If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  Which . . . there’s plenty of. I feel my heart drop, then race. I didn’t plan on particularly caring what Paige Rosenfeld had to say about my essay, but faced with this treatment, it’s hard to ignore.

  I flip to the final page, where I find Paige has written a closing note. I force myself to focus on each sentence, even when I want to ignore every word.

  This just reads as really, really inauthentic. Anyone could write this with a couple Google searches on UPenn. There’s no “you” in here. Whatever reason you want to go there, tell them. Try to find a little passion—and then start over.

  I frown. Who is Paige to tell me what’s “authentic”? She doesn’t know me. It’s not like her essay was brilliant either. If I’d cared, I could have written her a note criticizing her trite choice of topic and overdramatic descriptions. Beaumont hardly has a bullying problem.

  It’s embarrassing, reading feedback like this on writing I was proud of. The worst thing is, though, I know she’s right. I was so wrapped up in being professional that I didn’t get to anything personal.

  But I refuse to be discouraged. I’m not like Bethany. If I could be broken by harsh words, I would have given up a long time ago. I will rewrite this essay, and I will get in to UPenn.

  Inside my bag, my phone buzzes. I pull it out on reflex and find a text from Morgan.

  The soccer team will be there. Looking forward to whatever you’re planning . . .

  With half a grin, I flip my essay closed. I drop it into my bag, my thoughts turning to tonight.

  Two

  I’M LATE TO SKĀRA BECAUSE FRIDAY-NIGHT TRAFFIC on Highland is horrendous, and I had to hunt for half an hour for parking because I didn’t want to pay seventeen dollars for the garage. The club is on the top floor of a huge mall on Hollywood Boulevard, between tall apartment complexes and art deco movie theaters. I have to dodge tourists clogging the curb chatting in languages I don’t recognize and taking photos of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

  I finally reach the door, and the bouncer waves me in. The club is typically twenty-one and up, but tonight Rebecca Dorsey’s dad rented the place out for her birthday. They won’t serve us drinks, obviously, but people find creative ways to raise their blood alcohol content.

  Under the erratic lighting, I spot him immediately.

  He’s leaning on the velvet couch near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with the rest of the soccer team. He’s the picture of perfect carelessness. The picture of perfect hotness, too. He’s tall, built like the varsity athlete he is, and his smile stands out in his corner of the club. I watch him reach up with one arm to rub the back of his neck, pulling up the hem of his Beaumont soccer polo, exposing the strip of dark skin above his belt. It’s a nice strip, a really inviting strip.

  This is my moment. I just have to walk up to him, join the conversation, and then lead him to a place where it’s just the two of us.

  But I can’t.

  The music pounds uncomfortably in my ears. I can’t even walk past the kitschy sculpture by the door.

  I’ve wanted this for a year. I’ve planned for it. Why can’t I do this? It’s possible I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I’ve been rejecting guys for two years while developing this crush in secret. What if I’ve forgotten how this particular game is played?

  I watch him roll his eyes at whatever idiotic thing Patrick Todd’s saying, and I know what’s coming next. His eyebrows twitch the way they do every time he’s preparing one of his effortless comebacks. He’s wonderfully no-bullshit.

  It’s the first thing I ever loved about Andrew Richmond. Even when he was new to Beaumont, I noticed his quick and imperturbable humor. Our friendship deepened because we both felt out of place among our wealthy, glamorous classmates. Andrew had the added difficulty of being black in our predominately white school. For one reason or other, we both entered Beaumont feeling like outsiders.

  I’ve talked to him countless times, but never in this context. Not even crappy pickup lines are coming to mind. I need help.

  Feeling my heart race with frustration, I sweep the dance floor for my friends. People I know and people I don’t fill the crowded, darkened room. Morgan, dressed like a hipster on a Beverly Hills budget in a strappy gold dress with a beaded headband, perches on one of the L-shaped white couches near the balcony. She’s eyeing Brad with that eagerness I’ve learned to recognize—and avoid. I know where their night’s headed, and I won’t be interrupting that.

