Four Truths and a Lie Read online

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s in the Brookline Academy Handbook, Rules of Teacher Conduct, Article six.” She looks at me as if it’s totally obvious. I have a vague memory of a blue paperbound book that was mailed to me a few weeks before school started. I think I threw it in my desk at home, which is where it is now.

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Article seven, totally.”

  “Six,” she says.

  “What?”

  “It’s article six, not seven.”

  “Right, article six, I must have been confused for a minute.”

  “Right,” she says, giving me a weird look. “Anyway, so she says, ‘I have to take this’ and then she goes out in the hall, which really was kind of silly since the door was open and I could hear everything she was saying.”

  “Who gets phone calls at seven in the morning?” I say. “Although I guess teachers do, since they have to be up so early. And since they’re older and everything. Older people are always getting up early when they don’t have to. Sometimes my mom meets her friends at—”

  “Scarlett!”

  “Oh, right, sorry, go ahead.”

  But we’re interrupted by two girls who are approaching our table. Until now they’ve been in the back of the room, working on something Amber said was the layout. “Are you Scarlett Northon?” one of them asks.

  “Who wants to know?” Amber asks, all toughlike. Which is kind of funny, since Amber’s probably the smallest girl in our class, and because since these girls are on newspaper with her, she probably already knows them. It’s cute that she’s sticking up for me, though. I throw her a grateful smile, even though saying “Who wants to know?” is pretty much like admitting you are the person they’re looking for; otherwise, why wouldn’t you just say “no”?

  “We want makeovers,” the girls say.

  “Sorry,” I say, “but I’m not doing them anymore.”

  The girls walk sadly back to their station. One of them has the craziest curly hair, and I’ll bet with a straightening iron, it would have looked fab. And some smoky blue eye shadow on the other one would have really made her eyes look amazing.

  “What do you mean, you’re not doing them anymore?” Amber asks.

  “I got in trouble this morning,” I say. “Because Headmistress O’Neal thinks I’m distracting the students by giving them something that focuses on their looks.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Amber says.

  “I know. So, anyway, back to your story. So Miss Cardanelli goes out into the hall with her phone.”

  “Oh, right. So she goes out into the hall with her phone, but I can obviously hear everything she’s saying.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And she says to whoever she’s talking to, ‘Well, I have to chaperone the off-academy this weekend, so maybe you could meet up with me.’” Amber raises her eyebrows, as if this should impress me somehow.

  “What’s the off-academy?” I ask, my stomach dropping. It probably has to do with school. Or grades. That sucks. I was really looking forward to this weekend. Sleeping in. Lounging in bed. Maybe doing some online shopping …

  “Didn’t someone tell you about the off-academy?” Amber asks, looking shocked.

  “No.” I guess you’d probably learn things like that from your roommate, and since mine hates me, I don’t know any of the lingo around here.

  “Sometimes on the weekend there’s an off-academy,” Amber says. “It’s basically like a field trip, to a different location every time. Like, sometimes we get to go out to lunch, sometimes we walk around at the mall, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Sounds fun.” I’m not sure what Miss Cardanelli and her phone call have to do with all this.

  “So Miss Cardanelli is chaperoning tomorrow,” she says. “And she was on the phone, telling someone she’d meet up with them.”

  “Okay …”

  “And she was saying it all flirtylike, like it was a guy on the other end.”

  “So you think she’s meeting up with Mr. Lang?”

  “I think she’s meeting up with someone, and it’s definitely a boyfriend-type person. I can’t imagine she’d talk to her girlfriends like that.” Amber’s hands are flying over the keyboard. I have no idea how she can keep her mind on school lunches enough to type about them while she’s talking to me at the same time. Very talented, that Amber.

  “But we don’t even know what Mr. Lang looks like,” I say. “Although teachers all have a certain look about them. I think they wear button-downs a lot.”

  Amber giggles.

  “I think we should follow her tomorrow,” I say. “And just see what happens. Are you in?”

  “I’m in.”

