If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  Paige pauses, hand on the door. She arches a suggestive eyebrow.

  “It’s not like that!” I go on. Or I’m fairly certain it’s not. “I just—” I don’t know what I planned to tell Paige other than that. “Did you know he’s really funny?” I hear myself ask, then remember I’m talking to his sister.

  “I did know that, Bright,” she says and smiles.

  Not the coy, catlike smile I get every time she’s decided I’ve said something overly honest or unintentionally incriminating. I’ve never gotten this smile—happy, real, even proud, possibly.

  It lingers for only a moment before it catches a touch of humor. “Is that why you’re here?” she asks. “To inform me my brother knows his way around a joke? You could have told me that at school. Or would you be ashamed if your friends knew you and I are practically BFFs by now?”

  “I’m not ashamed!” I protest. Paige opens her car door, throwing me an unconvinced glance, droll and tinged with something else, something like resignation. “Really!” I say. “I wouldn’t be.”

  “Prove it, Bright,” she replies. I notice the inside of the car’s an abject mess. School books, gum wrappers, yerba maté cans, and actual CDs have collected in a chaotic pile on the passenger seat. I don’t know what I expected. “Hang out with me at the college fair tomorrow,” Paige says. “Everyone’s going to be there.”

  “Are you asking me on a friend-date?”

  Paige shrugs. “Are you accepting?”

  I echo her nonchalance. “Why not?”

  Paige closes the car door and starts the engine. She rolls down the window as she’s pulling out of the space. “Don’t stand me up,” she calls from the window, and winks. I roll my eyes in return and find I’m smiling. I shake my head.

  Paige’s sense of humor is really growing on me.

  I guess she’s got that in common with her brother.

  In the parking lot I weigh whether to drive home. I have to redo a problem set I messed up in Econ, and I have to finish putting together my internship materials to submit to Human Resources tonight. But I drove thirty minutes out of my way to get to the bookstore, and I guess I had my heart set on hanging out here for a while.

  But before I begin walking to the front of shop, the back door opens onto the parking lot. Hannah, in a Depths of Mordor T-shirt, comes out carrying a pile of empty cardboard boxes. She hauls them in the direction of the dumpster.

  I don’t know if she doesn’t notice me or if she’s ignoring me. There’s a very good chance of either. The parking lot is empty, and even though I’d rather go inside and put this off, I can’t give up the opportunity to talk to her on her own. From what I can tell, Grant’s done admirably with my orders to avoid bothering Hannah with his constant flirtation. It’s time for me to begin my part.

  “Hey, Hannah,” I say, schooling friendliness into my voice. Whatever I can do to earn her goodwill. “Can I help?”

  Hannah doesn’t reply. I don’t know if she’s heard me. It’s hard to imagine she hasn’t—Fairfax isn’t that noisy, even with the distant thrum of hip-hop from a car window or sidewalk sale. Hannah hefts the cardboard boxes into the dumpster and slams the lid with more force than the job probably required.

  “No,” she says harshly.

  Well, I know she heard me. “Hannah,” I start gently, “I wanted to talk to you. I need to apologize—”

  Hannah rounds on me, fury in her eyes. “Don’t, Cameron,” she utters. “Don’t. I know what you’re doing here. Paige explained you wanted to earn her forgiveness or whatever. If you’re about to apologize for hooking up with my boyfriend—don’t.”

  No longer a rookie with apologies, I expected this. “I’m sorry, Hannah,” I press on. “I wanted you to know I’m sorry. I deserve your anger.”

  “That’s just it,” Hannah replies. “You don’t. It’s Grant’s fault. Obviously, what you did was shitty. It was a thousand times worse coming from Grant, though.” Hannah runs a hand through her hair, releasing a frustrated sigh. “It’s his fault—and mine, for dating a worthless dirtbag like him in the first place.”

  I wince. Worthless dirtbag. This is not going to be easy.

  “He feels horrible, Hannah. If you—” I tentatively begin.

