Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  He waves her off. “No, thank you. Happy to help.” Then he turns to me. “No more walking down dark roads on your own, Marie.”

  If walking down dark roads alone leads me to guys like Billy and rides on motorcycles, I’ll be doing it every night. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to ride on your bike.”

  He tilts his head to the left, eyes crinkling. “You liked that?”

  “Very much.”

  Billy hesitates, then says, “You want to drive it?”

  Susie tugs at my arm. “We should go.”

  My gaze is locked with Billy’s. “You’d let me? I don’t know how . . .”

  “It’s not hard.” He shrugs. “If you can ride a bicycle, you can do this.”

  Janice’s mouth gapes. “You could get hurt, Marie. Let’s just go.”

  “Hold on, Janice. Give me five minutes.”

  She and Susie exchange a look and offer tight-lipped nods.

  “I promise she’ll be safe,” Billy says before he pats the seat. “Come on, Marie. Throw your leg over and hold the handlebars here. This is the front brake.” He puts my hand over it to squeeze.

  I’m grateful to be wearing pants. Once I’m straddling the big seat, I wiggle the bike side to side to test its weight. My heart races, but I repress my fear.

  “Okay. So turn on the ignition”—he points to it—“then use your foot here on the kick-starter. Sort of jump on it with your weight and then rev the throttle and release the brake.”

  Every hair on my head prickles and heavy breaths sting my lungs. I glance back at my friends, who look constipated. My heart drums in my chest. I test the kick-starter, but nothing happens.

  “Try again.” Billy nods. “Really jump on it.”

  I hold my breath and throw all my weight down. When it revs to life, I screech, standing there holding on as it sputters between my legs. “Oh my God!”

  “Relax,” Billy shouts. “Now over here you can just click it into first gear and release the brake and just go a little way up nice and slow. If you get scared, hit the brakes. Stop as soon as you want.”

  I nod and do as he says. The bike heaves beneath me. I screech again, but don’t feel too wobbly, actually, so I twist the throttle and drive forward about ten yards. Panic strikes, so I holler and hit the brakes, then turn off the ignition. I’m trembling yet laughing.

  Billy catches up to me, his eyes lit with amusement. “You did great!”

  I’m glad it’s dark out because now my face is probably redder than my hair. I am not as brave as I thought, but I did it.

  “Next time you’ll go farther.” He looks back at my friends. “We could try to ride together with me behind you, so I’d work the gears but you could watch and get a feel for it. If you want.”

  “Is that safe?”

  He shrugs. “We’ll go slow.”

  “Marie!” Janice calls.

  I walk toward her, shucking out of my new coat. “I’m going to ride back with Billy. Can you take this in the car so it doesn’t get dirty, then follow us and give it back to me at home?”

  “Fine,” Janice says, although the set of her shoulders tells me she’ll scold me later.

  Billy removes his bomber jacket. “Wear this.”

  “Won’t you freeze?” I ask.

  “It’s not that far, or that cold. Besides, I’ll be warm enough with you on the bike.” He winks, and I nearly faint. No boy has ever talked to me this way, but I like how he treats me like a woman instead of a girl.

  Susie says, “We’ll be right behind you.”

  I nod and get back on his motorcycle. Just like last time, my heart pounds while he shows me how to start the engine. It feels different with him behind me, all squished forward so he can reach the handlebars. We turn around on the road and head back to town. I never even thought to ask where he’d been headed before I sidetracked him.

  We drive past Main Street and head toward the water. “Go right at the stop sign and then take the second left onto Autumn. Number 123!” I shout.

  He nods.

  My friends will talk about this for weeks, but they can’t tell others, or my parents will be furious.

  When we stop in front of my house, Billy shuts off the bike, his mood less enthusiastic. “Nice house.”

  “Thanks.” Our home befits my father’s stature as one of the town’s two doctors.

  “Well,” he says, “it was nice to meet you, Marie Robson. Hope you enjoyed your ride.”

  Janice gets out of Susie’s car with my coat in her hand.

