The Thing About the Truth (23 page)

I shake my head. “That’s not . . . that’s not what I said. I told Rielle that I didn’t want anyone there who was going to cause drama. But I didn’t try to control the list of people who were coming.”

“You’re lying,” Isaac says. “And honestly, I’m sick of going over this again and again and again.”

“I’m sorry if we’re wasting your precious time, Mr. Brandano,” Dr. Ostrander says. “But we’re trying to get to the bottom of this whole situation, of why things happened the way they did.”

“All right,” Isaac says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to do this. But I can save us all a lot of time and tell you exactly why all of it happened.”

My heart stops.

Dr. Ostrander frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Isaac says, his voice raised, “that we don’t have
to have this big conversation about everything. I’m over it.” He sighs. “If you want to know what happened, I’ll tell you.”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and for a second, I pray that he’s not going to tell Dr. Ostrander what actually did happen, the real reason shit just completely and totally blew up yesterday, the real lie I told that had nothing to do with people being on the list or not.

“If you want to know the truth,” he says, leaning forward like he’s getting ready to tell a really good story, “it has to do with Kelsey. And the biggest lie of all.”

And that’s when I realize the thing about the truth. It always comes out, no matter what you do.

Isaac

If I want to have Kelsey, Chloe, and Marshall over, I’m going to have to smooth things over with my dad. He’s still pissed at me for taking my car out the other night.

The one good thing about my dad is that he’ll forgive pretty easily. (Notice I didn’t say “forget.” He never forgets. The dude has an opinion of me that goes back years. I’m actually not even sure if he just decided when I was born that I was a complete fuckup, or if I just did a bunch of stuff when I was younger that he can’t get over.)

The hard part is what you have to go through to get that forgiveness. You have to listen to him lecture you. You have to listen to him saying shit that’s really not that nice. You have to
let him feel like he’s imparted some big lesson to you. It makes him feel good about himself, and my dad loves to feel good about himself. He kind of gets off on it.

Which is why I usually never ask him for forgiveness. I don’t want to have to go and listen to all that. I would rather have him mad at me. I just don’t give a shit.

But I told Chloe I could have people over here, and then I said that maybe we could even get a picture with my dad, and I saw Kelsey’s face light up when I said that, and I want Kelsey to be happy, and part of that involves dealing with my dad.

I knock on his office door, and when he calls me in, I stand in front of his desk.

“Hey,” I say, “I want to have some people over here on Friday to work on Face It Down Day. Is that okay?”

My dad leans back in his big mahogany chair, relishing this. He loves when I have to come and ask him for something. It’s another thing he gets off on.

“Well, I don’t know, Isaac,” he says. “You haven’t really been acting like someone who deserves to have people over.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I look down at the floor like I can’t even believe how horrible my behavior has been.

“Yes, well, I don’t know if sorry is going to cut it this time. You’re sorry a lot. And sometimes that’s not good enough. Sometimes we need consequences for our actions.”

“So you’re not going to let me have them over?”

His phone starts to ring, saving me from some big lecture. “Mow the lawn,” he says, “and then I’ll consider it.”

“Okay,” I say, even though we have landscapers who do all that stuff. “Also, if you could stop by, maybe take a picture with us, that would be great.”

“Oh?” He looks up, his hand on his phone. God, he loves this shit so much. It’s making me really kind of hate him. “Well, I suppose I could do that.” He’s pretending like it’s some kind of big imposition.

“Great.” I start to walk toward the door.

“Isaac?” he calls after me.

“Yeah?” I turn around.

He looks at me like he’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head. “Nothing.” He turns away from me and answers his phone.

Yeah. That’s what I thought.

•  •  •

On Friday, Kelsey gets to my house before anyone else.

“So, we need to come up with the questions we’re going to be asking and the things we want to talk about on Face It Down Day,” she says.

“We have to do that
now
?” We’re on the couch in my family room, and no one’s home. My dad assured me he would be here at four for the photo op, but that’s not for another hour, and everyone else isn’t going to be here until around then too. “I can think of other, better things we can do.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her down on top of me, kissing her neck. God, she smells good.

“No.” She giggles, and disentangles herself from me. “We
need to go over this stuff so that we have something to show your dad when he gets here.”

I look at her blankly. “If you think my dad is going to give a shit about the questions we come up with, you’re wrong. He’s going to take some pictures, hope they get picked up on some news outlet or website, and then he’s going to leave.”

“I know,” she says. “But we have to at least pretend, don’t we?”

“No,” I say. “Pretending is stupid.” I try to kiss her again, but she pushes me away.

“Okay, okay,” I grumble, and sit up. I reach over and pick up a chip from the bowl on the coffee table. When my mom found out I was having friends over, she made the housekeeper put together a tray of snacks for us, which she left in the refrigerator. Technically, no one’s here yet, but I’m hungry. So I pulled out the thing of snacks. Of course, the chips are cold, which is kind of weird. But my mom must have figured I was too lazy to open up a bag of chips and put them in a bowl.

“So what should we ask about?” Kelsey asks, her pen poised over her notebook.

“Sex.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Sex is universal. Everyone is worried about it.”

“I don’t know.” She reaches over and grabs a cracker. “I mean, isn’t that a little racy for something like this?”

“You don’t want to push the envelope?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I want to play it safe.”

“Well, then maybe we should talk about—”

The doorbell rings.

“Ohmigod,” she says, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. “That’s not your dad, is it?”

“Why would my dad be ringing the doorbell at his own house?” I ask. She relaxes. “It’s probably one of our friends getting here early.”

