If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  I’m interrupted by someone tapping my shoulder firmly, like I’ve annoyed them. “You’re supposed to be working on the assignment from Friday,” I hear a low voice say.

  Over me stands Barfy Brendan—no, looms, because he’s about six and a half feet tall. The way he’s looking at me, the blend of ambivalence and assertiveness in his brown eyes, is eerily reminiscent of how his sister stared me down a couple of hours ago. He’s a year younger than Paige, and he shares her freakish height and curly hair. His is brown, not red, and unlike his spindly sister, he has broad shoulders and somewhat muscular forearms. There’s a universe in which he’s cute, if you could overlook his social-pariah status. He’s the TA for Computer Science because he got a perfect score on the AP exam when he was a sophomore.

  “Wait, what?” I ask, distracted by his T-shirt. It’s modeled after the Evolution of Man but shows four robots labeled DALEK, R2-D2, CYLON, BORG. For whatever reason, there’s a hot blonde on the end labeled CYLON, too.

  “The assignment?” he repeats.

  “I finished it on Friday.” I turn back to my email. “Thanks though, BB.” Before I get through a couple more words, he reaches down and force-quits out of Safari, and the draft is gone. I blink in indignation. “Hey! What was that for?”

  “If you’re done with the assignment, you should submit it and start working on tonight’s problem set,” he says, almost with disinterest. Without another word he walks to the front of the class. I have no choice but to gape behind him. BB and I haven’t interacted often over the years, mostly because he avoids social situations like Elle avoids swim P.E.

  I didn’t know he could be so commanding. I would be impressed if I weren’t annoyed.

  Whatever. I wait until he’s busy with another student, then reopen my email to rewrite what I had to Andrew. Instead, I find a new message in my inbox.

  From: db_asst@brightpartners.com

  To: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: Re: Re: Carol

  Dear Cameron, Mr. Bright has arranged for your mother to take a waitressing job at one of his associate’s restaurants. She starts next Monday. Don’t hesitate to write me if you should have any more difficulties!

  Best,

  Chelsea

  I have to keep myself from letting out a rueful laugh. I think about writing her back. Yes, Chelsea, I’m having more difficulties. I’m going to have to talk Mom off a ledge over the prospect of a job that’s an embarrassing handout from her ex. I might have lost the one guy who saw me as more than a pretty face. And it’d be nice if my dad could even pretend to care about his daughter so I don’t believe the ugly words said about me.

  He’d never understand, of course.

  Instead of writing that, I close out of my email and submit the assignment. When the bell rings, I run straight out the door to cross-country and keep on running.

  Seven

  I’VE FINALLY FOUND ANDREW’S LOCKER. IT ONLY took complimenting a suggestible sophomore on the soccer team who told me the right hall and then spending the whole lunch on Wednesday waiting and watching which locker Andrew went to. I duck out of Calc five minutes early, claiming a stomachache, and wait out of sight at the end of Andrew’s hall. From yesterday’s recon, I know he’ll stop by his locker before English. I pull the letter from my bag and run my finger nervously along the crease, feeling the soft fold in the paper.

  Write letter. Find Andrew’s locker. Deliver letter.

  I spent hours yesterday writing. I decided on Monday that email wasn’t right, and I spent Tuesday stuck. But I don’t give up easily. People who give up don’t deserve what they want. People who give up end up like my mother.

  Whereas people who pursue their goals end up like my father. And while I might live with her, I’ve done everything not to repeat my mother’s choices. Even in Hollywood, a city practically built on broken dreams, and a school like Beaumont full of aspiring everythings, I’ve remained on the periphery of fame and fantasy. I’d rather struggle through the dense, sometimes impossible homework for Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market in hopes of earning a practical internship and not ending up on the couch with nothing but dead-end dreams.

