If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

Brendan cuts me a curious look. “I am?”

  “Elle and Morgan won’t talk to me. Probably Andrew, too. Your sister’s pretty much my only friend. Whereas I heard you had tons of girls trying to get with you last week.” I nudge his shoulder.

  “I guess you’re right,” he says brightly. “Wait,” he adds, pausing with an expression on his face like he’s just had an epiphany. “What am I doing here with you? If I’m the popular one, I should be taking the student body president to winter formal or hooking up with the captain of the dance team.”

  I shove him lightly. “Very funny.”

  “You think I’m joking?” He raises an eyebrow.

  I indignantly yank my hand away, but he holds it tighter, pulling me to him and kissing me in front of everyone. I hear the murmur ripple through my classmates, and I don’t care. I wrap my hand around his neck and kiss him back.

  He draws away. “I was joking, you know,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I reply breathlessly. “I know, dummy. Besides, half the school saw that. I think you’re stuck with me now.”

  “Good.” He opens the front door for me. “How should we tell the other half?”

  * * *

  I watch the clock in fourth-period English. For the first time in a while, I’m genuinely looking forward to lunch. I’m meeting Brendan in the robotics room, where he’s going to walk me through the newest demos of The Girl’s a Sorceress. Is this love, looking forward to video games?

  Finally, the bell rings, interrupting Ms. Kowalski, who’s spent the past five whole minutes reminding us our term paper is due right before winter break. I toss my copy of The Taming of the Shrew in my bag and rush to the door.

  Morgan’s waiting by the drinking fountain for Elle. I pass her, keeping my eyes determinedly averted.

  “Hey, Cam, wait,” I hear behind me when I’m at the end of the hall.

  I turn, finding Morgan jogging to catch up with me. She’s wearing a new pair of leather boots, and they click loudly against the tile. I say nothing when she stops in front of me.

  “I—I heard about you and Brendan,” she begins, her cheeks flushed. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Morgan nervous before. “I just wanted to say I’m really happy for you.”

  “You . . . are?” I want to say more, but I can’t decide if I’m mad at her for ignoring me for two weeks or happy she’s speaking to me.

  She tosses a look over her shoulder toward Kowalski’s room, where Elle will be emerging any moment. “I’m not, like, choosing sides, you know. This fight is honestly really stupid, and I’m not getting in the middle.”

  I feel my eyes widen. “Sitting with Elle at lunch and not texting me is you not choosing sides?”

  Morgan’s lips twist into a frown, but she doesn’t drop my gaze. “I’m sitting where I always sit. I can’t control that you decided to move. And you haven’t exactly been texting me either, you know.”

  The classroom door swings open, revealing Elle’s shiny black hair. She looks for Morgan by the drinking fountain, then scowls when she doesn’t find her.

  “Look,” Morgan continues, more hurriedly now, “Elle doesn’t have a ton of real friends, and you . . . well, Cameron, you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t need us. You have a whole other group of friends now and a boyfriend. I’m not going to abandon Elle, even if I do think this whole thing is idiotic.”

  “I still need you guys,” I say quickly. It hits me then how much I need them. Elle and Morgan have been my friends for years. They understand parts of me I don’t think Paige or even Brendan ever fully could. I like watching weird TV shows with Paige and joking about geekdom with Brendan, but I also like sitting in Elle’s bathroom, learning how to line my lips, then going out to dance with her and Morgan to ridiculous pop songs. I don’t think I need to choose between those sides of myself. Do I?

  Morgan’s expression softens. She opens her mouth, but Elle’s impatient voice interrupts her.

  “Morgan. You coming or what?” Elle asks, her arms crossed.

  Morgan gives me an apologetic glance, then nods. “I hope you guys figure this out soon, Cam,” she says before heading in Elle’s direction.

  I watch them leave, the physical ache of their absence worse than ever before.

  Elle wasn’t a perfect friend. Our friendship wasn’t perfect. I know that now in a way I didn’t before. But just because it wasn’t perfect doesn’t mean it’s worth giving up on.

