I feel tired when I reach the elaborate Korean Baptist church, but I keep going. Near the end of the run, my phone buzzes, and I come to a halt, scuffing the toes of my shoes into the curb. I open my email to find a message from Chelsea Wyndam, a name I vaguely recognize. She’s one of my dad’s personal assistants. Because Daniel Bright rarely writes his own emails, obviously. Never to his daughter.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Carol
Mr. Bright said he’d handle it.
A little of the pressure eases off my chest.
When I get home a few miles later I find Mom on the computer, her eyes red and puffy. Though she hasn’t changed out of her bathrobe, she has job listings up on the screen.
I don’t need to ask what happened. I know. Dad handled it. He called and threatened to withhold the rent if she doesn’t get a job. He probably told her she was pathetic, told her she was fortunate to have been beautiful enough to win a night with him eighteen years ago. He probably reminded her that the second I’m out of the house, she’s on her own, and she’d better hope I take care of her because no one else will.
I’ve heard it before.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says as I walk past. I know what’s going on here. Whenever Dad tells her she’ll depend on me, she’s unusually contrite. She knows if she loses me, she loses the roof over her head. Part of me wants to fire back something nasty at her. But I know better.
“It’s okay. Just try, Mom,” I say from the hallway. “Try to prove him wrong.”
I walk into my perfectly orderly room and out of the uncertainty of my mom’s life. I can’t change her, can’t control any of it. All I can do is make sure I don’t end up the type of person who gives up in the face of a challenge. Who lets other people tell her who she is.
I peel my shirt off over my gray sports bra. Before I toss it in the hamper, I recognize the grass stain on the sleeve and remember when I fell in the rain and landed on my shoulder. Andrew was running with me. He helped me up, and we walked home even though it was pouring.
You’re a bitch, Cameron Bright.
Andrew’s wrong, and I won’t just sit here and hope he comes around. I won’t be my mom, waiting on the couch for things to go her way. I want him too much for that. I’m going to prove to him exactly who I am. I’ll do whatever it takes.
Five
BEAUMONT PREP REALLY WANTS TO BE ONE of the venerable prep schools of Connecticut or New Hampshire or wherever. We have a coat of arms, and wooden tables in the dining hall give the school a historic character. But we’re in California, where historic isn’t Gothic or colonial. The architecture is mission-style, the buildings beige and the roofs red-tiled. We don’t have uniforms either. Thank god.
I walk up the steps and between the precisely trimmed rose bushes flanking the front entrance, earning more than a couple of admiring stares from my male classmates for my clingy T-shirt dress. I parted my hair on the side, and it all hangs down on my right shoulder. I duck directly toward my first class.
Walking into Ethics, I finalize the plan in my head. I need to prove to Andrew that I’m a good person. When I know he’s watching, I’ll walk up to Paige and offer the most generous apology humanly possible. I only have to wait until fourth period, when I have class with the two of them. Andrew will understand he had me wrong, and he and I will be an item by the end of the day.
While Mr. Chen hands out today’s thought experiment—the Trolley Problem—I find my seat next to Morgan. I turn, wanting to be certain Paige is here today, and a momentary panic fills me when I don’t find her.
Until the girl in the back in a knee-length black dress and scuffed Converse raises her head. Paige has re-dyed her hair into a mildly less offensive shade of red and chopped it into a messy bob. I can’t imagine why. If she thinks a crappy haircut will catch Jeff Mitchel’s attention, she’s in for a rude awakening.
She pulls a pair of fishnets from her Hello Kitty bag, unbelievably, and begins mending the giant hole in them on her desk.
“Tell me I don’t have a cold sore,” Morgan says next to me. I notice she’s holding her hand over her lips. I pull it down, revealing a cluster of bright red blisters beneath her bottom lip.
“You don’t have a cold sore,” I pronounce, repeating her request. She eyes me skeptically. “But in a more truthful sense, yes, you have a gigantic cold sore,” I go on. “What have you and Brad been up to? Or what have you been up to? Or what—”
“Cameron!” she hisses with a giggle. She covers her mouth in mortification and shoves me lightly. “This is tragic.”