I cross the room and peer out the front windows. Marshall’s standing on the porch holding a big package wrapped in foil. Hmmm.

“What do you know about Marshall?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Kelsey comes over to the window, and we watch as Marshall picks up one side of the foil-wrapped package and peeks under it, then pats the foil back down. He rings the doorbell again.

“I mean, do we know anything about his political beliefs?” I ask, giving her a mock serious look. “He’s standing out there holding some kind of mysterious package, so I just want to make sure that—”

Kelsey laughs. “He’s not dangerous,” he says.

The doorbell rings for the third time.

“Okay, okay,” I say, shaking my head and walking toward the front hall. Geez. Doesn’t this dude know it’s impolite to ring the doorbell more than once?

“Yo, what took you so long?” he asks when I open the door. He walks into the front hallway without waiting to be invited in.

“Come on in,” I say sarcastically, shutting the door behind him.

“Here,” he says, shoving the package into my hands. Although, now that it’s in my hands, I can see it’s not a package. It’s a plate covered in foil.

“It’s a chocolate sheet cake,” Marshall says, ruining the suspense. “I made it myself. Well, not from scratch. Used a mix. Betty Crocker.” He must mistake my incredulous look as surprise at the fact that he made a cake out of a mix, not that he made a cake at all, because then he says, “What? It’s just as good.” He sounds all defensive.

“Why are you here so early?” I ask. “And why did you make a cake? I mean, not to be a dick, but—”

“No, it’s fine.” Then he sighs like he can’t believe he’s being forced to explain himself. “I got here early so I could see if you needed help with anything,” he says. “And I brought a cake because it’s polite to bring something when you’re invited over to someone’s house, Isaac.”

Apparently, now he’s all up on decorum, despite the fact that he rang my doorbell three times. He’s also obviously crazy. But whatever. “Fine,” I say, looking at the huge cake doubtfully. “Let’s take this into the kitchen.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m starving.” He follows me into the family room. “Hey, Kels,” he says when he sees her. Kels?

“Hey, Marsh,” she says, obviously not caring that he’s shortened her name. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.” He shrugs. “Brought a cake.”

“Great,” she says. “I love cake.”

I usually love cake too, but not when it comes at the expense of making out with my girlfriend.

“Isaac’s going to slice it up,” Marshall reports.

“I am?”

“Yeah.” He looks at me, confused. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Not for this cake. “Well, shouldn’t we wait until—”

“Sounds perfect,” Kelsey says, standing up from the couch. “I could use a break.”

“Okay,” I say, “I guess we’re having cake now.”

“And milk,” Marshall says. He walks into the kitchen and sits down at our breakfast bar.

“Duh,” Kelsey says, pulling it out of the refrigerator. She grabs a few glasses from the cupboard overhead.

“I guess we’re having cake and milk,” I say. I take a knife out of the drawer and pull the foil back. “Jesus,” I say, “what the fuck happened to this cake?”

“What?” Marshall screeches, running over and looking at it. “Oh, yeah. It got a little smushed.”

“A little smushed?” I ask. “That shit does not look just a little smushed.” One whole side of the cake is pushed down, almost to the plate.

“Well, it fell a little while it was cooking,” Marshall says. “And then when I was bringing it over here, it got jostled in the car.”

“How come the frosting’s all runny?” I ask, peering down at it. I’m starting to think it might not be the best idea to eat
this. Who knows what kind of infectious diseases are lurking in there?

“I had to put the frosting on before the cake cooled,” Marshall says, “because I didn’t want to be late.”

I look at the clock on the microwave. “You’re an hour early.”

“See?” Marshall says, grinning. “My haste paid off. I made it.”

“I’m sure it tastes delicious,” Kelsey says. She has plates out now, and she sets them on the counter, waiting for me to cut the cake. I have to admit that I kind of like having her here in my kitchen, taking care of things. It’s like we’re married or something. I’ve never felt that way about a girl before. The only thing that’s messing up this whole scenario is that Marshall’s here. And, of course, that this cake looks like something you’d see on one of those reality cooking shows where everything goes horribly wrong.

My dad walks into the kitchen then, ruining my little domestic fantasy even more.

“Hello, everyone,” he says. He nods at me. “Isaac.”

“Hi,” I say. “This is Marshall. And you remember Kelsey.”

“Hello,” my dad says again, all smiles. He puts his briefcase down on the counter. “Isaac tells me you’re all working on a new group for school?”

“Face It Down,” Marshall reports. He leans over and picks the knife up off the counter and cuts a huge piece of cake. He slides it onto his plate and then licks a stray bit of frosting off his finger. Kelsey looks appalled.

“Yes,” she says, a little too loud, I guess so that she can try and distract my dad from Marshall’s bad table manners. “Isaac and I were just going over some questions we’re planning to ask the students from Concordia Prep.”

“Sounds great,” my dad says. “I’d love to take some pictures for the school newspaper if you need them.”

I roll my eyes. It’s so typical of my dad, trying to pretend like he’s doing us some big favor. Which, technically, I guess he is. But you can bet those pictures are somehow going to end up on his website or in the local newspaper. My dad doesn’t pose for any photos that aren’t going to further his political agenda.

“That sounds great,” Kelsey breathes. How can she be taken in by this? Doesn’t she remember the first day of school, when she was so mean to me just because she thought I was a stuck-up jerk? Can’t she see that my dad actually
is
a stuck-up jerk?

“Should we do it now?” my dad asks. “We could set up around the table.”

Obviously, he has somewhere to be.