The Thing About the Truth (11 page)

“I brought you a drink,” she says, holding it out to me with a grin. Lemonade is our tradition. Ever since junior high, we’ve always drunk Snapple, even in the winter, while spending countless hours gossiping about our crushes, watching TV, and flipping through magazines. The fact that she brought me one is a gesture of apology. At least a little.

“So how’s public school?” she asks, the same way she’d ask about the weather or something. She opens her Snapple bottle and turns the cap over, reading the interesting fact that’s printed on the underside.

“Fine,” I say, wondering if we’re really going to do this, if we’re really going to just sit here and make small talk. Not that it would be that bad. It’s better than getting into a big screaming fight.

“How are the guys?” She takes a sip of lemonade and then
looks at me, her eyes filled with panic. “Oh my God,” she says, “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I mean, I know you’re probably not ready to date or anything, and I totally shouldn’t have even brought it—”

“No guys,” I say firmly. “And not because I’m not ready to date.” The truth is, I’m
not
ready to date, but Rielle doesn’t need to know that. I get the feeling she thinks I’m a little damaged and crazy, which is why she’s been so distant. And I don’t want to do or say anything that reinforces that opinion. “I mean, they’re
public school
boys.” I roll my eyes. There was a time that Rielle and I would make fun of public school boys, talk about how there was no way in hell we’d ever date them. Of course, that was when we thought there was no way in hell that we’d ever actually be going to public school either, so, you know, times have changed.

For a second I consider mentioning Isaac, just so she’ll think I’m over Rex and everything that happened with him. But after the way Isaac was all dicky to me on the ride home, I’ve decided not to think about him ever again, much less say his name.

“So listen,” Rielle says. She sets her Snapple down on the patio table and turns toward me. “I’m sooo sorry I haven’t called. It’s just that school’s been crazy.” She rolls her eyes up toward her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “The SAT prep class alone is, like, three hours of homework a night.”

“I hear ya,” I say. “School is totally crazy for me, too.” If you count the fact that a girl was having a breakdown in the
bathroom and my meeting with the principal was crashed by John Brandano’s son.

Rielle looks shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I just thought that public school wouldn’t be as demanding. You know, academically.”

I’m not even insulted, because I’ve always thought this too. And the truth is, public school
is
easier than private school. But there’s no way I’m going to admit this to Rielle.

“It is,” I say. “Sooo much work. Plus I’m starting up this club, Face It Down. I’m working with Senator Brandano’s son on it. Isaac.” Whoops. So much for not saying his name.

This earns even more of an eyebrow raise from Rielle, and I can tell she’s impressed, which makes me happy. I know it’s silly, especially because she is (was?) my best friend. But this is how it’s always been with us. Rielle has money. She has a powerful father. She has everything that’s the latest—clothes, purses, makeup, cars.

It’s always been me trying to keep up with her.

“So why haven’t you called?” I ask her now.

She looks uncomfortable. “I told you,” she says, twirling the end of her braid around her finger. “School stuff.”

“Bullshit.”

She looks at me and opens her mouth, probably to lie again. But then she changes her mind. “I didn’t know what to say.” Her voice catches, so I know she’s telling the truth. “And besides, you didn’t call me, either.”

“Because you didn’t call me!” Doesn’t she know that the person who got kicked out of school (me) doesn’t have to call the one who didn’t (her)? She should have called to check up on me, to see how I was doing. She should have come over with lemonades and ice cream, keeping me company, helping me nurse my broken heart. That’s what best friends do. It’s so common it’s cliché.

“It’s just weird,” she says, “not seeing you every day. I miss you sooo much. I’ve had to hang out with Michelle and Anna, and it’s just . . . I don’t know, it’s different. Do you think you’d ever . . .”

The door to the porch opens and closes, and both of our dads come walking outside. My dad is laughing hard at something Rielle’s dad is saying. This is how it always is with the two of them. My dad, a step behind, laughing and trying to impress Mr. Marsh. It’s kind of funny how his relationship with Rielle’s dad mirrors the one that I have with Rielle. I wonder what my dad would think if he ever met Isaac’s dad. Probably he would freak out.

“Rielle,” her dad calls, and Rielle squeezes my hand and then gets up and moves across the lawn. I follow her.

“Jim was just telling me about how you’re going to be a Connor Mitchelle Scholar,” my dad says to Rielle. “That’s amazing.”

Rielle blushes.

“You are?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just found out today.”

She looks at me, her eyes apologizing for not telling me sooner. And if she just found out today, it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But it is. Because there was a time when she would have told me immediately, would have texted me as soon as she found out. But either she didn’t think of it, or worse, she didn’t want to brag. The Connor Mitchelle Scholar is a designation given to any junior enrolled in an accredited prep school who has an overall average of ninety percent or higher. If I was still at Concordia Prep, I would have been a Connor Mitchelle Scholar too. In fact, we probably would have celebrated together. I know Rielle’s GPA, so it’s not like it’s a surprise or anything. But still. I wish she would have told me.

“That’s really amazing,” I say, pulling her toward me for a hug, which feels just as awkward as the last one.

I hate this new dynamic that we have. And the worst part is, I have no one to blame for it but myself.

•  •  •

I get to school early the next morning because I need to get going on this whole Face It Down Day, and there’s no way I’m going to count on Isaac Brandano to get the ball rolling. He’s obviously completely and totally unreliable. I mean, honestly, the guy is so hot and cold he could be a thermometer.

The cafeteria is pretty much deserted, so I snag a table by the window and pull out a notebook. I’m just about to open it up and start brainstorming some ideas and making a list of deadlines when someone sits down next to me.

