Four Truths and a Lie Page 5

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Why not?”

  “Wow, you must really want to get ahead on everything,” she says. She sounds impressed. “Usually people don’t start pulling all-nighters until at least the second week.”

  All-nighters? Who said anything about an all-nighter? And more importantly, why would someone stay up all night studying? I love staying up all night, but only to watch late movies, or to do something I can’t get away with during the day.

  “Yeah, well,” I say, hoping I sound smart, and not like I just spent the afternoon sleeping in my bed.

  “Let me grab my stuff.” She scrambles out from under the steps, and returns two minutes later carrying the most enormous bookbag I’ve ever seen. It’s red and has wheels on the bottom—it looks kind of like the suitcase my dad takes when he goes on business trips.

  “What are all those books?” I ask her, hoping I don’t sound like I’m panicking.

  “Supplementals,” she says.

  “Oh, right.” What are supplementals? Never heard of ’em. I roll my eyes like I just forgot what supplementals were for a second. A slip of the mind, la la la. “I just haven’t gotten mine yet.”

  She gives me a weird look. And that’s when I see it. The tip of Match Me if You Can sticking out of her bag. “Hey!” I say. “You like romance books.”

  “Oh, not really.” Her face flushes and she pushes the book back down, but it’s too late.

  “Amber,” I say. “I know that flush. I’ve had that flush.” I reach into her bag and pull the book out, running my hand along the spine. “I love this one!”

  “Oh, me too!” she says. “Have you read the sequel?”

  “Not yet.”

  She pulls another book out of her bag and hands it to me. “It’s really good.”

  “Thanks.” I put it in my bag for later. Not that I’m going to have too much time for pleasure reading with all this homework, not to mention my nap schedule. But still. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Is Crissa always so …” Hmm. What’s the right word? Mean? Stuck-up? Conceited?

  “Type A?” Amber tries carefully.

  “Yes!” I say. “Type A.” Type A is good. Very neutral-sounding.

  “Well,” she says, as we wheel through the dorm and out the door toward the library. “Not really. I mean, she’s always been super driven and all that, but this year it’s been worse.” She leans in close to me, her bag bumping me in the knee, and lowers her voice. “She had a breakup.”

  “A breakup?” I try to keep the interest out of my voice as we walk across campus to McGinty Hall, where the library is. The air’s gotten a little cold, and I quicken my pace and keep my head down.

  “Yeah.” Amber’s wheelie bag bumps over the pavement, the wheels screeching as it goes. “She was dating this guy James, from BAB, for like, all of last year. Their families are really good friends, she’s known him since she was a little kid. And then over the summer, she breaks up with him. Supposedly she was heartbroken.”

  “BAB?” What’s a BAB?

  “Brookline Academy for Boys.” Oh. Right.

  “Why would she be upset about it if she broke up with him?”

  “I dunno.” Amber shrugs. “I guess it’s just traumatic, you know? Plus their families are super close, and so she’s always going to have to see him at, like, family parties and stuff.”

  “Her family has parties? I met her mom for a second, and she definitely didn’t seem like the partying type.” I try to picture Mrs. Bacon partying, and I giggle. Although my dad used to wear totally stuffy suits to work, looking all professional, and then sometimes, when my mom would be out for the night, he’d let me put on whatever music I wanted, and we’d dance around the kitchen while we made fajitas. It was the only thing my dad knew how to make. Thinking about those little dinner dance parties makes a lump come up in my throat, and I swallow around it.

  “I was just using that as an example,” Amber says. “I just meant she’d probably see him at random family events. And you’re right about her mom, she’s kind of a nightmare.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s wicked demanding. She used to come down here a lot last year, just show up unannounced and sit in on Crissa’s classes and stuff, make sure she was doing okay.”

  “Jeez,” I say. “And the school let her do that?”

  “Yeah,” Amber says. “Mrs. Bacon’s on the board, they pretty much let her do whatever she wants.”

  “Wow,” I say, pulling open the huge doors of the library. The warm air feels good on my face. “That sucks. So you think Crissa’s still upset about the breakup?”

