If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  I’ve worked the problem over every waking moment, with zero progress. His invitation definitely felt like a date—

  “Cameron?” Elle’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you listening?”

  I look up. Elle’s eyes are hard, her lips pursed in annoyance the way they were in Paige’s driveway. “Sorry, um, just really behind on this.” I tap my notebook, knowing full well Elle’s noticed I haven’t written a word since lunch started. Even so, I try to muster a studious, somewhat stressed expression.

  Elle grabs my notebook out from under my pen. “‘Katherine, the Villain Reeducated’?” She reads aloud my current title, her voice heavy with derision. “You’re not submitting this,” she declares.

  Scowling, she flips through my outline. I’m not sure if she’s truly offended by the topic or if she’s taking out her anger that my head was elsewhere after I spent the night with Paige and my new friends. Probably both.

  “Katherine’s the victim, not the villain,” she concludes, then rips the pages out of my notebook.

  I gape up at her. Elle’s always been decisive to the point of demanding, but she’s never treated me this way. This isn’t about the paper. It’s about what she said last night. “Elle, come on,” I get out before I notice the change in her expression.

  Her eyes fixed on the page now open in the notebook, her features have gone rigid with anger. For a moment I’m blank, uncertain, wondering what outline she could possibly be reading, what essay idea I’ve had to fill her with fury—

  And then I remember what notebook she’s reading. What page.

  I stand sharply and make out my amends list. I grasp for it, but Elle keeps it out of reach as she reads.

  “What is this?” she asks, her voice unnaturally soft. “Paige Rosenfeld, for calling her pathetic—fix things with Brendan. Brendan Rosenfeld, for giving him the nickname that allegedly ruined his life . . .” I watch her eyes skip farther down, knowing what’s coming and unable to stop it. “Leila,” she reads, her hand shaking, “for being cruel about her relationship with Jason—tell her the truth about what her boyfriend did behind her back.” Her eyes return to mine, furious again. “You told Leila about me?”

  “No, Elle, listen,” I hurry to say. “It’s not what you think. It was after you’d ended things with him. I told Leila that he cheated. Not that you were involved.”

  Elle huffs a laugh. “Just because you didn’t use my name doesn’t mean you weren’t gossiping about my private life. And for what? This stupid list?”

  I flinch from the bite in her words. Morgan recoils behind me, averting her gaze. “It wasn’t gossip,” I protest. “I was trying to help Leila—to make things right.” I want to continue, to explain how this isn’t about her. How I’m trying to correct my own wrongs. But Elle sets the notebook down, unnervingly calm, and my explanations catch in my throat.

  “Make things right?” she repeats. Her cheeks flush, her eyes sharpen. “How is it right to betray your friends? You know”—she gestures to herself and Morgan, who doesn’t look up from her plate—“your real friends? The people who’ve cared about you for years? Not the losers you hang out with now,” she spits. “They don’t even like the real you. Only the timid version of yourself you’ve created to convince Andrew you’re not a bitch.”

  We’ve drawn the attention of the tables nearby. I feel them watching us, hear their wary whispering. I should defend myself. I should tell Elle she’s wrong. But I can’t—not when she’s voiced the fear I’ve been forcing down.

  “I’m just telling you the truth. Somebody should,” she continues. She knows she’s hit a nerve. I hear the venomous determination in her voice. “I noticed right away. Ever since Andrew humiliated you, you hardly speak your mind, worried you’re going to offend someone and live up to what he called you.” She nods to the list open in my notebook. “I had no idea how far you were going, though. It’s all for Andrew, isn’t it?”

  It’s not. The words are there, ringing in my head, but I can’t get my mouth to work. My best friend is looking at me with disgust and disappointment. Suddenly I’m my mom, and it’s easier to let my dad yell than it is to fight back. Because with someone who cares about you, who really knows you, you shouldn’t have to defend yourself.

