When the Truth Unravels

by RuthAnne Snow

  I’d dismissed the story. I’d never doubted myself, but I also knew—conclusively—that I was better at everything than everyone. My GPA, my extracurriculars, my teachers and coaches who adored me, my parents who trusted me, my friends who relied on me—it all proved that I had my shit together.

  Except now I didn’t have my shit together.

  And what did it mean that I had never doubted myself before now?

  Nothing good, that’s what.

  I had texted Hannah while Ket and I waited for Teddy to pick us up. I knew better than to just come right out and ask for what I wanted. With Hannah, you always had to dangle the carrot.

  Want to double your budget for prom next year?

  No other choice, I kept telling myself, there’s no other choice. Not if we want Hannah to unlatch from Ben long enough to convince him to call Elin.

  It only took five minutes for her to reply.

  HANNAH: Are you serious?

  Of course I do.

  What’s the catch?

  Done and done.

  I tried not to think about how everyone would hate me when I scaled back the senior party to practically nothing after the gym prom debacle. Last year, prom had been in a hotel that got trashed, and Holly still managed to rent house boats for the senior party, liability waivers and all.

  Once I gave Hannah half my budget for her to use on next year’s prom, I’d be lucky if we could have barbeque in a park. Quagmire: noun, one big fucking disaster.

  The trouble was, the only thing that Hannah Larson wanted more than Ben Holiday was the senior prom to end all proms. So. Art of War and all that.

  I ran my fingers under the tap and wiped at my straying eye makeup. I already felt infinitely more like myself, but Ket was still staring at my reflection doubtfully. “I got drunk,” I said finally, keeping my tone even. “But that doesn’t mean that this isn’t a good plan.”

  I might have felt like I was walking a tightrope with no net, but if I fell apart, Ket would lose it. She’d been cool for hours, but every time she checked her phone, every time she started gnawing at her fingernails, I could tell she was starting to panic no matter how chill she was trying to act. Some switch inside her would flip and she’d call her moms, call Elin’s parents, call the cops, call the National Guard. And then when we found Elin at Coffee Hut or something, completely fine, she’d never talk to us again.

  So yeah, maybe I wasn’t completely confident that this was the best course of action anymore. But it was still the best idea we had—and that meant I had to act like I was 100% sure.

  Fuck the confidence gap.

  Ket stared at me, her expression disbelieving. Not for the first time I wondered which of us—if any—would stay friends after graduation. “Seriously, Jen? I think you have kind of lost it tonight. And when I think someone is out-of-control, they’re seriously out to sea.”

  I dabbed some gloss on my lips. With every touch of shine and shimmer I applied, I willed my rage—and my nausea—back down. I smoothed out the line highlighting my lower lip deliberately, feeling my control clicking back into place with every layer of makeup I applied.

  When it became obvious I wasn’t going to reply, Ket rolled her eyes and went back to scanning her text messages. I gritted my teeth. She had some balls calling me out for getting drunk when she was the one who had blown the entire Elin situation to begin with. Still. Pointing that out would hardly be productive.

  And that’s what I needed to do. If I was going to save Elin—again—I was going to need to be at my Jenna-iest.

  I stepped back from the mirror, inspecting my reflection critically. It wasn’t my best look, that was for sure, but a few steps up from the total mess I’d been a few minutes ago. “Could you find my breath strips?” I asked Ket. “They’re in the zippered pocket.”

  Ket dumped the entire contents of my purse out—passive aggressive—and I tried not to wince. She sorted through my things noisily and then abruptly stopped.

  “Jenna, why do you have two phones?”

  “What?”

  Ket held up two phones and I frowned, reaching for the one with fewer scratches. “This one is mine. That one … oh crap.”

  “This one is Elin’s,” Ket said, her voice rising as she swiped through the messages. “Why do you have it?”

  “I didn’t take it,” I said, feeling stupid. “She must have put it in my purse for safekeeping.” Elin hated carrying a purse of her own.

