The Thing About the Truth (8 page)

I look over at Isaac. He’s slumped in his chair, the sleeves of his navy-blue shirt unbuttoned and rolled up. He’s looking at the
floor, a scowl on his face. Well. If he thinks that
I’m
going to be the one to start talking first, that
I’m
going to be the one to throw myself under the bus, then he’s wrong. He can talk if he’s so smart.

“Maybe it will help you two if I give you a recap of what happened at Face It Down Day,” Dr. Ostrander says. He pulls a piece of yellow legal paper out and sets it down in front of him. “Isaac got into a fistfight with a student from Concordia Prep. The police were called. A boy had to be taken away in an ambulance. The NBC crew recorded the whole thing, and Marina Ruiz has filed a restraining order against Kelsey.” He pulls his glasses off and sets them down on the desk. “Does either one of you want to tell me how all this happened?”

Isaac still shows no sign of moving, so I clear my throat. “Dr. Ostrander,” I say, “first let me start by apologizing on behalf of both myself and Isaac for the things that went down last week. We truly had no idea that Face It Down Day would turn into such a, ah . . .” Mess? Disaster? “. . . situation, and if we did, we certainly wouldn’t have held it.”

Next to me, Isaac snorts.

“Do you have something to say, Mr. Brandano?” Dr. Ostrander asks.

Isaac starts to shake his head, but then he catches my eye. He sits up straight. “Yes,” he says. “Actually, I do have something to say. Kelsey’s lying.”

I gasp.

“Oh?” Dr. Ostrander asks. “Do you care to elaborate on that?”

“She knew a lot about Face It Down Day that she kept secret.” Isaac shrugs. “In fact, she keeps a lot of secrets from a lot of people.”

I swallow. Because he’s right. I do keep a lot of secrets from a lot of people. “Is that true, Ms. Romano?” Dr. Ostrander asks. And he’s not saying it like he’s curious. He’s saying it like,
“If that’s true, then maybe you’re the one to blame for this whole mess.”

I think about lying, but honestly, at this point I’ve lied enough. It’s over. They’re probably going to kick me out of Concordia Public, too, and then I’ll really never get into college. Forget the Ivy League, I’ll be lucky to get into a state school.

“Yes,” I say, looking down at my hands. “It’s true.”

Dr. Ostrander sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks toward the ceiling and rubs his eyes like he can’t believe he’s dealing with this. I kind of don’t blame him. I mean, the man has a PhD in education, which probably means tons of horribly boring classes and hours and hours of studying, and where has it gotten him? Here, dealing with our teen drama.

“Okay,” he says finally, looking at us. “Start at the beginning. And tell me how this happened.”

Isaac

So, the look on Kelsey’s face when I pulled out that notebook? Yeah, that was pretty priceless. I don’t even know how I come up with this shit. I just do. It’s like some kind of underrated talent. I also don’t know why it was so important to me that I show her there’s more to me than she thinks. But it was.

And so what if there was really nothing in that notebook? She doesn’t need to know that. The important part is that I did come up with the idea myself. For Face It Down Day. And I did design and print out the paper that said “Face It Down” on the printer in the library and then tape it on my notebook. It took forever to get the font size right. And then it took even longer to tape it down because I was trying to get the corners perfect.
I had the feeling that would be something Kelsey would really notice—perfectly taped corners.

To be fair, I didn’t come up with the idea
completely
on my own. I was Googling around, and it turns out that a lot of schools have similar clubs. It seemed perfect since there’s always been this weird competition between Concordia Prep and Concordia Public. Of course, I have no idea how to implement any of the things I was saying to Mr. Colangelo about facilitating communication and understanding and all that other bullshit. But I’ll bet that Kelsey does.

Not that she seems like it right now.

At the moment she’s stomping down the hall in front of me. The school’s pretty empty since most people have gone home for the day, and the kids who haven’t are over on the other side of the school near the gym.

She glances over her shoulder and glares at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She ignores me. But then her desire to yell at me must take over, because she turns around and says, “What’s wrong?
What’s wrong?
You came into my meeting and crashed it, you’re completely taking over, and you’re asking me
what’s wrong
?” She throws her arms up in the air in exasperation, and her face is getting all flushed. She looks pretty adorable, actually.

“Taking over? No, I’m not,” I say, even though I kind of am. But doesn’t she get that I want her to work with me?

“Then what would you call it?”

“Helping?” I try.

She throws me another glare, then turns around and starts to stomp down the hall again. She’s wearing these very high, very uncomfortable-looking shoes. I don’t get why girls wear those things. I get that they look good, but not enough to risk breaking your ankle or developing some kind of hip problem.

As she goes her heel twists, and she almost falls. And then I start to feel bad. This obviously means a lot to her, and I’ve gone and messed with it just because I wanted to prove a point. I don’t want her getting so upset that she’s stumbling all over the place.

“Hey,” I say, running to catch up with her. She’s walking faster now, facing straight ahead. “Wait a second.” I step in front of her, and she tries to push past me.

“Move,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes meet mine, challenging.

“I shouldn’t have crashed your meeting,” I say honestly. “I’m sorry.”

She does a double take, like she can’t believe I’m actually apologizing to her. She’s not the only one. I don’t usually apologize. To anyone. Ever. “You are?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have hijacked your meeting.”

“Then why did you do it?”

I wonder if I can come up with a good excuse, something I can tell her that won’t make her think I’m a complete loser. But then I think, ah, fuck it, and I just decide to go for the truth. And the truth is, it isn’t all because of Kelsey. “Well,” I say, sighing, “part of it is that I didn’t like that you thought I
was the type of person who just got everything handed to him. And the other part of it has to do with my dad.”

