The Thing About the Truth (3 page)

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” the girl next to me says, totally butting in.

“Do either of you know where room 107 is?” He smiles, showing perfect white teeth. Real white. Not the kind of white that comes from using those whitening strips or spending hundreds
of dollars at the dentist. Rielle has that kind of teeth, along with tons of other girls at Concordia Prep.

“No,” I say firmly. I’ve gotten ahold of my hormones, so I take another sip of my latte and then turn back to the book I’m reading.

“No?” He sounds a little incredulous. I guess he’s surprised that I don’t want to help him. Obviously, he doesn’t know that I’m new and thinks I’m just being a bitch. Which I kind of like. That he thinks I’m being a bitch, I mean. It’s sort of amusing.

“No,” I repeat.

“I do,” the pink-haired girl offers. “I know where it is.”

But Isaac Brandano isn’t paying attention to her. He’s still looking at me. The only reason I’ve even remembered his name is because he has the same last name as our state senator, John Bran—Oh. My. God. No freakin’ way. Isaac Brandano is our state senator’s son!

There was all this talk on the news last night about how John Brandano was going to be sending his son to public school in order to prove that a public school education is just as good as a private school one. Of course, I doubt that’s really true. I mean, public school is—

“You don’t know where room 107 is?” Isaac Brandano’s asking me. “You have no idea?” Now his incredulousness makes even more sense. I mean, not only is he gorgeous, but he’s a senator’s son. Which means he’s used to people doing whatever he wants and falling all over themselves to help him. Now I’m doubly happy that he thinks I’m messing with him.

“No,” I say simply. “Sorry, I don’t. But I suppose that you expect me to find out for you.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t expect that, I just . . .” He looks shocked that someone would be mean to him, and for a second I feel bad. I mean, I
am
being a bitch. And if it were anyone else, I would tell him that I’m new and that’s the reason I can’t show him where the room is. And let’s face it, I’m a little on edge today, which is definitely affecting my mood.

I can’t feel too bad, though, because honestly? Probably no one’s ever been mean to him in his life. Probably he’s used to just smiling at people and having them fall in love with him and do whatever he wants, like he just did with the secretary.

I know his type. I’ve handled his type. I’m at this stupid school because of his type.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says. He’s still looking at me, and he shakes his head again like he doesn’t know what just happened, like he wants to start again. “I just—”

“I can show you where the room is,” the girl next to me says. She stands up and starts to gather up her bag.

“There you go,” I say. “See? It all worked out.” I go back to reading my book. Honestly, now I just want the both of them to go away. I need to focus on my meeting and making a good impression on my guidance counselor. Now that I’ve been kicked out of one of the best prep schools in the country, my college recommendations are going to be doubly important.

Isaac follows the pink-haired girl out into the hallway. Good riddance.

“Ms. Romano?” the secretary asks. Now that Isaac and his good looks have disappeared out the door, she’s back to being all frosty. “Mr. Lawler will see you now.”

“Thanks.” I put my book back in my bag. And then I step into my guidance counselor’s office, ready to make a good impression and take the first step toward getting my future back on track.

Isaac

This school is completely fucked up. Seriously, what the hell is going on? Is this how public school is going to be? People just being
mean
to you for no reason? That girl in the guidance office was just . . . I don’t know.

I guess I expected people to be a little rude because of who my dad is. At my old school I didn’t have to worry about that, since no one really gave a shit. Everyone’s parents were important. In fact, there were some kids who had celebrity parents.

But a lot of people get all weird about it. There are people, like that secretary back there, who fall all over themselves trying to be nice to you. And then there are people who go out of their way to show you that they’re not going to give you any
special treatment. So I knew public school would be different, but I didn’t expect to encounter it during my first minute here.

I knew I shouldn’t have worn my new sneakers today. Way too flashy.

“So, are you, like, a transfer?” The girl showing me to my homeroom is blabbering on and on, but I haven’t been listening to her because I’ve been distracted, thinking about that girl in the office.

“Yeah,” I say, looking around the hallway. “I’m a transfer.” Obviously, she hasn’t heard about me. Which is to be expected. This whole starting public school thing was a little sudden. My dad’s spinning it so that it seems as if he’s sending me to public school to make a statement about education or some shit. But the reality is I got kicked out of my last school, and I’m sort of at the end of the line when it comes to private schools. It was either here, or boarding school overseas. And when that possibility came up, I pitched a fit.

The numbers on the rooms are going down as we walk: 119, 117, 115. . . . Hell, if I had known it was going to be this easy to find my homeroom, I never would have even asked for help.

“Where’d you transfer from?” the girl’s asking.

“Hotchmann,” I say. She looks at me blankly, so I add, “It’s a boarding school in New York City.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow,” she says. “How’d you end up here?”

“My dad thought it would be a good idea.”

She nods. She still has no idea who I am, although that’s probably going to change soon.

We’re in front of the room now. “So, here we are,” she says, giving me a bright smile.

I peek inside. The desks are filled with kids sitting, chatting with friends, looking through their bags, texting on their cell phones. There’s no teacher in there yet, which is good. The last thing I need is to walk in and have some teacher make a big production out of things. I hate big productions. My life has been an endless string of big productions, and I’m over it.

I turn back to the girl with pink hair.

“Thanks for walking me,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Melissa.”

