If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  “It’s just an English essay,” I say.

  “We both know it’s not.” Paige’s voice becomes gentle. “You’re not really writing about Katherine. Is this why you haven’t tried to win my brother back? Because you think you’re like Katherine and you have to be a different person for him?”

  I open my mouth, wanting to find a quick and decisive denial. But I don’t.

  “I know you think Brendan only liked a fake version of yourself. But it’s not true,” Paige goes on. “I’ve hung out with you for a while, Cameron. You’re really no different. When you were with Brendan you weren’t exactly the delicate, cuddly person you think you were pretending to be. You’re biting and honest and funny, and it’s awesome. I know Brendan liked that about you. Likes that about you.” She raises her eyebrows emphatically.

  I try to force down the hope I’ve done my best to destroy this week. But I feel the truth unfolding inside me. Paige is right. I was myself with Brendan. I was honest and open. It’s why he liked me and why I liked him. Why I possibly loved him.

  With that realization comes another, clenching and cold.

  “I hurt him too badly,” I choke out.

  “Well,” Paige replies, “then give one of those famous Cameron Bright apologies. You never know what might happen.”

  I feel doors and windows open in my head. I’ll do exactly what Paige says. I’ll put myself on the line. I’ll fight until Brendan knows everything I feel for him.

  “But first,” Paige adds, “rewrite this shitty essay.”

  I take my computer back, grinning. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “Whatever,” I repeat like I’m pissed. But I’m not.

  I’m grateful.

  * * *

  Before I can focus on Brendan, I have to rewrite my essay. For the rest of the week, I feverishly rework my thesis, reconfiguring my textual evidence. By the time I’m done, an unexpected feeling comes over me. I’m . . . proud of an English essay.

  I retitle the paper “Katherine, the ‘Villain’ Mischaracterized.” Then I proceed to crap on Shakespeare. But he deserves it. He wrote a bitch who’s nothing but a bitch, nothing but the sixteenth-century version of a one-dimensional mean girl. Katherine is completely evil, giving audiences no reason to question whether her rudeness or her temper might come with good qualities, or even reflect them. He writes Kate off—into contempt, into comedy, into humiliation—instead of writing a woman who’s complex and who changes on her own, respectably and without entirely erasing her personality. Who’s both good and flawed, who can recognize and right her wrongs while not giving up her strength and independence. Who’s kind without being weak, powerful without being awful.

  And in brutish frat-boy Petruchio, who literally starves and beats Kate into submission, he gave readers permission to forget the real, cunning, invisible ways men tame “shrews.” With judgment, with terminology, with effortless, biting words.

  The Friday before winter break, I come home and hurriedly reread the essay one final time before I submit it to Kowalski. Without giving myself time to overthink the decision, I open a new email and write to Andrew. I attach the document and invite him to read my essay and to go on a run this week.

  Andrew’s a good guy. He’s not Petruchio. But the way he judged me, the way he threw that word around, I want him to understand what it really does.

  I hope this will be the beginning of a more honest friendship between us. I have a feeling it will.

  I’m closing my email inbox when one unread message appears in the window. Your Application to the University of Pennsylvania. I open the email, feeling an unnatural calm come over me, and read.

  I got in.

  I wait for the rush of relief, the explosion of triumph. They don’t come. I read the whole email once, then twice, then a third time, trying to imagine myself under UPenn’s stone arches and in wood-paneled lecture halls. I don’t know what I expected to feel in this moment, but it wasn’t nothing.

  I wanted this. I wanted this. Didn’t I? I told myself I did. I’ve told myself for years I’d be happy if I could succeed in my father’s world, if I could earn a place close to him, if I could prove myself. Now that I’m finally accomplishing those things, I don’t feel happy. I feel empty.

  It’s impossible to know whether I got in because my name is Bright and my dad’s an important donor. I know it helped, but I didn’t think I’d care. I thought I’d pounce on the opportunity no matter how or why. Instead, I feel a near-magnetic repulsion, the instinct to avoid even the association of our names that the UPenn rep made.

