If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  Brendan’s composure is far gone. His eyes dart from me to his pillows. I get the feeling he’s completely unprepared for having a girl even remotely near his bed.

  “I’m not going,” he gets out eventually. “I’m surprised you are.”

  I shrug, surveying his room. It’s not neat, exactly. It looks closer to uninhabited, like a model of a teenage boy’s room constructed by a set designer with a shoestring budget. His desk is uncluttered. His bookshelves hold only textbooks and a row of novels. Two video game posters hang above his bed, The Last of Us and Uncharted 2: Among Thieves. In the corner of each I notice a logo with NAUGHTY DOG in heavy font and a red paw print.

  “I’m not going for the movie,” I say. “Honestly, it looks awful.” The instant it’s out of my mouth, I regret wording my opinion that openly. But when I look at Brendan, I find his lips curving upward humorously. “Paige says it’s really about the rituals, not the movie,” I go on. “I’m a bit nervous for the virgin-sacrifice part, I have to admit.” I read about it online. Everyone who’s never been to Rocky before gets forced into some kind of public humiliation. “But, hey, I’m already dressing up and going to hang out with a bunch of teenagers in lingerie in public. Can it really get more embarrassing?”

  Brendan laughs. His posture relaxes a little. “You have strong opinions on stuff.”

  I stiffen, suddenly anxious. “I—” I falter. “I wasn’t trying to insult Paige’s event or whatever—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly. The anxiety rushes from me as quickly as it came. “It’s cool. Having your own opinions, I mean. I like it.” He smiles, and I find myself studying how it brightens his face in a way I never noticed. “Except when it’s about how gross Barfy Brendan is,” he adds.

  “Was,” I hastily amend. “You’re not gross now. Not at all.”

  I blush when I say it. I don’t know why.

  “Engrave that on my tombstone,” he jokes. I laugh, relieved he’s broken the emotion of whatever that was. Brendan goes on. “Speaking of teenagers in lingerie—”

  “Now that’s a promising lead-in,” I cut in.

  Brendan grins. “You’re dressed modestly for Rocky. I’ve had to watch Grant walk around in a corset and underwear and my own sister with her shirt upsettingly far open. Yet here you are in a tuxedo.”

  “This is Hannah’s night,” I say earnestly, ignoring the possibility he’s suggesting he wishes I were wearing less. His face reveals nothing. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

  “About how hot you are, you mean,” Brendan replies.

  My eyebrows spring up. “So you admit it!” I can’t ignore the thrill that runs through me, and not just because I’ve caught him after he’s been trying to cover it up.

  But Brendan shrugs, unfazed. “It’s an objective fact, Cameron,” he says easily.

  I reach for words and come up empty. It would be cavalier coming from anybody, declaring I’m objectively hot. I’m doubly in disbelief because it’s Brendan coming right out with it instead of dancing around the idea like he’s done in our texts.

  Before I figure out what to say, the door flies open and a tall man walks in without knocking. “1540, Brendan?” he says. This must be Brendan and Paige’s dad, I assume from his gargantuan height and curly brown hair. Noticing me, he spares me a glance but continues like I’m not here. “You had a perfect score on the PSAT. What happened?” he interrogates Brendan.

  I cut Brendan an impressed look. 1540 must be his SAT score, which is way higher than I scored.

  But I read defeat on Brendan’s face. “The Beaumont college counselor said 1540 is definitely enough for MIT,” he says.

  “I don’t care what’s enough,” his dad returns. “I know you’re capable of getting a perfect score. You demonstrated it on the PSAT. You know how many more scholarships you could earn with a 1600.” He walks to the door. “You’ll retake the test in December,” he says, his hand on the knob. There’s no hint of a question in his voice.

  I study his uncompromising expression. Brendan’s dad is definitely handsome, for being dad-aged. The hard line of his jaw, his straight and narrow nose. They’re Brendan’s features, drawn by years of responsibility and sharpened with an edge of cruelty. It’s what sets them apart from his son’s. I prefer Brendan’s, kinder and gentler. I hope they stay that way.

