Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru

by Tera Lynn Childs

  “We have a deal.” Oh God yes, we have a deal.

  “Good.” She pulls the keys out of the ignition and grabs her purse. “Now let’s go get you enrolled.”

  Principal Haverford’s office looks like the lobby at MoMA. All gleaming white and crisp modern furniture. The entire back wall is windows. Nothing like the comforting den of Headmistress Maggie’s office at SODA, with the overstuffed couch, scarred wooden desk, and student-painted portraits of the last six headmasters on the wall behind her.

  No welcoming vibes in this ice box. I highly doubt Principal Haverford will let me call him Principal Ben.

  I will anyway.

  “You have an impressive portfolio,” he says, flipping through the presentation on my tablet. “Very bold and expressive.”

  Mom scowls at me as I slump lower in my seat.

  Then again, she could be scowling at Principal Ben’s words. Having a lawyer and a businessman for parents and a science nerd for a brother makes conversations about my art practically impossible.

  Mom looks at my work and calls it nice or pretty. She can’t understand what he means by bold and expressive. She can’t understand how that gives my sometimes-fragile artist’s ego a reassuring pat.

  What Mom does understand is grades. Quantifiable numbers, tests with right and wrong answers. To her, they’re all that matter.

  “Sloane was on track to graduate with honors at the School of Drama and Art,” she says, her voice reeking of butt-kissing. Like she has to convince him to admit me, to overlook my recently rocky past.

  Like the big fat check she and Dad are writing for tuition doesn’t wipe that all away.

  Principal Ben nods as he stares at my tablet. He folds the cover back into place and then pushes it across the table. He flips open the paper file.

  “Yes, I can see that Sloane was an excellent student,” he says, scanning the paperwork.

  Was being the operative word. My grades second semester junior year took a big dip because of all the court time at the end of the year.

  Here it comes.

  The Incident. Bad Influences. Delinquency Spiral. I’ve memorized Mom’s entire speech. I heard it enough over the summer to do a spot-on recitation of the Utter Disappointment of Elizabeth Whitaker.

  Throw in Dad’s sudden emotional distance and Dylan’s sympathetic winces and you’ve got my summer trifecta.

  My What I Did This Summer essay would basically be an outline of all the ways I let down my family.

  “Principal Haverford,” Mom begins, ready to plead my case or make assurances or write another check, but he waves her off.

  “We have students from diverse backgrounds,” Principal Ben says, closing my folder and pushing it to the side. “Diverse experiences. Every artist has a past. Sometimes a troubled one. Austin NextGen prides itself on a clean slate policy.”

  Mom beams. She couldn’t smile harder if I suddenly announced my intention to give up art and follow in her legal footsteps. Or Dad’s business footsteps. Or even Great-Gramma’s teaching footsteps.

  “Let’s leave the past in the past,” he says, “and create a better future.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh of gag. Create a better future? What kind of hippie, touchy-feely nonsense is that? No principal just forgets a student’s criminal past.

  “Now.” Principal Ben pushes back from his desk, stands, and grabs my folder. “Let’s get your class schedule from Agnes.”

  As he crosses to the door, Mom leans over to me. “He’s giving you a chance, Sloane.” She pushes to her feet. “Don’t blow it.”

  Way to be encouraging, Mom.

  I follow them into the main office, where Principal Ben is handing my folder to a young man behind the reception desk, and a middle-aged woman with dreadlocks is pulling something off the printer.

  “Pssst.”

  I turn at the sound and see Tru sitting in a red knockoff Mies van der Rohe chair by the door. Unlike the tee and jeans he wore last night for his rooftop acrobatics, today he looks like he’s auditioning for a J-Pop boy band. Black pants and blazer, white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, and a skinny black tie that hangs loose and low over his chest. I can’t fault him for his color palette.

  His hair still looks like it proudly defies all grooming attempts.

