The Thing About the Truth Read online

  “Yes.” I nod. “I need to find out about lacrosse.” This is perfect. And it’s not even a lie. I do need to sign up for lacrosse.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Kelsey says, then looks toward the school like we’re keeping her from something super-important, not just homeroom. “I’m not signing up for a sports team.” She says “sports team” like it’s the same as joining a gang or something. “I’m having a meeting with the principal about what kind of group I can run.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s what I meant. I’m going to do that too. After the lacrosse thing.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I’m very political. You know, because of my family. I love being in charge of groups.”

  Kelsey’s not buying it.

  But fortunately, Marina is. “You guys are such do-gooders,” she says, grinning, I guess she’s relieved I don’t have a date. “Not me. I’m so not into all that stuff.” She wrinkles up her nose. “All right, well, I’ll see you later, Isaac. I’ll text you. And you better text me back this time.” She turns and walks into the school.

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding. At least she let it go pretty quickly. That’s the good thing about girls who are crazy. They have mood swings, and sometimes you get lucky enough to be on the right side of them.

  “Thanks,” I say to Kelsey, and then start walking toward the school. I go slow so that I don’t catch up with Marina.

  “Thanks?” Kelsey asks incredulously, falling into step behind me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks. You know, it’s what people say when they’re thankful?” Not my most witty retort, but enough for her to get the picture.

  “You are unbelievable,” Kelsey says. “Completely unbelievable, you know that?”

  “Why?”

  “Because! What were you just doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you were obviously planning something. Obviously, you have some kind of plot going on, some kind of . . . of scheme. Something having to do with messing with that poor girl!”

  “No, I don’t. And trust me, she’s not a poor girl.”

  She looks at me, her face doubtful. She knows I was doing something, planning something, plotting something. Which I was. But I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing what it was.

  “So you’re going to be staying after to meet with the principal, then?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You?”

  “Yes!”

  She sighs. “And what time is your meeting?”

  “What time is yours?”

  “None of your business.” She says it all bitchy, but she looks a little nervous, too. And then I get it. She’s afraid I’m going to, like, steal her club or something.

  “Are you afraid I’m going to get there before you and steal your idea or something? Because trust me, a romance novel book club is the last thing I’m interested in.”

  I’m completely joking—sort of—but she doesn’t look like she thinks it’s too funny.

  “Ugh,” she says, shaking head like she’s disgusted with me. “It figures someone like you would say something like that.”

  “Someone like me?”

  She steps away and starts walking toward the school now, I guess dismissing me. But I start following her. Her hair is swishing back and forth behind her, and for some weird reason, I have the inexplicable urge to reach out and run my fingers through it. “Someone like me?” I say again, because she’s ignoring me.

  “Yes.” She keeps walking.

  “What is someone like me?” Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. I try again. “I mean, who is someone like me? What do you mean by that?” We’re at the front door of the school now, and I reach out and open it for her.

  “Thank you,” she says, and slides inside. We’re assaulted by the sounds of kids talking and lockers slamming, and for a second I think I’ve lost her in the crowd. But then I spot her again, her hair bouncing, and I push through a group of girls to get to her.

  “So, are you going to tell me what you meant by that?” I ask. “Or do you make it a habit to insult people and then just walk away?”

  “I didn’t insult you,” she says. The halls are a little bit clearer now, and we’re able to walk next to each other.

  “You said ‘someone like you.’”

  “Yes.”

  “So that sounds like something you’d say to someone you thought had something wrong with them.”

  “Look.” She whirls around and looks at me. “All I meant was that you’re the kind of guy who thinks it’s okay to put other people down. You think you’re better than everyone else.”

  I’m shocked. Seriously. “I don’t put other people down! Just yesterday I became friends with a guy who probably has a steroid problem because I wanted to be nice!” I hope she doesn’t ask what his name is. Because I still can’t remember.

  “How noble of you.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Whatever.” I turn and start to walk away, because I don’t have to take this. I don’t even know this chick. I just met her yesterday, and now she’s going to make all these judgments about me and make me feel like shit? No, thank you. But then I feel her hand grabbing at my shirt.

  “Wait,” she says.

  I turn around. Because if I’m being completely truthful, I can’t stand the idea of someone not liking me. It’s one of my character defects.

  She bites her lip. “I’m sorry.” She really does look sorry too. “It’s just that I’m trying really hard to do well at this school. And when someone like”—I raise my eyebrows, and she sighs and then starts over—“when someone who seems like the kind of person who’s had everything handed to him walks in, it kind of makes me crazy.”

  I nod. That makes sense. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know I’m lucky. My dad’s a state senator, for God’s sake. And I have had a lot of things handed to me. My car, my trust fund. Well, not my trust fund yet. But I will when I turn twenty-one.

  “I can understand that,” I tell her. “But why is it so important that you do well here?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Well, it’s only public school. It doesn’t really count, you know?”

  Her eyes narrow, and her face pinches back up. “And that,” she says, “just proves my point about the kind of person you are.”