I hear someone snicker from behind Morgan and me. I don’t need to check to know it’s Paige. On other days, I would call her out. It’s bullshit for a girl who looks like Edward Scissorhands styled her hair to mock Morgan, who’s not only gorgeous but whose gorgeousness is part of her career.
But today, I pretend I didn’t hear. I playfully return Morgan’s shove. “You’re friends with one of the most popular makeup experts in probably the world. You don’t think it’ll be fine?”
“But—”
“No buts.” I give her a stern glance. “Why don’t you focus on more important things—like the design board I sent you yesterday?”
Morgan’s eyes light up instantly. Her hand drops from her mouth, and she grabs my arm. Morgan’s a very grabby person. “It’s incredible, Cam,” she gushes, and I feel a swell of pride even though I already knew it. I’ve put the past couple weekends into redesigning Morgan’s professional website with her headshots and highlight reel. “You could do this professionally,” Morgan goes on. “For real.”
I shrug. Web design’s a good hobby. I’m meant for Wharton and econ, though.
“Well, I don’t know where you learned to do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Brad’s totally going to want you to update the Mock Trial site, too.”
“Only if he can prove he didn’t give you herpes.” Morgan giggles loudly this time. Mr. Chen cuts her a reproving glare.
I bend down to pull my Ethics book from my bag. Without intending to, I lock eyes with Paige. She’s staring daggers at me. In just a couple hours, I’ll be apologizing to this girl, regardless of how hard I know she’ll make it.
Of course, the apology’s not for her.
* * *
I have Economics and then Calculus, and then Elle and I get Morgan looking like herself in an emergency concealer session before fourth period. I don’t cross paths with Andrew the entire morning—a shame, given the care I’ve put into my outfit, but I guess not a surprise. He was right when he reminded me he and I never hung out except outside of school. I don’t even know where his locker is.
I walk past the fountain in Beaumont’s inner courtyard, where the student body president, Lisa Gramercy, is publicizing this year’s winter formal, which will be held on her father’s yacht. I like Lisa, but I ignore her today. I’ve barely survived waiting for fourth period. Finally, I have the chance to fix what I broke between Andrew and me.
In the history of the known universe, I’ve never arrived early to English. Ms. Kowalski watches me in undisguised surprise. Andrew walks in a few minutes later, and I feel a familiar heat rise in my cheeks. He looks uh-mazing.
I don’t know if it’s possible for a person to become objectively better looking over one weekend or if it’s the memory of our recent romantic entanglement, but there’s something different about him. He’s not wearing anything special, just jeans, black Adidas, and a black T-shirt, but there’s a casual ease to his look that’s just . . . hot. He looks like a young John Legend. I’m finding it extremely difficult to tear my eyes away.
Paige follows right behind him, ruining my Andrew-related reverie, because the world is an unforgiving place. Her eyes narrow when they find mine. I don’t engage
. Instead, I pretend I’m reading the whiteboard behind her, where Ms. Kowalski has written instructions for the new unit we’ll be forced to endure for the next six weeks.
And it’s Shakespeare. The Taming of the Shrew.
Wonderful.
I hate this class. Literature is frustrating. It’s counterintuitive. You’re supposed to get into the mind of a character, to experience his or her world and thoughts, but writers do everything they can to get in the way. Figurative language, symbols, meter, and rhyme—everything we write essays about only ever obscures the point of the book. Truths don’t become more true when delivered in metaphors and metonymy. It’s stupid. Except the Hemingway we read in AP junior year. He did his characters the favor of describing their real emotions. Too bad they’re whiny failures.
Shakespeare’s, for what it’s worth, aren’t. They’re just the worst offenders in hiding everything they want to say in floral wording, whences and whereofs. Characters, and people for that matter, should say what they mean.