  But in front of the bar, Elle’s running a finger down the arm of Jason Reid. Ugh. I have no problem interrupting Elle’s completely indefensible hookup plans. Before she can pull Jason into a dark corner, I cross the room and grab her by the elbow.

  “Cameron!” she protests.

  I ignore her and usher us both into the ladies’ restroom. I close the door, and Elle walks past me. I give the restroom a once-over. It’s filthy, and the dimmed lights don’t hide the spilled drinks and littered tissues on the floor. In one stall a girl in a sequined dress holds her friend’s hair while she dry-heaves over the toilet.

  “I hope there’s a very good reason you pulled me away from Jason,” Elle says, raising an expectant eyebrow.

  “Other than the obvious?” I reply, my goal momentarily forgotten. I’ve explained to Elle a dozen times why I disapprove of Jason. He’s an annoying, airheaded actor who adores nothing more than his own reflection. He has a girlfriend, who I’m guessing isn’t here—and who I have to hang out with every day during cross-country after school. “You know I don’t condone this.”

  “If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it,” she replies. “Why’d you pull me in here?”

  My nerves catch fire. Andrew’s out there only feet away. I pace the disgusting restroom floor, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Do you have a shade of lipstick that’s, like, seductive?”

  Understanding dawns in Elle’s eyes. “You are interested in one of the soccer players. Tell me who.”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew Richmond?” Elle starts to smile.

  “Do you have any lipstick or not?” I ask loudly, crossing my arms.

  Elle’s watching me with skepticism and a hint of humor. “For your information, I don’t just carry around a complete color palette wherever I go. If you’re going to borrow my makeup, you’re going to need to text me beforehand what you’re wearing and how much sun you’ve gotten that day. I don’t just have lipstick for you.”

  “Fine.” I level my gaze with hers. “I’ll go borrow Morgan’s. I have plans for the night, and if you won’t—”

  Elle sighs. “Come here,” she orders. “You’d look awful in what Morgan’s wearing.”

  With a swell of satisfaction, I lean on the counter, facing away from the mirror, and watch Elle pull out no fewer than four shades of lipsticks from her purse. She proceeds to mix them on her hand and then dab the color on my lips with one finger. Elle’s a professional and a perfectionist. I knew she’d have something.

  “For years you have me do the dirty work of discouraging every guy interested in you,” she says, holding my chin while she paints my lips. “Now you’re chasing Andrew Richmond. Would you care to explain?”

  “No, I would not,” I reply shortly. I could explain if I wanted to. For months I’ve had a list of reasons to break my no-dating rule for Andrew. He makes me laugh. He’s objectively gorgeous. We’re both runners. He’s committed. He’s proven he has goals and works hard. I don’t want to die a virgin.

  “It’s because he’s new blood, isn’t it?” she goes on, ignoring me. “He’s new to the popular crowd. He just made varsity soccer, he’s the only guy here who hasn’t dated every blonde within reach—he’s exciting. And you haven’t had enough time with him yet to know he’s as lame as every other guy.”

  “I’ve known Andrew for years,” I fire back. “I’d know if he was lame. Like I know
with Jason.” I cut her a pointed look, which she brushes off. “Andrew’s . . . different.”

  “How different?” Elle presses, her voice heavy with skepticism.

  I don’t reply right away, because I’m remembering a rainy afternoon in December of junior year. We were in my bedroom because our moms were having dinner downstairs, but we couldn’t go for a run with buckets pouring from the sky. We’d been working on homework, and I was panicking about a group project on which I’d been paired with none other than Abby Fleischman, who’d unacceptably decided dressing in a ridiculous costume and going to a comic book convention was a worthwhile use of her weekend. Which it obviously wasn’t, and we’d gotten nothing done on the project. I was five minutes into a world-class rant about Abby’s objectionable life choices when Andrew glanced up from his history textbook.

  “People are starving, Cameron,” he said dryly. “You’ll survive.”

  I blinked, too thrown to be angry, and burst out laughing. And then Andrew was laughing, and the panic in my chest eased. I noticed he was cute when he laughed. I noticed the dimple in his right cheek. I noticed the way his eyes lit up, and the whole room with them.