  “I have a heavy course load this semester,” Brendan protests. I understand what he’s not saying. He has the video game contest coming up, and either his dad doesn’t know or Brendan’s wise enough not to bring it up. “I don’t have the time to study right now,” he continues.

  “Well, you might if you didn’t spend your time playing video games,” his dad shoots back. “If you’d studied enough the first time you took the test, we wouldn’t be in this position. Say good-bye to your guest”—he nods in my direction without looking at me—“and spend the afternoon working on critical reading.”

  Brendan nods. I don’t know if his dad catches the way Brendan’s jaw tightens, like he’s biting back a refusal.

  Mr. Rosenfeld’s voice softens, if only slightly. “I’m just trying to help you achieve everything I know you can,” he says like it’s a compliment and walks out of the room.

  I hear Brendan exhale—in relief or frustration or both, I can’t tell. Part of me doesn’t want to look at him, in case he’s embarrassed or wants time to himself. I felt my insides twist hearing his dad belittle Brendan’s interest the way I did when we first talked. Not just from the unfairness of what Brendan’s dad said but from guilt over my own words. What I said—mindless video game—would have reminded him of criticism he probably hears over and over when he’s home. No matter how hard Brendan works to hide his interest in computer games, his dad probably picks up on the smallest signs and never lets them go. I know what it’s like to have your dad’s voice echoing in your head, wishing you could shut it out and failing.

  “Sorry about that,” Brendan says stiffly. He reaches for the SAT prep book on the shelf over his desk.

  “It’s okay,” I say. Then before I know it, I hear myself add, “When I sent my dad my scores, he only said he’d hoped I’d get at least twenty points higher than I did, what with where he pays for me to go to school.”

  Brendan’s eyes find mine. “When you sent—” he begins delicately, thinking. “Does your dad not live with you?”

  “No. He lives in Philadelphia,” I reply, feeling how weird it is to say it out loud. My friends barely know my family situation, and they’ve known me for years. I’m definitely not the hi-nice-to-meet-you-here’s-my-autobiography type of person. I don’t want pity, sympathy, preferential treatment. I haven’t wanted to confide in anyone new. Not until now. “He and my mom never married. I’ve never lived with him. He only visits when he has business in town, which is, like, once a year.”

  Brendan watches me for a long second. “Your dad sounds like a dick.”

  He says it so evenly, so thoughtfully, I feel a laugh nearly escape my lips. The joke lifts a little weight from my chest. “Yeah, I guess he kind of is,” I say. “He and your dad would probably get along.”

  Brendan gives a short laugh. “They would,” he agrees.

  “But really,” I go on, “that was bullshit, Brendan. A 1540 is amazing, and The Girl’s a Sorceress is too. Which is why”—I get up from his bed and walk to his desk, where I grab the SAT book and return it to the bookshelf—“you should blow off studying and come to Rocky Horror with us.”

  His expression’s conflicted, but I can tell he’s intrigued. “I can’t do that,” he says grudgingly.

  “Of course you can,” I urge. “Tell him you’re going to study in the library and come witness my public humiliation. Virgin sacrifice, remember?”

  Brendan chews his lip. “I don’t even have a costume.”

  I smirk. I have exactly what I need to end this discus
sion.

  I found it in Party Central and bought it on a whim just to see Brendan’s reaction. I had no idea how perfect an opportunity he’d give me. I reach into my bag and pull out a shiny gold Speedo. I fling it onto Brendan’s lap.

  His mouth drops open, but before he can get out a reply, I feel my phone vibrate. I check it quickly. Finally.

  “I’d like you to be there, Brendan,” I say, walking to the door. I throw a meaningful look in the direction of the Speedo before I leave the room.

  Twenty-Six

  I RUSH TO PAIGE’S ROOM. THE DOOR’S open, and everyone’s nearly in costume. Grant’s in his corset, which has a new trim of lace. Abby’s French-maid costume is perfect, just like the pictures I saw online. Charlie’s vaguely disturbing in bloodstained operating-room scrubs with a pearl necklace. Everyone turns to me when I burst in the doorway.

  “Come outside with me,” I say quickly. “I have a surprise.”

  Nobody budges. Paige eyes me skeptically. Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped for.