  Elle picks up the pages of my essay. “Katherine’s not the villain of the play. It’s the people trying to change her,” she says with finality and turns like she’s just going to sit back down and finish lunch.

  The dismissal unlocks my voice. Words I’ve wanted to say for weeks rush out, harsh and without thought to the damage they’ll do. “I suppose I should be like you, Elle. Right?” I abruptly pick up my bag. “I should take whatever I want, from whoever I want, and not care who gets hurt, as long as I’m happy.” The carefully constructed walls I’ve built crumble. “You know, being yourself isn’t permission to be a terrible person.”

  Elle’s eyes widen. I turn and walk away.

  Twenty-Nine

  I DON’T MAKE IT OUT OF THE courtyard before my stomach knots.

  This whole month I’ve done nothing but try to repair relationships. I’ve fixed things with people I hardly know, found parts of myself I never expected. Yet now I’ve managed to wreck my closest friendship. Elle was out of line, but that doesn’t justify what I said. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my reinvention, it’s that there’s no excuse for cruelty and that everyone—everyone—deserves an apology when wronged.

  I walk through campus without a destination.

  I’ve watched my every word, my every action. I’ve held myself to strict standards. It wasn’t enough. I’ve ruined a friendship, I’m no closer to Andrew, and Elle was right when she said Paige might not actually like the real me. I don’t even know why I’m doing this anymore—whether Andrew’s really the goal or whether this is for me, to be friends with the people I’ve begun to respect.

  And then there’s Brendan. I don’t know how he fits into all of this—haven’t allowed myself to consider it.

  Without ever deciding where I’m going, I find myself outside the robotics room. Paige walks out, her head, as promised, completely shaved. It doesn’t look totally terrible. I guess she was trying to convince Brendan to come outside. She sees me and starts to smile, then worry fills her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks. I know I must look harried, wild even, like I’ve fallen through what I thought was solid ground.

  I pace in front of her, my thoughts racing too quickly for me to stand still. “I’m tired of holding myself to everyone’s standards,” I reply. Andrew’s, Paige’s friends’, my friends’, my father’s. I’m tired of planning meticulously to fit my life into everyone else’s expectations. “I do everything I’m supposed to, and still I fall short.” I stop suddenly, facing the robotics room door. “It’s time I figured something out for myself.” Time I went off-script. I glance up at Paige, determination pulsing through me. “I’m going to kiss your brother,” I conclude.

  Paige begins to laugh, until her expression changes to openmouthed astonishment. “You’re not joking,” she says.

  “Nope,” I reply, expecting her to object.

  Instead, comprehension slowly settles on Paige’s features. She opens the robotics room door for me with a dramatic flourish. “Well, don’t let me hold you up.”

  I walk in, fueled with purpose, ready to—

  I falter just inside the doorway because the room’s not empty. Of course. The one time I’m counting on Brendan to have hidden himself from human contact, the room is half full of people. There’s a group of what could possibly be the robotics team working on a collection of circuit boards near the front of the room. Brendan’s in the back, helping Patrick Todd with homework.

  I hesitate for a heartbeat. But I’m not going to let myself lose my nerve just because there are people watching. I walk forward, right to the back of the room.


  I’m not doing this for my list. I’m doing this for me. Because letting the opportunity vanish under the stars at Rocky was a mistake. A mistake I need to set right.

  Brendan doesn’t notice me come up behind him. I tap him on the shoulder. He turns, and finding me he smiles. “Hey, Cameron,” he says.

  “Hi. I need to ask you something,” I tell him.

  “Okay.” He waits, expectant. I nod to a corner of the room, and his brow furrows. “Give me a second,” he says in Patrick’s direction and follows me toward an empty desk.

  I turn to face him when we’re a comfortable distance from everybody else. There’s a question on his lips.

  Before he can ask it, I’m pulling his waist to me and kissing him.

