Sometimes We Tell the Truth

by Kim Zarins

  “I . . . I find agape easier than eros,” he says. “So much easier.”

  I have this side view of his red cheek and red neck with a little blue vein, and no matter what your gender or orientation is, he looks like a thing of eros. I mean, he’s so blushingly beautiful and so passionate. If he’d gotten one-on-one with someone, anyone, and shared this secret, the person he was with would have to make out with him, because it’s a turn-on to be with someone that beautiful and that sexually insecure. Who wouldn’t want to show Parson the ropes?

  But he’s not confiding in any one person. . . . He’s telling the whole group this confession. Lovers don’t unmask to the group; they undress for one person. I can see a girl falling for Parson after he goes deep to the group, but one-on-one, there’s nothing else to share. He already shared it with her friends, her pastor, the homeless guy on the street. Everyone gets Parson’s deepest self, which means no one person gets his love for keeps. I’m fascinated by his dilemma, if it is a dilemma.

  “I’ve always loved the idea of helping widows and orphans and finding people who need help,” he continues. “I love the connections that spring up between strangers. I love to hear where people come from and to try helping them on their way. And then when I became a teenager . . . oh my gosh! The hormones! One of three things always happens: Either I crush on someone who doesn’t return my feelings; or I lose the girl because I won’t have sex until marriage, and I need to stop quite a bit before then to keep from temptation; or, finally, I like a girl I’m dating, but she says she can’t find the ‘real me’ beneath my ‘perfect exterior.’ What do they mean by that? I’m not perfect! I think they want to peel off my agape layer and get to my eros one . . . only the agape layer is pretty much who I am. They say I’m not being real with them; they say I’m fake. Can I be fake without knowing it? It’s totally confusing. I pray about it a lot. . . . I haven’t lost hope. . . . Maybe someday . . . someone . . . if God wills it . . .”

  Then the nicest thing happens. All the girls pitch in and tell Parson not to worry, that he’s a great guy and some girl is going to get really lucky. If he tells the girl what he just told all of us, she’ll understand.

  “We like guys who show us they’re vulnerable,” Mouse says.

  Briony adds, “That’s as real as you can get. But I know what you mean. People have accused me of being fake just because I’m captain of the cheerleading squad and prom queen, plus I do a bunch of charity things.” She flinches a bit at the word charity. “It definitely sucks. Like, should I stop doing all this cool stuff just to avoid being called fake? Nah. You just got to keep being yourself and be your own judge of whether you’re acting fake or real. And by the way,” she adds, “I totally had a crush on you sophomore year. I gave you a secret Valentine.”

  “That was you?” His mouth falls open. More blushing.

  Briony laughs along with a bunch of girls, but it’s nice laughter. Girls pipe up and say, “I had a crush too.” Even Reiko rather guiltily says she had a crush freshman year. She looks right at me. “And I swear, I did not ask for it or act on it!”

  I smile to let her know it’s okay. I’m actually kind of flattered she’d be embarrassed about a crush while she was going out with me. Like she took me and my feelings seriously and maybe still does a little.

  The guys chip in too. “We all feel that way,” Kai says. “I mean, no girl’s ever said I was too perfect, but I think every guy has been told he’s not being real, or showing his true self. I think Bri has it right. You know how to be yourself, so go with that.”

  “Also, dude,” Rooster adds, “you sound like a team player, you know, with helping people. I think you got to find a girl who’s the same way, on the same team. I can’t date a girl who hates football and crass jokes, or what would we talk about? I think it’s just harder for you, because you’re, like, this awesome saint, and saints just aren’t all over the place. But you’ll find her.”

  “You guys are really compassionate. Thanks,” Parson says, glowing. And then, maybe because I’m sitting near him, we lock eyes.

  He smiles like I’ve already said something nice, when I wasn’t planning on speaking up.

  “You’re not alone,” I offer, and I’m not sure if I’m saying this so publicly for him or for Pard. “I’m bad at eros too.”

  “We all are, dude,” Rooster says, “except Alison.”

  “I bet you’re good at agape,” Parson tells me, already switching roles from comforted to comforter in his desire to help others.

