enough I have to wear a school uniform here; I'm not going to voluntarily sign up to wear a basketball uniform that I don't even want and doesn't even fit.

“You're joining basketball?” Crissa is behind me, and when I turn around, I see Rachel and Tia there too. Coach Crazy doesn't even look at them. Why am I the only one she's harassing? Aren't basketball players supposed to be tall? I'm only 5'2”, and I drink coffee almost every morning, so I'm sure my growth has been totally stunted.

“No,” I say. “I'm not. I'm not really into sports.”

“Oh, good,” Rachel says. She leans in close to me. “Basketball's the worst. Coach Chambers takes it super
serious; she works the team out like they're in the freakin' NBA or something.”

I'm not sure what the NBA is. Doesn't it have something to do with guns? No, wait, that's the NRA. No matter. I'm not joining—the basketball team OR the NRA.

“Now, dear,” Coach Chambers/Crazy is saying. She hands me a sheaf of papers. I catch a glimpse of the words “Practice Schedule, Including Rules and Regulations” on the top sheet. “Our first practice is tomorrow at three. Make sure you get there a little bit early, since you'll have to change. Now, what would you say your fitness level is?” She purses her lips and poises her pen to write something down on her clipboard.

“I'm not joining,” I say, trying to sound firm.

“So around a four, then,” Coach Chambers says, marking something down. “No worries, we'll get you in tip-top shape in no time!” Is Coach Chambers deaf as well as blind?

Rachel yanks my arm, pulling me away from her. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“It's the only way,” she says simply. Tia nods.

“Coach Chambers is like that,” Rachel says. “She's always trying to recruit, since everyone hates basketball.” She shifts her bookbag to the other arm. “She probably realized you were new, and decided you'd be an easy mark.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, sighing in relief. From behind me, I can hear Coach Chambers calling, “If you change your mind, dear, you can always come to the gym tomorrow at three!”

“So what
are
you going to sign up for?” Tia asks. “So far I'm in computer club and soccer.”

“She said she doesn't like sports,” Crissa says, scowling. She looks at her watch and taps her foot impatiently on the ground.

“Ooh, computer club's the best,” Rachel says. “Because you get to spend a lot of time in the computer lab, and usually you can get away with IM'ing.”

I weigh the options—able to IM with my friends (not like I really have any left at home, but my mom has IM, and I'm sure some of my soon-to-be new and fabulous friends at Brookline will be around to IM with. Also, if worse comes to worst, I can spend time playing video games or something. Not like I really do that either, but anything sounds better than running around the gym shooting a ball into a hoop for hours) vs. not having to deal with after-school activities.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll sign up too.” It will be good for my new “I'm totally smart” image—I mean, extracurricular activities? Totally things that a smart person would do.

“Sorry,” Crissa says. “But I think it's closed. Probably
because you got here late.” She flips her perfect hair over her shoulder and shrugs. I look over to the other side of the room, where the computer club teacher, a friendly-looking woman wearing a pink T-shirt, has placed a small sign on her table that says
FULL
. I want to point out that the reason I got here late was because she told me I had to wait for my advisor. But I don't.

“They only let a certain number of people in,” Tia says. “But you should sign up for soccer. We have a lot of fun, because the practices are so easy. The team totally sucks, and no one cares. We have fun going to games and just riding the bus and messing around.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I don't think I'm an extracurricular kind of girl.” I wonder why schools don't have after-school clubs with skills we could actually use. Like beauty club or something. Or even auto club. Although I guess the point of extracurriculars isn't to learn a skill. It's more to have fun. But basketball doesn't sound fun. Not at all.

“Well, you have to pick
something,”
Crissa says. She rolls her eyes at me.

“Why?”

“Because you have to have at least one extracurricular,” Tia says. “It's a rule.”

Extracurriculars are a rule? What kind of place is this?

“Fine,” I say. But as I look around, pretty much every single booth has a sign that says
FULL
. Except for … Sigh.

I walk back over dejectedly.

“Now,” Coach Crazy says, brandishing her clipboard. “What kind of sneakers do you have?”

“Nikes.” Oh, well. At least it will be good exercise.

“Do you have any shampoo I can borrow?” a voice asks from across the shower divider. It's later that night, and I'm attempting to shower in the communal bathrooms. I prefer baths to showers, but there are no bathtubs at Brookline Academy. Not only that, but everyone has to shower in these little stalls, and there's always a million people running in and out of the bathrooms, so it's kind of distracting. Fortunately, there's a small private changing area outside of the actual shower, and I have all my pajama stuff there. I'm going to grab it and get dressed really quickly before I venture out into the open. I've never been one of those girls that just wanders around getting dressed in front of everyone during gym class like it's nothing. I prefer to do my changing with a little privacy.

“Um, sure,” I say to the mysterious voice across the divider. I reach into my shower caddy and pull out my bottle of Clinique Extra Body Shampoo. Hmm.

“Do you have flat hair?” I yell over the divider. No sense in giving her a volumizing shampoo if it's just going to make her hair look like a big Brillo pad.

“What?” she asks back.

“You know, do you have flat hair?” Silence. I try to make it easier. “Straight or curly?”

