Four Truths and a Lie

by Lauren Barnholdt

  “Yeah,” Amber says. “That’s definitely not them.”

  She elbows me in the side, hard, and I follow her line of sight. There’s Miss Cardanelli, over in the corner, sitting by herself. She’s reading a book and sipping an iced tea.

  “Then where are they?” the hostess asks.

  “Where are who?” I’m having trouble keeping up with this conversation. There’s too much going on, what with the wigs and the fake parents and worrying about getting caught.

  “Your parents!” the hostess says. She seems like she’s about five seconds away from calling security on us.

  “They must not be here yet,” Amber says.

  “Yeah, they must not be here yet,” I say. “So we’ll just have a table for two.”

  You can tell the hostess doesn’t really believe us, but what is she supposed to do? She doesn’t really have a choice. “Right this way.”

  She sets us up in a corner booth, the perfect spot to spy on Miss Cardanelli. Amber starts to get a little too cocky. “Now, when our parents come,” she’s saying, “make sure you send them right over here so they don’t have to find us.”

  “Of course,” the hostess says. She sets two menus down on the table in front of us. Once she’s out of the way, I sigh in relief.

  “That was close,” I say. “We almost made a scene, and if we’d made a scene, Miss Cardanelli definitely would have noticed.”

  “We should come up with a story beforehand, so that if we do get caught, we’ll have something to say.”

  “There’s no way we could come up with anything believable as to why we’re in this bistro wearing wigs and stolen sweatshirts.”

  “Not stolen,” Amber says, looking offended. “The rules state that if something is left in the lost and found for over thirty days, it’s fair game. And these sweatshirts were there since last year.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. I look out of the corner of my eye to where Miss Cardanelli is sitting. “She’s by herself,” I say to Amber. “What should we do?”

  “Hello!” a voice says, and I jump. A waitress is at our table. Great. “Can I get you girls a drink?”

  “Um,” I glance down at the menu. “A 7UP please.”

  “Shirley Temple for me,” Amber says. I raise my eyebrows at her. “What?” she says. “It’s a special occasion, what with us being in a play and all.”

  I giggle and the waitress leaves to get the drinks.

  Amber and I look over at Miss Cardanelli.

  “Well, he might just not be here yet,” Amber says. “So I say we hang out and just wait and see if he shows up.”

  “Good idea,” I say. “It will be fun. We’ll just sit here and order some drinks and talk.”

  An hour later, it’s not so fun. We hardly have any money, since we spent most of it at Bebe, so we’ve switched from ordering sodas to ordering waters, which is making the waitress slightly annoyed. Also, she keeps asking us if we’d like to use the phone to call our parents, when, hello, we don’t need to, because there are no parents. So we keep saying, “Oh, no, they’re always late, ha-ha” which, you know, isn’t true. And I think she knows it.

  “Maybe we should just go,” I say.

  “Are you crazy?” Amber asks. “We’ve waited here this long.”

  “True,” I say. And at that moment, a brown-haired man walks into the bistro and sits down next to Miss Cardanelli.

  “Yes,” I say, pumping my fist.

  “How do we know that’s him?” Amber asks, frowning.

  “Good point,” I say. And then I see his jacket, which has BROOKLINE ACADEMY FOR BOYS embossed on the back. Bingo.

  We have a little while until we have to meet up with everyone else in the food court, so Amber I decide to split up for a few minutes. Amber heads off to look in the Discovery Store, and I head to the bookstore.

  When I get in the store, I take a few laps around, and then spot the romance section, all the way in the back. Buying books from the romance section is tricky. You have to be careful not to draw attention to yourself. One time I was in a Borders, and an older, grandma-type woman complained to the staff that I was too young to be in this section. She said the book covers and subject matter weren’t appropriate for someone my age.

  Thankfully, my dad stuck up for me. He told the Borders employee and the evil grandma type that he trusted me to choose my own reading material. My dad and I used to go to the bookstore almost every Sunday. He didn’t care that I read romance books. I’d load up my arms with them and carry them to the café, then settle in with a hot chocolate. My dad would get tons of magazines and a coffee, and we’d sit there, sipping our drinks and reading. My dad would always pretend that he wasn’t going to buy me anything, because I had too many books, but I’d always walk out of there with at least three or four. I think back to the last few times we went, and wonder if when my dad was pretending he wasn’t going to buy me any books, he really didn’t want to, since he was worried about money.

  Luckily, the romance section in this bookstore seems to be dead. I plop myself down on the floor, and pull out a book called The Serpent’s Kiss and flip through it. I love the bookstore.

  “Good book?” a voice asks.

  I look up to see a very cute boy sitting on a squashy-looking chair at the end of one of the romance aisles. He’s wearing a backward baseball hat and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

  “Uh, I dunno,” I say. “I haven’t read it yet.” I feel my face start to turn red, and I shove the book back onto the shelf. The only thing worse than an evil grandma type catching you in the romance section is a cute boy catching you in the romance section.

  “You should read it,” he says. He has floppy brown hair, and his sneakers are untied.

  “Why?” I ask. Does he read romance books?

  “Because you can,” he says.

  It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the sweatshirt I’m wearing.