  I smile at him, and almost leave it at that. “Not really.”

  After the conversation dies down, Mr. Bailey beams at us and says, “We did it, guys. Those were some awesome stories. Thank you.”

  “Hey, look!” Alison’s pointing out the window, nearly jabbing Briony in the face.

  We see the Potomac, and everyone literally goes berserk because of the cherry blossoms. I’m not a tree expert, but it’s pretty obvious we’re catching them at the tail end of their season. No matter. The way the girls press their delighted faces to the windows, it’s like we’re hobbits on an enchanted drive through Lothlórien, while the elves are strolling around with this total meh expression on their faces.

  Mouse points. “The Washington Monument! With cherry trees! We’re heeeere!”

  “Yup,” the bus driver says. He pulls up to a giant curb reserved for buses. “Kind of a coincidence that everyone told their stories with just the right amount of time.”

  Mr. Bailey nods like a teacher. “Coincidence, perhaps. Maybe there’s a lesson here. We all have the time we need to tell our stories.”

  He’s smiling, and I don’t want to ruin things for him, but I say, “You never told yours.”

  He shrugs. “My job is to listen to your stories. And we did it, guys. We did it.” But our eyes meet, and there’s a story inside him, and I think maybe that story is about the son he wants in his life.

  Then the bus gives that monstrous sigh like a dying dragon, and the doors open.

  ARRIVING IN D.C.

  People make a grab for their stuff and then jump to their feet, jostling their way into the aisle and forward.

  “Hold on!” Mr. Bailey stands in the aisle as if to block the stampede. “Announcements first! Sit down!”

  Everyone grumbles and sits hunched forward, ready to spring as soon as he’s finished talking.

  “Here’s the plan. We’re behind on our itinerary”—he scowls just a tiny bit at the bus driver—“so listen up: Everyone, go pee, go eat. Take your valuables with you. Then, in half an hour, for those of you interested in getting inside”—and he points to the towering monument—“we’ll meet there, in the circle of flags. If you want to skip the view, meet at the water in an hour. And, guys, think about which story should win. We’ll figure that out when we come back together. Okay, enjoy the Mall.”

  Since I’m in the second row, I stand up to follow Reeve. I turn around for a second, and Pard looks up, a question in his eyes. I telepathically convey how very sorry I am, how desperately I want him not to hate me, but then everyone starts crowding into the aisle, and my view of him is blocked.

  With my pack on my shoulder, I hurry off the bus and pretend to check my phone. Maybe I’ll ask Pard to grab something to eat with me. Maybe he’ll say yes.

  Kai and Briony wander off, arm in arm, alongside Franklin and Mouse. Alison, Rooster, Bryce, and Saga follow a bit behind and are having considerably more fun taking ridiculous selfies.

  That’s when I see Cannon, tall even when he’s slouching. He’s hanging back with that girl Nikki.

  I look around. Pard is chatting with Reiko, of all people. Just the two of them. What the hell would they have to talk about?

  He probably didn’t want to talk to me after all. I guess it’s his right to walk away.

  It’s what I deserve.

  I go where I’m being invited. No one even notices.

  “Hey.” Cannon bumps my fist. “This is Nikki.”

&nbs
p; She’s just the right kind of hot. I mean, not only that body, dressed to advantage, but this beaky nose and thick eyebrows that make me think she knows what it’s like to feel ugly, at least a long time ago.

  “Is Mace coming too?” she asks, and Cannon shakes his head.

  I sense someone jogging up to us as we’re leaving the Mall, and I feel a flutter in my gut.

  But it’s not Pard; it’s Mace. Still a dozen yards away, chains jingling on those Goth pants, he gives what has to be the cutest little wave to Nikki, his hand squiggling like he’s washing Barbie’s windshield. I should be on red alert—competition!—but it’s so obvious he’s in love with her, and from a distance, his broad shoulders and long legs show off how handsome he is. Then he gets closer, and you can see the acne-scarred face, and yet, with all his features uplifted at the sight of this girl, he doesn’t look half bad. He’s a different person.

