If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  “No problem,” Elle replies, climbing out of the van. I follow her to the driver’s side door. “Are you going to explain what exactly you’re doing with these people?”

  I pick up the edge in the way she says “these people.” When I texted Elle the idea of helping with Rocky, explaining how she could use the content for her channel, I’d waited for her reply with a kind of nervous excitement. Not that I expected she and Paige would become besties, but I’d hoped the event could bring together the two weird, incongruous halves of my social life. Elle had replied only, ok. Where and when? Which was indecipherable, but better than nothing.

  I search her expression, but she’s fixed her features in an unreadable mask. She gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door hard. “Is there a problem with me hanging out with them?” I ask hesitantly through the open window.

  “I don’t care who you hang out with,” she says sharply. “I don’t care if you have a whole group of new friends.” She darts a judgmental glance in their direction. “I just hope you remember I’m your best friend.”

  “Of course I do,” I reply, caught off guard.

  “Good,” Elle says. “If this is because you’ve got the hots for Charlie Kim or BB or some other . . . socially challenged guy, I want to know first. Not Paige.”

  “Brendan,” I correct.

  “Really?” Elle’s eyes widen. “You’re into BB?”

  “No, I—” Flustered, I fumble for words. “It’s—I’m not into Brendan. I just call him Brendan now. The nickname I gave him, it’s stupid.”

  “Huh.” Elle narrows her eyes. “Well, okay. Brendan.”

  I smile reassuringly. “I’d tell you if I were into Brendan, or anybody new.”

  She eyes me, and my smile fades. Normally, now’s when Elle would look pleased or haughtily joke about her unfortunate hookups with Elijah from marching band. Instead, she’s stony, scrutinizing. Something’s still off.

  “Hey,” I say, “would you want to come with?” I ask, nodding at the cars. “We could hang out.”

  “With them? No thanks.” She turns the key in the ignition. “Have fun, though,” she says. She pulls out of the driveway, leaving me to watch her taillights recede down Paige’s block. I bite my lip, torn. Finally, I decide I can’t worry about Elle tonight. I have a night of ridiculous costumes and virgin sacrifices to survive.

  While Paige and Charlie haul a cooler out the front door, I walk to Paige’s car, where Abby waits in the passenger seat. I gingerly climb into the back, careful not to disturb my wig or costume. I have to push aside piles of homework and a pair of mismatched Converse, and I can’t help cringing. One of these days, I’m going to give Paige’s car—and room—a good top-to-bottom organization.

  “I can’t believe it,” Abby says under her breath.

  “What?”

  She points to the car in front of us, by Paige’s mailbox and the trash cans lined up on the curb. I look. Grant sits behind the wheel, Hannah in the passenger seat next to him. Grant says something, and I watch Hannah laugh.

  “Hannah volunteered to go in Grant’s car,” Abby says. “Either she really hates you or something’s going on with those two.”

  Twenty-Seven

  NIGHT IS FALLING WHEN PAIGE PULLS INTO wherever we’re watching this movie. We pass manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates, and then what I realize are gravestones. “Wait,” I say, startled. “We’re watching the movie in a cemetery?”

  Paige glances in the mirror. “Did I not mention that?” she asks coyly. She parks the car. “The Hollywood Forever Cemetery hosts the greatest, weirdest screenings.”

  I get out of the car, awestruck. Into the cemetery file hundreds of costumed Columbias, Magentas, Riff Raffs, and Frank-N-Furters, and with them people in wild costumes I don’t recognize. It’s a parade of neon-colored wigs, fishnets, and elaborate underwear. They walk toward the palm trees ringing the cemetery, heading for the open lawn where picnic blankets carpet the ground. Near the tombstones and mausoleums, people pose for pictures in their costumes. On the far end is a high, white wall, projected onto which is a pair of ruby-red lips.

  “It’s . . .” I falter, not finding words.

  “I know,” Paige says, smirking.