  “Whoa,” Hannah interrupts me, her eyes finding mine again. They’ve lost none of their menace. “I don’t hold a grudge for what you did. But I definitely don’t want you giving me relationship advice. You’re not a good person,” she says. “I don’t care if you and Paige braid each other’s hair now or whatever. You and I will never be friends, and I will never want your opinion on Grant or me or anything.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Hannah heads for the door. Not that I have anything to offer in my defense.

  She swings the door shut with enough force to knock over the LOT FULL sign next to the entrance to the lot. I replace the sign upright. It’s tempting to follow Hannah inside just to needle her, but it wouldn’t further my agenda. I guess I’m going home after all. Walking to the curb, I hardly remember where I parked, a pair of thoughts completely consuming my head. One, I’m really getting tired of people reminding me how crappy a person I am.

  Two, this “taming” is proving to be harder than I expected.

  Eighteen

  MOM IS ECSTATIC. SHE HAS A NEW job. Not just a job—an “opportunity,” she says in singsong whenever I’m near enough to hear her. She serves coffee in the Director’s Guild of America. She’s explained in the same slightly manic voice that she’s just certain Michael Bay or Christopher Nolan or whoever will come by to pick up his triple-shot Americano and notice her, his next leading lady.

  I don’t know how to deal with this new mood swing. I don’t know if she even remembers I gave her an ultimatum a couple days ago or if she’s conveniently “forgotten.” I do know things are definitely a little weird in the apartment. She’s gotten out of bed early, cooked real meals—not smoothies—and started going to yoga. Which would all be great if she hadn’t also begun talking a mile a minute and playing music until two A.M.

  She waltzed out the door this morning, calling over her shoulder that she was going to gangsta rap yoga in Lafayette Park and she’d be gone until ten. I’m taking the opportunity to do a long-overdue cleaning of the apartment.

  I guess her newfound focus doesn’t extend to picking up dirty socks off her bedroom floor. I gingerly place them in the hamper. Under the bed I discover a small pile of junk food wrappers. Ruffles, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, an empty bottle of Sprite. I know she tends to binge eat when she’s depressed. But with the yoga and the cooking, I’m hoping she’s giving it a rest for the time being.

  I’m folding laundry next to the washer and dryer when I hear the door open and close. Mom walks in a moment later with a bottle of water, her face flushed. Without sparing a glance at the unfolded pile of shirts I’m working on, she closes the lid on the toilet and sits down.

  “How was your workout?” I ask patiently.

  Mom exhales a contented sigh. “It was amazing. My energy is completely refreshed.” I hold back a request that she channel that energy into folding some shirts. She goes on. “Know how I can tell?”

  “No, Mom.” I pointedly pull the GRIFFITH PARK 5K shirt from under her elbow. She remains oblivious. “How?”

  “I had—it must have been four men whistle at me from the parking lot. I haven’t had it that good since before I met your father.” She takes a satisfied drink from her water. I hide my gag face behind the shirt I’m folding. “Michael Bay,” she says confidently. “I’m telling you, one of these days Michael Bay’s going to walk in, and I’ll be there. Everything’s going to change for us, kid. Just wait.”

  I focus on the precision of my folding to keep from pointing out that Michael Bay probably has assistants get him his coffee. His assistants probably have assistants to get them their coffees.

  “An
d the next time your father’s in town . . .” She gives me a suggestive look I wish I could un-see. “You and I both know he has a soft spot for me, no matter how hard he resists.”

  I can’t dispute her there. Unfortunately.

  “Wait until he sees the new me.” She admires her reflection in the mirror.

  I’ve had enough. “Why would you even want Dad back?” I ask, dropping the shirt I’m holding onto the washing machine. “He just upsets you, and he made it clear he doesn’t want to marry you. Even when you guys were together.”

  Mom hops up from the toilet. She throws me a patronizing look, like I’m just a teenager who wouldn’t know the first thing about her unfathomably mature love life. “We have a really complicated relationship, Cameron.” She emphasizes the “complicated.” “Real love is never easy, you know.”