  Cannon shrugs and tells Nikki, “He can come, but he’s not someone Drew needs to meet.” Then he motions to me and Mace. “Hurry up. My car’s over here.”

  My reverie crashes into panic. “Wait. I don’t know. I—I really can’t ditch my field trip.”

  Mace puts an arm around Nikki, and she giggles and lays her hand on his chest. “I’ll ditch mine,” he says.

  Cannon’s forced smile brings out the hard lines of his face like he’s sick of Mace flirting with Nikki, and now my whining. “It’s a ten-minute drive, Jeff. You’ll be back before anyone notices. Tonight I’ll pick you up and take you to a real live college frat party. You can’t say no to that.”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  Nikki and Mace race ahead to the car, all frisky. Mace jumps and hangs from the low branch of a cherry tree. The branch shakes, and the last of the blossoms fall over him and Nikki, who twirls to catch them.

  We all pile in when we reach Cannon’s car—Nikki and Mace in the back—and I can tell Cannon’s annoyed, like he wanted Nikki to be mine. Still, he tilts his head at the rearview mirror and tells her to give me her Georgetown spiel.

  “You’re going to love it here!” Nikki says. “Everyone is super friendly.”

  I turn to Mace. “Your sister goes here, right? She likes it?”

  “Loves it.” He speaks comfortably, as if we’re friends. “She’s in Nikki’s sorority. Speaking of which”—and he’s pawing her—“I’m totally hanging out with you guys this weekend.”

  “Whoa, is this new?” Nikki says, running a finger along his tattoo.

  Cannon’s eyes cut from the rearview mirror to me. “This guy Drew has one more year, so he can set you up. By the end of your first year, you’ll have friends, a place to live, everything. Girls, too, if you want.” He subtly glances in the rearview mirror at the girl I don’t seem to want badly enough. He shakes his head.

  We pull up to a fraternity house. Guys pass a volleyball on the front lawn like they’re advertising what a gym membership can do to a body. Cannon parks in the driveway, waves at the guys, and walks into the house like he’s one of them.

  A guy squatting in front of an open fridge stands up when he sees us. “Cannon! Hey! Looks like you brought a couple friends.” He lifts an eyebrow as he takes in Mace’s acne. The guy, who must be Drew, looks related to Franklin: super tall and built, that smug kind of person who was born with all the advantages.

  Cannon introduces Mace as Nikki’s friend, but me as his friend, like the hierarchy needs to be spelled out. Drew gives Mace a slight head-tip, but he shakes my hand. Still, I’m only here because Cannon is vouching for me. I may not gross out Drew (he keeps sneaking contemptuous looks at Mace), but his eyes size me up and find me lacking.

  “You want a beer?” he asks.

  I wanted a beer. Like, sophomore year I wanted one, and guys like him to hang out with. A dream come true. But now, not so much. I want to get away from all these college-aged Franklins and get back to my class. A beer means we’re in for a chat for who knows how long, or over how many beers. If I had a backbone, I’d use it.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Drew leads Cannon and me into a living room that is lined with sofas, while Nikki and Mace decide to play volleyball with the guys out front, their voices barking happily as they get into the game.

  Volleyball aside, I’d rather be out there and not in this dark, empty room meant to hold a whole lot more people and noise. We’re sitting on two stained corner couches like we’re in time-out.

  “So you’re coming to Georgetown,” Drew says to me.

  I bobblehead nod, even though I’m not sure. He peppers me with a few small-talk questions before he bores of me.

  Then he turns to Cannon, like it’s just the two of them. “Those computers in the lab you rigged a while back . . . haven’t heard anyone notice a problem.”

  Cannon waves a lazy hand. “It’s easy. Jeff can rig more, too. I can teach him how to read the data. He’ll take over, and we’ll work out percentages. It’ll be great.”

  Drew rubs his chin. “As to that. So what do you do with all the Visa numbers? Buy beer and hope no one notices?”

  I freeze. Cannon never told me about credit cards. Hacking was all about grades, nothing more.

