Four Truths and a Lie (4 page)

So here's the deal with my dad. He's kind of a
thief. And when I say kind of, what I really mean is, you know, that he is.

My dad's in a ton of trouble for stealing a bunch of money from his company, WebWorkz. They're this totally huge Internet provider, and my dad is their CEO. Or
was
their CEO, until he got fired for stealing money from them. It's this big story in the news, and if you turn on MSNBC or go to any of the news websites, they're talking about it constantly. And now that I'm at Brookline, I'm determined to keep it a secret. Which I
should
be able to do, since I have a different last name from my dad—I have my mom's name, Northon, since when I was born, my mom was going
through a whole “I'm-an-independent-woman” phase, and since she kept her own name when she married my dad, she decided I should have it too.

It was not so easy to keep this all a secret at my old school. There, EVERYONE knew that my dad was Steve Haverhill, CEO of WebWorkz. I liked it. I milked it. I was kind of a celebrity. It was like being Bill Gates's daughter or something. But once the story broke that my dad had been embezzling a bunch of money to cover some bad investments he'd made, things started to change.

I wasn't Scarlett Northon, Steve Haverhill's daughter anymore. Now I was “Scarlett Northon, whose dad Steve Haverhill stole tons of money from WebWorkz and whose name is all over the news.” Everyone at my school started talking about it. At first, it wasn't really that bad. Whispers in the halls. Weird little looks. But my best friend, Brianna, stuck by me, telling me to ignore everyone else. We'd huddle at our own table at lunch, eating sandwiches and reading magazines.

But Rockville is a pretty snotty town, and a lot of my friends' parents, who were friends with
my
parents, stopped inviting them to stuff. It was like they were afraid of catching a disease or something.

And then eventually
I
stopped getting invited places.
Brianna was still getting invited, though, and of course I'd insist that she should go wherever it was. I thought I was being a good friend, telling her she should hit up Shay Basile's birthday party instead of going to the mall with me like we planned, or that she should go to Chelsia Reade's vacation house instead of helping me with my science project. Eventually, Brianna drifted back over to my old group, and I was left alone at my cafeteria table.

Things hit a low point when one day, I overheard this girl Emma looking for her cola-flavored lip gloss after gym, and Brianna said, “I wonder if Scarlett took it—like father, like daughter,” and they both laughed. I cried all afternoon, wiping the tears away with the sleeve of my new Michael Kors dress.

Add that to the fact that my parents started having all sorts of problems, and my dad moved into his own apartment while he waits to find out what's going to happen to him, and you can imagine that things weren't going so well for me. So when I suggested (read: begged) the idea of transferring schools for a fresh start in eighth grade, my mom agreed.

I never thought she'd go for it. I mean, come on—what mom just lets their kid transfer because they're having a hard time at school? Part of the deal, though, was that I go to Brookline. There are about three bazillion private schools
around here, but my mom wanted to make sure I ended up at one that would allow me to focus on my studies, blah blah blah. If you ask me, I think she's just nervous that the same thing that happened to her would happen to me. And that is, she married her high school sweetheart, never went to college, never got a real job, and now might be losing everything.

With all this stuff running through my mind, I don't sleep too well on my first night at Brookline. By the time I do finally fall asleep, it's, like, four in the morning, and I sleep through my alarm when it goes off at seven. I only have half an hour to get ready for breakfast, since that's when the bell they ring to wake up all the students goes off. Half an hour! By the time I straighten my hair (which, by the way, I can't even do a very good job with, since I only have a limited amount of time, and because my hair is still half-wet from my shower last night—it looks like it's halfway poufed out and halfway not, and for some reason putting it in a ponytail makes it looks worse), Crissa and Rachel and Tia have already left for breakfast. They got so sick of waiting for me and so worried they were going to be late, that they ended up just going without me.

“Are you sure?” Tia asked, looking nervously between me and Crissa, who was tapping her sneakered foot on the ground and looking semimad.

“I'm sure,” I said, not really being that sure at all.