  She bounces out of the room. I want to follow her. To convince her she shouldn’t waste her time pining for my dad.

  Except it hits me how hypocritical I’d be. How can I tell someone to give up on the person they want? Don’t I spend every day hurting over Andrew, wishing he would take me back?

  In a weird way, my mom is right. Real love is never easy.

  It’s just worth the hard work.

  Nineteen

  IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT. THE COLLEGE FAIR.

  I’m a collection of frayed nerves wound up in a white button-down and black pants. I have to impress the Wharton rep, who’s a real admissions officer for California and will be reading my application and determining my entire future. With my 1440 SAT score, which is on the low end of what Penn accepts, my current B in Econ, and the internship with my dad’s company not official yet, I have to distinguish myself somehow. Make an impression. Individualize my application. I hear the words of Beaumont’s painfully overqualified college counselors ringing in my ears, over and over.

  I don’t usually get nervous about school stuff. Econ’s the exception. Otherwise, I’m imperturbable. But the college fair is different. It’s not a competition of how much I’ve studied, how hard I’ve worked. It’s a dog-and-pony show, where every dog’s wardrobe is more expensive than mine, every pony’s tutor more exclusive, everyone’s summer “service program” experiences more impressive.

  Elle and Brad find me on the front steps. Elle once-overs my outfit admiringly, allaying my nerves a little. “Very preppy, Cam,” she says. “I love it.” I glance at my shoes and smooth my shirt, and I know Elle reads the self-consciousness in the gestures. She slips off her blazer and holds it out. “Here, add this.”

  I spare her a grateful smile. “You don’t need it?”

  She laughs. “Please. I’m only here because my parents forced me. I have my plan for the next four years, and it does not involve college.”

  Elle’s been saying she’s not going to apply to college since sophomore year. I know her parents, though. I know they’re going to force her to, and I know without a hint of jealousy that she’s going to get in everywhere. I’ve watched her compile revenue spreadsheets for her endorsements, overheard her negotiate her partnerships over the phone. Her business is every bit a business.

  Regardless, she looks amazing without the blazer.

  “I wish my parents understood.” She rolls her eyes. “Morgan’s lucky hers don’t care.”

  I glance at Brad, who’s evaluating the SUVs and sports cars dropping our classmates off in front of school. “How’s Morgan’s shoot going?” I ask.

  “Fine, I imagine,” Brad mutters. He thumbs the collar of his Brooks Brothers shirt, visibly bothered. “With the costar.”

  Elle and I share an amused glance.

  “You’ve really never seen the costar?” Elle prods. “You haven’t IMDb-ed him?”

  “Not yet,” Brad grumbles. “I would have. But I don’t know his name. Morgan only ever calls him ‘the costar.’” He adopts a Morgan voice, which is pretty convincing. “The costar forgot his lines. The costar bought everybody lunch. The costar and I had fake sex in front of the whole cast and crew.”

  Elle’s in stitches. “Why didn’t you ask his name?” she gets out.

  “How could I? I would have come off crazy jealous and insecure.”

  Elle erupts in a peal of laughter. “I’ve seen him,” I jump in. “Morgan sent me a couple images from the movie for her website. You have nothing to worry about, Brad.”

  “Thanks, Cam.” Brad touches his perfectly combed hair, looking endearingly unconvinced. “I know it’s stupid of me to worry. I want Morgan to achieve her dreams, one hundred percent. But what’s going to happen when she’s filming with, you know, Chris Pratt? She loves Chris Pratt!”

  “Everybody loves Chris Pratt,” Elle contributes thoughtfully.

  Brad throws up his hands.

  We walk up the front steps, down the hall, and into the quad, where within the impeccably manicured hedges, it’s a wall-to-wall crush of people. Crowds press right up to every table. If I were near the ornate octagonal fountain in the center of the quad, I’d be afraid of getting pushed in. Even walking is going to be a challenge.

  Lisa Gramercy, in class-president mode, is passing out programs, reveling in every moment of looking like a student leader in front of reps from Harvard, Princeton, Penn. I’d hate Lisa if she weren’t just obscenely nice.

