The Thing About the Truth (16 page)

And since I like to reread really good books, I’m afraid to start reading something new. What if it’s a really good book that I want to read again sometime? And I can’t because it will always remind me of the night I spent lying awake thinking about Isaac. That’s what happened with this book by Susan Mallery that I was reading when that whole thing happened with Rex.

The book was so good, and it had the best romance ever. But I couldn’t finish it. It’s still sitting there on my shelf. I can’t read it. It’ll bring up too many memories.

At around five the sun starts to peek up over the horizon. I wish I was the kind of girl who was always going out for runs. Runs are supposedly really good for your mental state. The girls in the books I’m reading are always going out for runs really late at night or early in the morning to work out all their sexual frustration or get some guy off their minds. It always works, and they get superfit in the process, causing whatever guy they were all brokenhearted about to want them back. Of course, by then they’ve moved on to someone better.

I’ve always hated running. Too boring. And hard. I’ve tried listening to music, but even then it sucks. You can’t even turn the music up too loud, because if you do, you won’t be able to hear, and then you might get accosted by some kind of crazy attacker.

Still. As long as I’m awake and it’s technically morning, I might as well get up and do something. Maybe some homework.

I throw on a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie, then tiptoe downstairs. I brew a pot of extrastrong coffee, then grab my bag and set it down on the table. I pull out my notebook and start to make a checklist of all the work I have to do. I like to have checklists. That way, I can make a check next to each thing as I do it. It’s very satisfying.

I’m done with my list and just deciding that I should probably start with my math, since it won’t take too long, and that way I can earn a check right off the bat, when I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Someone’s coming down, and I can tell right away that it’s my dad. My mom’s usually not awake this early, but my dad sometimes is. He’ll get up early so that he can work in his office on some of his web design projects.

“Good morning,” he says to me, nodding as he walks into the kitchen. He looks at all the books spread out in front of me. “Doing some work?”

“Yes.”

He nods. He just stands there, and I just sit there, neither of us knowing what to say. Awwwk-ward.

“How’s your new club going?” he asks finally.

“Fine,” I say. I’ve been deliberately vague about Face It Down, telling my parents only that I’m working on something with the senator’s son. I just don’t want them getting all involved in it, asking me all kinds of questions, putting me on the spot. Especially because it might not work out.

“So what’s going to happen?” my dad asks. “What’s the objective?”

“Um,” I say, “well, we’re going to be inviting some students from Concordia Prep to get together and do some community building.”

He nods, then crosses the kitchen and pulls a mug down from the cabinet. He walks over to the coffee pot and then pauses. “Do you mind if I have some coffee?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “there’s a whole pot.”

He pours himself a full cup, adds milk and sugar, and then sits down at the kitchen table across from me. “And how has it been, working with Isaac Brandano?”

I think about it, trying to keep the fact that we kissed and that I’ve been up all night out of my mind. “It’s been okay,” I say. “At first I thought that maybe he wasn’t going to take anything seriously, but it seems like he’s really on board.”

“That’s great.” My dad takes a sip of coffee. “This is good,” he says.

“Thanks.”

There’s another awkward silence. “So, I heard that you hung out with Rielle last night,” he says. “That’s nice.”

“Yup.” I nod.

“Well,” my dad says, standing up, “I guess I should get to work.”

“Yeah, I should get back to work too,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to think he’s the one who’s cutting our conversation short.

But once he’s gone to his office and the kitchen is quiet, I can’t concentrate. I decide to pack it up and head to the
university library. It’s the perfect place to study—it’s within walking distance, it’s open twenty-four hours, and they never ID. They have comfy chairs, and the place is always deserted on Saturday mornings.

I used to go all the time when I was at Concordia Prep. It was like my secret little place—I never told anyone about it, even Rielle. I didn’t want any distractions, and I didn’t want anyone else going there. I was competitive like that. I used to think that everyone else was going to keep me from getting what I wanted. Kind of ironic that the one person who kept me from getting what I wanted was myself.

I pack a bag with a few Rice Krispies Treats, my school-books, my laptop, and some extra pens. I grab a thermos out of the cupboard and fill it with coffee, adding extra sugar, figuring if I keep a steady stream of caffeine pumping through my veins, it’ll combat the inevitable sugar crash.

It’s a really nice day out already, and the fresh air and the walk to the library help lift my mood. Once I’m there, I give the girl working the front desk a friendly smile. I always smile at the student workers to avoid any kind of suspicion. I mean, why would I be so smiley if I was sneaking in?

I head to my favorite table, all the way in the back of the second floor, in front of the huge picture windows that look out over Lake Swanscott. It’s peaceful and picturesque, and my favorite place to study.

But when I get to the table, someone’s already sitting there. A girl.

“Hey,” she says, looking at me like she knows me. It takes me a second to place her. That happens to me sometimes when people show up places where they shouldn’t be.

But then I figure it out. It’s Chloe. That girl from the bathroom at school. The one who kept asking me about my broken heart.

“Hi,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I come here to study.” I sit down across from her. She doesn’t have any books or anything, so I’m assuming that maybe she pulled an all-nighter and now she’s packed up her stuff and is ready to leave. In which case, I’m happy to have my table back.

“You came here to study?” she asks. “At six o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you?”

“Didn’t I what?”

“Come here to study.”

“No.” She shrugs. “I was at a party near here last night.” And that’s when I notice that she’s definitely not dressed for a study session. She’s wearing a short black skirt and a tight black shirt, her hair looks kind of wild, and her eyeliner is all smudged.