“Curly,” she says. She sounds annoyed. “Now do you have any shampoo or what?”

I fish out my Clinique Exceptionally Clean shampoo, and toss that over the divider instead. She'll have me to thank when her curls are beautifully bouncy.

I lean into the hot water while I wait for her to send it back over. Mmm. The water feels fantastic, especially at the end of such a stressful, long day. After extras (and my run-in with Coach Crazy), we had lunch in the dining hall. The food actually wasn't that bad—they have a fully stocked salad bar, and we had lasagna as the main course. Yum. But then Tia told me not to get too excited about the food since they always serve the best food on the first day, just in case any parents stick around. And there
were
some parents who stayed, which made me feel very thankful my mom took off when she did. It's bad enough that I already stick out here, I don't need my mom hanging around making it worse. Plus who knows what kind of things my mom might have said?
She could have let slip the real reason I'm here.

After lunch we had a welcome assembly from the headmistress, which was kind of weird because she's my mom's roommate from college, even though I've never really met her. Just once, I think, when I was a baby. And when I had my interview here last month. Anyway, she gave us all a big rah-rah speech, and then afterward, on her way out of the auditorium, she came up to me and was like, “Hello, Scarlett, nice to see you. Please come to me if you have any questions.” And I was sitting with Tia and Rachel and Crissa and they were all looking at me curiously, and then Rachel started to ask me something, but Tia elbowed her to shut up. So I think they were going to ask me what I'm doing here.

“Are you almost done in there?” another voice screeches from outside my shower stall. I guess long showers don't really work when there's always someone waiting. Oopsies.

“Sorry,” I say. My bottle of shampoo comes flying back over the divider, almost hitting me in the head. Jeez. Way to be thankful. I pour some out into my hand, quickly shampoo and condition my hair (whoever that was used a LOT of shampoo, like almost the whole bottle, which is pretty rude since it's kind of expensive, but whatev), wrap a towel around my head, and then quickly get into my pajamas.

I don't have time to dry off completely, so my pajama
pants are sticking to my legs. I walk to my room, trying to ignore the fact that I'm in my bare feet. Most of the other girls are wearing flip-flops, but I didn't pack any. They were on the packing list, under
THINGS TO BRING
, I think, but I pretty much ignored that list. I thought they just meant flip-flops were in fashion here or something, not that we'd need them to prevent foot infections.

When I get to my room, Tia and Rachel are sitting on Crissa's bed. Tia has music playing from a small CD player, and she's dancing around the room, using a hairbrush as a microphone.

“We're alll in this toggeettther,” she sings, spinning around. She thrusts the hairbrush in Crissa's face.

“Um, no thanks,” Crissa says, pushing it away and turning back to the book that's in front of her. “Shut that off, I'm trying to study.”

“First day of classes isn't until tomorrow,” Rachel says. “So put your books away.” She jumps on top of Crissa, who laughs and hits her in the head with a pillow.

I crawl under my sheets and try to ignore the fact that the three of them are ignoring me. I listen to them sing and talk about people I've never met. They don't even ask me to join in. I'm a horrible singer, but still. I love having private dance parties. In my room at home, I'd crank whatever was on the
radio, and pretend I was giving a concert for millions of people. And sometimes when I go to the movies, when I'm walking down that lighted aisle to my seat, I pretend I'm a rock star, about to go onstage. I feel a tear well up in my eye, and I pull the blanket over my head to try and stop it from sliding down.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I open my eyes and see nothing except for the numbers on my clock letting me know it's 1:30. Great. I blink a little bit to get my eyes used to the darkness. Crissa's in her bed, her blankets moving up and down with her deep, slow breaths.

I close my eyes and try to get back to sleep, but it's no use. I tiptoe out of bed and over to my desk, where I boot up my computer and log on to my e-mail.

Two new e-mails. One that's spam from some knitting website, and the other one is from my dad. No e-mails from anyone from home, which isn't a surprise. I stare at the cursor for a long time, running it over the
OPEN
button on the e-mail. Open, don't open. Open, don't open. It's like a little merry-go-round in my head.

Finally, I click it.

D
EAR SCARLETT,

I HOPE YOU ARE GETTING SETTLED INTO
BROOKLINE, AND ALL IS GOING WELL. I KNOW YOU WILL DO FINE IN A NEW PLACE, AND I'M GLAD YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY FOR A FRESH START. EVEN SO, PLEASE KNOW THAT I'M SORRY FOR MY PART IN ALL THIS. I'M SURE YOUR IDEAL SITUATION DID NOT INCLUDE BEING AT BOARDING SCHOOL.

I KNOW YOU'RE VERY ANGRY WITH ME RIGHT NOW, AND YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE. ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU DO YOUR BEST TO TRY AND FORGIVE ME, OR, AT THE VERY LEAST, ALLOW ME SOME PART IN YOUR LIFE.

YOU ARE ALWAYS ON MY MIND AND IN MY

THOUGHTS.

LOVE,

DAD

I stare at the e-mail for a long time before deleting it and then crawling back into bed. But it's an even longer time before I finally fall asleep.