The Thing About the Truth (4 page)

But the minute I got kicked out of Concordia Prep, I decided to stop caring about stuff like that. I realized that it doesn’t matter what the people around me think. The only thing that matters is what the admissions boards think.

I’m just getting into a really good part of the story (and yes, by “good part” I mean sex part—it’s actually making me kind of embarrassed, if you want to know the truth. Not that I’m embarrassed by sex, but it’s kind of weird to be reading a scene like that with tons of people around you) when someone sits down next to me.

Like, right next to me. Like, way too close for comfort next to me.

The person’s leg is touching mine.

I slide down the bleachers a little bit, my eyes never leaving the page.

“What are you reading?” the person asks.

I look over, and lock eyes with the guy from this morning, Isaac Brandano. Up close he’s even cuter than he is from far away, which you’d think would be impossible. His dirty-blond
hair falls over his forehead, looking deliberately mussed. His jawline is perfectly chiseled and strong, and yet he has a tiny bit of stubble, like he didn’t shave this morning. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, but the top button is undone, and I can see a little bit of his chest. It looks hard. And tanned.

There’s a tiny scar going through his eyebrow, saving him from looking like a total pretty boy. He’s so hot that it kind of takes my breath away. Of course, I’ve probably been reading too many romance novels. Not to mention I’m sure that he’s a total shit. And guys who are total shits do not turn out to be anything but total shits. At least, not outside the pages of books.

“None of your business,” I say, and then scoot farther down on the bleachers.

He scoots after me. “Listen,” he says, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Isaac.” He puts his hand out. I ignore it. “And you are?” he tries.

“Not interested.”

“Not interested in what?”

“Going out with you.”

“I’m not . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not asking you out.”

“Then why are you talking to me?” I shut my book, using my finger to hold my place, and look up at him. “Let me guess, because you can’t stand thinking that there might be someone at your new school, or in the world, who doesn’t like you?”

“Why don’t you like me?” he asks. But he doesn’t seem upset about it. In fact, he seems almost curious. And he’s smiling.

And then I start to feel a little bit bad. Because even if he
is a jerk, I
am
being pretty mean to him. Besides, I know this really has nothing to do with him. This is all about Rex, and what happened between us, and why I allowed myself to get so wrapped up in him that I got kicked out of school. So I’m about to tell Isaac that I’m sorry, that it’s been a weird morning, and that I have nothing against him.

But before I can, he says, “Let me guess. I remind you of some guy who hurt you?”

I’m so shocked, it takes me a moment to respond.
“Excuse me?”
I ask finally.

“Some guy,” he repeats, “who hurt you. I remind you of him, right? Maybe you dated him, or maybe you just admired him from afar, never being able to work up the courage to ask him out? And now I’m here, and so you’ve decided that I’m going to be the punching bag for whatever that dude did.”

I swallow. Hard. And then I feel tears filling my eyes. I look away so he won’t see, but it must not be quick enough.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m sorry, I was just messing around with you. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“You didn’t make me upset,” I say. “But in the future, I’d really appreciate it if you just. Left. Me. Alone.” And then I get up and move a couple of rows down the bleachers. The nerve! Who does he think he is, talking to me like that? I’m glad that I didn’t apologize to him. I pretend to keep reading, but the words are getting all blurry because my eyes are still a little teary. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really in the mood to read anymore.

Isaac

I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just . . . that girl
annoys
me for some reason. The way she seems all uppity and too good for people, and yet there she was, reading a fucking romance novel.

A romance novel! In gym class! Who does that? Only people who are trying to prove that they’re way too cool, like they’re making some kind of statement about how they don’t care what people think. I mean, the cover alone. It has a picture of shoes on it. With cherries or hearts or some shit sprinkled all around.

I’m debating whether or not I care enough to follow her down the bleachers and try to apologize, or if I’m sick of her attitude, when a girl’s voice yells, “Hey!”

I turn around. It’s another girl. One with long dark hair and a tight blue sweater.

We had a dress code at all of my old schools. School uniforms, with ties for the boys and long skirts for the girls. The whole bit. The girls would get around it by hiking up their skirts as high as they could, but there was only so much you could do. Most of the time we had to wait until the weekends to be able to really see any skin.

But this chick, the one on the bleachers who’s calling my name, is just begging to be checked out. Her sweater is so tight and low cut, her boobs are practically falling out of her pushup bra.

“You’re new, right?” She’s sitting at the top of the bleachers, and she gets up and leaves her group of friends, walking down toward me.

I see that romance novel girl glance over at us with a disgusted look on her face. She probably hates this girl just because she’s in touch with her sexuality. Girls who are stuck-up and uppity hate chicks who are in touch with their sexuality. They think it’s antifeminist or something.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m new. Isaac Brandano.” I take her hand and help her down the last few steps. “And who are you?”

She giggles and sits down next to me. The bottom of her sweater hikes up a little bit as she leans in toward me, and I can see a tiny strip of back. It’s tan. And not that orange, fake tan shit that girls think is hot and makes them look like a
Jersey
Shore
wannabe. This is real tan. Suddenly I’m in love with this school. And this girl.

“I’m Marina,” she says.

“Marina?”

“I was conceived on a boat.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She leans in even closer, and I get a whiff of her perfume. “I love the water.”

Everything she says is sexy. I’m already thinking of her in a bikini, lying on the bow of my—well, my dad’s—boat, sunning herself. I glance out of the corner of my eye, over to where that girl is still reading her stupid romance novel and pretending she’s not listening to my conversation. She’s so transparent. She’s completely listening and wanting to know what’s going on.

Well, if she wants a show, I’ll give her a show.

“Me too,” I say. “I love to water-ski. Have you ever been water-skiing?”