  Ket read through the messages, her mouth hanging open.

  “What?” I demanded.

  She handed over the phone and I read the message from an unknown number. Hey J, it’s Elin. Left my phone in your purse and I can’t remember any numbers but my own. I’m fine, had to leave. If I don’t see you at Fisher’s after prom, I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.

  I pressed my lips together.

  Elin, how could you be so selfish?

  “Jenna, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  I glanced up at her. “What?”

  Ket was staring at me. “Dude. Do you know what happened with Elin? Like … do you know more than me and Rosie?”

  “No,” I said quickly, sweeping my stuff back in my purse. “I’ve told you that.”

  E and I hadn’t talked about what had happened. We had been friends since preschool, the sort of friends who you inherit from your parents. My brother Blake was friends with her brother Aron, my sister Holly friends with her sister Cat. I don’t even have any memories of a time when Elin and I were not friends.

  We talked about everything.

  But this was something we didn’t talk about.

  Which meant that ever since that day, we didn’t really talk.

  36

  Ket West-Beauchamp

  April 18, 11:25 PM

  I ground my teeth, refusing to call Jenna on her bullshit—because if anyone knew what had happened with Elin, it was definitely Jenna. But I needed Jenna to fix this mess, and fighting with her was never productive.

  Jenna resolutely refused to discuss what happened to Elin. And Elin had only tossed a few breadcrumbs in my direction, hints about the final straw that pushed her into making a rash decision she’d never meant to make.

  A couple weeks ago, after school, Elin and I were doing homework and Mom Kim was cooking. “What about you, Elin?” Mom Kim asked in an altogether too-casual tone. “Have you heard from any schools?”

  It was one of those weird Utah March days. Two days earlier, we had laid out on the patio next to the Angstroms’ pool, which was still covered in blue plastic, clumps of dirty snow, and dead leaves. The sun had been bright in a bluebird sky, and even though there was still a chill on the breeze, we put on swimsuits and sunscreen and soaked up the Vitamin D.

  That afternoon, it was snowing.

  Elin paused, her mug of hot chocolate halfway to her mouth. “No, actually,” she said. “I think … I might be starting college next January instead.”

  I stopped typing and glanced over my computer screen at Elin. She was resolutely avoiding my gaze. Not starting college until January? That was news to me.

  Mom Kim didn’t stop chopping. “Oh, well, that’s all right,” she said mildly, scooping sliced zucchini into a mixing bowl. “Not everyone has to go at the same pace.”

  I raised my eyebrows and started to make a snotty reply—Since when? It sure seems like I have to match Adlai’s level of achievement—but then suddenly it clicked.

  College acceptance letters come in early spring—Elin had acted off ever since she broke up with Ben.

  Did she forget to send in the applications?

  Did she not get in anywhere?

  I knew that Elin’s grades had only been so-so junior year, which is why she quit her extracurriculars senior year. To focus, she claimed, though it seemed like it had the opposite effect. She was limping along, and only because our more studious friends—Jenna, Rosie, Teddy, and before their breakup, Ben—were propping her up. Even still, she had to at least have
the minimum requirements for provisional admittance somewhere.

  After Elin had gone home that afternoon, I’d texted Jenna, wondering if she knew anything.

  Do you know what the deal with Elin and college is?

  And the weirdest part was that Jenna had just written back, No.

  No follow up. I checked my phone all night, waiting for the panicked, “Why are you asking?” The Jenna Sinclair Special: “She applied to the U, Westminster, and San Diego State. This is when those schools will be mailing their admittance letters and I’ve prepared a spreadsheet of acceptance rates, if you want to see it.”

  If anyone would know where Elin had been planning to go to college, it was Jenna, who had been shooting for Princeton since seventh grade. Jenna, who had helped me write every essay and harassed me to make sure I’d filled out every application for a scholarship—not that my grades could justify one, but Jenna could be weirdly optimistic about these things.