  The next morning, Saturday, I meet Amber outside the academic building so we can wait for the bus that’s going to take us to the mall. It seems like most of the school is going on the off-academy, which is surprising. I figured most of the girls here wouldn’t be interested in shopping. When I ask Amber about this, she says, “But they have the Discovery Store at the mall, along with that huge office supply place. And the pet store takes up most of the second floor.” Right.

  “So what’s the plan?” Amber asks once we’re settled into our seats on the bus. Why do buses always smell like old gym socks and vomit? One great thing about boarding school is not having to ride the bus. I try not to breathe through my nose.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m having trouble focusing on any kind of plan. It’s only ten o’clock, which is quite a ridiculous hour to be awake on a Saturday, especially since I’m still getting used to going without coffee. At least I look adorable. I’m wearing a gray Michael Kors dress with a drop waist and three-quarter length sleeves, gray tights, a long silver necklace, and chunky black shoes. My hair is straightened and my lips are glossed. My uniform is currently in a ball on my bedroom floor, and I don’t plan on picking it up until Monday.

  “I mean, how are we going to figure out what the deal is with Miss Cardanelli?” Amber asks. “We can’t just follow her around, can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, won’t that look a little suspicious? Won’t she be like, ‘Why are Amber and Scarlett following me around?’”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But we’ll keep our distance.” I lean my head back against the seat as the bus goes hurtling down the highway. I wonder if I could just take a little nap. Closing my eyes would be nice. A little catnap, so that I’ll be awake and alert for our big excursion. Ha. It’s funny that a trip to the mall has suddenly become a big excursion.

  “Well,” Amber’s saying. She lowers her voice and shifts on the seat next to me. “I did bring something to help us.” I reluctantly force my eyes open. Amber reaches into her backpack and pulls out the corner of something black and shiny. She leans in even closer. “They’re disguises.”

  Great. What sort of disguises could she possibly have just lying around? There’s no way I’m wearing those ridiculous plastic glasses with the plastic nose attached.

  When the bus pulls up in front of the Evergreen Mall, I feel my spirits lift. I love the mall. Last year I spent practically every weekend at the mall—walking around, trying on clothes, getting free makeovers at the makeup counters, and hanging out with my friends. And buying anything I wanted. Of course, that was before the story about my dad broke. Then I remember that I never opened the letter my dad sent me, and my stomach starts to feel like a rubber band is wrapping around it.

  “You okay?” Amber asks, squeezing my hand.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Attention, ladies,” Miss Cardanelli says from the front of our group. We all huddle up in the lobby. “You know the rules, but just in case, I’m going to go over them again. You must stay with a buddy at all times. You must make sure you meet in the food court in two and a half hours. Two and a half hours. That means at one o’clock sharp. We will all be eating together, and then going to see a
movie. If you need anything, please come and find me—I will be having coffee and reading a book at the bistro near the food court. And if there’s an emergency, please alert one of the mall staff.”

  “She looks kind of dressed up for an off-academy,” Amber says, her eyebrows shooting up. We watch as Miss Cardanelli waits for all the girls to start filing into the mall. She’s wearing a pink flippy skirt and a light pink sweater, and her hair is curled. A long gold necklace is tied around her neck, and she’s wearing white high-heeled shoes.

  “She looks cute,” I say. “Although she shouldn’t be wearing those shoes after Labor Day.”

  “Why not?” Amber frowns.

  “Because they’re white.” Amber looks confused. “Never mind,” I say. “So what should we do?”

  “I guess wait until she heads to the bistro,” Amber says. “And then we can follow her and see who she’s meeting.”

  “Okay,” I say. We stand in the lobby and wait as Miss Cardanelli talks to Andrea Rice, the girl from my basketball team, about something having to do with an assignment. Finally, Andrea leaves and it’s just the three of us standing in the lobby. Awwwwkwarrd.