  That reminds me that I’m still wearing Billy’s bomber jacket. Reluctantly, I peel it off and hand it to him, but only after I palm the nail from its pocket. “When’s my next lesson?”

  He glances at my house again with a slight frown. “I dunno.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs, kicking his toe against the pavement.

  “Is something wrong . . . ?”

  He squints at me. “You’re not like other girls, are you?” He chuckles, drawing my attention to the dimple in his chin. “Give me your phone number.”

  Phew. “Blackburn-65809.”

  Billy repeats it and then kisses my cheek. “Sweet dreams, Marie.”

  When Janice catches up to us, he kick-starts his bike and drives off. The night sky swallows him long before the sound of his engine fades.

  “Wow.” I exhale a happy sigh.

  Janice hands me my coat. “Marie, that was too much. What if you got hurt? And you shouldn’t lead him on. When you get bored, he’ll get hurt.”

  My front door opens, and my father’s silhouette takes up the entire frame.

  “Uh-oh.” Janice’s eyes widen. “Good luck.” On her way to Susie’s car, she waves at my father. “Hi, Dr. Robson.”

  “Good night, Janice.” His voice is hard and flat.

  My friends drive away, probably peeing their pants. I walk up the pavers, acting braver than I am. I try to offer a quick kiss on the cheek and breeze past. “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Hold on, Marie Jean.”

  Drat. My middle name signals a lecture.

  “What happened with the movie, and who was that boy on the motorcycle?” His brow is furrowed.

  “We got a flat tire on our way to the movie. Billy Tyler helped us with the spare. I think he works at the gas station.”

  My dad quirks a single brow. “Why did he follow you home?”

  I gulp but can’t think up a cover story on the spot. “Because I wanted to ride on his motorcycle.”

  Daddy’s eyes grow four times their normal size. “You rode on a motorcycle with a stranger? That’s not just foolish, it’s dangerous.”

  “It was fun.” If he knew I drove it, he’d ground me. “He went slow so Janice and Susie could follow the whole way. I was perfectly safe.”

  He rubs his face with one hand, shaking his head. “Motorcycles are not safe, or ladylike. Promise me you won’t do that, or see him, again.”

  “You can’t dislike him before you even meet him.”

  My father crosses his arms, chin tucked. “I don’t need to meet him to know he’s not the right kind of boy for you.”

  I love my dad—I do. He’s a wonderful father and an excellent doctor. But his ideal—a quiet life in the suburbs—will not make me happy. Billy might not make me happy, either, but having a choice about my own life will. “I’m practically an adult. It should be my choice who I see.”

  His jaw muscles bulge as his expression hardens. “Unless you want to be grounded until you go to college, you will do as I say.”

  The threat makes me bristle. “What if I apprentice with that photographer we met at Polly’s wedding last summer instead of going to college? When I get good at it, I can work for a magazine and travel.”

  He slaps his forehead. “Not this nonsense again.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Daddy.”

  “You’ll give your mother fits if you keep this up.” He stops himself, holding his hands out. In a condescending tone
, he says, “At university you’ll meet a lot of interesting people. If you want to work for a while, you can become a teacher.”

  “I don’t like kids.” I fold my arms beneath my chest, aware that I’m pouting like one, but that’s how this subject makes me feel.

  “You will someday soon.”

  Most women do, but I’m not convinced. “What if I don’t?”

  I so need for him to hug me and tell me that he’ll love me no matter what. That he believes in me and wants me to be happy, however that looks to me.

  “Enough, Marie. It’s late.” He points toward the stairs. “Go to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning, but not in front of your mother.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” I hang my coat in the closet and lug myself upstairs to my room as if my body weighs twice as much as normal.

  The whole time I’m washing my face and brushing my teeth, I think about those few minutes on the back of Billy’s motorcycle. The heat of his body still makes me warm, then I shiver at the recollection of his arms around me as he helped me steer, and the thrill of the wind on my face.

  I hide the nail in my jewelry box. If Billy Tyler calls me, I will find a way to see him again, no matter what my father says.