  “Ha-ha,” I say. “Very funny.”

  He shrugs and turns back to what he’s reading. Probably a stupid sports book or something.

  “Just so you know,” I say, “I am only wearing this because it’s a disguise.” There. Take that, Mr. I’m-Way-Cool. Let him think I’m on some top-secret, government-sponsored spy mission.

  “Okay,” he says uncertainly.

  “I was spying on some teachers.”

  “What for?”

  “None of your business,” I say. I drop my voice and try to make it sound ominous. “But all I will say is that it was for a very, very important reason.”

  “Is that why you’re in the romance section?” he asks. “Because you’re hiding from them?” He looks interested.

  “No,” I say. “I’m looking for books.” I stick my chin out, daring him to make fun of me. But he doesn’t.

  He just says, “Do you like to read?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t have much time for it now that I’m at school.”

  “I hear ya,” he says. “But I use my reading as a reward, like when I get all my work done.”

  “I don’t ever really have all my work done,” I say, sighing. “What are you reading?”

  “My favorite book,” he says. “The Catcher in the Rye.” He holds up a book with a plain white cover.

  “It has a plain white cover,” I say.

  “So?” He frowns, his brown eyes crinkling up at the corners.

  “So it’s probably boring.”

  “Are you serious?” he says. He comes and sits next to me on the floor. He shows me the book. “It’s about this kid named Holden Caulfield. He runs away from boarding school.”

  I take the book out of his hand, and our fingers touch. I feel a little thrill run through my body. “Sounds like my kind of book,” I say.

  “He runs away to New York City,” he says.

  “I love New York City,” I say. “Well, I’ve only been once. But I had a good time.” Usually, when my family goes away, we go to places that are warm—Hawaii, Florid
a, the Caribbean. But a couple of years ago, my dad took us to New York City to go ice-skating and watch the Christmas tree–lighting in Rockefeller Center. Of course, now that our financial situation is probably going to be, um, changing, we won’t be going anywhere. Warm or not.

  “I love New York too,” he says. “Anyway, it’s a great book. You should get it.”

  “I think maybe I will.” There’s a silence, and it hits me that I’m sitting here, alone, in the romance section of the bookstore with a strange boy. A cute strange boy. Who is giving me book recommendations. The Catcher in the Rye. Which I am still holding. Does he want me to give it back? Am I supposed to buy this exact copy? Or get my own? I’m trying to think of something funny and witty to say, when Amber’s voice comes calling through the stacks.

  “Scarlett!” she’s saying. “Are you back here?”

  “I’m right here,” I say, and her head pops around a stack of books.

  “Hey,” she says, giving me a big grin. She holds up a plastic bag. “I got a cool sand-making kit at the Discovery Store! What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I was just talking to—”

  I turn to ask the guy sitting next to me his name. But when I do, he’s gone.

  On Monday morning in English, I write back to Number Seventeen.

  Dear Number Seventeen,

  I accept your Four Truths and a Lie challenge, and I am happy to report that number one on your list is definitely true. I saw it with my own eyes, when my friend Amber and I trailed Mr. Lang and Ms. Cardanelli into a restaurant during our off-academy. They were looking VERY cozy, if you know what I mean. Although I did almost get caught, due to a very surly waitstaff.

  So I’m done with number one. Easy-peasy.

  I’m looking forward to seeing what you have for me next, although I must admit this is kind of weird.

  Also, this might be a long shot, but do you know a kid who goes to your school who wears a Notre Dame baseball hat and likes the book The Catcher in the Rye? Kind of tall and cute? I met him this weekend, and I think he goes to your school.

  Talk to you soon,

  Number Seventeen

  In math, I end up with a sixty-five on my quiz. Not so great, especially since I spent all day on Sunday studying. To make matters worse, we grade our papers in class, by passing them to the person behind us. Which means that EVERYONE in the class knows my score. Definitely not a good thing. I would have done much better if we would at least get some kind of partial credit for our work, but nooo. Mrs. Walker says, “If you don’t get the answer right, that’s all that matters” and so she only gives partial credit on some things, like homework. Which means I can do almost the whole problem right, make some kind of simple arithmetic mistake or use the wrong formula, and end up getting the whole thing wrong. So not fair.

  The day gets a little better, though, because there are milkshakes for lunch, and it’s announced that there’s going to be a dance with Brookline Academy for Boys next week. Only they call it a social, I guess to make sure they keep the focus on academics. Dance, social, whatever, it’s still going to be fab. Then, at basketball practice, I somehow manage to score two baskets. Rory yells, “Good job, Scarlett!” and even Andrea gives me a thumbs-up.

  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting into better shape, or because I’m having such a great day, but after practice, I’m not even tired and I skip right up the stairs to my room. When I get there, Crissa’s sitting on her bed, her nose stuck in a book.

  “Good afternoon, Crissa!” I say, spinning around. Even Crissa can’t bother me today. I don’t even care that I still have to shower before I can tackle the three hours of homework that I have, not to mention brushing up on my math since I obviously don’t quite have it yet. I feel like I can do anything.

