If I'm Being Honest Page 9

  “It’s fine,” Paige says, noticing my hesitation. “The owner’s used to us.”

  She walks over to her friends, past the towering bookshelves lining the left wall. I give the inside of the store a closer look. The back is crammed with oddly angled bookcases, a tight maze of black-painted wood and colorful book binding. On the ends of the rows of hardcovers and paperbacks sit dusty bookends in the shapes of skulls and mythical creatures. Covering the walls are murals of scenes like the books’ covers, but bigger—red and green planetary landscapes, medieval hunting parties, robots and monsters. It’s probably the nerdiest place I’ve ever seen.

  Paige pulls a newly reluctant Grant out of his chair. His eyes catch mine, and he blushes an unflattering pink. Paige steadies him with one hand and holds the lace up to the hip of his corset. I have no idea what’s going on.

  But I find myself plugging in the sewing machine.

  I watch Paige and her friends. Charlie and Abby have a comic book open between them, Charlie craning his neck to read while Abby thumbs the pages. Under Paige’s ministrations, Grant recovers a little of his confidence. “You guys,” he addresses Abby and Charlie, sashaying lightly as Paige pins the lace to the corset, “does this lace make my package look big?”

  I look away, my discomfort increasing by the minute. The group laughs, and Paige pokes him in the hip with her pin. “Stop trying to get everyone to stare at your junk, Grant.”

  “What’s one more wizard’s staff in a place like this?” Grant replies.

  Paige and Charlie laugh. In the same moment, a girl walks out from the back. I recognize Hannah Warshaw, Grant’s ex. I understand Grant’s former infatuation with her. She’s pretty, if in an understated way, with round cheeks, straight dark hair, and a beauty mark under her eye.

  Her eyes fall on Grant, and I watch her give his body a quick once-over. Her cheeks redden. Her voice, however, comes out cold. “You can’t wear that in here,” she calls to the group.

  Grant pushes away Paige’s hands and steps closer to Hannah. “What do you think, though?” His expression becomes painfully eager. “I know I’m no Tim Curry, but the costume’s pretty good, right?”

  “You need to change,” Hannah orders, unwavering. “Or Russell will kick you guys out. For good this time.” I’m guessing Russell is the owner of this place. Hannah retreats behind the register, where she starts sorting receipts, and while she doesn’t glance over at Grant again, I notice that the blush hasn’t fully faded from her neck.

  Grant wilts. He grabs his sweatshirt and jeans and walks dejectedly toward the bathroom in the back.

  Paige drops into the green armchair. “Thanks, Bright,” she says.

  I nod, remaining undecided whether I’m going to follow my initial instinct to get out of here.

  “In return for your labor,” Paige offers expansively, “I can pay you in”—she looks around and picks up some sort of trading card off the table—“this sexy alien card.”

  I try not to look, but I catch a glimpse of tentacles and boobs. “I’m good,” I say.

  “Good call.” Paige frowns, examining the card.

  She punches the sewing machine’s on switch. Ignoring me, she slides fabric under the needle. I understand it’s probably my cue to leave, not unaware that Charlie and Abby are continuing to eye me disdainfully.

  If I leave, I have to go home. I have to confront my mom—or confront the ugly, quiet non-confrontation that could occupy home for days.

  “What, um . . .” I begin. “What’s going on here? Why’s Grant dressed in . . . whatever that is?”

  Paige laughs—a genuine laugh, not the scornful sound I’ve come to expect. “Rocky Horror,” she says, like those two words clarify everything.

  “Is that . . . the school musical this year?” I know Grant played trumpet in orchestra, but I don’t remember him doing musical theater. Besides, I thought I overheard Jason crowing the other day about playing Tony in West Side Story.

  Hannah comes out from behind the register. She walks past Paige and picks up the three Dune books I placed on the floor. With an accusatory glance in my direction, she pointedly puts them on a shelf. Paige continues sewing, unperturbed. “No, just the movie.”

  “You need a costume for a movie?”