  CHAPTER SIX

  KATY

  “Where are you going, Katy?” Libby asks me when I turn in the opposite direction of the cafeteria on our way out of AP Physics.

  She’s a senior and the captain of the girls’ varsity soccer team. I should make fast friends with her to get my mom off my back, but it makes me uncomfortable to be treated like a BFF by someone I hardly know. It’s barely the second week of school. The most anyone can feel about me at this point is curiosity.

  Not even about me, actually. More like my car, Apple Watch, and Hermès Clic Clac H bracelet. Then they seem surprised by my neighborhood because the old side of town is not where “rich” families live.

  “Bathroom,” I say.

  “Cool. Find us in the cafeteria.” She trots ahead to catch up to someone I don’t know.

  I duck into the girls’ room, passing by all the students fixing their hair and putting on lip gloss, and shut myself in a stall.

  After I drop my backpack on the ground, I sit on the toilet and breathe through the tightness in my chest. With my eyes closed I picture the table by the window in my old cafeteria, where I always ate with Jen, Kelly, and Jo. I miss them, but Maisy White is constantly in their Instafeed now. They replaced me as fast as my dad has.

  Maybe “replaceable” should be my middle name.

  It hurts so much. Confirmation that people can’t be counted on. That everything is bullshit.

  I miss my old house and pool. I miss hugging my dad good night. Brody and Zoe get that from him now.

  I drop freshly plucked hairs into the toilet bowl. Lately I can’t focus half the time and don’t want to the other half. Whenever I think about how my mom let Dad go without a fight, I want to hit something or cry. It’s like both my parents have gone crazy.

  Screwing up my grades would teach them, but it’d also be a huge waste of all the work I’ve put in the past two years. It sucks so bad to be pissed off and powerless.

  My dab pen would take the edge off now, but the girls at the sinks might report me. There’s still lunch, two more periods, and practice to endure before I can lock myself in my bedroom with the window open.

  I pat my damp forehead with some toilet paper.

  It’d be easier to navigate this place if I knew the pecking order: which cliques to avoid, what teachers to look out for, what kids to trust. The only certain thing is that I can’t stay in this stall all period, so I flush the toilet, grab my backpack, and open the door.

  As I stroll through the hall toward the cafeteria, kids are joking and running all around me, but I keep my eyes forward and slightly downcast. Once I breach the cafeteria doors, it’s utter chaos. Groups of friends have claimed their regular tables. Kids are yelling to be heard over the din. The lines for the decent food stations are as bad as the ladies’ room line at a Post Malone concert.

  My appetite is nil because my stomach is in a vise. While alone in line trying not to look at anyone in particular, I’m so hot I could throw up.

  I swallow, swipe my lunch card, and take my premade salad and ice cream sandwich to look for Libby, but it’s like a game of Where’s Waldo? in the massive dining hall. The one thing I’d thought might be cool about public school was ditching a uniform, but apparently Potomac Point doesn’t do fashion. All the girls look the same. Long hair, gray hoodies, gym shorts.

  As I make my way past some tables, I see Tomás London sitting alone. He’s in my photography class.

  A loner—but not goth or emo. He doesn’t dress like the other boys—no sweats or khakis or gym shorts. His basic uniform is more hipster—fitted faded black jeans with a striped or printed shirt—although one day he wore red pants and a red-and-white-checked shirt. I didn’t laugh out loud, but the rest of that day the Elmo song played in my head, so I’ve mentally nicknamed him after that Muppet.

  He’s not handsome, per se, but he’s got an interesting, sad look, sort of like a darker-skinned version of that actor Timothée Chalamet. Rich brown hair with auburn highlights and greenish-hazel eyes that tip downward at the outside edges.

  He glances up and catches me staring at him. We haven’t said much to each other all week, but he nods toward an empty seat at his table. I almost glance around to see if he means me, but don’t. After a second, I join him rather than spend the next fifteen minutes searching for Libby.

  When I sit across from him, he turns his phone upside down and sports a friendly expression. The silver cross hanging around his neck glints. “Hey, new girl.”

