If I'm Being Honest Read online

  “Fair enough,” he says, and I feel a rush of relief. “Two weeks.” He walks past me. I give myself mental congratulations before turning my thoughts to how I’m going to handle Hannah.

  I hear Grant’s voice behind me. “By the way”—I turn, startled he’s still here—“it’s Link,” he says, like I should have any idea what he’s talking about.

  “What?”

  “Boy-Zelda,” Grant clarifies earnestly. “His name’s Link. Thought you might want to know.” I roll my eyes, and he heads for the door. “And, Cameron,” he adds, pausing once more, “thanks.”

  With that, he gives me a genuine smile. Unexpectedly, I find myself returning it.

  I’m heading toward the entrance to the library, sneakers squeaking loudly on the hardwood, when I catch sight of somebody at the table next to the stacks—right where Grant and I were talking. Walking toward Grant, I’d noticed the binders and books on the table, and it takes me a moment to register who’s returned to them.

  Watching me with open interest is BB. Brendan.

  I feel my face redden. I didn’t hear him sit down while I was talking to Grant. From the look on his face, however, I’d guess he heard everything. “You’re not in the robotics room,” I blurt.

  He tilts his head. “Why would you think I’d be in the robotics room?”

  “You’re in the robotics room every lunch,” I say before realizing it’s not something a non-stalker would know.

  “That’s a really invasive thing to know about me,” Brendan confirms.

  “I know,” I sigh. “Sorry.”

  He studies me, and I find myself curious what he’s going to say. “They’re holding the freshman Math Olympiad in the robotics room,” he says after a second. “That’s my reason for being here,” he continues. “I’m interested in yours. I guess I’m not the only person you’re apologizing to.”

  “Or trying,” I reply. There’s less of the hostility I was expecting in his expression. He’s looking at me with amusement, and something else. It might be intrigue. “Some people are more cooperative than others,” I say lightly.

  Brendan gives half a laugh. I feel my shoulders loosen. “Well, let’s not give Grant too much credit. You hardly even insulted him in your apology.” His mouth twitches, like he’s on the verge of grinning, but he doesn’t yet.

  “I could apologize for that, too, if you want. I was just trying to undo damage to your reputation,” I tell him.

  Some of the levity fades from Brendan’s face. He looks like he’s genuinely considering what I said. For the second time in the past hour, I feel an unexpected punch of nervousness. Brendan could open his mouth and tell me I’ve totally misread him, or tell me to get lost for the four hundredth time.

  Instead, he shrugs. “Believe it or not, I don’t really care whether you or anyone else think I’m a loser. I’m just curious”—he closes his book—“why the personality change? ‘Apologetic’ isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind when I think of Cameron Bright.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “And how often is that?”

  A funny noise comes out of the back of Brendan’s throat. “Not that—just—when I grade your homework in Computer Science,” he finishes, thoroughly flustered. “Really, though,” he recovers, “why bother apologizing to people like me and Grant?”

  I decide to let him off the hook for that flimsy cover-up. Computer Science homework. Ha. “Is being a better person not reason enough?” I ask with feigned innocence. It’s good he’s talking to me. Wherever this conversation is going, it’s a far cry from our last exchanges.

  “Not for you.” Now Brendan grins. I have to suppress a laugh of my own. He’s blunt, but he’s not wrong.

  “Fair,” I say.

  “Then why?” Brendan’s watching me curiously, and I have an idea. I walk up to the table and place a hand on his textbook.

  “I’ll tell you if you let me help you,” I offer.

  He slides the textbook out from under me with a wry expression. “Unfortunately, there isn’t some girl I’m interested in who you could fix me up with and thereby solve my problems.”

  “How about a boy?” I realize the second I’ve said it, I should have put it a little more delicately. It’s not that I’m inclined to think he’s gay. I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion either way. I haven’t seen him with guys in a romantic way. Then again, I haven’t seen him with girls, either. I wonder if that’d be different if I hadn’t given him his nickname.

  His eyebrows go up. “You think I’m gay?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” I reply.

  “I’m not,” he tells me. “Well, as far as I know I’m not. Either way, Cameron, there’s nothing I want from you.”

  He runs a hand through his curls and reclines in his chair, his eyes lively. I know that look. He was stubborn, possibly intrigued, when we started this conversation. Now he’s daring me to reply.

  “Bummer.” I straighten and cross my arms. “I guess you’ll never know my motivations, then.”

  Brendan eyes me evenly, weighing his response. “I guess not,” he finally replies.

  * * *

  In Computer Science, I sit down to find I have one unread email in my school inbox. It’s from—Brendan Rosenfeld. With a small rush of excitement, I open the message while the bell rings and Mr. West writes the day’s coding exercise on the board.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Less “third grade”?

  How bout this? I would ask you to give your honest opinion, but who am I kidding? You always do.

  He’s attached three screenshots to the email, the files titled The Girl’s a Sorceress. Catchy.

  I recognize the sorceress and the boy character from Brendan’s video game. Only this time, he’s working with an elegant blend of blacks, blues, and silvers. I’m flattered to recognize the one I suggested, palette number 27.