  The fact that Jenna didn’t know and DIDN’T CARE where Elin was going to college was, in my opinion, the weirdest thing about this whole damn semester.

  I sighed, pulling out my phone to update Rosie that Elin was fine.

  Jenna was frowning. “That bitch,” she muttered.

  “Who, Elin?”

  “No, Hannah.”

  I raised both eyebrows. “What?”

  Jenna looked up from her phone, incredulity written all over her expression. “She wants more than my budget to leave Ben alone at the afterparty,” she said.

  I shrugged. “Give it to her.”

  Jenna threw her hands in the air. “The senior party!” she exploded, gesturing wildly with her phone. “That was the best I had to offer, and she wants more? And who even knows if it will matter—Elin doesn’t have her phone so Ben can’t call her. We’re bribing her for, what, the hope that Elin comes to Fisher’s afterparty, and that Miles can keep Ben there after Hannah has ditched him? Seriously?”

  “What does she want?” I asked, frowning, and reaching for her phone.

  Jenna jerked her phone away. “Forget it. I’m telling her no.”

  I snatched her phone away from her and read Hannah’s text message.

  I want you to change my grades.

  37

  Rosie Winchester

  April 18, 11:20 PM

  My plan to stay away from FDR, to avoid that little shiver running up my spine whenever he came too close, didn’t include being crushed against him in a broom closet.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Cheeks burning from mortification. The door had barely shut behind us, clicking quietly into place. My hands were pressed against his chest, my feet barely touching the floor. FDR had one arm wrapped around my waist and one hand holding the doorknob shut, in case it hadn’t latched and the door was about to burst open. I was plastered against him, knees to collarbone, and with my butt pressed against the door, there wasn’t even enough room to back away.

  At least it was pitch-black, because my face was probably crimson.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” FDR whispered, but he sounded strained. I wasn’t sure how big this broom closet was, but if I was pressed against the door, I could only imagine he was backed into the handles of brooms and mops.

  “Really?” I asked.

  A pause. “Not really,” he whispered. “Can we … rearrange a little?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak in the throes of existential humiliation.

  Gingerly, FDR released the doorknob. I held my breath, but the door stayed shut, even with my backside pressed against it. I eased back onto my heels so my weight wasn’t completely on FDR.

  He leaned back, ever so infinitesimally, and pulled my hands out from between us. “Could you, uh … well, either put your arms around my waist or my neck?” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost hoarse. In that moment I knew FDR’s face was burning as badly as mine.

  “Sure,” I whispered, and then for a second froze in indecision. Waist or neck? I wrapped my arms around his waist, underneath his suit jacket, trying—and failing—to suppress a shiver as my forearms rested against his hips.

  Oh damnit, Ro, get over yourself.

  I turned my head and rested my cheek against his chest. “Does that help?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady and professional.

  (As professional as a girl plastered on a hot college guy in a closet can be.)

  “It does,” FDR whispered. To my relief—and a twinge of disappointment—his voice already sounded calmer. “Do you have any more room?”

  Weirdly, I did, even though I was closer to him than I’d been before. Without standing on my tiptoes and my hands trapped between us, I could breathe again. “Yeah, I’m much better,” I mumbled. “Are you?”

  “Definitely,” FDR murmured, his chin brushing the top of my hair.

  And then FDR put his other arm around my waist, his thumb brushing the skin of my bare back, and I felt my heart give an extra thud in my chest—something he probably felt, since I could hear his.

  I didn’t want to notice anything about FDR, I really didn’t. But I couldn’t help the running commentary in my brain, checklisting all the boy-differences between him and me.

  His chest is so hard.

  His waist is thinner than I would have guessed.

  He smells kind of spicy.

  I’d never hugged a boy before, not even Teddy. My dad sometimes gave me one-armed buddy hugs, and Will had put his arms around me earlier tonight, but it hadn’t been anything like this. This full-body, prolonged touching.