  Seeing him only confirms what I suspected last night: he is too attractive for his own good. As if his ego needs the boost. Where last night’s moonlight threw his features into sharp geometry, the light of day softens the edges. Transforms dark and edgy into movie star perfect. Like he should be in Hollywood, filming the latest teen-book-into-movie instead of whatever he’s doing in the NextGen office.

  Even the harsh glare of the fluorescents doesn’t diminish his beauty.

  The earnest look on his face almost makes me smile. Almost.

  But then an image of Brice flashes in my mind, of his face with that same earnest expression that made me believe in him, that suckered me in. I won’t fall for that act again.

  Besides, the last thing I need, just when Principal Ben is giving me a clean slate and Mom is giving me a chance to earn my way back to New York, is to be seen talking to Tru.

  I spin to face the counter, showing him my back.

  “Whitaker,” he hisses.

  I discretely flash him the finger.

  “Here you go,” Principal Ben says, handing me a freshly printed paper. “Your class schedule.”

  I scan the lineup. Most of the classes are expected. Core subjects, like modern lit, chemistry and trig, and my art specialties, advanced graphic design and 3D rendering.

  Classes at NextGen are on a block schedule, with the basic core classes meeting Monday-Wednesday-Friday and the art classes on Tuesday-Thursday with a big free block for studio time or study help.

  “What’s this?” I ask, pointing at the last class on my core day schedule.

  “Ah, senior seminar,” Principal Ben says, grinning. “That is our experimental class. Taught by a different teacher each year, every class is created collaboratively and unique to the student makeup.”

  I blink at him, trying not to wince.

  “Trust me,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ll love it.”

  Mom grins bigger than Principal Ben. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Here’s a map,” Agnes, the woman with dreadlocks, says, slipping a green paper over my schedule. “I’ve marked all of your classrooms.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And your locker is here,” she says, pointing to a star on the map. Then at a sequence of numbers at the bottom. “That’s your combination.”

  I nod. “Looks like I have everything I need.”

  Principal Ben pats me on the shoulder. “Kyle, let’s see if we can find someone to show Sloane around,” he says to the guy behind the counter.

  Kyle glances at the clock. “The office assistants should be here any minute.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say, not wanting to be shackled with the welcoming committee. “I’m good with maps. I’m sure I can—”

  “I can give Sloane the grand tour,” Tru says, suddenly appearing at my side.

  My entire body tenses.

  Mom scowls as she takes in the rumpled clothes, the messy tie, the careless hair. He must be her picture-perfect example of a bad seed.

  Principal Ben doesn’t seem to have the same qualms. “Thank you, Truman,” he tells Tru. Then to me, “You’re in good hands. No one knows the school better.”

  Tru’s smile is even more blinding in the daylight.

  I see how it is. Tru is one of those guys who has all the adults—except his parents, obviously, and mine—eating out of the palm of his hand. Uses his charm and good looks to make sure no one sees beneath the surface. Principal Ben looks like he wants to give him a medal of honor.

  “Great,” I say with no enthusiasm.

  Tru bends in a half bow, his arm extended dramatically toward the hall. “After you, neighbor.”

&n
bsp; I roll my eyes and start for the door.

  Mom grabs my elbow. “Don’t forget our deal,” she whispers.

  “I won’t.” My only chance of getting back to New York before college? I’m definitely not blowing that.

  Chapter Three

  The moment we are past the glass walls of the office—aka out of sight from Mom and Principal Ben—Tru grabs the schedule out of my hand. When I try to snatch it back, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close on one side while holding the schedule away to the other.

  “Jackass,” I mutter as I elbow him in the ribs.

  “Let’s see,” he says, ignoring both my physical and verbal jabs. “Advanced graphic design and 3D rendering on art day. Modern lit with— oh, Lufkin is a total windbag, but he’s a pushover on grading.”

  Since Tru has several inches on me, and clearly my elbow assault is having no effect, I twist myself out of his arm and let him have the damn schedule. I don’t need it to get to my first class. It’s Tuesday, which means art block, and I start in advanced graphic design.

