If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

To: b.rosenfeld@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: Okay, Mr. Unhelpful

  Why, though?

  Now he replies immediately.

  From: b.rosenfeld@beaumontprep.edu

  To: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: Better, Ms. Persistent?

  Because blondes are infinitely scarier than everyone else. It’s a law of the universe.

  I look closer at the sorceress, with her golden hair. For whatever reason, I remember the stunned hurt in Leila’s eyes. From the way the sorceress is menacing the young hero, I’d guess she comes to some gruesome defeat in the end of the game. Even though my legs are aching from the afternoon’s run, the pressure in my chest has me reaching for my running shoes. Until a second email from Brendan appears.

  From: b.rosenfeld@beaumontprep.edu

  To: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: Re: Better, Ms. Persistent?

  Besides, it’s kind of a thing for video games to have hot girls in them.

  I can’t help it. I grin. I drop my shoes and sit down to write a reply.

  From: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  To: b.rosenfeld@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: What are you implying?

  Because it sounds like you’re saying blondes are hot. If it’s a blonde you want, Brendan, I could probably make something happen. In the interest of making amends, of course.

  I reread the email once I’ve sent it. What did I just write? Before I can think too hard about it, I write him again.

  From: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  To: b.rosenfeld@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: You do have a phone, right?

  Text me. This conversation is quickly leaving behind the school-approved subjects of homework and homework.

  I include my number and try to return to The Taming of the Shrew, telling myself there’s no reason to expect Brendan Rosenfeld would want to text me. It’s useless. I’m distracted, waiting for my phone to ping. Which it does. I unlock the screen before I read his message.

  SOME people MIGHT find blondes hot. I wasn’t speaking personally.

  I lean back in my chair, my run forgotten.

  Good. I hate it when guys look at a blonde and write her off in the “hot” category.

  I know what you mean. I hate when girls look at a teenage computer nerd/gamer and automatically think “stud.” We’re so much more than that, you know?

  I laugh out loud. I never knew Brendan was funny. I guess I knew nearly nothing about him. It’s just that a sense of humor is one of the things I definitely wouldn’t have predicted from someone who ensconces himself in the library and the robotics room every chance he gets.

  I’m glad you told me. I’ll correct the error of my ways.

  No problem. Even though I’m definitely 100% not in the slightest the kind of guy who finds blondes hot or whatever, I’ll make sure no one gets the wrong idea from my game. The sorceress has depth, I promise, in addition to being the kind of girl SOME people MIGHT find hot.

  I’m surprised how long this conversation has gone on, how much he’s saying. He has surprising charisma and charm for a guy with an antisocial reputation. I’m starting to suspect he doesn’t socialize not because he can’t but because, for reasons I don’t know, he just doesn’t want to.

  Yet here he is, texting me like we’re old friends.

  I feel like this means he possibly doesn’t hate me.

  You might want to decrease her cup size. People won’t see depth if they’re distracted by her double Ds.

  I would expect an embarrassed smiley, except I’m not convinced Brendan’s discovered emojis.

  Damn. Noticed that, did you?

  Don’t worry. I DEFINITELY believe you when you say she’s not your type.

  Good. I DEFINITELY wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.

  If I didn’t know Brendan better, I’d think he was trying to flirt with me. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was doing a pretty great job.

  It feels like a natural place to pause the conversation. I let his reply be, even though a very unfamiliar part of me wants to keep talking. Putting my phone down, I feel how the stress and frustration I carried home have almost dissipated. It’s something I never would’ve expected, but it’s been an awful day, and Brendan Rosenfeld made it feel okay.

  Returning to my response paper, I find myself rewriting. Katherine has her flaws. Why do they only ever earn her isolation and pain? I refocus my thesis and write a new draft. Katherine deserves to be held accountable for the horrible things she does. But underneath the nasty exterior, it’s possible she’s a person and not just a problem. A person who needs to change but deserves a chance.

  Sixteen

  WE’RE IN THE DINING HALL TODAY BECAUSE it’s raining. We’re packed into the wood-paneled room, elbows touching at the long oak tables. Morgan prudently went for a burger today. But she hasn’t taken a bite because she’s busy expounding on every detail of the role she landed in an indie horror movie.

  I would be in a pretty good mood right now, even though rainy days usually frustrate me—L.A.’s not a city built for running in the rain. When I left for school in the morning, my mom wasn’t home. The black pumps she wears to job interviews were gone from the pile of shoes in her closet where I left them a week ago. It’s a start.

  What’s bothering me is Leila. If we weren’t in the dining hall, I wouldn’t have to watch her with her friends. Wouldn’t have to be reminded of how guilty I feel.

  Which . . . is weird. I didn’t expect to feel bad about what I said, not when I’m right about her and Jason. Not when it’s not even in the top ten worst things I’ve said to people. But I do.

  She’s working hard to flirt with Jason next to her. I know she’s upped the PDA because of what I said. Every other second she’s draping herself on him, resting her head on his shoulder, or ruffling his hair.