  I open a reply. I’m beginning to write when I catch Brendan’s tall frame coming toward me as he walks down the aisles, checking on everyone’s work. He reaches my row, pauses by the edge of the desk, and gives me an exaggeratedly stern look.

  “You wouldn’t be writing a personal email in class, would you, Cameron?” he asks.

  “Of course not,” I reply.

  Brendan waits a moment more, then nods with that faint half smile of his. I open the day’s assignment, still smiling to myself.

  Fifteen

  I RUN, FEET POUNDING THE PAVEMENT. THE perfect hedges and big Beverly Hills houses fly by, and I draw breath after even breath, weightless. With everything on my mind, weightless is what I need right now.

  It’s the third week of October, though you wouldn’t know it from L.A.’s unchanging heat. I’m three miles into the course for cross-country practice, miles I’ve used to force from my head the Taming of the Shrew act 4 reading worksheet I have waiting for me when I get home. I’ve run past Cañon Gardens and the talent agencies, and I have only a stretch of Camden Drive left until I reach school.

  The Christina Perri on my playlist fades out, replaced by my ringtone. I hit answer on my earphones since my phone is strapped into my armband. It’s probably Elle or Morgan wanting homework help. Elle despises History like I do English, and—

  “Cameron?”

  I can actually feel my knees weaken. I never knew that really happened to people. I stop so hard I stumble momentarily, because the voice on the line is my dad’s, cold and direct. “Can you hear me?” He knows I can hear him. He’s impatient, and he wants me to acknowledge him.

  “Yeah,” I say. I irrationally sweep a strand of hair out of my face. It’s not like he can see me, but talking to him feels like a formal occasion. I feel very out of place in my running shorts and tank top.

  “I don’t have time for this, Cameron,�
� he charges on, like I expected. “You have to speak with your mother.” I practically hear his frown.

  I struggle to steady my breathing. He won’t like it if he realizes I’m in the middle of something, even though he’s the one who called me without warning. “What about?” I ask.

  “You know full well what. I’m extraordinarily busy. I cannot check on her every day. She’s a grown woman, and she needs reminding to remember to go to work? It’s out of control.”

  I know, I admit to myself. It’s been a week since she didn’t go to the job he set up for her. I say nothing. I have no idea what she said to him to prompt this call.

  “It’s not my job to babysit her,” he finishes.

  “And it’s mine?” The words fly out of my mouth, and instantly I know I should have pushed them down. But on the rare occasions when we talk, I’m always the one who calls him. I have time to prepare, to choose my words carefully in anticipation of what he’s going to say. Today, he caught me off guard. He’s the one person I never—never—speak my mind to. For good reason.

  His voice cuts through the speakers, carving into me. “Of course it’s your job. I go above and beyond when it comes to that useless woman.” I feel myself getting smaller with every word. “She’s spoiled. I’ve spoiled her. And you—you go to the expensive school I pay for and waste time with your bratty friends. You’re ei—seventeen years old, and you can’t get your mother out of the house. It’s pathetic, Cameron.”

  I feel tears searing my eyes. Footsteps sound behind me, and I distantly realize the rest of the team is catching up to me. I want nothing more than—nothing other than to run. But while my dad is on the phone, his voice holding me in place, I can’t.

  A tear trembles on my eyelid. I blink it away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, hating the tremble in my voice. “I’ll do something.”

  He doesn’t skip a beat. “You’d better. I ask for nothing in return for the comforts I give you.”

  “I know,” I say weakly. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  I want him to hang up. I want to run, to go home—even my Economics report feels like shelter. I want to begin what I know will be the evening-long fight to forget the words he’s called me. Waste. Pathetic. But from underneath how beaten down he’s left me, I feel a flicker of hope. The flicker I feel every time I talk to him. If I could just say one right thing, he’d see who I really am. How I’m worth his time. How I’m nothing like my mother.

  “By the way,” I keep my voice even, a fight in itself, “Mom probably didn’t tell you, but I’m in an upper-level Economics course this semester. We’re studying your company next week.” I fly through the sentences, figuring he’ll cut me off if I pause.

  The moment I finish, exactly like I expected, he’s rushing to reply. “Cameron, were you even listening? I don’t have time to chat about your day.” The patronization in his tone is heavy. I feel my mouth go dry. “If you need a quote or something,” he goes on, “email Chelsea.”

  He hangs up.

  I stare at the phone a moment longer, until the sound of footsteps stops behind me. I feel my teammates waiting, watching me. “What happened, Cameron? We thought you’d beat us,” I hear Leila behind me, gently teasing.

  I hurriedly wipe my eyes and take out my earphones. If there’s one thing that could make this moment worse.

  “Were you on a phone call?” Leila chides. She comes up next to me. “You know Coach will make you do sprints for that.”

  I hate how they’re catching me like this. With tears in my eyes, with a pallor I know hasn’t vanished from my cheeks. Still hurt and afraid. I round on Leila. “Don’t tell her, then.”

  Her expression falters. “I’m the team captain,” she says, uncertain. “I have to tell her.”