“Hello,” the someone says.

I look up. Isaac.

“Hi.” I keep my voice deliberately short, hoping he’ll get the point. The point being, you know, to go away. Why is he always showing up wherever I am? The other day in the gym. Yesterday in the principal’s office. Seriously, forget about Marina being the stalker. Isaac’s the real stalker. In fact, he’s probably trying to deflect the suspicion onto her, when
he’s
the one who’s dangerous.

“Are you working on our club?” He sits down next to me. His hair looks rumpled, like maybe he forgot to brush it after he showered. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, a black sweater, and a backward baseball hat. He looks hot. But since I’m off boys, and especially off him, I try not to notice.

“Oh, now it’s
our
club?” I pull my notebook closer to me so that he can’t steal my ideas. Not that I have any written down yet. But he doesn’t know that.

“Wasn’t it always?”

“No,” I say, “first it was mine. Until you crashed my meeting. And then it was ours. Until you got in some kind of big snit yesterday and left me. And now it’s mine again.”

“I didn’t
leave
you,” he says. “Something came up.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that?” I ask. “That would have been the polite thing to do. Actually, never mind polite, it would have been the
normal
thing to do.” I’m kind of mad now. Mostly at myself, for believing even for a second that he could be cool. Or that we could be friends. Or that when he made
my stomach get all flippy, it could mean something other than that my hormones are obviously completely and totally out of control.

“Well—” he starts.

But at that moment someone else comes over and slams their books down on the table. Hard. So hard that the whole table shakes.

“Wow,” Isaac says. “Watch it.” He picks up his coffee and pulls it toward his chest protectively.

I look up. It’s a girl. She looks kind of familiar, but I can’t exactly—Oh. Right. The girl from yesterday, the one who was in the bathroom. The one that was crying. The one who I said was going to join our club.

“You,”
she says, pointing.

Yikes. She must have been crying over Isaac. Wow. I mean, he’s only been here, like, one day, and he’s already got one girl, Marina, stalking him, and this other girl crying over him. And now Curly-Haired Blond Girl must be here to confront him, to give him a talking-to, to yell at him for hurting her. Good for her.

I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. It’s going to be nice to watch the show. I only wish there were more people here to witness it. Isaac’s looking at Curly-Haired Blond Girl like he doesn’t even know who she is. Which isn’t very nice. Either he’s going to try to play it off like she’s crazy, or he was probably so drunk when they hooked up that he—

“Don’t look so smug,” the girl says. Which is weird, because
Isaac doesn’t really look that smug. Just confused. But he
is
a smug bastard, so I’m all for her calling him smug.

I wait for him to contradict her, but instead, he’s looking at me. In fact, they’re both looking at me. Why are they . . . ?

“Are you talking to me?” I ask. I almost look behind me like they do in movies when they can’t believe the person in question is talking to them. But I realize that would be going a little too far since all that’s behind us is a wall.

“Yes,” she says. She plops down in a chair across from us. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You have?”

“Wow,” Isaac says, “and I thought lesbian experimentation was supposed to happen more with private school girls.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a package of animal crackers, then pops one in his mouth.

I give him a mean look, but Blond Girl just ignores him. It makes me like her a little bit. Anyone who can treat Isaac like he’s an inconsequential annoyance is okay in my book.

“Yesterday in the bathroom,” she says, “you said that you have experience with broken hearts.”

“I did?” I bite my lip. I don’t really remember what I said in the bathroom yesterday. I was in too much of a rush to get to my meeting.

“You did?” Isaac asks. He sounds interested. “Who broke your heart?”

“I didn’t say that,” I try.

“Yes, you did,” the girl says.

And then I remember. When she came out of the stall and told me she had a broken heart, I told her that I’d had experience with that kind of thing. She really shouldn’t be asking me for my opinion, though. I mean, my broken heart got me kicked out of school, made my parents think I’m some kind of hopeless fuckup, and ruined my relationship with my best friend.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, um—”

“Who broke your heart?” Isaac asks again. He’s looking at me like he’s actually concerned.

“No one,” I say.

“So you
lied
?” Blond Girl asks. She narrows her eyes at me, and suddenly I’m nervous. If she’s in a slightly crazy place like I was when I got my heart broken, who knows what she’s going to do. I took my rage out on Rex, but this girl might decide to turn on someone she doesn’t know. Someone like me. Someone who she’s marked as the person she could commiserate with and who then took it all away. It’s like those crazy psychos who go back and kill the boss who fired them six years ago, because they blame them for being the one who set their life on a bad course.

“I didn’t lie,” I say.

“Then who broke your heart?” Isaac asks for the third time.

“Yeah.” Blond Girl pulls out a chair and sits down. “Who broke your heart?” She reaches into Isaac’s bag of animal crackers and pulls one out. She puts it in her mouth and starts to munch away. Isaac doesn’t seem to mind. He pushes the bag
closer to her in case she wants another one, then pulls one out for himself. They both sit there, eating animal crackers and looking at me like they’re waiting for me to provide them with their entertainment for the morning.

“No one,” I say. “I mean, yes, I had a broken heart. It was this guy at my old school.”

“What happened?” Blond Girl asks.

“Shouldn’t I, like, know your name first?” I ask her. “Seeing as how you seem to be all interested in the intimate details of my life?”

She swallows the rest of her animal cracker. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m Chloe Schwimmer.” She looks like a Chloe Schwimmer, with her long, curly blond hair and small features. “And you are?”

“Kelsey Romano.”

“And I’m Isaac Brandano.”

“Oh, right,” Chloe says. “The senator’s kid. Far out.”