  “Quick,” I say, “pretend you’re looking at the newspapers.” There’s a rack of free newspapers and booklets against the wall, and Amber and I pretend we’re paging through them. “Oh, look!” I say excitedly. “This is a whole book about finding an apartment!”

  Amber frowns, and I elbow her in the side. “Oh, right!” she says brightly. “That’s good since you were, uh, looking for your first apartment?” She says it like a question.

  “Can I help you girls with anything?” Miss Cardanelli asks. She walks over to where we’re standing.

  “Oh, no thanks,” I say brightly. “We just figured we’d look through these newspapers before we head into the mall.” I pick up one that says AutoTrader and start thumbing through it. Hmm. It’s actually never too early to start thinking about your first car. Although I’m not sure I want to get mine out of the AutoTrader; these seem a little junky. I think I’d do better with a newer car, something in red maybe, with a top that goes down.

  “Now, those are called tabloids,” Miss Cardanelli is saying. “Because of the way they open.” She demonstrates the way the newspaper opens like a book, instead of like a normal paper. This is why teachers shouldn’t be allowed out in public. They always want to teach you something. To my surprise, Amber starts encouraging her.

  “I’d think it’d be easy to start work at a tabloid right out of school,” she says. “Since a lot of these come out every day, and they seem like smaller publications.”

  “You’re right,” Miss Cardanelli agrees. “But why not shoot for the stars, Amber? You could get a job at the Boston Globe, or the New York Post!”

  “Fab!” I say. “That’s so great!” I’m hoping this will put an end to the convo, but Miss Cardanelli mistakes my enthusiastic response for interest.

  “Scarlett, I had no idea you were so interested in journalism,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah, I love journalism,” I say.

  “Well, I had a feeling you were a writer, since you seem to be really enjoying writing to your secret pen pal.” She smiles a wide smile. I wonder if she’d be smiling like that if she knew my secret pen pal was interested in her personal, private business. “And, of course, we know Amber here is a writer, the way she’s always scribbling in that notebook of hers.” Amber blushes.

  “Well, I like to read,” I say uncertainly.

  “So you want to be a novelist!” she says, clapping her hands together. “That’s wonderful! Maybe we should do a lesson on publishing.” She pulls a small notebook out of her purse and starts writing down notes to herself and muttering about the lesson. Amber and I glance at each other, and just stand there awkwardly.

  “So!” Miss Cardanelli says, capping her pen and giving us a big smile. “You girls better run along now!”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Well, I think we’ll just stay here a little longer and look at the newspapers. I mean, uh, tabloids.”

  Miss Cardanelli smiles at my use of the new word, and Amber picks up the AutoTrader as if to emphasize my point.

  “Girls, I think it’s wonderful that you’re so interested in this stuff, but I think it would be good for you to have a little fun. That’s what an off-academy is for! Now come on!”

  “But—” I try to protest, but she has a hand on both of our backs, and is steering us into the mall.

  “No buts,” she says. “You can grab some of those papers on the way out.”

  Great. I look at Amber helplessly. She just shrugs. Finally, we’re able to duck into a store while Miss Cardanelli goes on her way, presumably up to the bistro.

  “Now what?” Amber asks, pulling on her hair.

  “Now I guess we have to wait a bit,” I say. “It would have been better if we could have just followed her right off the bat, taken a look to see if she was with Mr. Lang, and then spent the rest of the time shopping. But we can’t do that now; she’s already seen us and she knows we’re acting weird. We’re going to have to wait a little bit, and then follow her up there.”

  “Hopefully she’ll still be there,” Amber says.

  “I think she will,” I say. “I mean, she said if we needed anything that’s where she’ll be.”

  “Well, then hopefully he’ll still be there,” Amber says.

  I sigh. “We might as well look around for a little while,” I say.

  “Good idea,” Amber says.

  We spend the next half an hour trying on clothes in Bebe. I buy a cute pink sweater, and Amber gets a wide navy blue belt she can use to dress up her uniform.