  “Yeah,” Amber says. “It was kind of this big deal, since she was the first one to have any kind of real boyfriend, you know?” We find a table in the back of the room and sit down. Amber starts pulling her books out of her bag, covering the table in a rainbow of pages. “Anyway, she’s always been really driven, but now I think she’s even more so. Like she’s trying to prove to herself that she’s okay and that she can accomplish anything she wants. You know, without a guy. Plus I think her mom’s putting even more pressure on her this year, since we start high school next year.”

  “Well, that’s all well and good, women’s power and all that, but maybe she should just find another boyfriend. Or at least stop taking it out on her roommate.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” she says. “She just needs to get used to you a little more. Her and her old roommate, Marissa? They were completely inseparable. Crissa was freaking out when she moved.”

  We spend the next two hours in the library, working on our homework. Well, I work on my homework. Amber works on reading ahead in our textbooks, writes in her journal, and works a lot out of her supplementals. Apparently “supplementals” are just what they sound like: books in addition to the books we already have. She also helps me with my math worksheet (which I guess is kind of like my own supplemental, since no one else has to do it, right?), which is really nice of her, especially since I’m not the fastest learner.

  Recap of Amber helping me with my math worksheet:

  Me: Oh, I get it! I just multiply this, and then … (Writes down answer with mechanical pencil)

  Amber: Right! Oh, except three times eight is twenty-four, not twenty-seven.

  Me: Oh. Oopsies. (Erases answer) And now for this one … (scratches in answer)

  Amber: Well, no, you have to divide first.

  Me: Right. (Erases. Hole appears in page) There we go!

  Amber: See? Easy as pie.

  Repeat process thirty times, creating thirty holes in paper and using up all erasers from mechanical pencils.

  “Anyway,” I say when we’re finished. It’s eleven o’clock, but I don’t feel tired. Maybe it’s the nap I took earlier, or maybe I’m just wired from the thrill of getting all my work done. “Thanks for coming to the library with me. And thank you so much for helping me with that.”

  “No problem,” she says.

  “I wish there was a way I could pay you back.” And then I have an idea. “Hey, Amber,” I say. “Do you know what Kiehl’s are?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say the next morning, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m getting enough sleep.” This, of course, is not true. Amber and I were up until two in the morning, down in the bathroom, doing makeovers! And the thing is, Amber actually liked getting made over! We did facials, and then I straightened and curled Amber’s hair, and put lipstick on her. Then she did the same to me (she had some idea in her head that makeovers mean you do them to each other, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that usually you leave the making over to the person who’s an expert.) She wasn’t too good with the eyeliner. She kept poking me in the eye, but whatev. Also the makeup she used kind of made me look like a clown, but it didn’t matter since it was so late. I just washed it off and went to sleep. Amber decided not to, and kept hers on. I tried to tell her it was a horrible idea, not washing off t
he makeup, since she was going to wake up all broken out, but she didn’t listen. She said she’d never looked that good in her life, and she was going to keep it going as long as possible. For a second I was afraid she was going to have me snap a picture of her with my digital camera (“My dad loves getting pictures of me in the packages I send to him!”), but she didn’t.

  “What time did you go to bed last night?” my mom presses. I push the phone to my ear and study my reflection in the full-length mirror on our wall.

  “Um, eleven o’clock?” I try.

  “Scarlett!”

  “What?”

  “You know you need at least nine hours of sleep to function.”

  This is true. But since I took a nap yesterday, I suppose it all adds up. “I’ll do better,” I promise.

  “Okay,” she says. “What else is going on?”

  I wonder if I should mention my trouble in math and the weirdness with my roommate to my mom. I don’t want her to worry. I know it’s normal for most moms to worry, but my mom is the worst. She worries about everything, even more so since all the stuff happened with my dad. “Not much,” I say. I glance in the mirror and adjust the headband on my head. I actually woke up early today, even though I was up so late. Crissa was nowhere to be found when I got up. Probably getting a jump start on studying. Or making up new soccer cheers to annoy me with.