  I scan the map Agnes gave me. Several buildings make up the campus, all arranged around a central lawn. It feels more like a small college than a high school.

  I’m looking for something that indicates where my first class might meet.

  “Trig with Martinez will be the hardest class of your life,” Tru continues as if I’m paying attention. “Danziger loves chemistry far more than any human should, and senior seminar is a bunch of touchy-feely find-yourself bullshit, but at least it’s a cakewalk.”

  He hands back my schedule and then oh-so-casually jumps up to smack the exit sign hanging from the ceiling as we pass by a door that leads to a concrete courtyard.

  “Visual arts are in Sushi Hall.”

  “Sushi Hall?”

  What kind of building name is that? I don’t see it listed anywhere on the map.

  “Building C,” Tru explains. “They all have nicknames.”

  Building C. I find it on the map. The last building on the right, in the southeast corner of the campus.

  “The six academic buildings are officially Buildings A through F,” he says. “But we Austinites could never conform to something so pedestrian as alphabetical naming.“

  I shake my head as we keep walking.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dorsey,” a middle-aged woman says. Black chopsticks poke out of her blue and green dyed hair.

  “Morning Ms. Getty.” He leans in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “I dig the new colors.”

  Ms. Getty blushes and makes a shooing gesture. “I’ll see you in cinematography this afternoon.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  We round a corner into another hallway, and I can’t help but be a little bit in awe of the charmer beside me. After everything Mom said about Tru, I expected an unrepentant troublemaker who was on every teacher’s and administrator’s shit list. Is it possible that the unrepentant troublemaker has actually reformed into an honest-to-goodness good guy?

  No way. I’ve known enough bad boys in my life to know that they never change their ways.

  “What?” he asks when he sees me looking at him strangely.

  I half laugh. “You have them all snowed, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean, New York?”

  “I mean,” I say, gesturing back toward the blushing Ms. Getty and the beaming Principal Ben, “you have them all believing you’re some kind of perfect boy next door.”

  His brown eyes sparkle with mischief. “Are you suggesting I’m not?”

  “I’m suggesting you’re a con artist of the highest—”

  “Tru Dorsey.” A girl with platinum hair that hangs long on the right and is shaved close on the left steps into our path.

  She looks angry and more than tough enough to take Tru in a fight. I prepare myself to get out of the way.

  “Aimeigh,” Tru says, his arms and his smile wide, “how was France?”

  She punches him in the shoulder. That’s my kind of girl.

  I move a step to the side.

  “You never sent me the footage from graduation,” she says, and for the first time I can sense the teasing under her dark image.

  “Oh shit,” he says, “I totally forgot.”

  “Tonight,” she warns.

  “Absolutely.”

  She flicks a glance my way. “Who’s your friend?”

  He looks at me, like he suddenly remembered that I’m there. “Aim, this is Sloane, fresh from New York City.”

  “That’s Aimeigh,” she says, “with an e-i-g-h.”

  She extends her hand and I take it.

  “Sloane,” Tru continues, “Aim’s the school documentarian. Do not get on her bad side unless you want to be immortalized in eternal humiliation.”

  Aimeigh shakes my hand. “Don’t listen to him,” she says with a smile. “I only have a bad side.”

  I can’t help but crack a smile in return.

  “I am also ArtSquad captain this year,” she says.

  I’ve never heard of that. “ArtSquad?”

  “Like an academic decathlon,” she explains, “except for art.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  “Hey, Aim,” Tru asks, “you have AGD first period?”

  She nods. “Yeah, why?”

  “So does Sloane.” He tries to wrap his arm around my shoulders again, but I dodge out of the way. “I was going to show her…”

  “But you have elsewhere to be?” Aimeigh finishes.

  Tru gives her a big hug. “You’re a rock star.” Then, to me, “Catch you later, New York.”

  I roll my eyes as he starts walking backward down the hall, the way we came.

  “Send me that footage!” Aimeigh shouts before he reaches the corner.