  Once I’d finished reading three Economist articles for class, I wrote the letter to Andrew. I stayed up late working, explaining the night I yelled at Paige, how I was scared because I’d never had a relationship I cared about and nervous he wouldn’t want me the way I wanted him. I wrote how I screwed up the apology to Paige because I panicked, how his friendship means too much to me. I labored over it until two in the morning, rewriting it twice. When he reads it, he’ll understand how much of a bitch I’m not.

  The bell rings. I hear snatches of conversation while people walk past me in the hall—winter formal, service projects, dates, and breakups. I just stand there, watching Andrew’s locker with an eager anxiety I haven’t felt on campus since I was a freshman.

  I want to hand him the letter in person, ideally. And it can’t be in English. Paige would undoubtedly glare obnoxiously and spoil everything. But as the minutes pass without sign of him, I settle for sliding it into his locker. He has to read the letter today, one way or another. I walk to the locker and start to push the letter under the door when, of course, I catch his broad frame coming toward me.

  Our eyes meet, and his gaze drops. With it goes my hopes for repairing things. After a moment’s pause, he approaches the locker, his eyes avoiding mine.

  “You won’t even give me a chance to explain?” I ask, working to repress the indignation in my voice.

  He drops in his cleats and pulls out a hefty Classical Philosophy textbook. “Cameron, I’m not really looking for an explanation right now,” he says, sounding weary.

  He closes his locker with a clang and walks past me. I have no choice but to follow, my Nikes squeaking on the linoleum. “But on Friday you wanted to be with me,” I argue. “I’ll admit I acted badly, but you know me.” I struggle to keep up with his long stride. “You know who I am. I’m the girl who runs with you, who watches shitty MTV movies with you, who—”

  “Cameron.” He rounds on me. “I’ve liked you pretty much since the day I met you.” I feel a smile springing to my lips. Andrew stares at me hard. “But you only wanted to be with me once I’d passed some popularity test.”

  My smile fades.

  “I don’t know if making the team made you see me in a new light or if you always wanted to date me and only felt you could when I made the team. I don’t know which is worse. Either way, I don’t want to be with you.”

  I open my mouth to refute him, but he talks over me.

  “I wish I had reason to believe that beneath everything, you’re nice or decent or something. But right now, I don’t.” Turning his back, he walks into class without giving me a chance to defend myself. As if he knows I can’t.

  I could run to the bathroom right now. Could conceal myself in a stall instead of going to class. But I’d just come out of that bathroom in forty-three minutes knowing I’d have to face him eventually.

  I walk into class.

  When we’re in our desks, Kowalski holds up her copy of The Taming of the Shrew. “You’ve all had a chance to digest the first two acts,” she says, giving us a meaningful yet somehow threatening look. “Let’s discuss our title character, the shrew—Katherine. How does Shakespeare treat her?” Perched on an open desk, Kowalski calls on the girl in front of her.

  I don’t listen to what Lisa Gramercy has to say. And when Kowalski calls on someone else, I don’t listen to them either. The discussion continues around me, but I stare at my notebook. I made a mistake somewhere. That much, I can easily admit. Maybe I should’ve gone to his house to talk. Or I could’ve worked up a couple tears in the hall. Really, I should have found a room with a door to pull him into at Ska¯ra. If Paige had been kept out, none of this would have happened.

  I gla
nce over my shoulder at her—the girl who ruined everything. Paige notices me watching her and shoots me a sardonic look as she covers the front of her book so that only Shrew is visible. She nods in my direction with a smirk.

  I turn to my notebook, too tired to muster even a haughty expression. On the open page I’ve jotted down my list of ideas for winning Andrew back—apologize to Paige while he’s watching, email him, write him an old-fashioned letter—each of them now crossed out. But I never give up, and I definitely won’t on Andrew. He’s not just a guy I could date. He’s the guy. He’s everything I want. We’re right together. I’ve planned for him and me on countless lists of goals for my senior year.

  The class discussion is empty noise around me as I stare at my notebook, willing a new idea to appear.

  “Andrew,” I distantly hear Kowalski say, and his name is enough to lift my head.