“Well, thanks, Melissa.” I give her a smile and then head into the classroom. No one looks at me, and obviously I don’t have any friends to sit with, so I pick a seat in the middle of the room, deciding that sitting not too close to the back and not too close to the front is a good idea.

As soon as I’m in my chair, the guy in front of me turns around and glares at me. Jesus Christ. People really are not too friendly around here. I might have to go public with this, start some kind of blog or some shit. Tell everyone that public schools really are subpar, that the people here are dangerous. Seriously, the first time I see a knife, I’m writing an exposé.

“That seat’s taken,” the dude ahead of me says.

“Oh, really?” I ask. “Because it doesn’t look like anyone’s sitting here.” I’m figuring this place is kind of like prison. You
have to make sure that you stand up for yourself right off the bat; otherwise these pricks will walk all over you. I put my notebook on the desk, not really able to believe that I’m staking out my territory in a suburban public school homeroom.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Who are you?” he demands.

“Isaac,” I say, deciding it’s best to leave my last name out of it.

“You’re new?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like he can accept this. “What do you play?”

“What do I play?”

“Yeah.”

“Sports or women?”

He considers. “Either.”

“Lacrosse and basketball.”

He nods again, like this, too, is acceptable. “And what about girls?”

“I play them.” It’s true. I do play them. Not in a completely jerky way. I just like to have fun. And something tells me this dude will appreciate that.

“I’m Marshall.” I’m not sure if that’s his first name or his last, but I reach out and shake the hand that he’s offering. “You should stick with me,” he says. “I’ll show you around.”

I think about it. He looks kind of like a jock meathead, but that’s probably not the worst crowd to fall in with. Not to mention that he’s the first person who’s actually been nice to me.

Actually, no. That’s not true. Melissa or whatever her name
is was nice to me. Which means that girl in the office was an exception to the rule.

Still. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Cool,” I say to Marshall. And just like that, I might have my first friend.

Kelsey

Okay, so the meeting with Mr. Lawler doesn’t exactly go so well. You get kicked out of one school, and people think you’re, like, some kind of criminal or something. Getting kicked out of a school isn’t a
crime
. I haven’t been sent to
prison
or anything.

I mean, you work your whole life for something, and then just like that, it’s gone. Your previous record means nothing. Does Mr. Lawler even care that I’ve been an honor student my whole life? Or that I’ve been involved in tons of extracurricular activities? No. He only cares about one thing. That I got kicked out of Concordia Prep.

Which really shouldn’t even be any of his business, when you think about it. This is a public school. Which means that it’s open
to the
public
. Any random person can just enroll here no questions asked. So why should they get to know all about
my
past history?

If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have told them I got kicked out of my old school. Why not just pretend I transferred? But my parents were all about telling them the truth. Which is ridiculous. It’s no one’s business but my own.

Anyway, Mr. Lawler spent all this time telling me that I needed to really make sure I stayed focused here, and that it was the end of the line for me and blah, blah, blah. If you want to know the truth, I think he was kind of getting off on being some sort of disciplinarian. It was actually slightly disturbing.

I tried to tell him that he was preaching to the choir. No one wants to do better at this school than I do. I
need
to do well. Even better than before. Otherwise there’s no way I’m going to get a scholarship to a good college. And if I don’t get a scholarship, I won’t be able to
go
to college, since my parents can’t afford to send me.

I wish I was good at sports. Girls who are good at sports are so lucky. They don’t even really have to worry about their grades. The academics standards for athletes are totally ridiculous—you have to have, like, a C average or something.

But I’m horrible at sports. I always preferred books to baseball. Or basketball. Or any kind of ball, actually.

Which is why it really sucks that I have gym first period. What kind of satanic person decided that someone should have gym first period? Actually, who decided to have gym in schools at all? I get the whole thing about physical activity, but
really, does anyone get a workout during gym class? Sigh.

I’m usually not such a negative person, I swear. It’s just that I’m really out of sorts this morning.

The good news is that since it’s the first day, we don’t have to get changed or anything.

We all just troop into the gym and up the bleachers, and sit there while the gym teacher, a young blond woman named Ms. Fitzpatrick, announces that we’re going to get our height and weight measured.

I’m stunned to realize that there are
boys
sitting on the bleachers.

“Excuse me,” I say to the girl sitting next to me. “Is this coed gym?”

She looks at me like it’s the dumbest question ever, nods, and then turns back to her friend. Huh. I’ve never had coed gym before. At my old school we had girls’ gym and boys’ gym. Nice and separate.

At least our weight isn’t going to be announced to the whole class. They’re calling us up one by one and then recording our height and weight on a form. Not that I’m embarrassed by my weight. Ever since getting kicked out of Concordia Prep, I’ve hardly been able to eat due to all the stress.

I pull open my bag (Michael Kors, very chic, which I got at this consignment shop down the street—I almost didn’t buy it because it cost two whole weeks’ allowance, but now I’m glad I did, since my parents have taken my allowance away along with everything else, so it was good that I spent it when
I had the chance) and pull out the book I’m reading, this very exciting romance by Jennifer Crusie.

I used to get embarrassed that I read romance novels, especially when everyone at my old school was reading classics and literary fiction and then getting themselves all worked up about the real meaning of
Freedom
by Jonathan Franzen and if it counted as a real literary work when its sales numbers just screamed commercial.