  “Hey, Elmo.” I cock a brow.

  He tips his head. “Why ‘Elmo’?”

  “The red duds.” I squeeze low-fat balsamic dressing from the little pouch. “Never seen an outfit that loud in real life.”

  He rests his chin on his fist, smirking. “Probably because whatever prep school you blew in from made you all wear uniforms.”

  Points to Elmo.

  “Fair enough.” I can’t help smiling a little, despite my promise to hate every bit of this school so that my mom lets me go back to Prep next semester.

  “Where are you from?” He drags a french fry through a mountain of ketchup and shoves it in his mouth. He’s got a cool voice . . . sleepy. He seems so relaxed and wise, like he’s been through this all before and nothing will surprise him. I decide he must have older siblings, and then I’m jealous.

  “Arlington, Virginia.”

  “I hear it’s nice up there.” He repeats the same methodical drag with another fry. “You miss it?”

  I’m way too raw to talk about this with a stranger, so I shrug and frown before taking a bite of my salad.

  “So why’s a genius taking photography?” He slurps soda through his straw.

  “Genius?”

  He pulls a face. “You’re one of the mega-AP kids. And before you get all cringey, I’m not a psycho. Everyone here talks about the new kids.”

  I sink a little lower in my chair, tugging at the ends of my hair. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

  “Nope. That’s the point.” He smiles—more to himself than at me—and begins to draw circles in the remaining ketchup with his last fry.

  “Great.” Now I know I was right about not wanting to move here. For once, I’ve zero joy about proving my mom wrong.

  He chomps that last fry. “You never answered my question.”

  “Why is it so weird that I can be a good student and like photography?”

  “’Cause most kids in your shoes are eyeing the Ivies, not blowing credits on arts electives.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I’m not most kids.” I stab my salad extra hard. Most kids don’t have a furnace for a stomach and a hammer in their head.

  “Just a rebel, then?” He raises a brow, half mocking, half teasing in a friendly way.
r />   I smile again, despite myself. “Rebel” sounds better than “psychoneurotic” and the other terms in those books my mom keeps in her nightstand. “Something like that.”

  Maybe I should do a gap year—take art classes in Italy or something. My dad would hate that.

  “Well, Jane Dean, you’ll probably like the pit.”

  I frown. “Jane Dean?”

  “Rebel Without a Cause . . . imaginary girl version.” He raises his brows like I should’ve gotten that ancient reference.

  I narrow my gaze. “You’ll never top Elmo.”

  “We’ll see.” Tomás pushes his tray away and leans back, arms crossed.

  His confidence makes me self-conscious. I unwrap my ice cream sandwich, break it in half, and offer him some. “What’s ‘the pit’?”

  He takes the ice cream as he points through the large picture windows to a wooded area on the other side of the bus lot. “Some kids go there during lunch and frees to vape or drink or whatever.”

  My brows rise. Good to know.

  Tomás is studying me while enjoying the ice cream.

  “Can you show me?” I’m not sure I want to hang there, but I’m not sure I don’t.

  “Sure, Jane.” He puts his phone in his pocket. “It’s not really my thing, but if you’re curious.”

  “It’s Katy, by the way.” I follow him, tossing my trash in the large green can on my way out the door. Tomás is wearing a thin oat-colored cotton shirt with a large outline of a skull on it, dark skinny jeans, and blue Converse sneakers.

  I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching us but see only our reflection in the windows. It would suck if people think Tomás and I are hooking up. Then three kids emerge from the woods on their way back to the school and I figure no one will think much at all about us heading there. We walk along a trampled path created by foot traffic for about twenty or thirty feet to a circle of fallen logs that resemble benches laid around a nonexistent campfire.

  Tomás drops his backpack on the dirt and sits on a log, arms wide. “Here it is, in all its glory.”

  I sit and unzip a pocket of my backpack to get my dab pen, press the button, and inhale, then offer it to Tomás.

  He shakes his head. “Like I said, not my thing.”