  I’ve made enough apologies in the past few months to know when I need to make one more.

  Thirty-Seven

  I DRIVE RIGHT FROM CROSS-COUNTRY TO WEST Hollywood, where I proceed to hunt for parking for thirty minutes before finding a meter. Crossing the street, I take in the crowd of elaborately dressed twentysomethings congregated outside one of Melrose Avenue’s many murals. The pink-and-white wall faces a patio with rows of folding tables holding stacks of T-shirts with intricate logos I don’t recognize. A DJ spins hip-hop in one corner as girls in ankle-high Nikes and pristine makeup peruse the hats and jackets. Word only spreads for pop-up shops like this one on social media. I had to hunt surreptitiously for half an hour in Computer Science to figure out where I’m going.

  I ignore the DJ and walk to the back, where an unmistakable yellow van waits. When a gorgeous model exits in fresh makeup, I catch the open door. Inside, Elle’s cleaning her brushes.

  She glances up, anger quickly settling on her features.

  “You’re following me now?” she asks shortly.

  “I’ll admit,” I say, keeping my voice light, “I stalked you on Instagram to find you.” Elle doesn’t laugh, not that I expected her to. Her mouth remains a hard line. I pull in a breath, needing to say what I came here for. “Elle, I want to apologize.”

  She crosses her arms. “Added my name to your list, huh?”

  “I have,” I say evenly. “But not for Andrew. For you.”

  Elle says nothing. I know it’s the closest I’ll get to permission.

  I continue. “You were right about part of what you said. I was wrong to change myself for someone else. No guy—nobody—is worth that.” Not even Brendan. If the only way for us to be together would be for me to change, I wouldn’t. I’m done chasing people who don’t want the real me. “And I admire how you don’t compromise yourself or your goals. You never apologize for your ambition. I want to be like that,” I admit.

  It could be wishful thinking, but Elle’s eyes might soften a little.

  “But, Elle,” I go on, “there’s a difference between apologizing for who you are and apologizing for what you’ve done. I don’t regret my decision to make amends for how I’ve hurt people. I don’t want to change who I am, but I don’t think trying to be kinder is necessarily the same as changing. I know it’s a fine line. Sometimes I was on the wrong side of the divide between kindness and compromising myself,” I say. “But sometimes I wasn’t.”

  I watch Elle for even the touch of a reaction. Finally, she uncrosses her arms.

  “Maybe,” she says. She drops into the chair in front of her vanity. “I understand what you were doing,” she continues after a pause. “And I would’ve understood if you’d told me. But you didn’t.”

  I lower my eyes. “I should have,” I admit. “And I wanted to. But I just . . .” I pause, searching. “I just think you’re untouchable. Unflinching. Completely you. I didn’t want to get in your way, and I . . . thought you wouldn’t care.”

  When Elle speaks again, her voice is even, but I know her well enough to hear the hurt that’s replaced her anger. “You were my best friend, Cameron,” she says quietly, and I don’t miss her use of the past tense. It stings. “I would have cared. I do care. And you might think I’m untouchable”—she emphasizes it with momentary fierceness—“but I do depend on people. I depended on you.” Her words gather force as she continues. “And you confided in people you hardly knew instead of me
. You used the personal information I told you for your own agenda. Worst of all? You judged me. I’ve collaborated and encouraged and been there for you for years, and you decided I only use people for my own ends. My best friend determined I wasn’t a good enough person to be a part of what she was doing.”

  “That’s not—” I begin. But she’s right. Everything she said is right.

  And in a horrible lurch, I realize for the first time how the past few months have felt for Elle. How confusing and lonely they’ve been for this person I thought didn’t care. How I pushed away the closest friend I had, who needed me more than I knew.

  “I’m sorry,” I say in nearly a whisper. “I’m going to fix this.”

  “Why? Just to ruin it again the next time you think I’m not worthy of being your friend?” Elle’s voice finally wavers. “You can’t fix betrayal with an apology.”

