If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  I have no idea what to say. I have nothing to say. I sit in stunned silence, trying in vain to come up with a reply. “I—I’m sorry,” I stutter. “Tell me how to make it right. I’ll do anything.”

  “There’s nothing I could ever want from you,” he replies quickly.

  I stand sharply, having finally had enough. My face burns. Screw holding in my opinions. “Fine, stay hidden in here and blame your complete lack of a high-school social life on me. It’s definitely because of the nickname and not because you’re antisocial and choose to spend your time playing mindless video games with a color palette it looks like a third-grader picked instead of talking to a girl, or a guy, or whatever.”

  I collect my things to storm out of the room.

  Before I have the chance, I hear BB behind me.

  “I’m not playing a mindless video game,” he says quietly. “I’m making one.”

  I turn and glance toward the computer screen. For the first time I notice the notebook sitting next to it. The open page is filled with sketches and models of what I recognize to be the boy and the witch from the game. I remember my words from a moment ago with a twinge of guilt. A color palette it looks like a third-grader picked.

  I stare at the screen with new respect. “You’re making that?” I repeat.

  By way of reply, Brendan brusquely turns off the monitor. He shoves his notebook in his backpack and pauses in front of me. “You want to know how you can make amends?” he asks. “Stay out of my life.” He gathers his things and walks out of the room.

  Ten

  I’M DREADING FRIDAY MORNING.

  I know I’m going to run into Paige. And I know she’s going to come at me hard for what happened with BB—Brendan—yesterday. I’m expecting harsh language, name-calling, a full recount of how I epically screwed up.

  Which won’t be the worst of the fallout. Worse will be what she says to Andrew—how I ended up driving her brother deeper into his insecurity while trying to win her over, because I couldn’t handle the consequences of having called her horrible things.

  What a bitch Cameron Bright is.

  While I’m prepared for the disaster I have coming to me, I’m not exactly looking forward to the confrontation. I do everything in my power to avoid Paige in the morning. I’m hoping I can skirt into the hall as close as possible to the start of class and slip into the classroom after Paige is already inside.

  Instead, of course, Paige finds me when I’m grabbing my notes from my locker. Dumb mistake.

  What I’m unprepared for is how casually she comes up to me. She’s wearing a purple striped top, a floor-length skirt, and a black beanie with dragon ears. She slouches against the neighboring locker, watching me.

  I don’t pretend I don’t notice her, or the hard line of her mouth, lipsticked an unspeakable purple. I wait for the outburst. I’m definitely not going to initiate this conversation.

  “Well,” she finally says, “calling my brother an antisocial loser wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you said you’d apologize.”

  I grimace, drawing in a deep breath. “In fairness, I never used the word ‘loser’—”

  I pause. Because the look I catch on Paige’s face is not entirely furious. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it moderately furious. Mildly furious, possibly. What catches me short is what I glimpse under the questionable level of furiousness. She looks . . . amused.

  “You’re not mad,” I venture.

  Paige shrugs. “A little,” she says.

  I wait, confused. Where I left off with BB was definitely worse than where I began. I unquestionably hurt his feelings. Which unquestionably found its way back to Paige. What am I not getting?

  “You know,” she says casually, pretending to study the chipped black polish of her nails, “I didn’t think you’d go through with it. Apologizing to Brendan. Or trying.” Her eyes find mine, and the hint of mirth hasn’t disappeared. “It was very non-one-dimensional-popular-girl-stereotypical of you.”

  She pulls her shoulder off the locker and walks toward Ethics. I follow behind her, hardly comprehending what I’m hearing. “Are—are we good?”

  “Please.” She rolls her eyes, pulling open the door for me. “Of course not. You called me pathetic and now my brother a loser. We’re far from good, Bright.” As I pass her, a corner of her purple lips slips up into the first sign of something resembling a smile she’s ever given me.

  Paige is . . . weird.

  Eleven

  FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS MONTH, I’M bringing a handwritten note to school for a boy. I don’t remember ever using physical pieces of paper to communicate with my classmates before—I’d prefer to text, obviously. We’re not first-graders putting identical fakey Valentines in the boxes on each other’s desks. But in this circumstance, the note is the only way.

  I hustled to school ten minutes early—not easy given the unpredictable traffic on Olympic Boulevard on Monday mornings. In the halls, I head in the direction of the far end of campus, clutching the note. The hall outside the robotics room is empty when I reach it.

  I know BB told me to stay away from him. This is for his own good, though. When he finds out why I’ve ignored his request, I have a feeling he’ll understand.

  I wrote the note on Sunday in a rush of inspiration.

  Dear Brendan, please join me, Elle Li, Morgan LeClaire, and Brad Patton for lunch today. We sit on the second-story patio. I know you don’t like me, but I trust you understand that sitting with popular seniors would immediately elevate you out of obscurity. I’m confident that one lunch, possibly two, would undo the damage of the unfortunate nickname I gave you. Once again, I’m sorry about that. I promise you won’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Some of my friends are genuinely nice. You might even enjoy it.

  BB’s reclusive, not dumb. He’ll know I’m right.