  “We work. We just do,” I tell Elle.

  She doesn’t reply. “If I’m going to finish your lipstick,” she says after a moment, “you’ll have to stop smiling like an idiot.”

  I can’t help it. I smile wider.

  Elle flicks my nose in return. “Okay.” She steps back to scrutinize her work. “You’re ready.”

  Every memory of Andrew and me dances through my head—every conversation, every run, every laugh. Every private, perfect moment. Why was I nervous? Tonight isn’t about looking perfect or saying the perfect flirtatious thing. It’s about him and me.

  “I am,” I say, not bothering to check my reflection in the mirror. Andrew knows me better than everyone except my closest friends. All I need is to be myself.

  Three

  I TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND PLUNGE back into the club.

  The crowd is a battle. There’s a football player grinding on a petite redhead in my way. I send him a withering glare, and he backs off, looking chagrined. Nimbly I dodge Sara Marco and Ben Nguyen halfway to third base. When I’m nearly to the lounge, an elbow hurtles perilously close to my face.

  Jerking away instinctively, I round on the idiot responsible—and my eyes widen.

  Paige Rosenfeld is drunk. She sways sloppily over the shorter girls, her badly dyed red hair a sweaty mess. She’s dancing with the composure of an alcohol-fueled teenage giraffe. Her ugly yellow body-con dress reveals curves I didn’t know she had. She usually comes to school covered in the frills and lace of her obviously and inexplicably homemade garments. I watch her almost spill a nearby girl’s drink, her eyes not registering me.

  I kind of can’t believe she’s here. Paige Rosenfeld isn’t exactly a member of the rather wide circle that comes to Beaumont parties. I didn’t think dancing, fun, or human contact was her thing. She’s on scholarship to Beaumont, not that being one of the school’s few scholarship kids is a barrier to popularity. It’s that she has a new terrible hairstyle every month, she wears incomprehensible clothes, she listens to droning, depressing music, and—probably worst—she’s the older sister of Barfy Brendan, the kid who throughout middle school threw up in the cafeteria, on the bus, and on his classmates too often to be well liked. I started calling him BB, for Barfy Brendan, and it sort of caught on. I don’t know why Paige is even here.

  I have my answer when Jeff Mitchel walks onto the dance floor carrying two drinks. Both of which nearly spill on everyone within a five-foot radius when Paige spots him and flings herself at him.

  I try not to gag too obviously. Two Jeff Mitchel encounters in one day? I must be cursed. Why Paige, who openly denigrates our classmates’ BMWs and Birkin bags, would have any interest in Jeff is beyond me. If I cared even a little bit, I might try to figure it out. But I don’t.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Andrew heading toward the club’s open-air terrace. Leaving Paige to the hookup she’ll inevitably regret, I follow him. The terrace runs the length of the club, with modern chairs and patio heaters and an outdoor bar interrupting the view of the city. Over the commotion inside, I hear horns honking and the hum of traffic from Hollywood Boulevard.

  I find my eyes drawn to the glittering skyline of downtown Los Angeles. The cluster of skyscrapers, the parallel lines of white and red headlights streaming in from the freeways. The colors contrast beautifully, the brilliant lights against the black night sky.

  They’d be perfect for a website I’m working on. I take a picture on my phone.

  The terrace is full of my classmates, everyone holding red plastic cups. While I’m walking toward the railing, a couple water polo guys call my name.

  “Want a drink?” Kyle Cretton calls, flashing me a flask in his sport coat.

  I wrinkle my nose. Even if every other girl out here is drooling over the water polo captain, I’m interested in nothing involving Kyle Cretton and his hidden booze. Perfect abs and a Speedo are all well and good, but Kyle’s no different from every guy I’ve rejected. He’s content to ditch class for doughnuts and spend every Friday plying underclassmen with drinks. He’s not interesting. He’s not driven. He’s not worth the effort or the risk.

  “With you?” I call back. “Definitely not.”

  Kyle cringes, and with hollers of “Burn” and “Damn, dude,” the other guys jostle him. Bored, I continue past them.