  Grant’s car pulls in next to ours while I’m watching a row of particularly perfect Frank-N-Furters walk into the cemetery. From the way they’re handling their six-inch heels—way better than I ever could—I figure they’re probably professional drag queens. A car door opens beside me, and distantly I’m aware of Charlie, Grant, and Hannah climbing out, and then a fourth person—in a shiny gold Speedo.

  I whip my head around so fast my wig nearly falls off. Brendan?

  He stretches, his back to me, and I unabashedly gape. Besides the small and very tight Speedo clinging to areas I consciously try not to think about, he’s essentially naked.

  I focus on his neck. That’s safe, I rationalize to myself. I’ve seen his neck before. But then there’s the spot where his neck meets his shoulders, and—wow, he has great shoulders. From there it only gets worse. His back is broad, not muscled exactly, but nice. Really nice.

  Grant calls Brendan over to the trunk, and he turns in my direction. I try to blink, to close my eyes, but it’s possible I no longer possess eyelids. There’s nothing but Brendan all the way down to the line of gold encircling that place on his hips below his navel. Mercifully, my gaze doesn’t stray lower.

  Brendan pulls a cooler out of the trunk and heads for where Paige is holding down our spot. On his way, he tosses me a wink, and suddenly I’m incredibly parched. He looks like Benedict Cumberbatch’s younger brother, and I have no idea what to do with that information.

  Hannah comes up next to me. “Are you going to help?” she asks, a note of amusement in her voice. “Or just gawk?”

  “What?” I sputter. “I wasn’t—”

  Hannah giggles. “It’s okay. He does look good.” Brendan’s reached the picnic blankets, where he’s bending down to put the cooler on the grass.

  Bending over.

  “I’m going to go unload the car,” I say decisively.

  I focus on collecting the shopping bags of candy from Paige’s car. Red Vines, Mike and Ikes, Milk Duds. I’m entirely unready for even casual conversation with Brendan. I’m definitely not ready to unpack what he’s doing to me in the Speedo I had no idea I was incredibly unwise to suggest he wear.

  I busy myself with whatever will buy me time before I face Brendan. I arrange the sandwiches on plastic plates. I put out everyone’s napkins and plastic cups. I walk to the trash can with the sandwich wrappers extra slowly.

  But finally, when I’m eating a turkey on rye on the blanket while everyone else takes photos with other Riff Raffs and Franks, Brendan drops down beside me with a plate of roast chicken. I gulp and come close to choking. I’m expecting a joke or a pointed comment. God forbid he ask me how he looks.

  Instead, when I give him a quick glance, he’s watching the crowd with wonder or bewilderment or both. “This is . . . insane,” he breathes. I can tell it’s a compliment from the way he says it.

  “It is,” I say quickly, glad to avoid the subject of his costume. “Everyone put an unbelievable amount of effort into their costumes. They look awesome. Not as good as us, of course,” I add.

  “Of course,” Brendan says. “For real, though, I can’t believe how hundreds of people still make costumes and dress up, and this movie came out in the seventies. I could die happy if even one person cosplayed for one of my games.” I watch him looking wistfully at the crowd, and I feel a grin playing at the corners of my lips. He’s cute when he’s expressing geek dreams.

  I blink the thought away. This Speedo’s obviously warped my thoughts beyond rationality.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” Brendan turns to me, his eyes bright. “I’m glad I got to be here. To experience this.” H
e throws out a hand toward the field of brilliantly colored costumes.

  I feel a burst of courage, and the words are out before I can contain them.

  “I’m glad I got to see you in your costume.”

  Brendan beams. He reclines on the blanket, revealing the long, pale stretch down to his waistband. I roll my eyes, but I’m blushing under my makeup.

  “I didn’t think you’d wear it,” I say challengingly.

  “I know,” Brendan replies. “It’s why I had to. I can go change, though,” he adds hastily.

  “God, no.” Wow, I really need to work on controlling this honesty thing.

  Brendan raises an eyebrow. I dart my gaze from his—and then turn back to face him, because why not? I’m popular, and Brendan’s a junior. I have the high ground here.

  “Like I said,” I drawl, “definitely not gross now.”

  Brendan props himself up on one elbow. And without a word, he runs his eyes down the length of my figure very deliberately.