  The robotics room is empty when I pull open the door. I find my way through the tables and piles of equipment to Brendan’s bulky gaming computer in the back. His notebooks are exactly where I saw them the last time I was in here, and I get the impression he’s the only person who uses this station. I place the note on the keyboard, and I’m out of the room before the bell rings.

  The first half of the day passes without incident. We compare our course reading to episodes of The Good Place in Ethics, which actually is kind of fun. In Econ we work through the diluted-earnings-per-share problems I finished yesterday, except for the final two. I half listen in English while Kowalski lectures on Lucentio trying to win Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew. Instead, I work on a new list.

  People I Need to Make Amends with, and How

  Paige Rosenfeld, for calling her pathetic—fix things with Brendan

  Brendan Rosenfeld, for giving him the nickname that allegedly ruined his life—

  It’s a work in progress.

  * * *

  Elle’s typing intently on her phone when I reach our table for lunch. Next to her, Brad pores over his AP Government textbook. Morgan watches the courtyard, eating an apple.

  Just them.

  That’s okay, I remind myself. BB’s probably grabbing lunch. He’ll be here.

  Except then the minutes pass. I finish my lunch with no sign of him. Elle notices my repeated glances in the direction of the stairway and gives me a probing look. I force myself to continue listening to Morgan’s explanation of why her entertainment lawyer wants her to find a new agent. I feel growing frustration with every minute lunch inches closer to over.

  Finally the bell rings. Brendan didn’t come.

  Pulling my bag over my shoulder with brusque good-byes to my friends, I work the problem over in my head on the way to Computer Science. It’s possible he didn’t get the note, I guess. It would have been easy for the paper to fall off the keyboard and wind up underfoot, or for a teacher to throw it in the trash.
In class, I’ll have the chance to talk to Brendan and find out what happened.

  I walk in, and BB’s behind his desk, working on the computer. His features register nothing when I pause in the doorway, reading the board for instructions on today’s new problem set.

  I’ll talk to him when class is over. I walk to my computer, getting my mind in gear for today’s assignment. Dropping my things, I pick up the hefty packet of coding instructions.

  On the front of mine, in handwriting unmistakably matching the hard-edged characters on the board, I find two words.

  Not Interested

  Well, I guess Brendan got the note. I feel fire in my cheeks. Glancing up from my packet to where he sits in the front of the room, I wait for him to meet my eyes. Instead, he remains determinedly working on the computer.

  He’s given me every reason to leave him be. To take the hint.

  I went into this project with one intention, though. If I give up, I won’t deserve his forgiveness and I won’t deserve Andrew.

  Which is why I won’t give up.

  * * *

  When I get home, I wipe my running shoes off in front of the door. NAMASTE IN BED reads the doormat. I roll my eyes every time I read the idiotic inscription. Today, I pointedly rub off a clump of dirt on “bed.”

  I’m in a terrible mood, thanks to Brendan. Even placing second in today’s cross-country race couldn’t keep my head from returning to BB’s harsh rejection. It’s rare when running doesn’t distract me from whatever’s bothering me. I like the clear and definite objective of a race. You put in the time and the effort, and then you win. In today’s three-mile course in Runyon Canyon I beat my personal record and finished in under eighteen minutes, though to be fair, I was expecting to hit a new personal record. We train every weekday from three to four thirty, and every day this week I kept my paces exactly to schedule. Today was the beginning of the competitive season, and I want to cut down my time in every one of our weekly races.

  I unlock and kick open the front door, then pull off my shoes to examine the pain in my big toe. It’s bleeding once again, I discover, right through my sock. I have to grab a Band-Aid—

  “Cameron! Hi!”

  I abruptly drop my bloody foot, glance up, and realize I’m not the only person in my living room. Deb, Andrew’s mom, watches me from the couch. Here I was, performing triage on my toe, which could’ve booked a guest role on Grey’s Anatomy. I flush what is probably not my prettiest shade of pink.

  It’s Monday night. Of course it’s Monday night.

  Mom’s stirring something on the stove, and Andrew’s lingering by the counter. Normally he’d have a textbook open, but today I notice his keys in his hand.

  I can’t believe I forgot he was coming over. I’ve been so focused on impressing Andrew, I managed to forget about . . . Andrew. I would’ve remembered if I hadn’t had half a billion plans in my head about Paige, Brendan, everything.

  “Andrew,” my mom says, “you really can’t stay for dinner?”

  I glance up, hoping to meet his eyes. He won’t look in my direction. “I’d like to, but I have practice.”

  I know for a fact he doesn’t have practice. Not this late.

  He’s never not stayed to work on homework or go for a run with me on a Monday night. I guess it’s not enough for him to avoid me in the Beaumont courtyard or the halls. Now he’s avoiding me in the one place we were really friends. Of today’s two unmistakable rejections, this one hurts worse.

  He walks out, passing me without a glance, and I wince when the door closes. Instead of fixating on Andrew, however, I look at my mother, who shouldn’t have had time to prepare the meatloaf sitting on the counter.