  Everything I did, everything I planned was to chase my dad. Knowing I have my mom, though—knowing I no longer have to chase him—I can finally stop running.

  I can finally explore who I want to be.

  Not who I’m pretending to be. The thought hits me like a punch. I’ve prided myself on being honest with everyone. With cheerleaders dumped by idiot boyfriends. With Elle when she’s unreasonable, with Andrew when he’s obtuse. With Paige, with Brendan, with my mom.

  The only person I haven’t been honest with is myself.

  But now I have to be. It’s the hardest form of honesty, but it’s the most important. Not the endless criticisms my dad taught me.

  Every Econ class I took pretending I cared what collateralized debt obligations and demand curves were. The Economist subscription I got from my dad. The conversation with UPenn’s rep not even two months ago—they were lies. They were careful concealments of who I really am, a protective pretense profound and impenetrable enough I forgot it was there.

  If I’m being honest, I don’t want those things.

  I close the email on my computer. Without thinking twice, I pull the UCLA Design and Media Arts brochure from under the notebook on my desk. Unfolding the brochure, I read the course descriptions, the curriculum, the opportunities for work with media and entertainment-industry companies in the city. I feel my heart quicken with a certain rightness. The feeling of finding what I didn’t know I wanted. I can imagine myself in the classes and the computer rooms pictured, gazing for inspiration out the floor-to-ceiling windows onto UCLA’s pine trees.

  While I’m reading, Mom wanders into the doorway, holding a glass of what I recognize ruefully to be a juice cleanse—and in the other hand, a folded Eggo waffle.

  I open my mouth to point out this incongruity. But I guess she catches the confused consternation of my expression, because she cuts me off. “I’m not doing a cleanse,” she says, continuing sheepishly, “I just like the taste of the juice.”

  I close my mouth again. And because it’s such a blissfully honest confession, I laugh. Mom’s grin widens.

  She’s passing my door when she doubles back, a hand on the frame. “Hey, um,” she begins. Her voice takes on an unfamiliar formality, even and hopeful. “Do you think you could design a website for me? A professional one, for acting?”

  I drop the pamphlet. “Yes!” I don’t hide my excitement. “Of course!” I’ve been telling her on our runs about the websites I’ve designed. She didn’t really know I’d done websites before, which hurt, but, I reminded myself, she knows now. She’s trying now.

  She flushes, looking pleased. “I figured I could go on a few auditions. Why not, right? In between teaching, of course.” She took a teaching job with the acting institute down the block. She got her first paycheck this week, and we celebrated with a dinner date Dad didn’t pay for.

  I nod, beaming. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” I say, because honesty doesn’t have to hurt. “Dad was really wrong about you.”

  “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is,” she says with a flippant shrug, but her eyes are glittering when she leaves the doorway.

  I’m about to keep reading the UCLA pamphlet when I remember the box.

  The box of my mother’s
costumes that I’ve hidden under my bed to keep her from throwing it out. I put the pamphlet down and crouch on the carpet, pulling the beaten cardboard box in front of me.

  I heft the costumes into the hallway, my eyes catching on the jacket from my Rocky outfit folded on top. Placing the box in front of her bedroom door, I walk back to my room, remembering the wild magic of the night. The rituals, kissing Paige. Grant and Hannah, who post utterly adorable photos from Utah, where they’re spending winter break with Hannah’s family. Brendan in his ridiculous, wonderful “costume,” and—

  Wait.

  I grab the UCLA brochure. Why didn’t I think of this before?

  Forty-Three

  I’M SWEATING, HEAVY DROPLETS RUNNING DOWN MY neck, and dying to roll up the itchy fabric of my sleeves. The elaborately embroidered bodice clenches my chest uncomfortably, the edges jutting into my ribs.

  I can’t believe people actually do this for fun.