  Paige’s eyes flit up to mine. “Wait, have you never been to Rocky Horror in a theater?” She sounds scandalized, like I’m the one who was just strutting her stuff in a bookstore wearing only a corset and fishnets.

  “In a theater? Isn’t the movie kind of old?” I shoot back. “And, like, bad?”

  Paige’s gaze is withering. “It’s called camp. Even though the movie’s old, theaters and drive-ins and conventions and other places play it every weekend, and audiences dress up and participate and everything. It’s this whole thing. I can’t believe you’ve never done it.” She deftly snips a thread with a pair of bright pink scissors. “Hannah got us into it. We’re going to a screening for Halloween this year.”

  Just like that, everything fits into place in my head. Grant’s costume, his eagerness toward Hannah, her blush, his disappointment when she distinctly didn’t care. “I know what’s happening here. Grant’s trying to win Hannah back by thoroughly embarrassing himself for a night while doing Hannah’s favorite thing.”

  Paige falters in mid-stitch. She eyes me doubtfully. “What? No,” she scoffs. “Grant wouldn’t try to get back together with Hannah. Because of, you know, you.” I’m about to point out that when Grant and I were together, he was obviously still hung up on Hannah, when Paige continues. “Even if he did try, there’s no way Hannah would consider it. It took her forever just to let him hang out with us.”

  I nod, unconvinced.

  “What are you doing here?” Paige interrupts my train of thought.

  “What?” I give her an incredulous glance. “You forced me in here, remember?”

  “It was not force, Bright,” she says, grinning. “It was gentle coercion.” Her eyes gather a glint of inquisitiveness. “I didn’t mean here in the first place. I meant why haven’t you left yet? Don’t you have popular-girl things to do?”

  “No,” I say shortly, chafing at the reminder of what I do have waiting for me when I get home. From the way Paige’s grin catches, I know she hears the frustration in my voice.

  “It looked like you were photographing the graffiti on Café Casablanca when I drove up,” she says, inspecting her fabrics. I hear the hint of hesitation in her voice.

  I nod, appreciating the change of subject. “I like the way the lettering interacts with the typography of the café. It’s a good juxtaposition,” I say, finding myself elaborating. “It’s for a website I’m working on.”

  Paige glances up. She studies me for a moment. “Huh.”

  “What?” I feel a flare of indignation. If Paige thinks I’m too dumb or too “basic” for web design—

  “It’s just not what I would have guessed,” she says.

  I hear a door open, and Grant comes out of the bathroom, now dressed acceptably in jeans and a hoodie. His eyes instantly dart to the register. He takes a couple of steps and then pauses, looking torn, like he’s searching for something to say.

  “Well, I told you you didn’t know anything about popular girls,” I tell Paige.

  I watch Grant, whose face brightens. He eagerly takes a half step before he halts abruptly. The excitement in his expression fades, and he retreats to the chairs near Abby and Charlie. He broods as he folds the costume in his lap and doesn’t laugh along with whatever conversation Charlie and Abby are having.

  And an idea begins to form in my head.

  I owe Grant for ruining his relationship with Hannah. He deserves a place on my amends list no less than Paige and Brendan, and I can’t cross Paige off my list until I’ve repaired things with her brother.

  I thread the handles of my bag over my arm.
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br />   “You going home?” Paige asks, sounding surprised.

  “Yeah,” I say. I glance back and find Hannah behind the counter, working too hard to keep her eyes off Grant. “Good luck on the, um, Rocky Horror.”

  “Thanks, Bright.”

  I’m parked a few blocks away, on a residential street near a high school, and the entire way I start sketching the edges of my new project. I don’t care if I have to fight with my mom or ignore her in shared resentment. I know what I have to do next, and I’m going to need time to plan.

  I’m going to right two wrongs at once.

  I’m going to get Grant and Hannah back together.