  “We’re shooting during the college fair. I don’t care. It’s not like I’m planning to go to college,” Morgan goes on. “The producer already loves me, and my costar wants to—”

  I want to listen. I really do. I’m excited for Morgan—she’s a good actress, and this is the first role where she has a chance to show it. But I’m distracted by Jason, who gingerly removes Leila’s arm from around his neck, plants a peck on her cheek, and gets up from the table.

  And walks straight toward ours.

  He taps Elle on the shoulder. “Hey, want to help me with that . . . thing?” He’s wearing a winning grin, the one I remember from his Cyrano de Bergerac performance junior year.

  Elle turns, her expression a combination of eager and wary. She chews her lip and glances at Leila. Who, unsurprisingly, is watching their interaction with undisguised displeasure.

  “You know you guys aren’t being even a little subtle, right?” I ask abruptly. Elle’s eyes flash to mine, and she frowns.

  “You told your friends?” Jason hisses over her shoulder.

  Elle’s frown deepens, and she redirects it to Jason. “They’re my friends, Jason. What were they going to think when you and I disappeared from lunch? That I was helping you with your makeup?”

  Brad stifles a laugh behind me. “Everyone knows anyway, dude. Half the football team saw you yesterday in the student lounge.”

  With that, I watch the anger ebb from Jason’s face. He straightens his shirt, changing easily from indignant to arrogant playboy. “Whoops,” he says. I have to restrain myself from grimacing in revulsion, which I do for Elle’s sake.

  I have to work harder when Jason forces himself between Elle and me and plants himself on our bench. I pointedly lean away from him, turning to face Morgan.

  “What are you doing?” Elle’s voice is prickly with annoyance.

  “Sitting with you at lunch,�
�� Jason replies, clearly pleased and pretending this is normal.

  Elle drops her voice, but her impatience with Jason is unmistakable. “That’s girlfriend-boyfriend territory. I’m fairly certain your girlfriend is over there.”

  Elle doesn’t dance around what she wants. It’s the same when it comes to her YouTube career and her personal life, and it’s why she has the success she does in the former—and, honestly, very little in the latter. She never compromises. I’ve known her long enough to know Jason’s seriously getting on her nerves. I glance over and, sure enough, I recognize her stony expression and the deepening line in between her eyebrows.

  “Come on”—Jason nods in Leila’s direction—“it won’t be long before that’s over.” He looks at Elle with what appears to be earnestness. “We could have all the girlfriend-boyfriend territory. Just say the word.”

  Elle avoids his eyes, her voice unwavering. “We talked about this, Jason.”

  He places his hand on top of hers. “Elle—”

  She yanks her hand away. “Just don’t,” she says dismissively.

  The arrogance falls from his face, replaced by something almost vulnerable. “So I’m good enough for fifteen minutes at lunch, but I’m not good enough for a relationship?” I hear the hurt in his voice hidden under indignation.

  “I told you what I wanted from the beginning,” Elle replies furiously. “You have no right to be surprised.”

  Jason gets up abruptly, nearly knocking my soda onto Morgan’s lap. “You know,” he says, “you’re the one who found me at that party, while I had a girlfriend. You convinced me to cheat. What, did you only want to screw up my relationship with Leila? Because you obviously weren’t really interested in me.”

  “I wanted what I wanted. I don’t have to explain it.” Elle’s expression is flat, disinterested. “Go away, Jason.”

  Jason waits for a moment, probably hoping she’ll reconsider. But when Elle doesn’t even look up, he finally walks off without a word. With a nonchalant flip of her hair, Elle returns to her lunch.

  I watch her, feeling an unfamiliar unease. I’ve never cared about Jason and Leila’s relationship. I don’t even like Jason Reid. I just can’t help noticing how devastated he is, and it’s obvious how little Elle cares. How . . . content she looks to ruin his relationship because she wanted him and then didn’t.

  It’s not only the ruthlessness of Elle’s behavior that bothers me. It’s the recognition I felt watching her wreck someone without a thought except for herself.

  It’s something I would do. Something I have done, with Grant and Hannah.

  I don’t know if it’s because I want Andrew to think I’m a decent human being or because consciously admitting and cataloguing my misdeeds has me seeing them in a new light, but the idea of treating people like Elle just did twists my stomach in a knot. I’d never known it for what it is, never known Elle and myself for what we are.

  Selfish.

  Elle peels an orange, digging her perfect nails under the skin. One by one, she places pieces of the rind in a discreet pile. “Brad, you’re going to the college fair, right? You have to talk to Harvard,” she says, every trace of Jason forgotten.

  * * *

  I finish today’s hill run in a minute over my usual time. I’m distracted, and now it’s even affecting my cross-country performance. I walk in the gates to Beaumont’s back field, wringing my headband in frustration. The sun’s come out, because once again, the California weather can’t make up its mind. The cheerleaders are constructing a human pyramid on the field for practice, and next to them is the soccer team, which I avoid looking at.

  When I reach the girls’ locker room, I’m greeted by the sight of Jason making out with Leila against the concrete wall of the gym. I know he’s hoping I’ll run and tell Elle, and she’ll become insanely jealous and want him back.