  Despite my almost total-lack of experience, I’d read enough that I got, intellectually, the whole boy-girl-sex-thing. (And the girl-girl, boy-boy thing.) I read Outlander back in middle school, after all.

  So I don’t know what I expected, but not something this … foreign.

  We stood in silence, the sharp lemony smell of cleaning supplies mingling with the sour mildew scent of used mop heads. I chewed my lip. “How long until we can get out of here, do you think?” I whispered.

  I felt FDR’s shrug. “It just seemed like one guard, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “It takes one guard, what, thirty minutes to do a sweep of the entire library?” FDR said softly. “So, probably thirty minutes.”

  I frowned. “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “Well, I’m wondering if it’s not just a standard sweep,” FDR admitted softly. “Like if we set off some sort of alarm.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. This night could not get any worse. “Which means that he’s looking for us, and he’s not going to leave until he finds us or is convinced it was a false alarm.”

  “Right,” agreed FDR.

  “So … we just wait thirty minutes and hope for the first option?”

  “I don’t see that we have any other choices, unless we’re willing to get arrested for trespassing,” FDR whispered.

  I mulled that over. “Well, at least if Elin is here, she’ll probably get caught, too,” I said, trying to think of a bright side to being trapped in a janitor’s closet.

  FDR cleared his throat softly. “Rosie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Um … I know it’s awkward to be in here with me,” FDR said, his voice raspy. “I know I’ve been hitting on you all night, but I didn’t pick the broom closet on purpose. I was hoping for something bigger. I’m going to be a total gentleman while we’re in here. And … after we get out, as well. Always, in fact.”

  “Oh, totally,” I agreed quickly, ignoring the burning of my cheeks. “Me too. Well, not gentlemanly. But …”

  “Totally,” FDR agreed.

  The seconds ticked by. I tried to not notice the thump of FDR’s heart in his chest, or that it seemed a little faster than normal.

  “So how come you don’t like me?” FDR asked, his voice slightly cheerier.

  I frowned. “Why do you sound happy to discuss that?”

  “Because I’m curious,” FDR whis
pered. “And because understanding how you think will always be more appealing than pondering the idea of getting arrested.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to flirt while we were in here?”

  “I believe that my exact words were ‘total gentleman,’ which doesn’t preclude a little flirting.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to flirt with someone who walked into the barber’s and asked for the boy-bander-special,” I retorted.

  FDR snorted, arms tense as he tried to laugh without making a sound. I squeezed my eyes shut, resisting the urge to bury my face in his chest. What was it about him that made me blurt out whatever was on my mind?

  “I’ll have you know, my cousin cuts my hair, and she told me this would look good,” he said, his voice softer than a whisper.

  “Sorry,” I said. (It does look good.) I swallowed, and forced myself to say what I really thought. “It’s working for you, if that helps.”

  He leaned down ever so slightly, his lips next to my ear. “I thought you didn’t want to flirt?” he whispered, his breath warm on my skin.

  I bit my lip, unsure of what to say. FDR brushed one hand over my hair and I tensed. His hand froze. “Sorry,” he said. “Is that … not okay?”

  I bit my lip. “It’s not that I don’t like you … I just don’t know you.”

  There was a pause. “But you also didn’t want to get to know me,” FDR pointed out.

  I sighed. “The thing is … I don’t really do well in … social situations. Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”

  “Try me.”

  Unbidden, my mind flashed back to the night of Teddy’s birthday, two months ago. Every year, Teddy’s grandparents took him out for a steak and brought him back home before 8 p.m. Teddy and I had begun the tradition of secondary-birthday when he turned thirteen. He would come over to my house and we would watch movies all night. Sometimes Teddy went home, sometimes he didn’t. His grandparents were good about things like helping him with homework, but they didn’t have the energy to police him.