  “Trust me,” I tell her.

  Paige hesitates. I can’t exactly blame her for doubting my intentions. I keep her gaze, throwing sincerity into my expression.

  “Well, I’m curious,” she finally says and walks to her door. Relieved, I wait while everyone else files past me into the hall. Even Hannah, who cuts me a suspicious glare.

  I follow them out the front door, where a yellow van waits in Paige’s driveway. I walk to the van’s rear doors. “I was told there would be a costume contest tonight,” I tell the group grandly. “Obviously, we have to win.” I steal a glance at Hannah, whose brows, I’m pleased to find, have furrowed in confusion, not anger. “And no look could be complete without the perfect hair and makeup.”

  I throw open the doors with a flourish, revealing Elle. She sits at her mobile vanity, surrounded by racks upon racks of wigs and makeup, brushes and mirrors. Her “Elli” logo is painted on one wall, pink lips dotting the “i.” In front of her she’s taped up pictures of every Rocky character.

  Everyone leans in for a look, impressed. Even Hannah’s mouth drops open.

  Elle watches them a little haughtily. “Who’s first?”

  Without hesitating, Abby climbs into the back of the van.

  Elle gives her costume a once-over. “Magenta.” Elle purses her lips, her eyes flitting to the corresponding picture on the mirror. “Fun. Great wig. Now, everyone out,” she announces, waving her hand with a diva’s drama. “I need space for my art.” Everyone steps back, and I close the van doors.

  I rejoin the group and find everyone chattering excitedly. I hear Grant, relieved, confessing he would have definitely screwed up his Frank-N-Furter makeup on his own. Charlie eyes me approvingly. “Cameron, this is awesome,” he says. I nod demurely, inwardly pleased. Only Paige watches me with something less than gratitude.

  She looks skeptical, even distrustful. I know what she’s thinking. She already figured out I have an ulterior motive in Andrew. She’s the only who knows that everything I’m doing here—coming to Rocky, bringing Elle—is part of a plan.

  It hurts, not unexpectedly. I don’t want Paige to be wary of everything I do for her. I want her to enjoy this. I want us both to enjoy this.

  I pull her away from the group. “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Everything’s fine,” Paige says lightly. “I know you have an agenda here, and what you’ve put together here is really cool. I do appreciate it,” she goes on. “I just hope you understand we’re not just pieces to push around in whatever game you’re playing.” She gives a sad half smile. “When all this is done, I’d hate to have reason to think you’re nothing but a cruel popular girl.”

  “I don’t want you to,” I reply quickly. “Look, I wouldn’t be dressed like this, spending my Halloween watching the world’s weirdest movie, if I didn’t really want to.”

  Paige nods, and I’m hit again with the rush of nerves I felt sitting on the bleachers. I don’t want to disappoint Paige. I genuinely enjoy hanging out with her, and that won’t change regardless of whatever happens with Andrew and my amends list.

  Pushing away questions of Paige and my project, I rejoin everyone by the rear of Elle’s van. Every time one of the group climbs out of the mobile makeup studio, we cheer. We’re loud enough I’d worry about the neighbors complaining if the block weren’t full of running and screaming trick-or-treaters.

  Elle transforms the group into perfectly powdered and glittering creations. When Grant emerges unrecognizable in his Frank-N-Furter costume, I catch Hannah’s open admiration. Gawking in Grant’s direction, she nearly stumbles climbing into the van.

  Hannah’s the final one of the group without her makeup, other than me. Not wanting to disturb Elle’s process, I wait twenty minutes before I join them in the van. Hannah sits in front of Elle’s mirror in bright red lipstick and a short red wig, her face powdered white. Elle, checking the picture on the mirror of Hannah’s character—Columbia—for comparison, is drawing thin eyebrows over the patches she’s used to cover Hannah’s real eyebrows. Her reflection perfectly matches the picture of Columbia. It’s uncanny.

  Hannah doesn’t acknowledge me when I walk in. But she says to Elle, “It was really cool of you to come out here for us.”

  “It’s nothing.” Elle waves the comment away with her pencil. “Besides, I got content out of it. Grant’s the first guy to agree to be on my channel.” Even under the heavy powder, I don’t fail to catch the blush that colors Hannah’s cheeks when Elle mentions Grant.