  And then she turns around and stomps down the hall, leaving me standing there looking after her.

  Before

  Kelsey

  Okay, so I know that I’m putting a lot of my own shit on that Isaac kid. I mean, obviously I have issues of my own that I need to work out regarding privilege and nepotism and the hierarchy of society.

  Actually, I didn’t even realize I had those kinds of issues until I went off on him in the hall. Not that what I did was that bad. I mean, I didn’t throw a book at him or anything. But I was pretty mean.

  It’s just that guys like him really make me mad. He seemed so baffled by my preconceived notions of him, and then one second later he seemed like he was agreeing with me. Which actually only kind of made things worse, because someone who agrees that they’ve gotten everything handed to them and doesn’t really care about it or appreciate it kind of sucks. And then that whole comment about it only being public school!

  Sorry, mister, but some people actually care about how they do in public school. Some people actually care about getting good grades, because they don’t have alumni parents or money or secret legacy keys or whatever else you have to have in order to get into an Ivy League school.

  Still. Even though he deserved it, I do feel a little bad. Just because he’s entitled and rude doesn’t mean that I have to stoop to his level. Not that me feeling bad probably matters to a guy like him. He’s so used to girls throwing themselves at him that I’m sure he doesn’t even register it when someone’s not. Just this morning that Marina girl was outside, trying to get him to
hang out with her. And let’s face it, that girl is hot. Perfect hair and perfect teeth and a perfect body that she squeezes into tight pants and shirts that she spills out of. She’s like walking, screaming sex.

  But the weirdest thing about my whole interaction with Isaac is that when I turned around to look back down the hall, he was standing there looking after me, and he had this kind of wounded look on his face, like I really did hurt his feelings.

  I can’t stop thinking about that look. Which is crazy. Since I hate him. And I should be glad that I hurt his feelings. Because he hurt my feelings with his comments about a romance book club. Seriously, who says things like that? Doesn’t he know that there’s been a whole slew of articles in the past few years about romance novels needing to be taken seriously? And how it’s actually very feminist to read them, because feminism is about doing what you want, and if that’s reading romance novels, then so be it? And furthermore—

  “Ms. Romano?”

  I look up. Oh. Right. I’m in math class. And judging from the look on Ms. Lee’s face, I’ve just been called on.

  “Um, could you repeat the question?” I ask.

  “Number five on the homework.”

  I scan my paper. “X equals seventeen.”

  Luckily, it’s the right answer. God! Fucking Isaac Brandano! Already messing with my day at school. I sit up and pay attention.

  • • •

  When the final bell rings, I stop off in the bathroom to reapply my lipstick and make sure that I look put together before I head into the principal’s office for my meeting with Mr. Colangelo. I need to make sure that I look responsible, like the kind of girl who can handle being in charge of an after-school club.

  I look over the list of activities that I’m thinking of proposing. (I spent my lunch period in the library again, although this time Bologna Sandwich Boy was gone. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that—good that there was no meat smell, bad that he found friends before I did.)

  Anyway, here’s my list so far:

  1. Newspaper. Apparently, the school doesn’t have one. I know, isn’t that insane? I mean, I know the printed word is on its way out, but still. From what I can tell, it got taken away when there was a round of budget cuts a few years ago. Then they got their budget back and just couldn’t find anyone to run it. So I’ll have to get a faculty adviser, which could be kind of hard since I don’t really know any faculty yet. But what better way to meet them?

  2. Debate Club. A little better than newspaper, but not by much. It’s kind of boring, and not really special enough. Still, debate has a certain cache at the Ivies. It shows you have opinions, and that you can think on your feet.

  3. LitFic Book Club. Soooo totally different from a romance novel book club! Not that there would be anything wrong with a romance novel book club, but I want to be accessible to the male students as well. Well, not me personally. Just the club. Although maybe there’s a feminist bent to the romance novel thing that could be explored here. Hmmm . . .

  4. Peer Counseling Hotline. This one’s pretty amazing because it’s so . . . I don’t know, helpful. Plus let’s face it—it’s interesting. I love hearing about people’s personal issues.

  5. Parent/Student Communication Club. I don’t really know what this would entail. Except for, like, bettering communication between parents and students. Kind of lame, but again, just the kind of thing the Ivies will love.

  I’m putting my notebook back in my bag and am about to head out into the hallway when I hear it. Crying. Coming from one of the stalls.

  I hesitate, not sure what to do. On one hand, I should probably at least ask whoever it is if they need help. I mean, what if something’s really wrong? On the other hand, I don’t want to be late for my meeting. So not the way to make a good impression on the principal, and getting Mr. Colangelo to think I’m capable and mature is an integral part of my plan.

  I stand there for a second, debating. I’m about to walk out the door, but then I think about my karma. If I don’t stop and help, my meeting probably won’t go that well. Plus I’ll be thinking about it the whole time and wondering if I left someone bleeding to death just so I could start a school newspaper.