  Of course, it is an amazing costume. It’s Paige’s handiwork, the product of a week spent studying the few images I had, designing, fitting, and shopping for fabric, wire, and the perfect buttons.

  I’m the living replica of the sorceress from The Girl’s a Sorceress. I followed one of Elle’s Halloween tutorials for the makeup, a dark smoky eye and deep purple lips. It hurt not having her there in person, just the way it hurts every time one of our dance-party anthems comes up on my running playlists. And the hurt reminds me how what I’m doing right now might not work.

  Walking through the UCLA sculpture garden, I feel the sun blistering my back. I’m really, really hot. Temperature-hot, that is. Although, I’m hoping I’m the other type, too. My costume is essentially a leotard with a long, double-slit skirt freeing my legs. Paige lowered the neckline to give it more décolletage and constructed a corset-like bodice with Gothic details. I have full sleeves and thigh-high boots—not ideal in the eighty-degree December afternoon. We don’t have the luxury of seasons in Los Angeles, and the complete lack of cloud cover over UCLA certainly isn’t helping.

  I earn stares the entire walk to the Charles E. Young Research Library. Which I expected. I am, I would dare to guess, the only person dressed as a witch on this entire campus. Undeterred, I pull open the door to the convention center on the library’s first floor.

  For a moment, it’s overwhelming. I underestimated the city’s population of teenage video game designers. I walk past the booths, unable to avoid scoping out Brendan’s competition. The entries range from the basic to the elaborate. Doggos appears to involve only controlling a pixelated dog to collect tacos. Others—Red Mist, Zombies on the Moon—feature stomach-churning, photorealistic gore. I find a couple of girls in one booth nervously watching a judge demoing Wolf Warrior.

  And then I turn a corner, and there’s Brendan. He’s a few booths away, and he hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s explaining something to a judge, and I fall in love all over again with the eager intensity in his eyes, the perfectly unruly curl of his hair over his forehead. The cafeteria boss battle of The Girl’s a Sorceress is up on the widescreen monitor over the judge’s shoulder. Brendan unpauses the game, and I watch the computerized choreography I know well.

  When the judge reaches over to play the demo, I catch Brendan’s eye. His mouth drops open a little. I watch him take in my costume, heart in my throat with nervousness.

  “So the game’s open-world?” the judge asks, interrupting the moment.

  Brendan clears his throat. “Um,” he fumbles to reply. “What did you say?”

  I wait a few paces from the booth, not wanting to interrupt his presentation. Brendan appears to recover his composure, giving the judge a long reply and demonstrating gameplay. Finally, the judge nods once, looking impressed, and leaves. For a moment, Brendan looks relieved and exhilarated, until his expression clouds and he searches the crowd for me.

  I take a breath and walk up to the booth.

  “I felt it was appropriate,” I say, gesturing to the costume. “I do have a few things in common with the character. I’m blonde and intimidating, and I tend to do terrible things I really regret . . .”

  Just then, as if the demo were listening, the sorceress viciously decapitates the hero’s head. I wince.

  Brendan’s expression is hard. “What are you doing here, Cameron?”

  “You once told me how much it would mean to you if someone cosplayed as one of your characters.”

  “You remembered that?” For a moment, he looks like he’s forgotten he’s angry.

  “Of course I remembered,” I say, hoping he hears the sincerity in my voice. “We were on the blankets in the cemetery. Waiting for Rocky to begin.”

  Brendan softens. But then, like he’s remembering everything I said to him at the dance, his frown returns.

  “Follow me,” he says gruffly.

  He leads me through the crowd, past Wolf Warrior and Zombies on the Moon. I catch more curious glances. We go out the front doors and into the sculpture garden, where Brendan finally brings us to an abrupt halt.

  I don’t hesitate. “Brendan, I’m sorry. For everything I said to you at winter formal, for the way I drove you away, for the girl you saw me become when I was cruel to Bethany.”

  Brendan huffs. “We’ve done this before. You don’t get unlimited apologies, Cameron. I should have stuck to what I told you then. Stay out of my life,” he says, his expression stern, but his voice wavers.