  “Sure, she’s not treated great,” Andrew says, “but I can’t exactly feel bad for her either. Regardless of how she’s viewed, Kate doesn’t give the audience reason to believe she’s anything but terrible on the inside.”

  I blink, his words to me from moments ago still echoing in my ears. I can’t help but notice the familiar phrasing. I wish I had reason to believe that beneath everything, you’re nice or decent or something. But right now, I don’t. I sit up straighter, suddenly interested in this discussion.

  Elle doesn’t wait to be called on before responding. “You’re just upset because Kate doesn’t conform to her patriarchal society.” Her tone is uncompromising, her expression a mixture of passion and disgust. “She shouldn’t compromise who she is because of some guy or because she’s expected to find a husband.”

  “Yeah,” I find myself saying. Kowalski’s eyes dart to me. It’s rare I participate in this class, but I’m fueled by every time I’ve had to listen to Andrew tell me I’m not good enough. “Just because she doesn’t fit your or Petruchio’s notion of a well-behaved woman doesn’t mean she has to change.”

  Andrew appears startled to have attracted such a strong reaction. He raises his hand and waits until Kowalski nods for him to reply. “This has nothing to do with being a well-behaved woman,” he argues. His posture’s rigidly defensive. “You guys honestly think smashing lutes over people’s heads and insulting them at every turn is acceptable for anyone, regardless of gender?”

  I glance down to the open page in my book, rereading. Baptista’s criticizing Katherine for insulting people who didn’t deserve her anger. Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee? When did she cross thee with a bitter word? With an unexpected churn of my stomach, recognition dawns. The quote could be about me, about how I treated Paige the other night and how I’ve dealt with everyone who’s frustrated me. I’m undeniably Kate-like.

  “Forget about having a husband,” Andrew goes on. “Kate wouldn’t have friends if she continued acting the way she does. I wouldn’t choose to spend time with her. It’s a good thing for her that Petruchio helps her—”

  Elle cuts him off, her face red. “You mean tames her, like she’s some kind of animal!”

  Andrew turns to Kowalski, refusing to engage directly with Elle. “Is it actually a bad thing to be tamed”—he darts a glance in Elle’s direction, acknowledging the word choice—“when it makes you a better human being?”

  I hear Elle’s disapproving snort, but by the time she starts speaking again, my attention’s left the discussion. Andrew said he needed an indication that I’m nice on the inside, and here he is, arguing that Kate’s transformation redeems her. I flip to a blank page in my notebook and start scribbling down the ideas sprinting through my thoughts.

  If he can accept Katherine after changing, then he’ll accept me. The only difference is that I won’t wait for some Petruchio—some guy—to “tame” me.

  I’ll do it myself.

  Eight

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, I DECIDE TO get ahead in English.

  I redirect every ounce of my anger over Andrew’s words and holier-than-thou attitude into proving him wrong. I read the whole play, scouring every line for ideas. I cut through twixts and ne’ers and doths, not to mention hundreds of overly complex and circuitous phrasings like to make mine eye the witness just to say to see for myself.

  The problem is that all of Petruchio’s methods of taming Katherine are terrible.

  Moral ramifications aside, starving myself or keeping myself sleep-deprived would hardly make me a nicer person. I toss the play aside and try to think for myself. If Katherine were to work on being a better person, what would she do? The first answer is obvious: be nicer to people. Easy.

  And too slow. Holding doors for people and complimenting them on their hair or whatever might get Andrew’s attention eventually. But how many months of observing little daily kindnesses would it take?

  I need more than that. I need something that’ll catch his attention while making myself look good and helping others. I come up with and cross out a dozen possibilities.

  It’s not until I remember Andrew’s exact words in class that I begin to have an idea. Andrew mentioned Kate smashing the lute over her tutor’s head. If Kate wanted to redeem herself, she would apologize. But apologies don’t repair real damage, and as I’ve learned through recent personal experience, it’s hard to make them genuine enough to work. Kate would have to bandage the tutor’s wounds and replace his broken lute before anyone really thought she’d changed.