I try to put my makeup on (lip gloss, some eye shadow, and lipstick) while I'm rushing out of the dorm and over to McGinty Hall where the dining hall is, but I drop the lipstick on the steps and end up crushing it with my foot. The bottom of my shoe turns into a slippery, light pink mess that I have to spend three minutes cleaning off. This is not a good way to start off the first day of classes. At least my uniform looks kind of cute—I dressed it up with some awesome Steve Maddens that go perfectly with the skirt, and I'm wearing patterned gray tights and a wide navy blue headband. It's so boarding school chic!

When I finally do get to the dining hall (I got semilost and accidentally ended up walking into some random girl's room—oops), I don't see Crissa, Tia, and Rachel anywhere. Finally I spot them at a table in the corner. I grab an apple off the side table, and a glass of juice off the counter. They don't even have coffee here! Usually on my way to school we stop at Starbucks and my mom gets me a caramel latte, but apparently today I won't even be having regular coffee. Figures, on the one day I need caffeine. I wonder if I can get a small coffeemaker for my room.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing a chair from another table and scooting in next to Crissa.

“Is that all you're having?” Tia asks. “We don't have lunch until twelve.” Her plate is piled high with waffles and sausage. Crissa's having toast with peanut butter and jelly, and Rachel has a huge bowl of cereal in front of her, along with some fruit salad.

“I know,” I say. “I'm not much of a breakfast person. Usually I like my lattes, but they don't even have coffee here!” I roll my eyes.

“Coffee stunts your growth,” Crissa says, frowning. Her forehead gets all squishy when she does that, with a big wrinkle. She's not going to be too happy about that when she's older.

“Well, I'm already five foot two.” I take a bite of my apple. “So I don't need to grow any more. Besides, if my growth is stunted, I might get out of having to play basketball.”

It's supposed to be a joke, but Crissa looks skeptical as she takes a bite of toast. All righty, then.

“So, anyway,” Crissa's saying. “She totally thinks she's going to be first place this quarter, but it's definitely mine.”

“What's she talking about?” I whisper to Rachel, who's sitting on the other side of me.

“First Quarter Math Award,” Rachel says. “Every year the person with the highest math grade at the end of each quarter gets the Math Award.” She must see the blank look
on my face, because she goes on, “It's, like, a really big deal. Crissa's a shoo-in to win it.” Figures they'd be talking about something having to do with schoolwork. Last night when they were gossiping about all the good stuff, they wanted nothing to do with me—now that I'm actually kind of sort of a part of the conversation, they're talking about a freakin' math award.

I wonder if they give out a last-place ribbon. I bet I would totally win that. But this, of course, is not the way a smart person acts. And today is the first day of Scarlett Northon, Smart Person. I pull my fake glasses out of my purse, slide them onto my nose, and look at Rachel seriously.

“So tell me about this math award,” I say.

My first class is English, with Miss Cardanelli. I breathe a little sigh of relief. English is my best subject. I've always liked to read and write, and besides, a lot of stuff you talk about in English doesn't have any right answer. In math, science, and even social studies, you have to get the answer exactly right. In English, things are more open to interpretation. For example, last year I spent twenty minutes convincing my class that a poem everyone else thought was about death was actually about love, and by the end of the period, everyone totally believed it. I love stuff like that.

“Hello, class,” Miss Cardanelli says, when we're all settled into our seats. She's wearing the best shoes. I wonder if it would be inappropriate for me to ask her where she got them. “And welcome to eighth-grade English.”

The students shift in their seats. They all look very excited. I practice putting an excited-about-learning expression on my face. It's harder than it looks, especially when my eyes are so close to closing. I push my fake glasses further up on my nose.

“Now,” Miss Cardanelli says, pulling a big white cardboard box onto her desk. “I have an exciting project for all of you this year.” She pulls a bunch of envelopes out of the box, along with a stack of paper. “It's called stranger writing.”

Um, okay. Sounds strange. (Must be why it's called “stranger writing”? Ha-ha.)