  Fourteen

  FRIDAY CLASS DRAGS BY. I WATCH THE minute hand shift on the clock over the whiteboard and force myself to focus on Grant. English will be over in twenty minutes, and then I have lunch to implement the first part of my plan. I have everything figured out. I emailed Paige last night and learned that Grant’s spent lunches this week in the library researching for an essay. She wanted to know why I wanted to know—I didn’t write back.

  When I got home yesterday, I went directly to my room. I avoided my mom the rest of the night. Which was exactly what I’d planned. I had work to do.

  Instead of revising my UPenn essay per Paige’s peer-review comments, I edited my amends list. Brendan remains impossible. I added Grant and Hannah and my plan for repairing their relationship. Following the complete failure of my attempts with Brendan, I know better than to expect it’ll go flawlessly. But I have to try.

  When Kowalski finally dismisses us after rambling seven whole minutes into lunch about the Taming of the Shrew term paper we have due before winter break in December, I run down the stairs, painfully aware of how little time I have left. I’ve prepared a whole pitch for Grant, and if I don’t—

  I round the corner and hit the brakes hard enough I almost fall over. In front of the entrance to the library, Andrew’s talking to a group of guys from the soccer team. He hasn’t noticed me. I watch him leaning on the locker, looking more confident than I remember ever seeing him.

  I know I need to talk to Grant. But in this moment, I’m caught, watching. Remembering. We were in middle school the first time Andrew ever came over to my apartment. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt three sizes too big, and he laughed nervously at whatever I said. I thought we’d have nothing in common, but after a year of tortured silences while we worked on homework in my room, he noticed my running shoes.

  Things started to change after that. We would run together as the sun was setting, and our silences weren’t tortured anymore. They were comfortable. I got used to the sound of his even breaths, the rhythm of his shoes and mine on the pavement. We ran what felt like every street, every hill, miles in every direction. And I remember the day I noticed he would always run one step behind me so he could watch me. Once when I tripped on a curb, his hand was on my elbow before I could fall.

  I almost kissed him right then and there.

  But I couldn’t be certain he and I would work out. I knew who he was, but I didn’t know who he wanted to be. With the whole Grant Wells pileup in my rearview mirror, I wasn’t ready to commit to a guy I couldn’t be confident would commit to his own life. Commit to his goals, commit to me.

  “Cameron!” the soccer captain, Patrick, calls from the lockers.

  Pulled from the memory, I walk over, my eyes on Andrew hopefully. He’s reading something on his phone, and unsurprisingly he doesn’t look up when I reach them.

  Patrick flashes me a dazzling smile, and I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I wonder how many girls get that smile every day. “You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to express bluntly my disinterest in the prospect. But Andrew’s watching me warily. Expecting me to do exactly that.

  “I’ll try to be there,” I say encouragingly, earning looks of astonishment from Patrick and the other guys. I glance at Andrew, hoping he’ll say something, smile, anything. He doesn’t. “See you guys later,” I say, trying to keep disappointment from my voice.

  I walk past them toward the library, returning to the pitch I have to give Grant. But as I step through the library doors and catch sight of Grant standing in the stacks, my uncooperative mind returns to Andrew.

  That day on the run, I should have kissed him when he was watching my every step. Because now he doesn’t watch me at all.

  It makes me want to give up, just a little. I might never win Andrew back. Even if I accomplish every apology on my list, even if Paige begs him to reconsider.

  I pause by the reference desk. Grant doesn’t know I’m here. I could walk out of the library, spend lunch with Morgan and Elle . . . eventually find someone new.

  But I’d be no better than my mom if I did, I remind myself. If I were to give up on making amends, on Andrew, it’d be no different than every time she gives up on a job, or on us. I have to go through with everything I have planned.

  I find Grant in the history section. He’s hunched over a thick textbook, and I remember one of the only real things I learned about Grant while we were dating. He goes ahead of the readings in every history class, he likes history that much. The Civil War in particular.

  The library is nearly empty, thankfully. In the back, a couple of freshmen work on the computers under windows throwing bars of sunlight on the floor. There’s a table strewn with binders by the history section, but nobody’s there. I walk across the hardwood floor and join Grant in the stacks.