  I put my earphones back in. “Fine,” I say nonchalantly, looking Leila right in the eye, feeling all that smallness and hurt turning into armor. Turning into anger. “If getting me in trouble makes you feel big and important, go for it. I really don’t care. You probably need it, what with how your own boyfriend’s barely interested in you.”

  Leila recoils like I’ve struck her. Her face turns pink, and her lower lip wobbles like she’s going to cry. It’s a reaction I’m not entirely proud to have caused.

  But instead of apologizing, I turn and run, letting the wind dry my eyes.

  * * *

  I get home to find my mother on the couch, wrapped in her blanket. Sleeping. There’s a box of tissues and a glass containing what I’m guessing is a completely un-drunk cleanse on the coffee table. The grainy green drink is congealed and completely disgusting.

  I drop my bag, knowing the three textbooks I brought home hitting the floor will wake her up.

  Her eyes open groggily, finding me in the doorway. “Cameron, hi.” Propping herself up, she says, “I’ve been thinking of what to fix for dinner.”

  Her voice is casual, even cheery, like this is normal. Like my mother sleeping on the couch in the middle of the day in her pajamas could possibly be normal. Like I haven’t been responsible for picking up the pieces of our life when she won’t.

  I’ve had enough. “I don’t care if you get a job or if you find some other family member to write you a check. But I won’t let you extort my father while you sit on the couch all day.” The edge in my voice catches her off guard. I watch her eyes focus and a flush rise in her cheeks. “If I find out you’ve tried to trick him into giving you more money, I’ll move out.”

  She hauls herself off the couch and plants her hands on her hips, a vain effort to look imposing undercut by her rumpled sweats and knotted hair. “Where will you go?” she challenges.

  “I’ll live with Elle,” I reply, having thought this through on the final leg of the run. Her older sister goes to Princeton and moved out two years ago, leaving a bedroom empty. I watch Mom’s eyes flicker, panicked, and I go on. “You’ll be completely alone, and without me, Dad won’t pay your rent. I’ll have him send the checks to Elle’s parents—not that they need them. They don’t spend their days doing nothing on the couch.” I know I’m throwing her worst fear in her face: losing the financial security I provide.

  Mom’s mouth works like she’s searching for words and finding none. “Cameron, I don’t—” she finally tries.

  I cut her off. “I’m not interested, Mom. Do whatever you want. I just thought you should know my plans.” I collect my bag and head for my room.

  The second I’m in my room, I drop the façade of confidence and control. I sag against the door, my hands on my knees, my breath shallow. I feel sick, like I might throw up. I’m angry at everyone. At my mom, my dad, at Andrew for being stubborn and writing me off. At myself. I feel like I could scream until my throat is raw and it wouldn’t be enough.

  I hate how my father, who just called me pathetic, is the only impossible flicker of hope I have for a parent to care about me. To consider me a person, not just a checkbook. I hate having to dismiss whatever kindness I receive from my mother because I know it’s just her final performance for an audience of one.

  I pull out my computer and quickly log into the Common App portal. Unhesitatingly, I upload my UPenn essay. I wracked my brain for days trying to incorporate Paige’s comments and got nowhere. There are two weeks remaining until the application’s due, but this essay is as good as it’s going to get.

  I hit submit.

  I force an even breath into my lungs. Neatly, I unpack my bag and organize my folders into their tray. Everything I’ve planned for, the entire future I’ve constructed in hopes of bringing myself closer to my father, is out of my hands now and on the desk of an admissions officer somewhere in Philadelphia. I can’t think about it.

  In hopes of distraction, I try to do the Taming of the Shrew worksheet. I flip to a scene in the play where Petruchio torments his new bride, Katherine.

  But it’s
impossible to concentrate. Not just because of UPenn or my parents, either. I keep replaying what happened with Leila. I know what I said was cruel. It’s just unbearable sometimes. It’s like there’s this horrible thing eating me from the inside, and the only way to let it out is to fall apart—or to lash out. To leave someone else with hurt and doubt and insecurity just to know they know how it feels.

  Because I couldn’t let myself fall apart, not in front of those girls. My chest may be hollow, but my eyes are dry. That’s what’s important.

  But I owe Leila an apology. I add her name to my amends list.

  Katherine deserves every bit of the mistreatment she gets.

  I’m beginning to fill in the worksheet when an email notification pops up in the corner of my computer screen. It’s a confirmation of my Common App submission. Quickly, I move it to a college folder to keep its reminder from stressing me out and find Brendan’s email back at the top of my inbox.

  I absentmindedly click open the images again. Drawn in for a closer look, I can’t help noticing the details in the characters. The boy stands strong in the face of the imposing sorceress, who’s scowling with her scepter raised.

  Without thinking, I hit reply.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Less “third grade”?

  1000x less. Question: does the evil sorceress have to be blonde?

  I hit send, not expecting a response. None comes for half an hour, while I’m working on my response paper. I’m halfway done when I’m distracted by a ding from my computer.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Re: Less “third grade”?

  Um, yes.

  Just, “um, yes”? He knows how to be cryptic, I’ll give him that.

  From: [email protected]