  I’m dimly aware of the room going quiet, and I don’t care. I have to know if whatever’s between Brendan and me is real or just a crazy figment of my imagination. His surprise settles, and he kisses me back, and heat hurtles from my cheeks down my spine. His hands find my waist, his fingers brushing my hips, pulling me closer.

  And I have my answer.

  Flooded with feeling, I lean into him, my hands bunching in the hem of his shirt. His lips press against mine, uncharacteristically demanding. From underneath the currents coursing through me, a thought slips to the surface. I want more of him, much more. But we’re in the robotics room.

  I wish we weren’t in the robotics room.

  The thought forces me to drag my lips from his. Brendan’s out of breath. He opens his mouth, confusion and astonishment in his eyes.

  I don’t give him the chance to ask whatever he’s about to. “Cool, bye now,” I stutter smoothly, then walk past him. Ignoring the hushed laughter following me out, I throw open the door and head into campus, not knowing where my feet are taking me.

  I walk down hallways and through courtyards until I duck into a bathroom. I need time and quiet to process what just happened. In the stall, I close the door and lean against the wall. I kissed Brendan because I didn’t know what to expect, and yet the kiss was outside everything I’d ever expected. My finger traces my lips, still singing with sensation.

  Part of me wants to go right back to Brendan and hear what he was about to say. But part of me doesn’t. Because if I go back in there, Brendan could be thrilled. He could welcome the possibility of us with open arms.

  But he could not.

  I know he kissed me back. I could feel how he wanted me. But does he want me? Is it just because I’m beautiful, blonde, and popular? Is it too much to imagine he could want to date me, Cameron Bright, for who I am—who I really am, beneath those things?

  The questions begin to change, keeping me pinned to the bathroom wall, warping into unbearable images. Scorn in Brendan’s eyes. Him pushing me away. I can practically hear his rejection, how he’ll tell me no matter how beautiful he finds me, he couldn’t possibly care for real about a person like me.

  A bitch.

  I have no reason to expect giving myself to someone would go any differently this time than it did with Andrew. That’s the honest truth. I never open myself up to people like I did with him, and it couldn’t have hurt worse. The memory hasn’t faded, the bluntness of his voice, the bite of his words.

  I close my eyes, an image forming of Brendan calling me a bitch, wondering how I could ever think he’d want me that way, walking out with the disgust in his eyes that Andrew’s held, disgust I’ll never forget.

  I couldn’t bear if it happened again. Not with Brendan.

  And then there’s Andrew. He’s been my goal while I became friends with Brendan and Paige, while I went to Rocky and did things I never thought I would. I’ve changed for him. If I give up Andrew and trying to reinvent myself, who will I be? Will Brendan even want that girl?

  The questions keep me prisoner here until the bell rings for class.

  Thirty

  I RUN AFTER SCHOOL, MY HEAD A whirlwind. I ditch my phone in my room, wanting to avoid the barrage of texts and calls I anticipate from an irate Elle, and probably Morgan, too. I’ve watched Elle in arguments before, and she’s as persistent in disagreements as in everything else. She won’t let a fight drop when she feels wronged.

  I hit the hill near my house, not yet feeling the pain of exertion. The entire run, the kiss with Brendan plays on repeat in my head. My lips haven’t forgotten the feeling, though I almost wish they would. I know I have to face him, and when I do, I’m going to have to decide whether to put myself up for rejection again and whether I’m ready to give up everything I’d planned for with Andrew.

  I finish my run in under an hour and head up to my room. Glancing in the mirror, I notice I’ve somehow ended up with a sunburn in November. I pick up my phone, preparing with heaviness in my stomach for strings of angry texts and voicemails.

  Instead, there’s nothing.

  The weight drops from my stomach, leaving only empty dread. It’s worse than a bombardment. Elle’s written me off completely, not even caring enough to respond. I hesitate, considering texting her and trying to work things out. But it’s obvious she wants nothing to do with me. It’d probably only piss her off worse if I reached out.