  “Hey, Grant,” I say at library volume. His head springs up, his eyes wary. “Could I ask you something? I know you’re working on homework. I just wanted to catch you when Hannah’s not around.”

  His eyes narrow, and I realize how bad that probably sounded to the guy I persuaded into cheating on his girlfriend. “I’m not falling for that one again,” he says dryly, confirming my guess. “No offense, but kissing you was the worst decision of my life.”

  “I know,” I assure him. “I want to apologize. I’m sorry I pursued you when you had a girlfriend, and I’m sorry I told Hannah about us and she dumped you.”

  Grant gives me a careful look. I know what happens next. He’s trying to decide where to begin in his list of grievances with me. I brace myself for the outburst, the resentment and anger I’ve come to expect every time I apologize to someone.

  Instead, Grant shrugs. “It’s okay.”

  I wait for the other shoe to drop—the sarcasm, the spite. When neither comes, I watch him, dumbfounded. “It is?” I ask.

  “It’s nice of you to apologize and everything,” Grant replies, closing the textbook. Brother Fighting Brother reads the cover, I note with the tiniest twinge of gratification. “But it’s my fault,” he goes on. “I cheated on Hannah. I don’t know why I did. No offense,” he hurriedly adds, looking me up and down.

  I feel doubly guilty. I ruined his relationship, possibly his life, and now he’s being nice to me?

  It makes what I say next genuinely heartfelt. “I want to help you win her back. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be together right now, cowriting comic books and cosplaying as Zelda and . . .” I reach. “Boy-Zelda. I know you both still care about each other.”

  Grant flushes, exactly like in Mordor. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Don’t bother, Grant,” I cut him off, waving a hand. “I know she has feelings for you, too. You didn’t see the way she checked you out when you were in that corset.” I raise a provocative eyebrow.

  His cheeks flame redder, probably for a couple reasons. He looks pleased, though. “Wait, how exactly did she check me out?”

  “Let’s just say she had a definite answer to your question of how big the lace made your package look.”

  His expression brightens. For a fleeting moment he looks like I’ve given him every dream he’s ever had. The next moment, hi
s face crumples. He collapses into one of the chairs near the stacks, his eyes elsewhere. “She’s just . . . amazing, you know?” he asks, not like he’s expecting a reply. “She works really hard at everything she does, and when she’s fangirling over something like Rocky Horror or Doctor Who it’s like her passion is . . . I don’t know. Uncontainable.”

  I smile softly. Grant is sweet. Even while we were dating I knew that. His words leave an ache in my chest, though. If only Andrew thought of me with that devotion. I’d even be content with half.

  But that’ll only happen if I stay focused.

  I sit opposite Grant. “If you want this to work, you’re going to need to give me a couple weeks where you leave Hannah be,” I order him. “Don’t flirt, don’t go out of your way to talk to her, don’t flaunt your junk. Nothing.”

  He looks skeptical. “How will that help?”

  I weigh how to answer. There’s really no nice way to say what Grant needs to hear. But telling him he’s too pathetic to be desirable might be a little harsh. It’s the kind of thing Kate would say. I settle for a milder version of the truth. “You’re an overeager puppy dog when it comes to Hannah,” I tell him gently. “You need to cool it and let me take over for a while. Just two weeks. If it doesn’t work, you can unleash everything you’ve got at this Rocky Horror thing.”

  Grant pauses, looking unconvinced but like he wants to believe me. “You really want to help me?” he finally asks.

  I nod. “I do.”

  Grant gets up and pulls his backpack over one shoulder. He glances to the door, and my hopes deflate. Who was I kidding? Of course Grant wouldn’t want my help. “I would have to be pretty desperate to put my fate in the hands of Cameron Bright, the girl who wrecked my life in the first place,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

  “Grant,” I try hopefully. “You passed desperate when you were modeling lingerie for the innocent bystanders in a bookstore.”

  Grant grins, and a little of the discouragement eases in my chest. He finally looks me square in the eye. I hold my breath.