  His hesitation is enough to give me the confidence to continue. “I will, once I’ve said what I came here to say. I need to explain what was happening with me the night of the dance. Remember the internship Elle mentioned?”

  Brendan nods nearly imperceptibly.

  “Well . . . I didn’t get it. Which I know sounds insignificant. It just—it was with my dad’s company, and I felt like if even he didn’t want me, I couldn’t be worth much of anything. I felt like I didn’t deserve you. So I lied, and I told you we weren’t real. I wanted to push you away because it’s what I thought I deserved.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” he says, his face rigid. “But you can’t keep doing this. Going back and forth. I can’t keep doing this. I went out on a limb when I fell for you, Cameron. A long, scary limb. I knew something was upsetting you before winter formal, and when I tried to get you to open up, you decided I wasn’t worth it. I told you I loved you, and you told me we were a lie.” His expression becomes vulnerable for an instant before his anger returns. “I gave you everything I could, and you treated me like you always have—like I’m just Barfy Brendan.”

  “Brendan, come on.” I raise my voice, conscious we’re garnering even more stares than I did on my own—an extravagantly dressed witch in a shouting match with a teenage boy. “Did making out with you every day count as treating you like Barfy Brendan? I know you have next to zero experience with girls, but it’s time you get it through your head that I think you’re cute—hot even, in a geeky way.”

  He blinks, and hope runs through me when I catch him struggling to suppress a smile. “I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

  “Both, obviously.”

  Now Brendan lets out a small laugh. “You know, after all the apologies you’ve given, I’m not convinced you’ve gotten any better at them.”

  I rub my brow, feeling frustration creep in. “Well, I hope I’m better at declarations of love,” I say, an edge in my voice.

  Brendan goes entirely still.

  I gather my thoughts, knowing I’m being given the chance to correct what might be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. Brendan and I work when I’m unflinchingly honest—because I’m honest. What broke us was the one time I wasn’t honest with him. The one time I wasn’t who I really am. It’s a mistake I’ll never make again.

  “It’s come to my attention I’m not a perfect person,” I say. “I most likely never will be. But I’ve decided that’s okay. I�
�m going to make more mistakes in my life, and I’m going to apologize for them. If that’s a problem for you—if you want me to promise to never mess up again, or if you just don’t like the flawed person I am—then I would recommend you walk away right now.”

  I wait for him to do exactly that, for him to put his guard back up. When he does neither, I take a step toward him.

  “I want to open up to you, too. I want to tell you more about my home and my parents, if you’ll give me the chance. But right now, all I want to tell you is that I love you,” I say with the force of every day I’ve spent in my room wishing I’d just told him when it counted, when I could’ve avoided tearing us apart.

  Indecipherable currents of emotion run behind Brendan’s eyes. My breath goes quiet in my chest. For what feels like the longest pause in history, he says nothing. Every passing second is a door closing inch by inch until finally the crack of light disappears.

  I nod, schooling my features into understanding and my voice into evenness. I glance toward the library. “Okay. Good luck in there, Brendan.” They’re the hardest words I’ve ever said.

  I begin to walk away. I’m a couple feet from him when I hear footsteps behind me.

  Brendan grabs my hand, pulling me to face him. “You know,” he says, “showing up here in that costume was really unfair.”

  The corners of my lips have begun to tug upward before I’ve even fully processed what he said. “I know,” I say nonchalantly, not yet daring to hope. “I needed all the edge I could get.”

  “Unfair”—Brendan finally grins—“and the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  My heart swells. I know it’s ridiculous, the entire thing. I’m dressed in the costume of a freaking video game character, professing my love to a boy I’ve only known—really known—for months. It’s completely crazy. On paper, on the lists and spreadsheets that constitute my life, Brendan doesn’t fit in. But he’s upended every one of my plans, reversed every one of my expectations. Not just of him. Of myself.