  “I thought today was your first day, Mom,” I say evenly. I know she knows what I’m hinting at, because her eyes flicker before she gives me the world’s phoniest smile.

  “Why don’t you shower? Dinner’s almost ready.” I hear the strain in her singsong voice.

  I walk to the stove, where I can mutter to her without Deb overhearing. I know she’s trying to hide behind her guest, and I’m not about to be distracted by her cheerful act. “I thought you weren’t off until seven,” I say, letting an edge into my tone.

  “Today was only a training day. I got off early.” She looks away and watches the gravy boil. I know she’s lying. The slippers next to the couch, the dishes in the sink, the plate covered in crumbs, and a half-empty coffee mug. Typical.

  Frustration forces its way into my throat like bile.

  “Fine,” I say with a hard stare. “I have to make one phone call, then I’ll be right out.” I catch Mom’s grimace. She understands it was a threat.

  I leave the room before she has a chance to reply.

  * * *

  When I step out of the shower ten minutes later, she’s waiting in my room. I recognize the combination of dread and defiance in her eyes. She’s leaning on the corner of my desk, fiddling nervously with my pen, even though I’ve told her a million times not to move things in my room. I honestly don’t know if she’s messing with me or if she just doesn’t remember.

  “You don’t have to call your father before dinner, you know,” she whispers bitterly. “I don’t need him yelling at me while I’m having a nice evening with friends.”

  “You didn’t go into work today, Mom. Don’t bother lying.” I drop my running clothes in the hamper.

  “He already knows, Cameron. You can bet the company called him,” she fires back. She puts the pen down on my homework pile instead of in the Venice Boardwalk mug, where I know she found it. I cross the room to the desk and very deliberately replace the pen in the mug.

  “Why didn’t you go?” I say, gentler. I’m upset, but I know there’s a point where resentment and accusation no longer work on my mother. “We needed this job. How are we going to pay the bills?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Mom replies, brashly confident. “I got a loan from my sister.” Her head jerks up quickly, like the loan wasn’t something she meant to tell me. I’m impressed Mom wore Aunt Jane down, honestly. My mom’s only sister lives in Connecticut with her lawyer husband and openly disdains her family. I can only imagine Aunt Jane wrote her a check to hold her off for the next decade. “But don’t tell your father,” Mom rushes to say. “It’s better if he thinks we’re a little harder pressed for money.”

  I feel my mouth go dry. I’m not often disgusted with my mother. Frustrated, yes. Pitying, on occasion. The moments when her behavior stoops low enough for me to wish we weren’t related come few and far between.

  Right now is one of them. “You did not just say that.” I hear my voice darken.

  I expect her to wither or cringe. To have enough dignity to recognize the indignity of her little scheme. Instead, she holds my gaze. “Don’t pretend I’m the villain here,” she says defiantly. “That man’s done nothing but the minimum when it comes to bringing up his daughter. If you think he’ll just let you and your mother starve, you know nothing about the circles he runs in. He’ll send money.” She nods like she’s convincing herself. “I know he will.”

  “He pays our rent. He pays my tuition—”

  Mom cuts me off. “He only pays for Beaumont because he wants to tell his friends his daughter goes to the fanciest private school in the state. You know he doesn’t do it for you.”

  I flinch and hope she doesn’t notice. I know she’s right, but she said it to hurt me. I have no delusions about my father. I know he’s not a perfect dad. He’s probably not even a good dad. The fact remains, though, he’s done more for my future than my mother ever has. Paying for Beaumont isn’t nothing, regardless of his reasons. My mom’s only interest in my future is how it benefits her.

  “You’d really rather sit on the couch all day and collect money from the man who knocked you up and didn’t even want to marry you?”

  Her eyes flash. “Don�
��t lecture me about things you don’t understand. I’m going back out to our guest.” She emphasizes the final word as if to pretend I forced her in here. “If you want to call your father, fine.” The door half-open, she gives me a final spiteful glance. “Good luck getting him to pick up your call.”

  I reach for my phone once she’s gone, trying to figure out how I’ll explain the loan to my dad. If I tell him, he’ll probably never send money again, which, aside from issues like rent and insurance, would make college next year impossible. There’s no way my mom will be able to contribute to my tuition. But if I don’t tell him . . . he’ll write a check and my mom won’t have to find a job for who knows how long. She’ll get everything she wants, even if it comes with him telling her she’s pathetic. And she’ll continue to see me as financial leverage instead of a daughter.

  I shut off my phone screen. For once, I’m not going to involve him. For once, my mom is going to have to fend for herself. If she doesn’t want a job, let her be the one to go begging to her family. I’m done playing into it.

  Fuming about my mother and hurting from Andrew’s departure, I plaster a smile onto my freshly glossed lips and follow Mom into the kitchen. I hate feeling helpless. I hate how she’s trapped me. Everything about my life depends on two people too wrapped up in their own lives to spare a thought for my place in the middle.

  I sit next to Deb, who looks to be on her second or third glass of wine, and try to make conversation. But I’m hopelessly distracted by my mom’s slippers next to the couch, where I have no doubt they’ll remain.