  Hannah’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “And it was . . . nice of you to organize this, Cameron,” she says. “Thank you.” Even though she’s grimacing, her voice grudging, her gaze doesn’t waver.

  I nod. I give Elle an indicative glance, which she catches, putting down her pencil. “I have to go wash my brushes,” she says casually. She leaves the van, and it’s only me and Hannah.

  I rush into the speech I’ve prepared in my head. “Hannah, I know you said you don’t blame me for what happened with Grant. That’s not the point. You deserve an apology. What I did to you and Grant was wrong.”

  Hannah watches me in the mirror. “It’s . . . Thank you,” she says uneasily. “It really is Grant’s fault, though.”

  “I know,” I say quickly. “I’m not taking responsibility for what he did. I’m not telling you to forget what he did, either. But, Hannah, do you still like him?”

  Hannah’s eyes drop.

  I don’t want to waste this opportunity. For the first time, she’s listening to me. “If you do, consider forgiving him. Not for him, for yourself. Because you deserve it.”

  Hannah’s gone quiet. I wait. There’s nothing else I wanted to say. It’s her decision now. And if she says she’ll never forgive him, I’m not going to push them back together just to feel better about myself. Between Hannah and Grant, she’s the one I wronged worse. If Grant doesn’t get what he wants—getting back together with Hannah—he’s going to have to be okay. Hannah’s wish is worth more. I know she has feelings for Grant, but she could tell me right now she’s not interested, and I’d say nothing more.

  Hannah waits a long moment.

  “Do you think he’s changed?” she finally asks. Her voice is choked with tears.

  I open my mouth, then close it. Hannah directly requesting my opinion on Grant isn’t something I’d expected or planned for. “You know how Grant is. Who he is. He’s a good guy,” I say, feeling it genuinely. “He made a mistake with me when he was sixteen. We’re teenagers. It’s practically a requirement we make mistakes. He’s never even looked at other girls since he cheated.” I consider softening the word choice, dancing around the “C” word, and decide not to. Grant did cheat, and I’m not trying to get Hannah to forget it. She asked for my honest opinion, and if there’s one thing I have to offer, it’s honesty.

  “Well”—Hannah
gives me a pointed look—“he hasn’t talked to me in weeks. Not after you started coming to Mordor.”

  I weigh her words, realizing . . . shit. I groan. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Again,” I add.

  Hannah’s eyebrows furrow, and I’m afraid she’s going to screw up the patches Elle put on. “For what?”

  “I told him he was coming on too strong,” I confess, “and he should chill a little, give you space. I see now how that looked,” I say regretfully. “I promise it’s the last time I’ll ever interfere in your relationship.”

  I’m expecting Hannah’s ire or accusation. Instead, her expression only remains confused. “You guys talked about me?” she asks.

  “Hannah,” I say. “I know for a fact Grant would gladly talk about you to anyone who would listen. Grocery-store clerks, haircutters, whoever. It’s a little annoying, actually. But sweet.” I walk to the windows in the van’s rear doors. “Look at him.”

  Hannah gets up from the stool and joins me. I point out the window. Grant’s on the sidewalk outside, in a corset and high heels in broad daylight, parading in front of Paige’s house and tunelessly singing “Time Warp” to himself. Every time he gets a word wrong, he curses to himself.

  Hannah laughs, and for the first time she doesn’t hide the smile Grant brings to her face.

  “I’m not telling you what to do. It’s just . . . he’s obsessed with you,” I say gently. “If a guy were ever willing to go to such embarrassing lengths for me, wouldn’t I be an idiot for ignoring him?”

  Her eyes remain fixed on Grant, who’s now chasing his lyric sheet down the sidewalk and into the neighbor’s hedges. Even I have to admit it’s adorable.

  “You know, Cameron,” Hannah says, “for once, you might not be wrong.”

  * * *

  Elle finishes off my makeup with a bright orange wig to match my cummerbund. I’m hideous. It’s perfect. While she’s packing up her collection of brushes and fake eyelashes and eyeliners, I thank her again for coming.