  “How were your classes?”

  “Fine.” It’s not really a lie. I’m sure they will be fine once I get used to the pace. That’s what it says in all the brochures anyway. “Although the transition to Brookline academics may be difficult for some, most girls will eventually adjust to the pace.” “Look,” I say. “I have to go, or I’m going to be late for class.” If my mom stays on the phone too long, she’s going to start asking me a bunch of questions about my dad. I think of that e-mail sitting in my in-box, the one I deleted without answering, and I push it out of my head.

  “Okay,” my mom says. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I grab my bag and head for Howser, the academic building where all my classes are held. I skipped breakfast this morning, so I’d have more time to get ready, and so I wouldn’t have to deal with any potential “who do I sit with?” weirdness. I know Amber and I hung out last night, but that doesn’t mean we’re friends and I can go traipsing over to her breakfast table. Does it? I’m not sure. How many times do you have to hang with someone before you are friends? I haven’t had to make new friends in a while. It’s all horribly complicated.

  The sun is bright, and the trees framing the sidewalk rustle in the early morning breeze as I walk to class. There’s a little bit of a chill in the air, and I pull my sweater tighter around me and inhale the fresh air as I walk.

  “Scarlett!” someone behind me yells.

  I turn around to see Amber running toward me, her long legs tumbling over and over as she tries to catch up.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I looked for you at breakfast,” she says, falling into step beside me. “But you weren’t there.” She shifts the handle of her huge red backpack to her other hand.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was calling my mom so I skipped it.” Yay! I have a friend! A friend who comes to find me in the mornings so we can walk to class together! I’m so thankful that at first I don’t realize Amber is still wearing her makeup from last night. But on closer inspection, I see that Amber is not only wearing her makeup from last night, but it is very obvious that she slept in it as well. Her eye shadow is smudged, her lips are lined but the gloss has worn off, and her hair, which was curled to perfection just a few hours ago, now has the look of someone who’s slept on their hairsprayed hair. Not a good look for anyone.

  “Um, Amber,” I say slowly. “Have you looked in a mirror this morning?”

  “Yes,” she says, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m a little nervous.” She bites her lip, then leans in close to me. “What if people don’t recognize me?” I must have a blank look on my face, because she goes on. “You know, because I look so different?”

  “Right,” I say. “Well, um, the thing is …”

  “I mean, I know I’m not gorgeous or anything. But I definitely think I’m at least above average.”

  Oh, Lord. Amber thinks she’s cute. Which, um, she is. Or was. Is. But since she’s slept on her new look, she looks … a mess. There’s only one way to handle this.

  “Hey,” I say. “Why don’t we stop back at the dorm, and we’ll give you a touch-up.”

  She glances at her watch. “I don’t know,” she says. “We only have a couple of minutes to get to English.”

  “We’ll make it,” I assure her, even though I’m not totally sure. But showing up to English a few minutes late is certainly better than showing up looking like a clown.

  We head into the dorm while everyone is coming back out, their backpacks flying as they head over to Howser for classes. Going against the flow of traffic is not that easy. Ow. A girl steps on my foot, and I get bonked in the head with someone else’s backpack.

  Once we’re in my room (a little banged up, but otherwise intact), I pull out my makeup kit, touch up her lips, her eyes, and then curl her hair around my big round brush. Not perfect, but it’ll do.

  “Better?” she asks, pursing her lips.

  “Much.”

  We get to English thirty seconds late. “So nice of you girls to join us,” Miss Cardanelli says. She doesn’t seem mad, though, but more like she’s scolding us because she has to.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “It was my fault. I was on a phone call, and I didn’t realize how late it was getting, and I made Amber late too.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” she says.

  We head to our seats. The whole class is staring at us. Jeez. Haven’t they ever seen someone be late before? At my old school, kids were late all the time. Sometimes they even (shock, gasp) skipped class. Then I realize they’re not staring at me, they’re staring at Amber. And then I realize they’re not staring at Amber because she’s late, but because of her makeover.