  That’s it.

  Apologies alone won’t be enough. But I won’t only apologize. I’ll make amends with people I might have wronged. Whatever I did to hurt them, I’ll undo. It’s perfect. Performing grand gestures has a much higher visibility factor than mere compliments and politeness. It won’t take long for word to reach Andrew about what I’m doing, and then he’ll know I’ve changed, just like Katherine.

  As much as I’d rather not, I’ll have to start with Paige. Even if I don’t particularly like her, Andrew won’t believe I’ve changed until I’ve made it up to her. The problem is, I haven’t the faintest idea what I could do for her.

  * * *

  I spend the next week following Paige everywhere, hoping for clues. I lurk on her hallway conversations, flip through last year’s yearbook to find out what extracurriculars she’s in, and stalk her movements during lunch. While my friends sit on the patio at our usual table, I tell them I’m working in the library and instead watch Paige and her friends in the dining hall. Nobody’s the wiser.

  But I find nothing. Paige never complains about a class she’s failing or a project she needs help with, which means I can’t help her academically. I thought I might join one of her clubs and thereby help its stature, but amazingly for a Beaumont student, she isn’t involved in a single school activity. And despite her relative lack of popularity, she spends every lunch with a decently sized group of friends who appear to adore her.

  I got momentarily excited last night when I realized I’d read her personal statement. I wracked my brain for everything I could remember—which wasn’t much. Admittedly, I didn’t really care when I read it. But I knew she wrote about feeling like she couldn’t be herself because she had other people to worry about. There were parts about bullying, about how difficult it is to watch without being able to help. Nothing specific, though. Nothing I can use.

  She doesn’t have a boyfriend. I know that. Setting her up with someone would definitely be doable, but I haven’t overheard her talking about anyone she’s interested in. There’s always Jeff. At Ska¯ra she was obviously into him, and considering how she had been sobbing when she stumbled into Andrew and me, I know whatever happened between them didn’t work out the way Paige had hoped.

  But he’s Jeff.

  In English I wait for the bell to ring, gazing out the window to the parking lot. Sure enough, the windows of Jeff’s Mercedes are fogged up with an unmistakable pot-smoke haze. I can make out his aggressively pink polo—w
ith the collar popped, of course—through the cloud.

  Even if Paige likes Jeff, I don’t think setting anyone up with him could ever qualify as a good deed.

  I sigh and turn my attention back to Kowalski, who’s giving some impassioned lecture about the ways Bianca and Katherine serve as foils for each other, highlighting each other’s differences. Yawn.

  In following Paige, I have noticed one thing. She and her friends are not completely honest when asked their opinion. Between their heated discussions of TV shows I’ve never heard of and whatever RPGs are, they’ll ask each other for advice. Does this hat make my hair look bad? No one saw my underwear when my skirt flew up, right? Do you think Jason Reid will ever like me back? These questions have obvious right answers: yes, no, and definitely not. But each time, Paige and her friends parrot whatever it is the asker wants to hear.

  I didn’t understand it at first. Wouldn’t a person be a better friend if they told the truth? I’d want my friends to tell me if I had a hideous hat on or if I was wasting my time on an unrealistic crush. Or if I had, say, a blindingly bad cold sore. I’ve always thought of honesty as helpful even if it’s hurtful.

  But reading The Taming of the Shrew, I’m beginning to doubt that. Katherine’s honesty helps no one and leaves them hating her. Her honesty is everyone’s main complaint with her. Katherine’s honest to a fault—like when she tells Petruchio he’s an ass within the first couple lines of meeting him. Even if “ass” for Shakespeare means donkey, it’s still a pretty savage insult. It happens again and again. Katherine doesn’t hide a single negative thought or opinion, which is why people come away convinced of her reputation as a shrew.

  If I’m going to be less like Katherine, I’ll have to work on reining in my honest opinions some.