To Be Honest

by Maggie Ann Martin

  Week one without Ashley: 1. Savannah: 0.

  chapter FOUR

  Not a few seconds after I reached my locker, I felt Grace’s presence behind me. She had one of those energies that you just felt whenever she was around, like a warm hug without her even touching you. Her calc book rested on her hip, and she looked at me expectantly, like she had something on the tip of her tongue that she was dying to spit out.

  “I have the best idea for our story,” she said.

  “You know I haven’t officially signed up for the independent study, right?” I asked.

  She waved her hand in front of her face. “I know you will. You can’t pass up a good story.”

  “Dazzle me,” I said, picking up my calc book out of my locker. I slammed it shut and turned to walk to class with her. Grace excitedly pitching a story was probably 85 percent why she was voted editor of the school paper this year. Her love of journalism was infectious.

  “So I was talking to Melinda Aldridge this morning, and she mentioned that the dance team was trying to practice in the gymnasium yesterday afternoon, but the boy’s baseball team, which doesn’t even start until spring, had somehow reserved it. But the dance team had never had to reserve the space before,” she said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, actually getting kind of into it.

  “Right? Anyway, they were kicked out and forced to practice in the cafeteria, with not enough space and horrible acoustics, when they have a performance this weekend at the football game. How unfair is that? It got me thinking about the disparities between boys’ and girls’ sports and how the school shows its favoritism. Like, letting the baseball guys reserve a space that had always been the dance team’s. I’m thinking there might be some favoritism in funding, too. That’s why I would want Mrs. Brandt as our faculty instructor. If we find some dirt that the school wouldn’t want us to publish, we need her to have our back legally.”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “If we can prove it, we could totally make some changes in our own school. We could make a difference,” she said.

  We both slid into our seats in calc, and I was suddenly jazzed to have a project to work on. I was already scheming up ways to get interviews with the athletes of the school, even some of the coaches, without telling them exactly what the story was about. I’d ask them about practices, where they usually practice, the process they go through to get those facilities—it wouldn’t be too hard to get some foundational dirt.

  Mr. Kavach started the class by announcing a quiz for Friday. Not really the first thing that people want to hear at eight thirty on a Tuesday. Grace looked over to me with wide eyes and mouthed, “Help me.” I mouthed back a confident “I got you.” At least I hoped I did. I would have to go home tonight and study so that I could help Grace study the rest of the week.

  After class was finished, Grace and I both rushed into the hallway, trying to beat the crowds, to head to our next class.

  “So is it safe to say we’re having a calc study session on Thursday?” she asked.

  “Totally,” I said. “And maybe tomorrow we can get started on the story?”

  “Tomorrow?” she said, her voice reaching a new octave. “Uh, tomorrow after school I have plans. I’m, uh, going to hang out with Grandma Rosalina. She needs help setting up for a party she’s throwing.”

  “On a Wednesday?” I asked.

  “The elderly don’t party on our same schedule,” she said.

  “You’re allowed to say that you’re hanging out with Ben, Grace. He is your boyfriend,” I said.

  “I know, I just know that we’ve always promised each other that we’d never become those girls who forget about their best friends the moment they get boyfriends, and I don’t want to be that person; I really don’t,” she said.

  The only thing that saved her from further questioning was the warning bell for my second-period class. I had been given a very specific warning from our gym teacher that if I was late for class this year he wouldn’t be as lenient with all my excuses like last year.

  “I have to go to gym, but you don’t have to lie to me about hanging out with him. It’s very okay!” I said.

  She mouthed “Thank you” to me as she continued down the hallway to her second-period class.

  I made it halfway to the gymnasium before I realized that I’d left my phone on my seat in Mr. Kavach’s room. I weaved in and out of the kids texting and taking up more general hallway width than necessary to talk to their group of friends. If I didn’t hurry, I’d for sure be late and get points off for gym.

  When I walked back into Kavach’s room, he and George were talking. My body heated with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. As if he could feel me looking his way, he turned around to face me but quickly turned back to Mr. Kavach. Like he could pretend he didn’t see me, when we so clearly made eye contact. I huffed and started to go up the aisle, where my phone would be sitting in my seat. To my dismay, it was nowhere to be seen. Dang. It.

  “Savannah,” Mr. Kavach said. As I flipped around to look at him, he waved my phone in his hands.

  “Oh, thank God,” I said.

  “Savannah, have you met George yet?” Kavach asked. “He’s new this year. A junior taking precalc.”

  “Yeah, we’ve—” I started as George simultaneously stuck out his hand for a handshake.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  I shook my head in disbelief but took his hand. What exactly was his damage?

  “It’s funny, George, you have a very familiar face,” I said back. “I’d better head back to gym. I’m going to be late.”

  I smiled a tight smile and turned on my heel, my blood boiling.

  “I was just suggesting that you would be a great peer tutor for George. His old school didn’t offer up as much of the calc foundation in other math courses like we did, so he’s a little behind because of it,” he said.

  It was George’s turn to turn bright red. Good.

  “Oh, I don’t know—” I started.

  “Think about it, Savannah. Maybe you two could swap numbers if you decide you have the time. I know it would be a big help to George.”