  I drop into my desk chair, half hoping the colorless carpet or the paint-chipped walls will swallow me up and I won’t have to worry about this. I might have just lost my oldest, closest friends. Next to the question of whether I’m ready to give up Andrew, it’s another huge piece of my life from which I’m untethered, and I’m drifting.

  I want to text Brendan about the fight with my friends. I need a person to confide in, to reassure me and help me remember who I am without them. To keep me from drifting too far. But it’s not fair to talk to Brendan without giving him an explanation for the kiss. Even if I don’t know if I’m ready to open myself up for rejection, I can’t pretend the kiss didn’t happen. Besides, I’m more than a little curious how he’s feeling about it.

  I unlock my phone and stare at his name. Finally, I write a text.

  About this afternoon . . . I’m sorry I basically attacked you in the robotics room.

  Right away my phone vibrates. He’s calling me.

  Panic races into me. Who actually calls people? In my experience, it’s only people who want to yell at me.

  I pick up.

  “Undoubtedly your most unnecessary apology ever,” Brendan says before I get a word out.

  I grin, relieved. “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry if I was weird or whatever . . .” he continues.

  “Now who’s apologizing unnecessarily?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” I hope he hears the conviction in my voice. “You know,” I say, climbing onto my bed and crossing my legs on the comforter, “you’re not a bad kisser, for someone who spends every waking moment playing and working on computer games.” Feeling a flush in my cheeks, I pluck at a feather protruding from my pillow. “You’re a good kisser. A really good kisser.”

  “Cameron,” he says, gently teasing, “you can give me your honest opinion.”

  “I always do. You know that,” I reply.

  “I guess you do,” he says, his voice edging from playfulness to something softer, something intimate. “Excuse me while I go into cardiac arrest,” he adds, and I laugh.

  “You’re not going to tell me I’m a good kisser, then?” I nudge. “I’m hurt, Brendan. No, scandalized.”

  “Don’t you already know?” he returns quickly.

  “I don’t, actually. It didn’t exactly go well the last time I kissed someone.” I pause, reconsidering. “Wait, the last person I kissed was Paige. That went pretty well.”

  “How well?” Brendan asks. “Wait, never mind. Never tell me. Definitely never tell me who was better, me or my sister.”

  “You’re dodging the question,” I remind him. “You haven’t given me a real answer on whe
ther I’m a good kisser.” I’m flirting more shamelessly than I’m used to, trying not to betray my nerves.

  There’s a long pause. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s giving it real thought. I wait, unmoving, and feel everything in me narrow in on the quiet on the other end of the phone. “Even though I have no experience whatsoever and I’m entirely unequipped to judge comparatively,” he finally says, “I am one hundred percent certain that you, and that kiss, are unparalleled.”

  Warmth spreads from my chest to the grin I feel forming on my face, rushing to the ends of my fingertips. I’m not afraid for Brendan to know how I feel. I need him to know. “You don’t have to reevaluate? Reassess? Confirm your first impression?” I ask playfully. Now? On this very bed?

  “No confirmation necessary,” he says unhesitatingly.

  My smile slips. It’s kind of a compliment, I guess. I thought I was pretty obvious about what I was suggesting. I would’ve expected him to jump at the chance. Brendan has zero experience, I remind myself, and it’s an established fact guys can be clueless when it comes to hints and come-ons.

  I’m about to encourage him in terms a little more explicit when he speaks up. “I know I said I wasn’t interested in you helping me with my social life at school, but I’m glad you didn’t listen,” he says. “I honestly didn’t think it would work, or that I’d care even if it did.”

  I blink, not following.

  “But it did work, and . . . it’s really made things better. People have started treating me differently since we kissed,” he goes on.

  “Um,” I say fumblingly. “How?” I don’t understand why we’re talking about this instead of flirting.

  “Well, no one’s called me BB since, and I can just tell they see me differently. People make eye contact with me in the halls, you know? They say hi to me. I’m not a loser. I’m someone Cameron Bright kissed.”