“So if you were at a party,” I ask, “then why are you at the library?”

“Because,” she says, “this is where I wait.”

She’s eyeing my coffee, and so I pull the top off the thermos,
pour some into the cup that doubles as the top, and slide it across the table toward her. She accepts it and drains it in a few long swallows. I refill the cup. But that’s all she’s getting. I mean, I haven’t slept all night. I need the caffeine.

“This is where you wait for what?” I ask her. Whatever it is, I hope it’s not going to take too long. She’s definitely cutting into my studying time. Although, when I think about it, she’s also providing a distraction from thinking about Isaac. Not that I’m having to work really hard not to think about him, la la la.

She bites her lip, and I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Is it”—I lean over the table and lower my voice to a whisper—“your drug dealer?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but I say it like I’m totally serious in an effort to get her to smile. It works.

“No,” she says, “it’s not my drug dealer.” She thinks for a second. “Although, in a way, I guess it is.”

She pulls her bag up onto the table and takes out a tiny little mirror. “Oh my God,” she says, studying her reflection. “I look horrible.”

“No, you don’t,” I say. It’s kind of true. She looks a little disheveled, yeah, and like she’s been out partying all night, but she also looks kind of sexy. Kind of . . . dangerous. If I was a guy, I’d be all over it.

“Yes, I do.” She sighs, then wipes some stray eyeliner from under her eye. She puts the mirror back in her bag, then leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, her blue
eyes boring into mine. She tilts her head to the side like she’s sizing me up, giving me some kind of test, trying to see if I’m worthy of what she’s about to tell me.

“Did you mean what you said before?” she asks.

“About what?”

“You know, the broken heart stuff.”

I nod. I thought we already went over this.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“I told you,” I say. “It means—”

She holds up her hand, silencing me. “Please,” she says. “That’s so not the whole story, and you know it. You just didn’t want to get into it because that Isaac kid was there.”

“Whatever.” I shrug, deciding not to deny it but not to admit it either. I mean, I don’t owe this girl anything.

“So what happened?” she asks. “I know it’s something scandalous.”

“What happened with your broken heart?” I counter. “I know it’s something scandalous.” I try to mimic her tone of voice.

“You first,” she says, “and then I’ll tell you mine.”

It’s the oldest trick in the book, obviously. She wants to know my secrets and gossip while reserving the right to keep hers quiet. But I think about telling her anyway. No one knows exactly what went on with me and Rex except for Rielle. And my parents. And some choice administrators and teachers at school. Even the students at Concordia Prep who think they know don’t
really
know for sure. They just speculate, start
rumors, etc. Rex knows. At least, I’m pretty sure he does. I haven’t talked to him since it happened.

I wonder if keeping it a secret is what’s giving it so much power. I mean, what happened at my old school has been the reason everything in my life is going the way it is. The reason I’m starting Face It Down. The reason things with my parents are so weird. The reason things are different with Rielle. The reason I didn’t answer my phone last night when Isaac called, which probably ended up forcing him into Marina’s arms. Not that that last one is a big deal. Isaac and I obviously weren’t going to be anything. We’re way too different. But still. Even if it was just going to be a fling, what happened with me and Rex is what’s keeping that from happening.

“Fine,” Chloe says, getting up from the table and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t even know me. I get it.” She’s acting like she’s fine with it, but her tone says she thinks I’m being a big baby. And I kind of agree with her. I mean, the stuff with Rex
happened
. Maybe the first step to getting over it is really owning it.

“Fine,” I say. “I used to go to Concordia Prep.”

“I hate that school,” she says.

“You do?”

“Yes. Bunch of stuck-up preps.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette, then plops back down in the seat across from me.

“Are you allowed to smoke that in here?” I ask. It’s rhetorical, of course. Obviously, you’re not allowed to smoke in a library.

“It’s an electric,” she says. “You know, it just blows water vapor? They can’t ban you from using them anywhere. It’s, like, the law.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if this is true, but whatever.

“Anyway,” she says, “so you used to go to that superpreppy school. Is that why you’re starting Face It Down? You want us all to realize that those jerks aren’t as jerky as we think they are?”

“Sort of. I mean, I am starting Face It Down because I used to go there. But also because I need to figure something out that’s going to look really good on my applications.” I take a deep breath. And then I say it out loud. “I got kicked out of Concordia Prep.”

She nods. “Makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Yeah,” she says. She takes a drag of her cigarette and then blows water vapor into the air. At least, I hope it’s water vapor. The last thing I need is to go home with my clothes smelling like smoke. My dad would definitely not be thrilled.

“You could tell I got kicked out?”

“Well, obviously
something
scandalous happened. You came in to school all, like, I don’t know . . . determined to make your mark. And I could tell you weren’t interested in making friends.”

I’m not sure if it’s an insult or not, and so I can’t figure out if I should be offended. “Anyway,” I say, “don’t you want to know
why
I got kicked out?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes and blows more water vapor toward the ceiling.

“I smashed my ex-boyfriend’s car.”

She sits up straight, her eyes getting wide. “No fucking way,” she says. “Like, with a bat?”

“A crowbar,” I say. “And don’t get all excited, it wasn’t his real car.” She looks disappointed, and for some reason, I don’t want her to be disappointed. I want her to be impressed with my scandalousness. So I rush on. “It was a car that he’d been working on, this electric hybrid car he was building.”