Ms. Kowalski asks Andrew to hand out a Shakespearean English glossary. I try to catch Andrew’s eye while he passes the pile down my row. He pointedly refuses even to look in my direction. It hurts. A week ago we were on a run together, laughing about the number of French bulldogs we passed on our route (there were seven). Three days ago he had his hand under my bra. Now he won’t even look at me.
While Kowalski goes over the handout, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder at him, even resorting to tactics like dropping my pen and pretending to rearrange my hair. The minute she gives us time to read aloud in groups, I’m out of my chair and walking toward Paige before she can partner up with anyone.
On the way, I purposefully walk close to Andrew’s desk. My dress brushes his paper onto the floor. I pick it up and put it on his desk, but I don’t linger. While he’s still looking up, I continue on to Paige.
Here goes . . . everything.
“Hi, Paige,” I start, my voice overly gentle, the way I talk to my mom when she gets depressed and won’t leave the bedroom. Paige glances up warily. Her haircut really is terrible. “I owe you an apology for Friday,” I continue, glancing toward Andrew, whose head is tilted in our direction even though his reading partner is loudly declaring the opening lines of the play.
“Oh yeah? For what?” Paige asks, her expression flat.
I size her up for a moment. Paige continues to surprise. I know what she’s doing—she’s forcing me to repeat what I said to her. Now is not the time for retaliation, however. I take a breath, schooling my features into remorse.
“What I said to you was uncalled for,” I go on. “You were obviously having a rough night”—to put it generously—“and I’m sorry I made it worse.” It’s time to play the extenuating-circumstances card. “I was having a bad day. Honestly, my mom lost her job. I’m not making an excuse,” I rush to say. “I just hope you’ll forgive me.”
Andrew starts to smile. I feel a flush of excitement, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from beaming in the middle of my heartfelt apology. It worked. Andrew’s looking at me the way he used to. I can tell—
“Why are you apologizing now?” Paige’s voice rips me from my already forming fantasies.
I turn back to face her, finding her watching me carefully. It takes me a moment to reply. “What do you mean?” I ask, controlling my composure.
“You saw me in first period. Why didn’t you apologize then?”
The excitement rushes out of me, and anger rushes in. For a moment I can’t marshal my expression. I know exactly where this is headed, and I’m certain I’m not the only one who knows Andrew is watching. I narrow my eyes, feeling my nostrils flare. “We didn’t have any free time in Ethics. I’ve been waiting for a chance like this,” I get out.
Infuriatingly, Paige grins.
“Huh,” she says. “You had time to talk about your friend’s tragic cold sore.”
I don’t know how to respond. I know how I’d like to respond. I’d tell her helping my friends with literally anything comes before apologizing to a girl who’s done nothing but glare at me. I know Andrew’s watching, though, and I hold in the retort. Aware I’m losing ground, I say desperately, “I want to make this right.”
Paige reclines in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s enjoying herself. “Make this right while Andrew Richmond is watching, you mean,” she says, and I feel my cheeks flame. “Because I can’t imagine a different reason why you wouldn’t have apologized in first period or even during break. You can’t fool me with your charm and your perfect blonde hair, Bright,” she says, her voice turning low and ugly. “I see through you. By now, I imagine Andrew does, too.”
Her mouth curls in an acidic smirk. For a moment I’m almost impressed. “I guess this means you won’t be accepting my apology.” I have to muster every ounce of calm in me to get the words out.
“You guess right,” Paige says.
We hold each other’s glares. Then I turn on my heel. When I walk back toward my desk, I notice Andrew watching me without bothering to hide it.
Earlier today I would’ve given anything to have his eyes on me. Now I’d give anything to erase the disgust in them.
Six
I SIT BETWEEN ELLE AND MORGAN ON the patio for lunch. Elle’s trying to catch up on History homework, while Morgan pokes her kale salad disinterestedly. “I don’t get it,” I grumble. Morgan nods understandingly. Elle’s eyes flit up in acknowledgment, then return to her homework. “I know he likes me. He’s liked me since freshman year. And now he writes me off as a bitch?”