“Stranger writing?” a blond girl at the front of the room asks. “What is that?” She doesn't even raise her hand. Is this one of those places where students are allowed to just speak out in class? It
is
a charter school, after all. In one collective movement, everyone in the room pulls out a notebook and gets ready to take notes. Wow. I reach into my bag and pull out my navy blue speckled composition book, along with my blue feathery pen. I like my school supplies to match, just
like my outfits. Ooh,
and
my school supplies totally match my outfit today. Bonus!

“Well, it's a name I came up with myself,” Miss Cardanelli admits. She starts passing out the envelopes and papers to the class, weaving up and down the rows. “I saw a TV program over the summer about how we're more likely to share our deepest thoughts with someone who we've never met, rather than with our friends.”

Hmm. I think I saw that too. It was on an episode of
Gossip Girl
.

“Oh, right,” someone near the front of the room says. “It was a documentary on HBO.”

Other people in the class nod. Jeez. Who had time to watch documentaries this summer? I spent most of it out by my pool. Oh, and we went on a totally fab vacay to Miami Beach, where I got to drink virgin daiquiris with little umbrellas at the hotel bar. Of course, my grandparents paid for me and my mom to go, since we're, you know, broke now. But I nod my head too, as if I watched it. No sense starting off on the wrong foot.

“Oh, I'm so glad some of you saw it,” Miss Cardanelli says. I continue nodding my head, and even go so far as to add a knowing smile.

“Scarlett, what did you think of it?”

Um, that hanging out by the pool sounds way better? “Um, well,” I say, “I thought it was very interesting.” Interesting is always a good choice, because it can mean anything. It could mean you hated it or loved it, or it could mean you found it inspiring or you found it uninspiring, but either way, you thought it was
interesting.

“What part exactly?” Miss Cardanelli is saying. And not to be mean, either. She looks like she genuinely wants to know what I thought about it.

“Um, the part about where people are more comfortable telling strangers things.” I grope around in my brain desperately, trying to come up with something that will sound halfway intelligent without letting on that I never actually watched the show. “It's like how I am here at Brookline. I'm totally new so
everyone
is a stranger.” I try to sort of whisper that last part ominously. That oughta work. No one's going to press me on being a new kid.

“Um,” Miss Cardanelli looks confused, but she recovers quickly. “You're right about that, Scarlett.”

“Maybe,” I say, “someone could get the DVD of that show, and we could all watch it as a class and discuss.”

“That's a good idea,” Miss Cardanelli says, shooting me a smile. I settle back in my seat, feeling a little smug. This being smart stuff is a total piece of cake. I open up my
notebook and write “Stranger Writing—letting strangers know your innermost secrets is easier than letting your friends know. Was documentary on HBO.” Part of being smart is taking copious notes.

“So,” Miss Cardanelli says. “We're going to be participating in a kind of experiment. We're going to be writing letters to an English class at Brookline Academy for Boys.” A nervous rustling goes through the crowd. My ears perk up. Boys?

The blond girl at the front of the room raises her hand again. “But, Miss Cardanelli, what would we write about?” She looks nervous.

“Well, that's the thing,” Miss Cardanelli says. She slides back into her desk chair. “You won't know who you're writing to, and they won't know who you are.” She shrugs. “So you can tell them whatever you want.”

I look around. The class looks sullen and definitely scared. I think they might be nervous that we'll be doing all this letter writing for nothing, but in my experience, if you're having any kind of contact with guys, it's never for nothing. I raise my hand.

“Yes, Scarlett?”

“At the end of this whole thing, will there be a mixer?”

“A mixer?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows knit together
in confusion. “Well, no, that's not really the point. The point is to work on our writing skills in a creative and new way.” She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a Red Sox baseball hat. “What you'll do is reach into this hat and pull out a number,” Miss Cardanelli says. “And that is who you'll be writing to. Their teacher at Brookline Academy for Boys, Mr. Lang, will be handing out the letters by number. No one will ever know who you are.”