Truth Game

by Anna Staniszewski

  I realize that I actually was. “It was like my arms and legs knew where to go!” I say. “I’ve never felt that coordinated before.”

  Dad grins. “Maybe we could come back sometime.”

  And to my surprise, I find myself answering, “Yeah, we definitely should.”

  Chapter 18

  “And, voilà! You have trail mix!” Mrs. Da Silva says. Then she passes around the mix she just “cooked” while Pierre furiously finishes taking notes.

  “Is it possible to freeze-dry the ingredients?” he asks.

  “Good question!” she says. “How about you research that for next week and let me know.” Pierre looks eager to do just that, even though she didn’t actually answer his question.

  I sigh and take a handful of trail mix to try. It is tasty, but this is not what I signed up for.

  “Now, let’s get back to working on your goals for the year.” Mrs. Da Silva goes to check in with Pierre who’s printed out a million pages of instructions on how to make some weird gelatinous fish recipe. Gross.

  Then Whit explains the different kid-friendly recipes he’s tried out on his nephews and how they still refuse to eat anything he makes.

  “Keep at it,” Mrs. Da Silva says. “Their taste buds need a chance to adjust.” Then she turns to me. “Lee, have you decided what your goal is for the year? Something more specific?”

  “I want to get on Pastry Wars,” I announce. That’s nice and specific, isn’t it?

  “The TV show?”

  I nod and tell her about how I auditioned and didn’t get in, but how I think I’ve found a way to get a second chance.

  “And what will you get out of being on the show?” she asks.

  “Well, hopefully I’d win!” I say. “Then you get scholarship money, which I can use to go to culinary school when I’m older.”

  “That is a nice perk, but how will it make you a better cook right now?”

  “Well, I’d have to prove myself to other people,” I say. “And trying to get on the show has me trying all this fancy stuff I wouldn’t have made otherwise.”

  Mrs. Da Silva doesn’t look convinced, but she leaves me alone to doodle in my baking journal. I start working on ideas for Angela’s cake again, but they all seem silly. Every once in a while, I check my phone to see if there’s any word from Chip Ackerson, but so far nothing.

  Then my phone beeps, and my heart leaps. But it’s not Chip. It’s a message from the Truth Game. At first I think it’s my daily stats, but then I realize that a list of dozens of names is included. One name catches my eye: Angela Bareli. I click on it, and my mouth drops open when I realize what I’m looking at: the answers to her Truth Game questions! She loves her new cross-country friends, she hates peanut butter, and she’s afraid no one will come to her birthday party.

  Oh my goldfish. What is this? Some kind of hoax? I scroll through the list of names and see Briana’s toward the end. When I click on her answers, I see they’re the same things she told me she wrote: getting out of a speeding ticket, cheating on an exam, and so on. This is for real. Somehow, the answers that were supposed to be anonymous are all right here! Hundreds of them. The game must have been hacked!

  My stomach goes cold. Wait. Does that mean…?

  I quickly scroll through and, sure enough, find my name on the list. I click on it and see everything I wrote, about my parents, about Evan, and about Marisol. “Write down one thing no one knows about your best friend.” No. No, no, no, no, no! What I wrote about Marisol and Andrew is there for everyone to see! Marisol is going to hate me! I start to hyperventilate until I realize that maybe she won’t actually see it. If she doesn’t play the game, maybe she won’t even know about it.

  My mind races. Did I write anything about anyone else? Evan. I said that stuff about wishing our first kiss had been better. I hadn’t meant it as anything bad, but now that I think about it again, I realize how awful that might sound. Not to mention the fact that I said I didn’t know if we’d be together in six months. Gah!

  With shaking hands, I look through the names again until I find what I was afraid of: Evan’s name. I didn’t realize he even played the game, but maybe Briana signed him up for it too.

  I skim through his answers, and my chest lightens. Most of them are blank, and the answers he did include are pretty tame. But then I see it, in his questionnaire about relationships. “My girlfriend keeps kissing me and stuff in public. I wish she could take a hint.”

  The phone slips out of my hand and lands on the counter. I can’t believe it. I thought I was being paranoid about Evan not liking me as much as I like him, but I wasn’t. In fact, I didn’t realize how wrong I was.

  • • •

  School the next day is a war zone. It turns out Briana was right about lots of kids playing the Truth Game, which means that suddenly everyone knows tons of secrets about each other. I realize that mine aren’t nearly as bad as some of the others I’ve heard about: kids confessing to cheating on tests or on boyfriends and girlfriends, to stealing, and all sorts of other awful stuff. But the worst are the secrets that people told about each other.

  I’d stupidly hoped that Marisol wouldn’t find out what I said about her, but since word is all around school about the game getting hacked, it didn’t take long for Marisol to find out about it. And, not surprisingly, she’s not answering any of my messages.

  I haven’t tried reaching out to Evan, and I haven’t heard from him either. I can’t believe I thought someone like him could really like someone like me. I’m crushed, but I have to admit that I’m also angry. Because he really made me think that he liked me. And I really like him. And is there really something so wrong with me that he’d hate the idea of kissing me? Am I really so terrible?