  I find Andrew leaning on the balcony overlooking the skyline, the only person out here not sneaking drinks or ogling drunk girls. His posture’s rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s in his still-creased short-sleeve Beaumont soccer polo, and the bright green stands out against his skin. I pause a moment, drinking in his appearance. The way the fabric outlines his muscular shoulders. The close shave of his fade, his hair contoured tightly around his ears. The perfect amount of stubble on his jaw.

  “Andrew Richmond,” I say, walking up next to him. Confidence looks good on me.

  When he hears my voice, he visibly relaxes a little. His lips curl into a faint grin, his eyes remaining on the view.

  I drape myself over the railing, facing the terrace. “Enjoying the party?” I ask.

  He turns to me, his eyebrows knitting together. He looks like he’s not certain if he’s dreaming or I’m crazy. “What are you doing?” He’s not being critical. His voice holds genuine curiosity.

  “Talking to the newest starter on the Beaumont varsity soccer team, I thought.” I notice the way his chest puffs up with pride, but some of the light leaves his eyes. A cloud passes in front of the moon, casting us in shadow.

  “Yeah, you just . . .” he starts haltingly. “You don’t usually talk to me.”

  “What?” I lean in, our shoulders close to touching. “We hang out.”

  “But not, you know”—he throws his head in the direction of the club—“not at school stuff.”

  Guiltily, I know he’s not entirely wrong. When Andrew first came to Beaumont in the middle of sixth grade, he and his family knew no one. His mom and mine became fast friends, bonded over a shared love of The Bachelor, which they watch together religiously. Andrew’s mom, Deb, brought him with her when we were both in sixth grade, hoping he’d make a friend. By the time we were too old for forced hangouts, he’d become her designated driver.

  As a result, Andrew and I have spent a good amount of time together across high school, doing homework, watching TV, or just talking. We run together every now and then.

  I didn’t really notice Andrew when we first hung out, other than his occasional humor. He never had a sense of himself. With his uncertain fashion sense, his mediocre grades, and his tendency not to talk in groups, he never knew who he was. I didn’t consider him romantically because he was too adrift to risk tying myself to. If I was going t
o commit to someone, I wanted him to be worth the worry, worth the part of me I was going to give to him. It was a lesson I’d learned from my unfortunate first relationship, in which I went to obscene lengths to get a guy without bothering to wonder whether he was worth the effort. He wasn’t. We broke up almost immediately.

  Then Andrew filled out. He didn’t care about organized sports, but his long legs and lithe frame had become perfect for dribbling a ball down a field.

  I noticed. I noticed potential.

  A year of hints, and Andrew finally committed to a training regimen and took the initiative to try out for the team a few weeks ago.

  I place a hand on his arm, which is goose-bumped even in the warm Hollywood night. His eyes follow, narrowing in on where my fingers rest on the bend of his elbow. “Now that you’re on the team, I think our social circles will be . . . intersecting.” I give him a meaningful look.

  He has to swallow before he can speak again. I’m not surprised his mouth is a little dry. When he looks up, he’s recovered his cool. “Intersecting?” he says evenly. His pupils engulf his dark eyes. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  I hear a shriek behind us. Andrew and I both look in time to see a girl furiously wiping the amber stain down the front of her dress, while a couple water polo guys laugh behind her. Idiots.

  It’s time I take this somewhere more private.

  “Follow me and I’ll show you,” I whisper in Andrew’s ear.

  I withdraw quickly. Feeling his gaze burning into my back, I head inside, his footsteps behind me.

  Andrew being on varsity soccer isn’t why I like him. He’s not like the guys I refuse to date. He’s smart, and he’s unfailingly kind, and he’s proven himself driven and talented. I can imagine having something real with him in a way I never could before. Him making the team was just the final necessary piece.

  I lead him past the crowd toward the VIP booths in the back. They’re curtained off with a velvet rope in front, which I’m guessing means we’re not supposed to go inside. But nobody’s watching, we’re far from the dance floor, and the club is rented out. It’ll be fine. I undo the velvet rope and slip inside the curtains. It’s empty, and I turn and wait.