  “Ugh.” Elle collapses against Brad in indignation. “Better get this over with. I have to talk to Princeton for my dad. He’s going to check if I have a program or a bookmark for proof. He hasn’t said he’s going to. But I know he’s going to. Brad, you headed to Harvard?”

  Brad nods once. His dad went to Harvard Law with Obama.

  “And Cameron’s doing Penn,” Elle concludes.

  “The Ivies will be in the back of the quad,” Lisa says out of nowhere. I don’t know how she emerged from the crowd to come up to us. But here she is, black curls bouncing from her ponytail, pearls in her ears. Before I can get annoyed by her eavesdropping, she gives me a glance of friendly envy. “That’s a great blazer on you, Cameron.”

  I smile. Elle does, too, I notice out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks, Lisa,” I say. “You look really pretty.”

  Lisa beams and disappears.

  “Of course they’re in the back,” Elle deadpans.

  We’re heading into the crowd when I catch sight of Paige—and with her, Brendan. They’re tightly compressed in line for a school whose banner I can’t completely read. Something University. Mr. Keeps to Himself doesn’t look uncomfortable the way I would have expected, and I remember his confidence in our texting conversation the other day. Brendan’s eyes flit up occasionally from the brochure he’s reading, seemingly sizing up the booth’s representative and eavesdropping on other students’ conversations. He’s in a dark gray suit stretched over his huge frame, his curly hair just the right level of combed.

  He looks . . . good.

  “I’ll find you guys later,” I call up to Elle and Brad.

  Elle pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, she cocks her head when she notices Paige. “Do you want us to wait for you?” she asks uncertainly.

  “Um. It’s okay,” I reply. “I promised some people I’d hang with them for a while.”

  Something crosses Elle’s face, something hard and inquisitive. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something then closes it, and her features relax.

  “Okay,” she says. “Break a leg. Not that you need any luck, what with your dad.”

  I nod, glad she understood about Paige and wishing she hadn’t mentioned my father. It’s not like he’d ever provide even a kind word to his alma mater about his own daughter, and on the other end of the equation, if I’m not admitted . . . I’m worse than a disappointment. I’m unworthy.

  When it comes to my father, legacy’s not a gift. It’s a prison.

  Shaking off the familiar fear, I join Paige and Brendan. “Wow,” I say, walking
up. “Here it is. Conclusive proof that Brendan ever ventures outside.”

  “I’m here because my dad forced me,” he replies, his expression tight. Paige’s eyes flicker with unconcealed concern.

  “You could check out schools other than MIT,” she offers. “If you wanted to.”

  Brendan glances over the heads of the crowd from his extraordinary height. I can, tell he wishes he were elsewhere, and I know Paige can, too. He turns to his sister, his expression softening. “Yeah,” he says. “I will.”

  He and Paige share a look. I’m left wondering if I’ve stumbled into something private, until Paige pokes my arm. “Ready for our date?”

  Brendan jerks up, obviously wondering if he heard right.

  Paige and I exchange glances. “Don’t I look ready?” I eye Paige invitingly, straightening my lapels. “I got dressed up for you and everything.”

  “This . . . really throws things into a new light.” Brendan’s watching the two of us curiously.

  “Relax, Brendan.” Paige stretches to perch her chin on her brother’s NBA-height shoulder. “We’re joking.”

  “For the most part,” I chime in.

  Brendan blinks. “I’m glad you guys have each other. I’m going to the MIT booth.” He affectionately prods Paige’s hair. “Please feel free to continue your non-date without me.” He leaves, and Paige and I share an amused look.

  “I don’t really want to wait in this line,” Paige announces. “They have a computer-aided design program I thought Brendan would be interested in, but, well . . .” She gestures in the direction he disappeared into the crowd.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “I want to check out RISD and Tisch. What about you?”

  I dodge the question, deferring to Paige’s choices. “Art school, huh?”

  Paige shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know. I’m not like Brendan, who’s brilliant enough he could probably pick whatever school he wants.”