  I’m not the only one who’s walking around fuming. No matter where kids were on the popularity scale, they’ve been taking down a few notches. And some girl actually bursts into tears during math class and rushes out of the room. I know how she feels.

  I don’t know whether I should be relieved or even more upset that I don’t have gym class today. That means I don’t have to face Evan, but it also means I’ll have more time to worry about what it will be like to see him tomorrow. Will he actually talk to me? Do I even want him to?

  After I have to maneuver around the kissing couple at my locker yet again, I get to lunch to find that Marisol isn’t at our usual table. Instead, Andrew is there, scribbling away in a ratty notebook that I know he fills with film notes. When he looks up at me, his thin lips get even thinner.

  “Oh. Rachel,” he says, not sounding at all glad to see me.

  “Is Marisol avoiding me?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Yes. It might be best if you don’t sit here today.”

  Just then, I catch a glimpse of Marisol’s dark curls in the cafeteria line, and I rush over to her. “Marisol, wait!”

  “What do you want?” she asks, paying for her fruit salad.

  “I’m sorry! All that stuff I said, I didn’t mean it! And I had no idea anyone would find out!”

  “Thanks to you, my mom knows about me lying to her about Andrew. She heard about it from one of her friends whose daughters played that stupid game. And now I’m not allowed to go anywhere after school, not even to meet with Ms. Emerald. I can kiss the Fashion Club good-bye.”

  “I’m so sorry, Marisol. I never—”

  “You know, I started thinking about all the stuff we’ve been through since we became friends,” she says, “and I realized that every big drama in my life has involved you. When you had me make up that stupid fake boyfriend, or when you and I got into that huge fight, or when you had me pull those pranks with you. And after all of that, you say that you’re not even sure you want us to be friends?”

  “I missed you, that’s all. You’ve been so busy with the club and everything. I missed not having you around.”


  “So you wished you weren’t even friends with me?”

  “No! I didn’t mean it that way! I’ve just been—”

  “Forget it,” she says. Then she turns and storms over to the table to sit with Andrew.

  I stand there clinging to my lunch, my body feeling heavier and heavier. If I can’t sit with Marisol, then I have nowhere else to go.

  Finally, I spot Angela at a table near the door with her cross-country friends. I drag myself over to her. “Mind if I sit with you?” I whisper, ashamed to have to beg like a stray dog.

  “Sure!” she says. Then she introduces me to all the other kids sitting at the table, but I’m barely paying attention. I can’t help glancing over at Marisol and Andrew who are hunched over his film notes, chatting away as if nothing is wrong.

  “What’s going on with you and Marisol?” Angela finally asks. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, um…” I’m hesitant to say anything since I’m so used to Angela being a huge gossip. But she seems genuinely concerned, so I decide to confide in her a little bit. “She’s mad about some of my answers about her in the Truth Game.”

  “Ugh,” Angela says. “I’m so glad I didn’t write anything really bad in there. Did you hear some senior broke into a house and stole some stuff and then admitted to it in the game? Now he might go to jail!”

  “That’s crazy,” I say. All of this is crazy. Why did any of us play that stupid game? I want to blame it all on Briana, but the truth is, I was actually kind of having fun playing. It was reassuring to know that my scores weren’t so different from other people’s. And if it weren’t for the game, I probably would never have had my first kiss.

  I glance at the clock and see it’s almost time for Evan to sneak out of Spanish class and come visit me at lunch. Not that I’m expecting him to, but I can’t help watching the door anyway. The minutes tick by, and he doesn’t appear in the doorway. My stomach clenches into a tighter and tighter knot.

  Just when I give up hope, I see a flash of Evan’s Celtics jersey in the doorway. He lingers in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he wants to stay. And even though I’m still hurt about what he said, I also can’t let things go without at least apologizing to him.

  “Evan!” I say, afraid he might keep walking.

  But he stops and gives me a little wave. He doesn’t say anything though.

  “Um, how are you?” I ask, my cheeks suddenly hot.

  “All right, I guess.” I can’t help noticing that he doesn’t look me in the eye. “Um, I should get going.”

  “Wait…I…” I want to apologize, but what’s the point? If he really doesn’t like me, then what’s left to say?

  “Really, I should go,” he says. Then he turns and hurries back toward his Spanish class.

  As I slink back to Angela’s lunch table, I can’t stop shaking. And I realize it’s not only because I’m mad at whoever leaked those answers. I’m also mad at myself. I thought I’d left the old me behind, the one who did and said stupid things that would come back to bite her in the buttons. The idea that I could become a new version of myself was a joke. If anything, trying to be a new me has only caused more trouble than ever before.

  Chapter 19

  The minute Briana comes into the bakery, she shoots me a look that could easily slice someone in half. That’s not unusual for her, but the fact that she’s not on her phone tells me something is up.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. I’m in too foul of a mood to even try to be nice.

  “As if you don’t know,” she says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh come on, like you couldn’t wait to tell everyone that I worked here the minute you saw me in this stupid apron. I bet you loved seeing the ‘queen bee’ taken down, right?”

  And suddenly I understand why she’s so angry. She must have seen the stuff I wrote about her in the Truth Game.