Her face softens. For the first time, I realize how pretty she is. Don’t get me wrong. I always knew she was attractive, and she looked really cute when she was yelling at me. But Kelsey is, like, really, really pretty. Perfect skin. Light brown hair. Blue eyes. A few freckles that she doesn’t try to cover up with a ton of makeup.

“What about him?” she asks.

“Well,” I say, “he’s always . . .”

A burst of noise comes from farther down the hall, and a couple of guys dressed in football jerseys come pushing their way toward us, jostling each other as they go.

I stop talking. And then, for some reason, before I even know what I’m doing, I’m leaning in close to Kelsey. I can smell her perfume, something that smells fruity and sweet, and her hair smells amazing too. “Do you want to get out of here?” I ask.

“With
you
?” She seems shocked.

“Yeah.” I grin. “Let me buy you something to eat. You do eat, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I eat.”

“Then come on. I’ll buy you dinner. And then I can explain.” She hesitates. I step back and lean down a little, looking into her eyes. “Please?”

She bites her lip, thinking about it. And then, finally, she nods.

Kelsey

Isaac takes me to the bowling alley. The bowling alley! He asks to take me out to dinner, and then he takes me to a
bowling alley
. It’s my own fault, really. Why did I agree to go out with him? He crashed my meeting, and he’s obviously a total jerk. But he got to me for a second with that whole thing about his dad. I’m a bleeding heart when it comes to dysfunctional dad relationships.

“The bowling alley?” I ask as we pull in. I look at the Games ’n’ Lanes sign doubtfully. The white paint is dirty, and the stick-on letters are starting to peel.

“Yup,” he says, turning off the car. Seeing him here somehow doesn’t compute. He’s just so perfectly groomed and,
well . . .
hot
. Not to mention his car is a supershiny black BMW. His whole vibe just seems out of place here.

“I thought you said we were going to get something to eat,” I say. I look out the windshield as two guys with huge beer bellies and dirty T-shirts disappear through the front doors.

“We are,” he says. “They have the best fries in town.” He looks at me. “Don’t tell me you’re a food snob.”

“I’m not a food snob,” I say haughtily. “
You’re
the one who . . .” I’m about to tell him he’s the one who’s a snob, but he’s out of the car now. I sit there for a minute, debating whether or not I should just tell him to take me home. I don’t even know why I’m here.

But then he’s at my side of the car, and he’s opening my door for me. Which, let’s face it, is kind of cute. Besides, I’m already here. And if I tell him to take me home, who knows what kind of stunt he’ll try to pull with this whole Face It Down Day thing. I have to stay on his good side now that we’re going to be working together.

So I step out of the car and head into the bowling alley.

•  •  •

The restaurant in the bowling alley is called Strikes, and it’s actually surprisingly cozy, with big oak tables and comfy, oversize brown chairs. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, and it’s tuned to ESPN, where they’re showing a Red Sox game.

“I always sit here,” Isaac says, leading me over to a table in the corner with a view of the lanes. The two guys I saw come in a couple of minutes ago are plugging their names into a console
on lane eleven, and their names flash on the scoreboard. One’s named Butch. The other’s named Harry. It’s very fitting.

A few seconds after we sit down, a waitress comes over to take our order. She’s older, probably in her fifties, with close-cropped ash-blond hair and bright pink lipstick.

“Isaac!” she says, grabbing him by the face and kissing him on both cheeks. She leaves a lipstick mark, which Isaac, surprisingly, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, Irene,” Isaac says, grinning while Irene wipes the lipstick off his face with her thumb. “How’s it going?”

“Don’t ‘how’s it going’ me, mister,” she says, and wags one acrylic-nailed finger at him. “I haven’t seen you in here for ages.”

“Yeah.” Isaac shifts on his seat and kind of looks uncomfortable. “I’ve been busy.”

“I heard,” she says, clucking her tongue at him. “Had to start a new school, did you?”

“Yeah.” They exchange a look, and I wonder why she cares that Isaac’s starting a new school. Everyone knows it’s because his dad wanted to prove some big point about how the public schools are just as good as the private, don’t they? Unless there’s something else going on. Something more scandalous. Does Isaac have a secret? A potential secret and/or nefarious past definitely makes him a little more interesting. But not much. Being a pompous jerk totally trumps any hidden scandals.

“Who’s this?” Irene asks. She looks at me suspiciously, her eyes traveling up and down my whole body. I feel like I’m under a microscope, and I smooth my hair self-consciously.

“This is Kelsey,” Isaac says. “My friend from school.”

“Your
friend
from school? From Concordia Public?” She’s looking at me skeptically, and she puts emphasis on the word “friend” like she can’t believe anyone would ever be just friends with Isaac. Which makes me wonder how many other girls he’s brought here. Probably lots. Probably they all looked like Marina. Although the thought of Marina in a bowling alley is pretty hilarious.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, giving Irene a smile.

“Mmm-hmm.” She disappears without saying it back or taking our order.

“She didn’t take our order,” I say. So far? Not so impressed with this place. Yes, it’s cozy. But the service leaves something to be desired, for sure. Talk about impolite.

“She doesn’t have to take our order,” Isaac says. He reaches for the bowl of popcorn Irene placed on our table before she disappeared and pops a handful into his mouth.

I look around, pretending to take in the surroundings. “But isn’t this a restaurant?”

“Yes,” Isaac says, “but she already knows what we want.” He glances at the television. “Hmm,” he says, “I wonder if they’ll switch it to the lacrosse game.”

“You ordered for us?” I ask.

“No,” Isaac says, “Irene just knows what we want. You’ll see. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Ha!” I laugh at the absurdity of it. And yet, for some reason, I’m here, sitting in the bowling alley, munching
on popcorn, and watching while a guy named Butch bowls a strike and then shakes his butt in the middle of the lane.