  Crissa sits up and slams her book shut. “Please,” she asks, “could you not come in this room shouting?” She takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes. “Some of us are trying to study.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to her book. I want to say something mean back to her like, “Sorry some of us actually have a life and aren’t always studying,” but at this school, having a life is a bad thing.

  “So,” I say, sliding into the softness of my bed. Mmm … I probably shouldn’t be lying on my bed, since every time I do, I seem to fall asleep. I reluctantly sit up. “Are you looking forward to the social?”

  “Not really,” she says. “Dances are just another way of taking our repressed societal values and imposing them on our adolescents.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I decide it might be better to just ignore her. And then I realize I might get to see the mysterious bookstore boy at the dance! Or maybe even my secret pen pal. Or at least have him pointed out to me so I can see if he’s psychotic-looking. Maybe he has dark hair and eyes and wears a seersucker coat! A lot of times in the books I read, there are very sinister characters wearing seersucker coats.

  My curiosity peaks even more on Wednesday in English, when I get two more letters from Number Seventeen.

  The first one says this:

  Dear Number Seventeen,

  I have a confession to make, something that might make you kind of mad. (Yes, in addition to the fact that I’m sending you silly tasks to complete.)

  On the second day of school, my friend Davy Pierce and I snuck into Mr. Lang’s office in the English department and looked up the list of stranger pen pals. So I know your name is Scarlett Northon. Then, on Saturday, we had an off-academy at the mall, same as you guys, and I asked one of the girls at your school to point you out. I saw you sitting in the food court, eating a taco. You had on a sweatshirt that said I DO IT BECAUSE I CAN and your hair was all messy.

  You are very cute, and obviously very smart, because I overheard you talking to your friend about something to do with math. Plus you are a good writer, I can tell from your letters.

  Anyway.

  I don’t know anyone who wears a Notre Dame hat, but I will keep my eyes peeled. And The Catcher in the Rye? That book is so overrated. What’s so cute about this guy anyway?

  Number Seventeen

  The second letter says this:

  Dear Number Seventeen,

  I am glad you have decided to participate in this game. You have made a wise choice.

  Your calling statement number one the truth was correct.

  Statement Number Two is as follows:

  NUMBER FOURTEEN ON THE SECRET PEN PALS LIST IS A BOY NAMED LOUIS MASTERPOLE.

  You have until tomorrow to figure this out. Good luck, and remember: If you choose not to participate in this task, you will be revealed.

  Number Seventeen

  Hmm. Well, that’s a weird choice of words. “You will be revealed”? It’s like he’s going out of his way to make this seem scary. Although I’m sure he’s just doing it to make it interesting. I mean, there’s no way he could know about my secret. He doesn’t even know me.

  Here’s what I write him back:

  Dear Number Seventeen,

  I accept your challenge. After all, I wouldn’t want to get “revealed.” Ha-ha. Also, I appreciate your honesty. Honesty is very important in any relationship, even one like ours, which is based only on letters. And thank you for calling me cute. The reason I was wearing that sweatshirt was because my friend Amber and I had been spying on Mr. Lang and Miss Cardanelli, and it was part of our disguise.

  Why were you so interested in finding out who I was, anyway? I wish you had introduced yourself to me. It would have been nice to know if I could return the compliment, and call you cute as well. Right now I have no idea what you look like— do you ever wear seersucker coats?

  I have started reading The Catcher in the Rye, and I think it is a very good book. So if you ever do figure out who it was that recommended it to me, please thank them for me.

  Talk soon,

  Scarlett

  “Oh my
God,” Amber says in math. “You were totally flirting with him!”

  “I was not!” I say, shocked. “I don’t even know him.”

  “This is just my luck,” she says, her eyes crinkling up at the sides as she lets out a fake groan. “You get a pen pal that you’re flirting with, and meanwhile”—she pulls a letter out of her bag and waves it around—“I’m getting letters about this guy’s bug collection, and how he’d really like to show it to me.”

  “Well,” I say, “that sounds kind of like flirting. Maybe he’s going to ask you to a bug convention or something.”

  “A bug convention?” she says, sighing. “Doubtful.”

  “Anyway,” I say. “My next thing is that I have to find out who number fourteen on the secret pen pal list is.”

  “Number fourteen?” she says. “That’s me!”

  “Well, I’m supposed to find out if your pen pal is a guy named Louis Masterpole.”

  “It definitely must be,” she says. “That sounds like a bug lover’s name.” She frowns. “Although if his name is Louis, why would he want his alias to be ‘Stuart’? You’d think he’d go for something a little more manly, like …” She frowns.

  “Stone?” I suggest.

  “Rafe,” she says.

  “Draco.”

  “Granite.”

  We both burst into giggles.

  “What are you two laughing about?” Crissa asks as she brushes by Amber and slides fluidly into her seat.

  “Bug conventions,” I say. “And bug lovers.”

  Amber’s laughing so hard now she can’t even talk.

  “I wouldn’t start laughing about science if I were you, Scarlett,” Crissa says. “Since you should be worried enough about your math grade.”

  And she’s right. I get a sixty-nine on that day’s quiz.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say at lunch, dipping my spoon into my strawberry yogurt. “I’m flunking out.”