  “Thanks to you,” she goes on, “Caitlin and Steve and everyone else think I’m a complete loser.”

  “I didn’t even use your name!” I say, but she’s glaring at me as she goes to lean against the counter.

  “Why do you care so much about people finding out you work here, anyway?” I say. “You’re not the first person to ever have a job, you know.”

  “Just because you don’t care about being a freak doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” she spits out. Then she does something I would never, ever, ever expect from Briana in a gazillion years. She starts to cry.

  I stare at her in total shock for a second as tears drip from her perfectly mascaraed eyes. And then she turns and runs into the bathroom, pushing past Cherie who’s coming out of the kitchen.

  “Is she okay?” Cherie asks.

  “I don’t know.” I go to send Evan a message about it, only to realize that he probably doesn’t want to talk to me. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Well, I have some goodie bags that need filling,” Cherie says. “Are you up for it?”

  Great. More grunt work. “Can’t I help with the cupcakes for this weekend?” Chef Ryan has been working on a crazy cupcake tower for a sweet sixteen party.

  “He told me you’d ask about that,” she says with a chuckle. “He said he’ll let you put the sprinkles on top when he’s done. How’s that?”

  I sigh. It’s better than nothing, I guess. I really wish Chip Ackerson would get in touch with me already, but I still haven’t heard anything. And if Chef Ryan doesn’t let me anywhere near the Montelle-Brennan wedding cake, then I really might miss my chance.

  When Cherie’s gone, I hesitate for a second and then pick up the phone and dial the Town Center Inn. I cross my fingers that the old lady I saw the other day answers, and I’m in luck!

  “Um, hi,” I say. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I dropped off some pastries for one of your, um, lodgers the other day.”

  “Oh yes, for Mr. Ackerson. He said he quite enjoyed them.”

  “He did?” I almost shriek. “Did he say anything else?”

  “No…” she says slowly. “He did seem a little confused about the whole thing, but then he said it had to be the universe telling him he was on the right path.”

  Oh my goldfish. Chip Ackerson believes in that kind of stuff too!

  The old woman laughs. “I guess when you spend most of your life staring into a crystal ball, you should know a thing or two about life’s many paths.”

  I pause. “Crystal ball?” Is Chip into that kind of stuff and I had no idea? It’s never been mentioned in any of the articles I’ve read about him.

  “Yes, that’s what people like him do, isn’t it? Crystal balls, tarot cards, that sort of thing. I imagine they have pretty much everything at that convention of his.”

  “Convention?” I echo, remembering how she’d mentioned one when I’d been at the inn the other day. “He’s here for a convention?”

  “Yes, a spirituality and healing one, I think it’s called. A lot of New Age nonsense, if you ask me, but his business seems to be doing well, so good for him.”

  “His business?” I ask, feeling like a parrot.

  “Yes, he sells crystals, the healing-energy kind, I guess. He tried to sell me one, but I told him that at my age it’s too late for any of that.”

  “Are you talking about Chip Ackerson?” I say.

  “No, no,” she says. “Not Chip. Chet. Chet Ackerson. Wait, I thought you knew him. Isn’t that why you brought those pastries over?”

  I close my eyes, defeat slowly creeping through my entire body. “I guess I was wrong,” I say.

  • • •

  “What are you doing here?” Marisol demands when she opens her front door.

  “Did you really see Chip Ackerson at the grocery store, or were you playing a prank on me?”

  She blinks at me, obviously surpr
ised. “Yeah, I saw him. Why would I lie about that?” She snorts. “Oh wait, I’m not as honest as I seem, right? Isn’t that what you said about me?”

  “Marisol, I’m serious. Was it him?” I hold up my phone and show her a picture of Chip. She studies it for a second, and her dark eyebrows knit together.

  “It looked like him,” she says slowly, “but the guy I saw had more gray hair. And…well, maybe his nose was a little different.”

  I let out a long breath. “And when you called hotels, who did you ask for?”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I told you, I asked around for Chet Ackerson. What’s going on? You say all that stuff about me in your stupid game, and now you show up and start grilling me about Chet?”

  “Chip!” I cry. “It’s Chip Ackerson! Not Chet! The guy you found is some healing-crystal salesman. I knew it was weird that he’d be staying at that inn, but I figured you were trying to help me, so why would I doubt what you said?”

  “I was trying to help you!” Marisol says. “I feel like all I do is try to help you, and it’s never good enough.”

  “What are you talking about? You spend all your time focused on the Fashion Club or on Andrew. You don’t even care what’s been going on with me.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s all I hear about! ‘Chip has to know what a great cook I am. What recipe should I make for Chip? Do you think I’ll ever get on TV?’ Since when do you care about that kind of stuff? And the minute I ask you for help, you tell me you’re too busy.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I asked you to pick out fabric with me and to help me come up with club goals and stuff, and you were so busy thinking about getting on TV that you just brushed it off.”

  I want to deny it, but I can’t. Because she’s right. “But you don’t understand. I’ve been so—”

  “Not everything is about you, Rachel!” Marisol cries. “Don’t you get that?” Then she does something I would never, ever expect of my best friend. She slams the door in my face.