  I looked to George, who had refused to meet my eyes during this entire conversation. Truthfully, I just need him to say one word, one phrase that indicated that he actually needed and wanted my help. I wouldn’t mind it—precalc was arguably one of my favorite classes. I raised an eyebrow and tilted my head, as if I was waiting for him to say that he’d be interested.

  “Um, yeah, sure let’s swap numbers,” he said.

  “Great. Thanks, Savannah. See you fifth period, George,” Mr. Kavach said. George threw his backpack over one shoulder, and I started making my way to the door.

  “Okay, let’s walk and talk. I’m seriously going to be docked points if I don’t get to gym soon,” I said. The hallways were thinning out, meaning it was almost time for the second-period bell to ring. Teachers were starting to shut their doors behind them, and the noise of slamming doors reverberated off our emerald-green lockers. Once we were out of Kavach’s earshot and in the hallway, I whipped around to face him.

  “What the heck was that? Why did you pretend not to know me back there?” I demanded.

  “What was I supposed to say, ‘Yeah, we’ve met—I pissed her off yesterday morning when I almost turned her into a car pancake’?” he asked.

  “Or something like, ‘Yeah, I’m her best friend’s cousin’? Even a nice ‘Yep, we totally have’ would have cut it. Seriously, are you that embarrassed to say that you know me? Kavach is, like, the last person you need to seem extra cool around. He’s very much in the Savannah fan club,” I said.

  The redness in his face had reached the tops of his ears and he wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. He looked up and down the hallway before turning back to me.

  “I panicked, okay? I had a feeling that he was going to offer you up as a tutor, and I was embarrassed that you’d know I was bad at math. Happy now?” he said. H
e was bright red all over. His fair complexion had become an entire shade that matched his embarrassment, and my gut wrenched. I’d made him feel this way.

  “George—” I started. The second-period bell cut me off.

  “I have to get to band,” he said. He walked down the opposite hallway from me, and I stood there, a doofus without a hall pass who was now officially late for gym.

  “I’ll catch you later!” I said. He didn’t look back or answer me.

  * * *

  When I got home, the overwhelming smell of Mom’s signature kale and ginger smoothies struck me like a smack in the face, and I gagged. I put my shirt over my nose in an effort to smell the laundry detergent on my blouse instead of the ginger that seemed to be seeping into my nostrils anyway. I walked into our open-concept kitchen to find Mom by her blender with enough kale to take up all the counter space plus our kitchen island.

  “Was there a really good deal on kale at the store?” I asked, plugging my nose as I talked so that everything came out with a nasally tone.

  “I’m going on a juice cleanse,” Mom said with a smile plastered on her face. “I have to drop ten pounds before Shake the Weight comes to film, and Lindsay recommended this kale juice cleanse that she went on a few weeks ago.”

  Lindsay was another contestant who was on Shake the Weight with Mom. She lived in suburban Iowa, so she and Mom really bonded while they were on the show together. Mom always rubbed it in my face that Lindsay’s family had taken on her healthy eating habits without any protest and that they’d collectively lost one hundred fifty pounds. I usually responded with something like “Good for Lindsay’s family” or “Sorry we’re not interested in joining your health cult,” neither of which usually went over well.

  “Well, that sounds fun,” I said. “While you blend up your meals for the next week, I’m going upstairs to go work on homework.”

  I turned to go, but she called out to me.

  “Savannah, wait!” she said. Part of me wanted her to admit how unhealthy it was to go on this juice cleanse, or that she didn’t really need to drop the ten pounds before the crew came to our house. But that was just the wishful-thinking side of me.

  “I have to post a picture of myself with this protein powder that is sponsoring me on Instagram. Can you take the photo for me?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t you get someone at work to help you with this?” I asked. “You work at a PR firm. It’s literally your coworkers’ jobs to do this kind of stuff.”

  She rested her hands on her hips and gave me the Look of Disappointment before I finally caved.

  “Fine. Where do you want me to take it?” I asked.

  Mom poured herself an Insta-worthy green kale juice in one of our fanciest glasses and brought out her copper measuring cups and her cooking knife to arrange on the table in front of her. She held up her kale juice and positioned the protein powder to be in the top right corner of the photo with her smiling in the background. She wore one of her smallest neon pink sports bras that showed off the most of her new body, and she made me count down when I was taking the picture so that she could simultaneously suck in her stomach and squeeze her muscles at the same time. All tricks that she had learned while she had to take photos on the show.

  “Do you mind writing the caption for me? You’re so much quicker than I am at writing things out on the phone,” she said.

  I almost protested, but she started rattling off the caption before I could say no.

  “‘Enjoying a refreshing kale juice infused with Power Powder’—make sure to use that little trademark thingy—‘this afternoon. I’m starting a juice cleanse this week and need some accountability buddies. Who’s with me? Leave me your messages of encouragement in the comments. Love you all! Hashtag healthy life, hashtag inspiration, hashtag Shake the Weight, hashtag weight loss, hashtag juice cleanse—’”

  “That’s enough hashtags,” I said.