  He mock salutes and then he’s gone.

  “Come on.” She turns to me. “AGD is this way.”

  Just as I thought. The moment anyone to impress is out of sight, Tru ditches me onto the nearest available person. “Unshocking.”

  “What?” Aimeigh says as we head for the pair of glass doors at the end of the hall.

  “Him,” I say, jerking my head back the way he fled.

  “Tru?” She flashes me a genuine smile. “He’s the best. Can’t rely on him to send the footage he promised at the start of summer, but there’s no one I trust more behind a lens.”

  Even Aimeigh thinks he’s all goodness and heart? Maybe I really am wrong about him. Maybe Mom and his parents are wrong, too, not that they would admit it. Mom would still kill our deal in a heartbeat if she knew I was even having a second thought about him.

  Aimeigh pushes through the doors, into the outside. “So, New York, huh?”

  The lawn before us is crisscrossed with sidewalks like some geometric coloring book. Without having to pull it back out, I picture the map Principal Ben gave me. Paths lead from Building A, across to Building D, diagonally to Buildings E and E, and right to Buildings B and C.

  “Yep, New York,” I say as we make the turn that will take us to Building C and advanced graphic design.

  “Which PS did you go to?”

  I bite back a retort. People watch a few TV shows and suddenly they think they know everything about life in New York. Not everyone goes to public school, takes afternoon tea at the Plaza, or gets mugged on their way through Central Park.

  “School of Drama and Art,” I say.

  Aimeigh lets out a two-note whistle. “Impressive. So NextGen isn’t a big change, then?”

  I shrug. What can I say? NextGen is a huge change? Austin is a huge change? My entire life is in upheaval? Just because they are both art schools doesn’t make SODA and NextGen educational equals.

  SODA is unlike any other school in the country. In the world. Graduates are pretty much guaranteed acceptance and financial aid at the best art and design schools in the world: Juilliard, Tisch, RISD, Parsons, the School of Visual Arts. At SODA, my post-graduation plan to study animation at the School of Visual Arts wa
s a no-brainer. Now it’s suddenly in question.

  That and the fact that Mom is determined that I will attend a Real College so I can get a Well-Rounded Education.

  “What’s your favorite museum?” Aimeigh asks. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Guggenheim.”

  Apparently her attempts at small talk are limited to asking me about New York, but since the city is my favorite subject, I’m good with that.

  As I tell her about the Dia:Chelsea on our way to Building C, I scan the lawn, study the other students milling around in back-to-school excitement. At first glance, they don’t look all that different from students at SODA. There are definitely the recognizable archetypes.

  The hippie-dippie free love types, with their peasant skirts, patchwork denim, and waist-length dreadlocks.

  The wanna-be beatniks in skinny ankle jeans, patent oxfords, and bored expressions. Even a beret or two.

  The poser urban core, whose bling and footwear probably cost more than the entire monthly income of the Queensbridge Projects.

  I’m not denying my own privilege, but at least I’m not pretending it doesn’t exist.

  “In here.” Aimeigh yanks open the door to Building C and leads the way.

  It looks like a garden variety school hall. Sections of lockers broken up by classroom doors, drinking fountains, and bathrooms. But instead of walls, the space above the lockers is glass. The hall is full of light.

  I pause for a moment, stunned at how bright the space is, at how the sun bounces off every surface. It’s literally glowing. As much as I don’t want to like anything about this place, I want to breathe in the rays.

  Aimeigh yanks open the door to the second room on the left.

  “Mrs. K is the best,” she says as I catch up with her.

  From the moment we walk through the door, I know that advanced graphic design at NextGen is going to be top notch. The setup is spectacular. There are eight tables in the center, each with two chairs, light boxes in the corners, and a strip of plugs in the middle. Along two walls, computer workstations with huge flat-panel monitors display hypnotizing screensavers and a scroll of text that reads: To design is to communicate clearly by whatever means you can control or master.—Milton Glaser