I wait for reassurance. I tried to talk to Andrew today in the wake of the disastrous apology attempt. He won’t even look at me. Won’t walk in my direction in the halls. Won’t anything. It pisses me off, honestly. I don’t know why he thinks he has the right to judge me—as if he’s better than I am, as if he’s never insulted anyone in anger, as if he’s perfect. If I weren’t really, really into him, I’d give him a piece of my mind about it.
Morgan only nods. Her eyes wander to the burger on Brad’s plate. Brad’s examining his fingernails, but I know he’s listening.
“If he doesn’t see you’re in no way a bitch, he’s not worth it. Who even cares what he thinks? Don’t let other people’s opinions get in your way,” Elle says finally. She closes her textbook with a short sigh. “I’m never going to finish this.”
“Brad . . .” Morgan glances indicatively at his plate. He rolls his eyes and pushes his burger in her direction. Morgan, pleased, grabs the burger and looks up at me. “We’re your friends, Cameron. If you were a bitch, we’d tell you.”
I nod, unconvinced. What my friends don’t understand is that I’m not only upset about a guy. Andrew is—was, it hurts to realize—a friend. He knows me as well as Morgan and Elle do, and I can’t just disregard his judgment. If Morgan or Elle thought I was a bitch, I’d want to prove them wrong. I’d need to prove them wrong. If I couldn’t, what would that say about me? I’d be my mom, refusing to disprove my dad’s criticism.
Elle shoves her textbook into her Prada bag, then stares at Brad like she’s just remembered something. “I need you,” she declares, “for a video.”
This gets Brad’s attention. His head pops up, his eyes wide. “We’ve discussed this,” he says, sounding scarily like his dad. “No. Get a model or an actor or whoever.”
Imploringly, Elle places both hands on the table. “But you’re so beautiful!” Morgan snorts. Elle goes on, “I need to do a video on male makeup . . .” I tune out while she pleads her case, my mind churning over the Andrew question. I can’t have him out there thinking badly of me. It feels like a bruise I can’t help but touch, hoping it’s healed and instead bringing on a fresh wave of pain.
When the bell rings, I head to Computer Science, a class held in the newly refurbished science and technology building someone’s mom funded a couple of years a
go. The stainless steel curves of the Frank Gehry–designed building rise in contrast to the school’s adobe arches, making our campus honestly cooler than 90 percent of college campuses in the country.
I was scared to sign up for AP Computer Science at the beginning of the year. I thought my meager-to-moderate web building and design experience wouldn’t compare to the smarts of a bunch of scholarship geniuses. I hold my own, though. Coding takes creativity, but it’s clear and organized. If you watch for mistakes and don’t lose focus, you’re good to go.
I walk in behind Abby Fleischman and Charlie Kim talking eagerly over each other. I hear words like “paladin” and “orc knights’ guard” and have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t understand why people like Abby and Charlie bother with video games, especially when this class has proved to me they’re way good enough with computers to be designing apps and coding operating systems.
I sit in the far left corner of the room, where I have space to tune everyone out except the teacher and concentrate on my own work. The Computer Science room is no less impressive on the inside than outside. Under the high ceiling run rows of widescreen iMacs and those ugly-as-hell yet impossibly comfortable mesh chairs. On the board is the assignment I finished Friday.
Which is perfect. On the walk over from lunch, I decided what to do about the Andrew problem. I have to take the direct approach.
While the rest of the class opens Python to finish writing a hangman game, I log into my school email account—not the account I would have used to write a long apology to my crush, but the school blocks access to Facebook and Gmail on school computers, and I don’t want to be caught on my phone in class.
Dear Andrew, I write.
No. Too formal.
I go with just Andrew and then write from the heart. I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain. I don’t know how things got so messed up so quickly, but you’re important to me, even as just a friend. I hope you’ll give me a second chance—
If I'm Being Honest Page 4