  “Are you sure? I usually do a few more. I want to make sure it reaches more people, since it’s a sponsored one,” she said.

  “You can always add more later if you want. Here’s your phone,” I said, handing it back to her. “I really have to go do some homework now.”

  It took everything within me not to add some extra hashtags, like #LoveYourBody or #AllBodiesAreGoodBodies. I walked such a fine line with her because, yes, she was my mom, but I also did not agree with her views on her body and my body, for that matter. How was I supposed to sit back and bite my tongue, like Ashley had suggested I do in her absence? How was I supposed to stand aside when she made me post things on her behalf that made me queasy? I just imagined all the girls my age, or the adults Mom’s age, looking at her posts and feeling terrible about their bodies. I imagined them taking drastic measures like a juice cleanse to lose some weight in an unhealthy amount of time. And the fact that I played a small part in a post that could potentially make someone feel less confident about themselves and the body that they inhabited made me beyond upset.

  But I bit my tongue. Because she’s the mom, and I’m just the daughter.

  chapter FIVE

  The next week involved a lot of preparation of our home. It was a team effort between my mom and me to get the house Shake the Weight–filming ready. A big part of my role to get the house whipped into shape was purely keeping Fiyero entertained and out of all the new houseplants we’d bought. Apparently, they really touted the benefit of having plants in the home on the show, but Mom hadn’t been able to keep a plant alive for more than a few weeks for my entire life. It was a wonder she raised two semifunctional children.

  On the morning of, Mom and I sat in front of my closet, tilting our heads, trying to figure out the perfect outfit. The film crew had sent over a list of patterns and colors to avoid on camera, and in this moment, it seemed like those were the only clothes I owned. The subtle gene of the family totally went to Ashley. My philosophy was always the more color, the better.

  “Do you have just a nice, plain blouse?” she asked. “Even a button-down?”

  “Are we looking at the same closet right now?” I asked. I started scrounging through my drawers with my appropriately dubbed “boring clothes” until I found a denim button-down. “Can I at least wear red pants with this? I can’t bring myself to do denim on denim. It’s a fashion sin.”

  “Sure, whatever, they probably won’t get much of your pants anyway,” she said. “Come here; let’s work on your hair.”

  I sat down on the edge of my bed while she worked her magic. She was always incredibly patient when it came to doing our hair or makeup, like it was a chance to step away from her stress and breathe for a second. Her fingers worked deftly on my hair, making the messy pile of blond curls into a French braid.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked her.

  She was silent for a few beats, threading my hair between her fingers. “Not as much as I thought I would be. I’m more scared for it to air than anything else.”

  “People loved you on that show,” I said. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  She rested her hands on my shoulders, leaning around so that she could face me. She pecked a quick kiss on my cheek. “You mean that, baby?”

  “I mean it,” I said. “And I’m sorry about how I acted about the show earlier. I know how much it meant to you. Means to you.”

  “Thank you, sweet girl,” she said. She rubbed her hands up and down my arms before declaring my French braid perfection. I looked down at my phone that blared with a fifteen-minute warning before the crew would be showing up. Mom rushed downstairs in a flurry, and I could hear her rearranging some last-minute things.

  I decided that now would be a good time to send a quick text off to Ashley, to warn her that our family would be out of commission for the next few hours while the film crew was here.

  Me: Getting ready to welcome the demons into our home.

  Ashley: How’s Mom?

  Me: A little nervous. I’m trying to keep her calm.

  Ashley: Try an
d keep it positive, k? For Mom’s sake?

  Me: I’m on my best behavior. Pinkie swear.

  Ashley: Good. Love you. Proud of you. Call me when it’s all done.

  Me: Obvs. Love you, Sissy.

  Ashley: Right back atcha. <3

  The doorbell rang and Fiyero started to bark his head off from the next room. Apparently, he would be featured in a few clips in the video package, but for most of the shoot he would be banished to Ashley’s room. If only we could trade places for the day. I’m sure America would love his little fluffy face more than having to look at mine during an interview.

  I looked into the mirror on top of my vanity, which I’d had since my fifth birthday. All that I’d wanted that year was to have a princess bedroom, equipped with a canopy bed, a vanity, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The canopy eventually became a safety hazard because I tangled myself in it as I slept, and the chandelier had been knocked down during an epic pillow fight from sleepovers past, but the vanity had stayed intact. It was this weird relic from my past that I somehow didn’t hate. The perfect and intricate French braid and the makeup made me look like a stranger in my own mirror. This fake person I was about to become, the person who would smile and congratulate my mom for her success on a show that had done so much damage to her, was not something that I felt comfortable with.

  “Savannah!” Mom yelled from the bottom of the stairs. That was my cue, whether I liked it or not. As I made my way downstairs, three men with camera equipment started bounding through the front door, setting up lighting in front of the couch in the living room. There was a woman wearing a headset with her cell in hand who was directing them to different parts of the house. A few other people flitted around our crowded entrance, waiting for instructions from the woman who was obviously in charge.

  “Kim! It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” the woman said, kissing both sides of Mom’s face like she was an English socialite. You can’t expect people to take your fanciness seriously when you’re wearing Birkenstocks and shorts.