  I hear someone next to me whisper, “Hey, Amber looks like Miley Cyrus!” And then Crissa whispers to Rachel, “Why the heck would she do that to herself? She looks ridiculous.” I smile as I slide into my seat and pull out my books. Crissa’s jealous.

  After class, everyone crowds around Amber, asking her about her new look. And when she tells them I’m responsible, girls keep coming up to me all day, asking where I learned how to make people over, and if I could do it to them. One girl even asked how much I charged! And someone else said I should do makeovers for magazines, like when they have before-and-afters. Then, in math, Mrs. Walker says my review sheet “looks good.” Of course, she doesn’t know it took me hours and that Amber had to explain everything to me a million times, but still.

  I’m so excited about my day that I’m not even that upset when basketball practice rolls around. We’re supposed to be meeting in “Gym A”, wherever that is, at three o’clock. Why do the gyms need letters? And why do they need more than one gym for such a small school? I’m exhausted from being up so late, and the thought of running around and trying to get a ball into a hoop totally doesn’t appeal to me, but hopefully it will be one of those things where there’s, like, seventeen really good basketball players, and I just kind of blend into the woodwork.

  “Hey,” I say to Coach Crazy when I get there. She’s standing in the middle of the gym, surrounded by five girls in basketball shorts. I guess the rest of the team isn’t here yet.

  “Who are you?” she asks, peering at me over her glasses.

  “Um, I’m Scarlett Northon.” She blinks at me. “I’m on the team.” How can she not remember me? She practically begged me to join. She was like my own little basketball stalker.

  “You weren’t here yesterday,” she barks. I see one of the girls behind her, a verrry tall girl with short brown hair, smirk and elbow the one next to her.

  “Um, I know,” I say. “
I accidentally missed practice.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought it started today for some reason.” I shrug. “I’m new.” No need to tell her I was cuddled up in my bed, taking a nice snooze.

  Coach Crazy checks her clipboard. “Right, right,” she says. “Here you are, Scarlett Northrop.”

  “Northon,” I say.

  “Why aren’t you dressed, Miss Northop?”

  “Um, I thought … Dressed in what?” I am dressed. Well, not for basketball. I’m wearing a pair of skinny-leg jeans and a red sweater. But I have my Nikes in my bag, and all I need is my basketball uniform, and I’ll be good to go. Well, not good to go exactly, since I don’t really know how to play basketball, but good to go in the sense that I’ll be dressed to at least attempt to do something.

  “Dressed in your practice clothes!” Coach Crazy yells. She throws her hands up in the air and her clipboard goes flying. The tall girl behind her picks it up and hands it back to her. Suck-up.

  “I thought we had uniforms,” I say. “You took my measurements.” I’m beginning to think that Coach Crazy might actually really be crazy. As in, multiple personality disorder crazy. What happened to the sweet, pushy lady who signed me up? She’s morphed into a psycho, one of those coaches who pushes their students so hard they end up on Dateline or some other news show, talking about how they ended up in the hospital from exhaustion and the pressures of middle school.

  “We have uniforms for games, Northrop,” she says. “And you’re expected to have your own gym clothes. You think the school can just go around providing everyone with gym clothes? We’re not made of money, you know.” A giggle moves through the girls standing around her. I hope the rest of the team is a little nicer.

  “Right,” I say. There’s an awkward pause. “So, um, I guess I’ll go back to my room and get changed into my gym clothes?”

  “Good idea,” she says. “And next time, don’t be late. Everyone should be suited up and in the gym at three o’clock sharp.”

  “Right,” I say. I run back across campus and up to my room. Crissa, Rachel, and Tia are there. Crissa’s sitting on her bed, eating an apple, and Rachel is at Crissa’s desk. Tia is sprawled across MY bed, a textbook open in front of her. Um, hello? Why is she on my bed? Better yet, why are they always in my room? Can’t they hang out in Tia’s or Rachel’s rooms for once? They probably have smarter roommates who don’t allow such imposing shenanigans.