  So I sigh, then walk over to the stall door where the crying is coming from. On it someone’s carved the words GO FUCK YOURSELF into the chipping light blue paint. Charming. That kind of shit would never fly at Concordia Prep. Every year the whole school got repainted. Not that we needed it. No one there would write that kind of thing on the walls. No one there was angry. And if they were, they knew how to deal with it—by stealing their mother’s Klonopin prescription and/or shoplifting Prada bags just for fun.

  I knock. There’s no answer from whoever’s sobbing in the stall, so I knock again. There’s a sniff, and then the crying stops.

  “Hello?” I try.

  Silence.

  “Listen, I know you’re in there. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that you’re not hurt.”

  Silence.

  “Are you? Hurt, I mean?”

  Silence.

  Geez. This person is really being kind of rude. Here I am, taking time out of my important meeting schedule to make sure they’re okay, and they’re just ignoring me.

  “Look,” I say, “can you please just tell me that you’re not beaten up or bleeding from your eyeballs or something similar? I have a huge meeting with the principal, and if I’m late, it could seriously screw things up for me.” I sound kind of harsh, which is probably why I get a response.

  “I’m not beaten up or bleeding from the eyeballs,” comes a small voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Well, um, I hope that whatever’s bothering you gets better soon.” Obviously, she doesn’t want my help, and so my work here is done.

  I’m starting to walk out of the bathroom when the door to the stall bangs open and a tiny blond girl appears. She’s wearing tight skinny jeans tucked into soft-looking brown boots, and a black cashmere sweater that dips down over the shoulder, showing a candy-apple-red bra strap. Her hair is curly and hangs all the way down to her waist.

  “It won’t get better soon!” she says, and marches over to the sink. “It’s three years of not getting better soon!” She turns the water on very forcefully, then pulls the lever on the soap dispenser, dispensing a bunch of soap into her hands. She starts rubbing them together under the running water.

  “Oh,” I say. Well. That sounds like something that’s going to take a while to work out. I mean, three years of never getting better. That’s serious. Definitely going to take a long time to figure out. A long time that I don’t have. Probably some kind of major psychological problem. Girls that gorgeous always have a complete screw loose. More reason to start a counseling hotline at this school, for sure.

  “I’m sick of it myself, even. I’m, like, bored with myself.” She’s looking at herself in the mirror now, and she reaches into her bag and pulls out a compact. She starts angrily applying foundation to her face.

  “Wow,” I say. “Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt or anything.” And I am. Glad she’s not bleeding or beat up or otherwise incapacitated. I’m slowly moving away, toward the door. I have enough of my own drama going on without getting involved in someone else’s, thank you very much.

  “Not hurt?” the girl says. “Not hurt? Does this look like the kind of face you would have if you weren’t hurt?” She points at her face. Which, while still beautiful, is streaked with tears and dripping eye makeup.

  “Well, no. But, ah, I just meant that you’re not physically hurt.”

  She turns from the mirror and stares at me. “What’s your name?”

  I swallow, not sure I want to tell her. “I’m Kelsey.”

  “Well, Kelsey, did you know that the pain of a broken heart causes the same activity in the brain as physical pain?”

  “No,” I say honestly. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, it does. There was a scientifi
c study on it and everything.” She says it like all scientific studies are totally true, when everyone knows that scientific studies are totally dependent on the special interest groups that fund them. Not to mention that science is changing on, like, a daily basis. So whatever study came out even yesterday has almost instantly become irrelevant.

  “I’ve been there,” I say, “with the broken heart thing. And so, um, I’m really sorry you’re having to go through that.” I’m starting to shuffle my feet backward, toward the door, because like I said, I don’t want to get involved in her drama. I’m searching my brain, trying to come up with something I can say to her, something that will be both poignant and helpful but also put an end to our conversation, when she slings her bag over her shoulder and pushes past me.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

  “You’re welcome for checking on you!” I yell after her. But she’s already gone.

  • • •

  When I get to the office, the secretary has me wait, like, fifteen minutes before she lets me in to see Mr. Colangelo, which makes me a little bit annoyed, because I made sure to get here exactly on time.

  And when she finally does usher me into his office, Mr. Colangelo’s on the phone. He motions for me to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk while he finishes his phone call.

  After a lot of “mmm-hmmms” he finally says goodbye to whoever it is and hangs up. Which is pretty disappointing. I mean, the first chance I get to eavesdrop on a conversation that the principal is having, and it’s not even about anything good.

  “Hello,” he says, giving me an easy smile. He looks down at my file, which is sitting open on his desk. “So, Ms. Romano, what is it I can do for you today?”

  I wonder if he had to look at my file to remember my name. If so, that’s kind of rude. Especially since he didn’t even want to take this meeting in the first place. I had to have a big conversation with the secretary this morning, where I begged and pleaded and practically promised her my firstborn. By the end she definitely hated me. I don’t understand what it is with me and secretaries. Why do they all hate me? Maybe it’s because I’m focused and kind of pushy. But it’s not my fault I know what I want.