  Cannon takes a swig. “Ha, that’s not quite how it works. With keylogging, you see everything a person types on the machine. So I see what kinds of things the person orders online, and I can buy the same thing without their noticing. I’ll order something, and the beauty is I have the tracking number, and I just go to their doorstep and pick it up right when UPS tells me it’s there. If you know the person’s habits, you can have deliveries when they’re at work or out of town.”

  “Sweet. You don’t get caught?”

  “I get accounts shut down when fraud protection kicks in, but they can’t trace it to me. Or if I don’t want the account, I have a guy I can sell it to. Then it’s his problem.” Cannon laughs.

  Drew shakes his head, but with appreciation. “Let me guess—you’re going to be a computer science major.”

  Cannon’s eyebrows hike up ironically. “How’d you know?”

  “Too bad you’re going to . . . Carnegie Mellon, right? You’d be cool to hang with next year.”

  Cannon shrugs. “Sorry. Got to follow my scholarship.”

  “So you can do this stuff too?” Drew asks me.

  My head swims from information overload. It’s none of my business what Cannon does. Never has been.

  Except it is now. It’s been my business all along, and I never knew it.

  “No,” I say.

  Cannon carefully catches my eye, like, Let me handle this. “This guy here keylogged several teachers this year and even helped me crack the teachers’ lounge—total jackpot there. I never could have gotten near their machines, but teachers seem to love Jeff helping in their offices while they go on coffee breaks. Never suspect a thing. Look at that face.”

  Drew looks at my face.

  I’m not fat, but I have a baby face. Round, rosy cheeks. Tragically innocent. Not mature, Reiko said. I’ve tried to make up for it with parties and scheming with Cannon, but no matter how much of a jerk I am or how many beers I drink, the baby face remains intact. I’ve got the face that teachers like, the kind that Mr. Bailey hands a lollipop to, and now I see I’ve been stealing more than just grades. I’ve been stealing from him. Making it harder for Mr. Bailey to buy a plane ticket to go see his Sam.

  Cannon has never made me feel so cheap.

  I can barely speak, and when I do, I sound like a little kid. “I—I don’t steal credit cards. I’m not a thief.”

  Their eyes snap to me like I’m wearing a pink Jesus shirt. There’s this pause, and noise from the volleyball game outside sounds way too loud.

  A line etches itself between Cannon’s eyebrows. “I never said you were.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I wince, because here I go, apologizing to Cannon when he’s the one ripping off my teachers and duping me to help.

  “Hey,” Drew says, “that’s cool.” He slaps his thig
hs in that oh, look at the time kind of way. Doesn’t even look at me. “Dude, I have to get going,” he tells Cannon. “We’ll chat after you and your, um, friend figure things out.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Outside, there’s no sign of Nikki or Mace. One of the volleyball guys calls out that they went to Nikki’s house and will catch us later.

  Cannon shrugs and heads for his car. We pull out in silence.

  “So what’s going on?” he asks, like I’m the one with the problem.

  I look out the window at cherry trees done with flowering and homeless people chilling at spray-painted bus stops and spotless monuments in the background.

  My voice still comes from somewhere far away, but I have to know what I’ve helped him do. “What was in the box? The one on Mr. Bailey’s doorstep?”

  One lonely intersection. Two.

  He says, “My phone.”

  It all makes sense. His old phone broke. So he got a new one. The one he’s been texting me from all day.

  “Which machine? His house?”

  “No, think of the timing. Teachers’ lounge.” The jackpot.

  There’s something quiet and careful about him, that’s all. There’s no guilt in his voice, no guilt in his face. No show of irony that he unlocked Mr. Bailey’s back door with a credit card and then scooped up the brand-new phone he bought with Mr. Bailey’s credit card.

  “What?” he says, irritated.

  “Don’t you think that’s messed up? He’s a penniless teacher, for fuck’s sake.”

  He shakes his head, guns through a yellow light just switched to red.

  “You don’t get it. It’s an obvious red flag on his statement. All he had to do was call his credit card company, alert them to his stolen account, and get the charge reversed, and the company gives him a new number. The cost of the phone is eaten by the fraud protection program. End of story.”