  Not going to happen. I walk into the locker room without a second glance.

  As I’m collecting my bag, I hear Leila come in. She opens her locker next to mine. “Good run today,” she says, sounding unsurprisingly chipper given the five solid minutes she just spent enmeshed with Jason.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I don’t know what to say. Zipping up my bag, I head for the door.

  But with one hand on the handle, I pause, remembering for the hundredth time today when I was cruel to her about Jason. How the pain bled into her eyes. Why she’s thrilled Jason’s paying attention.

  Leila’s on my amends list. Better now than never.

  I take a breath and walk back to her locker. Her eyes flit up to mine, questioning. “Hey,” I begin. “I’m sorry for what I said on Tuesday, about your boyfriend not being interested in you. It was a shitty thing to say, and I want you to know I regret it.”

  Leila’s smile slips. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s big of you to apologize. Besides”—she nods toward the door—“I think it’s pretty obvious you were wrong.” She puts her hands on her hips, but her voice is thin, like she’s not convinced.

  I nod, conflicted. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her everything. Except that’ll only hurt her worse. It’s the kind of brutal honesty I could imagine Katherine dispensing just to twist the knife.

  Then again, I’m not known for being nice. Telling Leila feels like the right thing to do, whatever it says about me.

  “I know you’re going to think I’m trying to hurt you or stir up shit with Jason,” I say in a rush. “But I don’t care. You deserve to know. Jason’s been cheating on you for the past couple weeks.”

  Leila flinches. She stares at me for a hanging moment, her expression unreadable. I know I’m not the one who hurt her. Jason is. But like on Tuesday, I want to escape how I know she’s feeling. I want to give her space, or maybe I selfishly want to avoid watching her cry.

  “I knew it,” she finally says, her voice nearly a whisper. She sits down heavily. “It’s Elle, isn’t it?” Her eyes find mine, but they don’t contain the accusation I anticipated. Her expression is closer to defeat. “It’s why she’s been avoiding him.”

  “Um.” I’m caught off guard. I won’t betray Elle even if I’m not exactly comfortable with what she did.

  “Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Leila’s talking to herself now. She rubs her eyes, and her voice comes out choked. “He’s such a dick.”

  “He really is,” I reply, relieved we’ve found something to agree on. Leila gives a teary laugh. “I honestly don’t get what everyone sees in him.”

  Her face falls. She glances toward the door. “Well, he used to have a really sweet side. Before he got obsessed with attention, with everyone treating him like a celebrity.”

  I nod, not knowing how to contribute to the conversation. It’s hard to imagine a Jason who doesn’t strut his way into every party, who’s not interested in girls plural hanging on his every word, whose number-one goal isn’t everyone knowing his name. I wonder if I never knew that Jason because he wasn’t interested in those things, because the quiet, sweet guy wouldn’t have been on my radar.

  Leila stands up. I follow her to the door. She hesitates, and I realize it’s because she’s remembered Jason might be waiting. Reaching past her, I push open the door. I’ve never been good at comforting, but I hope she understands I’ve got her back on this.

  We step outside, and he’s not there. Leila’s eyes scout the field. Wherever Jason is, he’s nowhere to be found. I don’t know if it’s a relief or a final slap in the face. “You didn’t deserve this,” I say haltingly. “He should have been honest with you.”

  “He should have,” she says, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Then she turns to me. “But you were. Thank you.”

  Seventeen

  I FIND A PERFECT PARKING SPOT IN front of the Depths of Mordor. It’s definitely a good omen.

  I drove to the bookstore flush with purpose after walking Leila t
o her car. Before I go into Mordor, I open my notebook and edit my amends 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—find a way to undo his unpopularity

  Grant Wells and Hannah Warshaw, for the worst two-month relationship in history—get them back together

  Leila, for being cruel about her relationship with Jason tell her the truth about what her boyfriend did behind her back

  I’m confident I can continue to make progress on the Grant-and-Hannah project. I have news for Paige, too. I texted with Brendan. That’s certain to earn me points, if not Paige’s forgiveness altogether.

  There’s a mirror propped up on a lamppost on the sidewalk, and an elderly gentleman is snapping selfies in a red coat in front of it. I’m about to walk into the bookstore when the door opens—and Paige walks out.

  She pauses when she recognizes me. “What are you doing here, Bright?”

  “Um. Looking for you,” I fumblingly reply.

  At that, Paige cuts me a grin. “Careful,” she says. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend.”

  I recover. “‘Friend’ is a strong word.” Paige laughs. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  She nods in the direction of Mordor’s tiny parking lot. “Andrew’s. I completely forgot I said I’d help him on a History presentation.” She skirts around me. “I was supposed to meet him at his house fifteen minutes ago,” she adds apologetically.

  A pang of jealousy hits my chest. I used to work on homework with Andrew, not Paige. I’m here for a reason, I remind myself.

  “Hey,” I say, catching up to Paige in front of her car. I notice a couple dings it didn’t have when I helped her with the sewing machine a few days ago. “Brendan gave me his number,” I say.