“Yeah,” Marina says. “I have, like, the best water-skiing story. I mean, like, ever. For serious.” She stops. Doesn’t say anything else.

“What is it?” I try.

“My bikini top fell off,” she says. “And everyone saw my boobs.”

She smiles, proud of herself. Huh. You’d think this story would be hot—stories about good-looking girls’ breasts usually are—but somehow, this one falls short. I think it’s maybe
the way she just blurted it out. Where was the buildup, the story line, the enticing details?

“That
is
a good story,” I lie. Then I add, “I wish I’d been there.” That part’s true.

“Me and my friends are going to the beach this weekend,” she says. “Kind of like a last hurrah before the weather gets cold. You should come.” She wraps a lock of hair around her finger and gives me a flirty look.

“Aren’t all the beaches around here closed already?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes like she can’t even take how naive I am. “Yeah, but there are ways around that.”

I like this girl. Of course, I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble. If my dad found out I had some kind of plan to sneak onto a closed beach, he’d really hate it. In fact, he’d probably start threatening me with boarding school again. Overseas boarding school. Which is bullshit.

There’s no way I’m going to boarding school overseas. I’m all about the French and the German (accents on chicks are so hot), but I don’t want to live in Europe. No. Fucking. Way.

“Cool.” I reach into her bag, where I can see the top of her cell phone peeking out. I pull it out and tap in my number. “Text me.”

“I will.” She pushes her hair back from her face, and it seems like she’s about to say something else.

But before she can, the gym teacher yells, “Marina Ruiz!”

She rolls her eyes, takes her cell from me, and puts it back into her bag. “God,” she says, “like I need to get weighed.
Doesn’t she know that I’ve been a hundred and fifteen ever since freshman year? What a waste of time. And unless they’re going to really make sure some people lose weight, why do they even care? They need to make up their minds—weigh us once a week, like Weight Watchers, or not at all, you know?”

From a couple rows in front of us, that girl reading the romance novel snorts.

Marina turns her gaze on her and gives her a friendly smile. “I’m sorry,” she says, her tone kind of tight, “but who are you?”

“I’m Kelsey,” the girl says. She puts a big smile on her face and turns around to face us. “Sorry if I was eavesdropping. It’s just that that story about your boobs falling out was reeeeeally compelling.”

“Thanks,” Marina says, not picking up on the sarcasm. “It might have sounded interesting, but it really was totally humiliating. My dad’s friends were there. And they’re, like, old.” She shudders, probably imagining old dudes putting her in their spank banks.

“Marina Ruiz!” the gym teacher yells again. “I’m waiting!”

“Coming!” Marina yells back. But she rolls her eyes and makes no move to get up. “You’re new too, right?” she asks Kelsey.

“Yup,” Kelsey says. “It’s my first day.”

“It is?” I ask, surprised. So she
was
telling the truth when she said she didn’t know where my room was.

“You should totally come to the beach with us,” Marina
says. “Like, for real.” What? Is she crazy? Why would she invite Kelsey to the beach with us? Kelsey’s obviously not the relaxing-at-the-beach type. Marina waves her cell phone in the air. “What’s your number?”

I see the look of panic that crosses Kelsey’s face. She doesn’t want to go to the beach. She doesn’t want to be friends with this chick. In fact, she doesn’t even want to be talking to her.

She starts to shake her head, but then she catches my eye. I give her a smirk like,
“That’s what you get for trying to spy on my conversation. Now you better figure out a way out of this.”
But instead of making up an excuse, Kelsey narrows her eyes at me, and then she says to Marina, “Thanks, that’s really sweet of you to invite me. My number’s 555-0332. And the beach sounds amazing.”

“Marina Ruiz!” The gym teacher sounds like she’s about to have a coronary.

“I. Am. Coming.” Marina rolls her eyes. “Check you guys later!” And she makes her way down the bleachers.

I turn back to Kelsey. Her face is bright red, and she has her eyes back on her book.

“The beach sounds amazing?” I ask her.

“Yeah,” she says, and shrugs. “I love the beach.”

“Really? That’s great. Me too.” I get up and start down the bleachers. “So I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Yup,” she says, closing her book and putting it back in her bag. “See you there.”

Kelsey

Wow. How completely obvious was that? I mean, Isaac totally wanted me to see him flirting with that Marina girl. Like I even care! Was he trying to prove that some people think he’s God’s gift? Was he trying to
imply
that there’s something wrong with me for not falling under his spell? Ridiculous!

Of course, now I have to go to the beach with him and Marina. Which is a horrible plan. I hate the beach. I always end up with sand in my shoes and a sunburn on my nose. Plus it’s way too cold to go to the beach. It’s only September, but the temperature has been in the low sixties all week.

Oh well. I’ll just have to make up some kind of excuse. How hard can it be? I’ll just happen to have something else planned.
Maybe I’ll concoct a fake boyfriend from my old school. Kill two birds with one stone—that way Isaac won’t think he got one over on me, since he’s apparently decided I’m some kind of brokenhearted nut. Which I’m not. At least, not anymore.

The rest of the day, thank God, goes by without any more drama. No more Isaac spottings. No more crazy girls inviting me to hang out. Of course, it would have been nice to at least meet
someone
cool. I mean, I don’t talk to anyone. Mostly because no one talks to me. I guess it’s fine, because I do just want to fly under the radar, but flying under the radar with a friend or two wouldn’t be the end of the world.

When I get home, my mom and dad are sitting at the table, leafing through a catalog. My mom’s a teacher, and my dad’s a computer programmer who works from home, so they’re both around a lot in the afternoons. Which was fine when I was still at Concordia Prep. I’d get home, and we’d go out for an early dinner together, or watch whatever we’d DVR’d on TV the night before. But ever since I got kicked out of school, things have been . . . tense between me and my parents. Especially between me and my dad.