  I say nothing. My mind works furiously to bridge the impossible gap between us. Four feet that could be infinite, a lifetime’s journey. Nothing comes, and I only watch her helplessly. Elle pretends not to notice, her eyes returning to the vanity, and begins rearranging her bottles of foundation with what I know is forced precision.

  “Go.” She speaks quietly and carefully. “Just go.”

  I have no choice. I force down the throb in my throat, nod once, and turn, passing a completely oblivious porcelain-skinned woman as she approaches Elle’s van. I hear Elle greet her with YouTube-trained brightness, and for a moment I’m back in Elle’s bedroom, excitedly positioning lights and watching when she hits Record. The thought is wrenching, nearly enough for me to turn back.

  But I don’t.

  I won’t force forgiveness on Elle. I’ve given enough apologies to understand the point is not to cross out the wrong, not to pretend it never happened. That’s just the hopeful side effect. The point is only to let someone know they’re worth your remorse. I won’t push for more from Elle, though I desperately hope she forgives me. I really, really want my best friend back.

  But it’s her choice. Not mine. I have to be okay with that for now.

  I thread through the tables of trendy merchandise back to where I parked. In the car, I have to calm my ragged breathing for a full two minutes—inhale, exhale—before I reach into my purse for my notebook. With a hand nearly as even as Elle’s, I write a thin line through her name, the final on my list.

  Thirty-Eight

  FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS, I SPEND every lunch with Brendan, helping him beta test his game for the UCLA contest. In between being murdered by the sexy sorceress, I give him design feedback. Thanksgiving comes, and because my mom’s on a cleanse, I go over to Paige and Brendan’s. It’s nice, nicer than I ever remember the holiday being, even if I catch Mr. Rosenfeld glaring at me twice.

  I’m sitting in front of my mirror on the first Friday of December, straightening my hair.

  It’s definitely not the pre–winter formal ritual I envisioned. Normally, I’d be in Morgan’s bedroom before a dance, trying on dresses from her endless closet and having Elle do my makeup. But tonight won’t be the night I’d planned, and I’m learning to be okay with that.

  I couldn’t convince Paige to skip her annual Anti–Winter Formal Party. But Brendan’s thrown himself into preparations for the dance with endearing enthusiasm, texting me about corsage colors and what tie he should wear.

  It has me looking forward to the night in a way I’d never expected. I finish straightening my hair, permitting myself to admire my work in the mirror. I stand up, inspecting my outfit—my prom dress from last year, with the little rip next to the zipper.

  I’m reaching for my heels when I hear my phone vibrate. I figure it’s Brendan here to pick me up. Putting on one shoe, I glance at the screen distractedly.

  It’s not Brendan.

  The sender line reads: Bright Partners—Human Resources. It sends a jolt through me, exhilaration or fear. My brain doesn’t have time to decipher which. Without pulling on the other shoe, I hurriedly open the screen.

  It’s probably true that the contents of every important email ever sent could be understood from the first few words. This one, definitely.

  From: human_res@brightpartners.com

  To: c.bright@beaumontprep.edu

  Subject: Summer Internship Program

  Dear Miss Bright,

  We have reviewed your application, and while . . .

  Everything past “while” could be in hieroglyphics. I force myself to read every word anyway, feeling the hot flush rising in my face.

  We have reviewed your application, and while we were impressed with your coursework and achievements, we received an unusual number of applications for this year’s program from highly qualified candidates. Unfortunately, we could not offer you a position with our company this summer.

  I read the email twice. Then a third time.

  Without this internship, I won’t have the chance to spend the summer with my dad. The thought registers only faintly in a corner of my mind, overshadowed by a realization I feel with a bite a hundred times deeper.

  He rejected me. He rejected me. My dad knew I’d applied, knew I’d eagerly enrolled in Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market and requested a fucking Economist subscription for my birthday. He knew I wanted this. He knew I was trying.

  And he rejected me.

  With a shaking hand, I set the phone down. My stomach roils, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Maybe it would help. Maybe this feeling is something I can force out of me over a toilet bowl. Cold sweat beads on my forehead, ruining the foundation I spent twenty minutes applying.