  “Okay,” I say as we head out of the store, swinging our bags happily. “Now, we’re going to have to be very careful when we head to the bistro. We’re going to have to spot Miss Cardanelli without her spotting us.”

  “You know what we need,” Amber says, her eyes glistening. Uh-oh.

  “What?” I ask warily.

  “The disguises.” She leads me over to a bench and pulls two wigs out of her bag. One is black and shiny, the other is red and curly. She also has two sweatshirts, one that says DUKE UNIVERSITY and the other that says I DO IT BECAUSE I CAN.

  “Those are disguises?” I ask.

  “Well, they’re not billed as disguises, no,” she says. “The wigs are left over from some costumes the drama club used last year.”

  “And the sweatshirts?”

  “I got them from the lost and found.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Don’t worry, I washed them first,” she adds quickly.

  That was the least of my worries, but whatever.

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “What if she sees us wearing wigs and weird sweatshirts?”

  “She won’t,” she says. “She’s not even going to be looking for us, and she’s not going to recognize the hair.” She holds up the wigs and shakes them.

  “Fine,” I say, sighing. So much for looking cute in my Michael Kors dress. Amber pulls the Duke sweatshirt over her head, so I have no choice but to put on the one that says I DO IT BECAUSE I CAN.

  “Which wig do you want?” she asks. I opt for the black one, since the other one kind of looks like something a clown would wear. Amber got the better sweatshirt, so I figure it’s only fair. Plus, hello, red hair would certainly not go with my complexion.

  We head up to the second floor, hoping it will be one of those places that has seating right outside. But it isn’t. There’s a hostess at the door. After a whispered convo, Amber and I decide we’ll try to just head into the restaurant, pretending that we already have a table in there, or that we’re meeting someone. We’re hoping we’ll just be able to look around, see if Miss Cardanelli is with a guy, and then hightail it out of there. But the hostess, who’s not even that much older than us, decides to get all snippy. (Plus she has horrible nails, done in this totally horrendous pink color that is not appropriate for fall at all, but that’s a whole other story.)
r />   “Excuse me, girls,” she says. “Can I help you?”

  “No thanks,” I say, flipping my newly acquired long black hair over my shoulder breezily. “We’re fine.”

  “Do you need a table?” she asks.

  “Oh, no,” Amber says. “We’re meeting our parents here.”

  “Your parents?” She frowns and bites her lip, done in another shade of pink (also not appropriate for fall. Actually, not appropriate for anything.).

  “Yup,” I say. “Our parents.”

  “We’re sisters,” Amber explains, giving her a smile.

  “Don’t we look alike?” I ask, hoping to confuse her. It’s a tactic I use on my mom sometimes when I want something and I don’t think she’s going to give it to me. I just talk and talk until she’s so confused she doesn’t have any idea what I’m talking about, and then she gives me what I want.

  “Not really,” the hostess says, looking bored. “Although you’re wearing wigs, so I can’t really tell.” She peers at us. “You might have the same hair.”

  Amber and I look at each other in shock. She can tell we’re wearing wigs? Although I guess it is kind of obvious. Amber’s hair is sticking out from hers, and up close you can definitely tell it’s a wig, since the fake hair looks kind of like thread. I don’t expect mine looks any better.

  “Well, we’re in a production of Romeo and Juliet,” I say. “We’ve just come from the theater, and we’re meeting our parents for an after-show lunch.”

  Amber nods.

  “Well, let me show you in, then,” the hostess says. “You know, to your parents’ table.”

  We follow her morosely into the restaurant.

  “Hmm,” I say. “Well, there they are.” I see a couple sitting over near the window. “So we’ll be going now.”

  “I’ll walk you over,” the hostess says. What is with her? She starts marching over to the couple, and Amber and I shoot each other a look of panic. There’s no way we’re going to be able to sit down with some random couple. I mean, I’m good at getting my way, but even I wouldn’t be able to convince someone I’m their daughter when I’m not.

  “Uh, actually,” I say, trying to look confused. “That’s not them.” The hostess raises her eyebrows.