  Brendan Rosenfeld is checking me out. When his eyes return to mine, I feel a flush inch up my cheeks.

  “Hey,” he says suddenly. “Have you ever been to Grand Central Market?”

  I fumble for words. “Um, no. Where?”

  “It’s a place I think you’d really enjoy,” he says. “Could I take you? Next Friday?”

  “Yeah,” I say unhesitatingly, then catch myself. Did Brendan just ask me on a date?

  Did I just accept?

  Before I get the chance to clarify, Grant comes running up to our picnic blankets, followed by a giant dude dressed as Columbia. “Stand up, guys,” Grant says excitedly. “Let him see our costumes.” Everyone rushes over and lines up for the judge, including Brendan, and the moment’s gone. I follow the group, straightening my wig.

  We hold our breath. The Columbia scrutinizes every inch of our costumes.

  His eyes linger noticeably long on Brendan’s Speedo. Finally, he nods approvingly. “Okay, all of you can come up onstage for ‘Time Warp.’” Everyone cheers. Hannah’s fully freaking out, clutching Paige’s arm and hyperventilating. The Columbia continues, “Line up when Brad—”

  “Asshole,” someone from the crowd yells.

  “—and Janet—”

  “Slut,” someone else yells.

  “—ring the doorbell,” the judge finishes. “You know when that is?” Everyone nods enthusiastically except me and Brendan. When the judge walks off, Hannah squeals and flings her arms around Grant, who throws me a grateful, and exhilarated, look.

  We wait for ten minutes on the picnic blankets until it’s time for the movie to begin. There’s a chorus of cheers when a Frank-N-Furter, who’s a dead ringer for Tim Curry himself, takes the stage under the red Rocky lips, holding a microphone. He welcomes the audience and starts giving safety instructions.

  But my mind’s on Brendan. On whatever this Grand Central Market plan is. I honestly don’t know if I want to go on a date with Brendan. I definitely don’t dislike the idea. I remember the way he looked at me, the times he’s made me laugh. He’s unpredictable, with his wry humor and his texting and his tendency to surprise me, like how he showed up here in the first place. In his costume, no less.

  I steal a peek at him sitting beside me. His eyes are fixed on the stage, his features shadowed in the nighttime. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  There’s something between us.

  I don’t know if it’s real, and I’m trying hard to deny it. For one thing, he’s Brendan Rosenfeld, until recently Barfy Brendan. He’s a junior and an outcast. I go two years without a boyfriend, earning a reputation for rejecting every guy within flirting distance, and now Brendan’s making me light-headed? For another thing, there’s Andrew. It’s Andrew I’ve liked for a year. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here in the company of a group of costume fetishists. He fits into my life, into every one of my plans.

  Brendan Rosenfeld fits into none of my plans. I have no reason to let him distract me.

  Yet here I am, distracted.

  The announcer’s voice yanks me from my thoughts. “Now, virgins, where are you?” he bellows. Grant and Abby instantly point at me, grinning broadly. I’m too caught up in my head, too frazzled by Brendan next to me to react. The announcer goes on, his voice dripping lasciviously. “The long wait is over. I’m glad you saved yourselves for tonight. For all of us.” He winks theatrically and receives hoots and cheers from the crowd. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you up here for some ignominious humiliation,” he says.

  The audience groans. I heave a breath of relief.

  “No, I have something even better planned.” My nerves return with an unpleasant tingle. The Frank-N-Furter struts from one end of the stage to the other. “As is customary with anyone’s first time, there was someone special enough or just plain hot enough to get you to hand in your V-card. I want you to find that special someone,” he continues. I think I catch Brendan dart a glance in my direction. “And with consent, of course,” the announcer says, “I want you to thank that person for popping your Rocky cherry . . . with a kiss.”

  The crowd howls, but I hardly hear them. My eyes find Brendan’s, both of us frozen in uncertainty. Technically, I brought him here. I can’t tell if he’s going to go in for the kiss—which is when I realize I want him to. I want to find out whether whatever is between us is real.

  I start to lean over, closing the charged distance separating us.