  He doesn’t think I’m good enough. Everything I did to please him—the courses I took, the grades, the hours I spent teaching myself—it wasn’t enough.

  It shouldn’t matter. I told myself I was done trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. When I kissed Brendan and turned down Andrew, I made the decision to do what I wanted. I hate Economics—why do I care that I’m spared a summer of spreadsheets and market projections?

  But in the bottom of my stomach, I know why. Because it’s my dad. If there’s one person whose approval I should have, it’s his. I understand he and I don’t have a normal relationship. Years without visits, absent phone calls on my birthday, emails from his assistant—I’ve accepted that. But this? I know he pulls strings for colleagues’ friends. All it would have taken was an email from him and I would have had that job. I would have been spending two whole months with him over the summer at his office.

  But I’m not good enough. And if I’m not good enough now, I’m realizing I won’t ever be. I’ve fought and hungered for his recognition. It’s kept me going, driven me through hard classes and harder conversations with Mom. But the respect, the worth I hoped to hold in his eyes—I’ll never have it.

  I fumble for my phone. My thumbs dial out the number I know by heart before I’ve thought out what I’ll say. I listen to the ring, realizing that with the time difference, he’s probably in the middle of dinner. I don’t care.

  “Daniel Bright’s phone,” Chelsea answers after the third ring.

  “Put me through to my dad.” My voice cracks on the last word.

  “Cameron?” she asks like she doesn’t know exactly who’s calling. “I’m afraid Mr. Bright’s with a—”

  “I don’t fucking care!” I shout. My eyes are burning, but I clench them shut, trapping any tears. “I’ll keep calling until you put me through.”

  The line goes silent for a moment. I’m sure Chelsea’s used to cursing and yelling from Daniel Bright, but I’ve never so much as sent a passive-aggressive email to her in the past.

  “I’m very sorry, Cameron. Could we—”

  “Listen to me!” I interrupt her again. For a moment I feel bad for her. She’s not the one at fault. But I call on the rotten, nasty piece of myself I’d thought was gone. “I�
�m not about to let some little assistant keep me from speaking with my own father.” I breathe heavily into the line, the tightness only a run can dispel lodging in my lungs.

  “One moment,” Chelsea says softly. The phone beeps, then rings again.

  “Cameron, this is completely inappropriate,” my dad answers, his voice clipped in the way that always precedes a dismissal.

  “How could you reject me from your own company?” I ask, the words exploding from my lips. “It’s an internship. I’m not good enough to sort your mail and get your coffee?” To be in your life?

  Clinking glasses, chatter, and low music fill the silence. “We have strict criteria for every position, internships included,” he says evenly. “It’s very competitive.”

  “I’m your daughter.” It comes out a whimper, and I hate the sound of it. The desperation and vulnerability behind a sentence that should be little more than a statement of fact.

  I think he hates the sound of it, too. His voice comes through harder, each syllable slapping the speakers. “Being my daughter does not make you qualified. Frankly, this call only confirms our decision.”

  Our. Not their. One tear slips down my cheek. I furiously wipe it away.

  “Clearly,” he continues, “you do not possess the professionalism we require. I knew you were spoiled, but this level of immaturity is disappointing, Cameron.”

  “Because I have to be professional every time I talk to you, right?” I say in a rush. I stand up, facing away from the mirror to hide from the redness in my eyes. “Because everything I do, every phone call—”

  “This is exactly how your mother would respond.” His words cut me to the knees, and I stumble to my bed. He pauses, like he knows how big a blow he’s struck. Like . . . he’s enjoying it. “Calling me to fix your problems because you couldn’t put in the hard work on your own?” The knife of his voice becomes silken, patronizing, and low. “I’ve given you more than your fair share of opportunities. It is entirely your own fault you’ve failed to capitalize on them.” The sounds of the bar or restaurant or wherever he is get louder, and I assume he’s walking back to whomever he’d been in the middle of meeting when I called.