  “Well, Bright,” I hear over my shoulder. Paige plops down onto the blanket between Brendan and me, turning to me with a smirk. I blink. “I’m the one who brought you, right?” She’s smiling slyly, and I want nothing other than for her to go away. But the window is shut between me and Brendan. If I were to reopen it, I’d lose the easy pretense of the Rocky ritual. I’d be kissing him for real.

  I recover my composure. “I’m willing if you are,” I tell her.

  Paige shrugs. “Why not?”

  Without a moment’s pause, I lean forward. Paige does, too, and just like that I’m pressing a big, dramatic kiss to her lips. I feel her swallowing a laugh, which of course makes me bite my cheek to keep down one of my own. It’s not an unpleasant kiss. It’s just, it’s Paige, and it couldn’t be more platonic. Abby whoops and Grant applauds, while Charlie collapses in stitches. Finally, Paige and I pull apart when we can’t hold our laughter in any longer.

  I catch sight of Brendan half covering his eyes behind Paige, and I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed to have dodged the virgin sacrifice.

  “Thanks for that, guys,” he groans. “I get to see Cameron Bright make out with a girl, and it’s my sister.”

  * * *

  It’s not long after the movie begins that I come to realize everyone’s following some unwritten script. Every time the character named Brad walks on screen, everybody yells, “Asshole.” They throw rice for the wedding scene, and they break out water guns and newspapers when Janet and Brad get caught in the rain.

  I’m swept up in the rituals. I yell obscenities with Hannah and Paige, I dodge Grant’s water gun. I have no idea what’s going on—I can hardly follow the plot—and I don’t care.

  We run on stage for “Time Warp.” The dance is easy enough that I learn it right then and there from watching my . . . friends. Because that’s what we feel like now. A jump to the left. A step to the right. I laugh until my sides ache when Brendan swivels his hips to the music. He catches my eye and grins, his gestures growing more exaggerated the longer I laugh.

  When the song ends we run off stage, clutching our wigs and sweating in our sequins despite the chilly night air. Grant collapses onto our blankets, flinging his four-inch heels off in time to catch Hannah, who crashes into him, laughing. Paige and Charlie pile on, and I drop down beside them. I’m winded, but more from exhilaration than exertion. Like I
’ve just placed first in a race and could run for miles more.

  Abby passes me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. I take three and pass the bag to Brendan, who checks the ingredients before pouring out a couple. I give up on watching the film, finding the audience way more entertaining. Groups dance in the aisles, a Janet races by and throws us a handful of glow sticks, the performers on stage perfectly mirror every action in the film. And it’s wonderful, weird magic. Paige and Hannah were right.

  I notice Brendan shivering in the middle of the film. He’s pulled his knees into his chest, his chin chattering.

  “Do you have a jacket?” I ask. Even in the dark I can make out the goose bumps on his back—his very exposed back. I try not to look too long.

  “I’m fine,” he replies, flashing me a confident look. “I don’t want to ruin my costume.”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s another blanket in the car. I’ll get it.” Before he can protest, I weave my way through chairs and picnic baskets to the parking lot. I pass a mausoleum and catch a glimpse of red against the gray stone. I turn, nearly tripping on a discarded water gun.

  It’s Hannah. Hannah and Grant. Her red wig shines in the dull light as she pulls Grant against her. He brings his lips down to hers, his eyes filled with open wonder and something so yearning I have to look away.

  I hurry my steps, not wanting to disrupt them, and grin the whole way to the car.

  Twenty-Eight

  I GOT THREE HOURS OF SLEEP LAST night, maybe. I should have made progress on my Taming of the Shrew term paper, but after walking through my door at two in the morning, my face flushed and heart racing, I could only lie in bed and stare at the ceiling as I relived the night.

  I’ve been reliving it all day since.

  We’re outside today at our usual table for lunch, but the marine layer hasn’t quite burned off yet, and the sky is still a dull gray. Brad had a mock trial meeting to lead during lunch, so it’s just Elle, Morgan, and me. I have my notebook out on the table, and I’m trying to outline my English paper, but the question of Brendan keeps me distracted.