If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  “But you’re here on scholarship,” I reply. “You have to be kind of brilliant.”

  Paige shakes her head. “Not like Brendan. Believe me.” Once again, I can’t completely read the combination of emotions in her voice. I hear . . . not jealousy. Closer to pride churned together with protectiveness.

  We push our way into the crowd. Without completely avoiding trampling our classmates’ toes, we finally reach RISD. I wait while Paige collects a couple brochures, feeling my stomach clench—RISD’s a few tables over from Penn. I’m practically right under the blue banner emblazoned with the Penn crest.

  I guess Paige notices me looking at the banner when she returns from the RISD table. “You want to check them out?” She nods upward, following my eyes.

  “Uh,” I demur. “Not right now.”

  Paige nods once. I’m grateful for her not remarking on the obvious unease in my voice. I follow her once more into the crowd, figuring we’re probably headed to Tisch or possibly CalArts. I’ve read their program measures up to the East Coast schools.

  While we walk, I glance through the crowd and catch a glimpse of Brendan. He’s reached the front of the MIT line, and I watch him talking to the representative. Not just talking—charming. His shoulders back, a rakish confidence on his features, Brendan finishes some sort of story or explanation, prompting a real laugh from the representative. If I hadn’t seen Brendan spending every lunch in the robotics room for myself, I’d never believe this collected, charismatic boy in front of me is the same person.

  I’m starting to say something to Paige when, without warning, she ducks behind a display. Her cheeks burn bright enough to match her hair.

  I look around, confused, until my eyes alight on Jeff Mitchel. And it is a miracle—a mercy—I didn’t notice him before. He’s wearing a horrible pink blazer and green striped tie, the type of outfit intended to tell college reps he couldn’t care less what they think of him because Daddy’s donations will get him in wherever he wants.

  I give Paige an uncertain glance. “Tell me when he’s gone,” she says.

  I watch Jeff while Paige hides. The only college prep he’s getting here is practice for an inevitable career of harassing girls at fraternity parties. I watch him ogle a group of juniors. When they relocate, obviously uncomfortable, he follows.

  I beckon Paige out.

  “Care to explain?” I ask.

  Paige is incredulous. “Do I need to? It’s Jeff. He’s a loser.”

  “But you wanted to hook up with him,” I point out.

  “I did hook up with him,” Paige corrects me bluntly.

  Surprised, I privately wonder why she ended up in tears that night. But it’s not my place to ask. I cut her a droll glance instead. “I can’t believe you actually hooked up with Jeff Mitchel. What, did he show you the sensitive side he hides behind his asshole exterior? You probably helped him with a school project, and he realized you’re not the weirdo everyone thinks you are, and you learned he takes care of his sick grandma or something when he’s not trying to be cool in front of his friends.”

  Paige laughs.

  “Was I right?” I press.

  “No,” she says. “I only know the Jeff Mitchel everyone else unfortunately does. I’ve hardly said two words to him.”

  “Then why?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why’d you hook up with him?”

  “Because he’s hot,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining something to a child. “Did I need any other reason?”

  I laugh. “Fair enough. I can respect that. I just thought someone like you would have less shallow reasons than the rest of us,” I tease.

  “Weird artsy girls can be plenty shallow,” she replies assuredly.

  “I’m getting that.”

  I’m about to ask Paige where we’re headed when I notice her face brighten. For a moment of fleeting hope, I wonder if Jeff Mitchel just got slapped by one of the junior girls and Paige watched it happen. Until I follow her eyes to . . .

  Andrew.

  Paige waves, obviously completely oblivious to how I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don’t not want to talk to Andrew—I’ve wanted to talk to Andrew for days—just not here. Not in this pressure-cooker crowd, not without a clue what I’m going to say or how I’m going to guide the conversation to how hard I’ve worked to right the wrongs he hates me for.

  “Paige,” I begin feebly.

  “Hey, Andrew!” she calls out, ignoring me. I don’t know if she’s forgotten Andrew hates me or if she knows and wants to watch me squirm. He gives Paige a friendly nod, the way guys do, and continues toward the two of us.

  I can tell the moment he notices me, because his expression freezes over.

  Not exactly a confidence-builder.

  But Andrew continues the next couple feet up to us, threading through a cramped line for one of the Ivies. Paige gives him a friendly hug. “Hey, Paige,” he says, discomfort heavy in his voice. “I was just going to”—he nods over our heads, eyes never meeting mine—“check out Berkeley. I’ll be back in—”

  “Oh, wait for me?” Paige implores. I don’t fail to notice the flicker of frustration in Andrew’s eyes. “I wanted to hit Berkeley, too, but we’re right next to Pratt.” She gestures to the booth beside us. “I’ll be gone two minutes, I promise.”

  Andrew looks like he wants to protest. But he only nods, and Paige darts toward the Pratt display.

  Leaving just me and Andrew.

  “Hey,” I say, and it comes out high and hopeful and completely obnoxious.

  “Hey,” Andrew says.

  I wince. Off to a great start. We’re the only people in this crowd not chatting, and it’s really awkward. I don’t know whether to look at him or nonchalantly pull out my phone or what.

  “I’m on a friend-date with Paige,” I blurt. Hearing instantly how that was probably the weirdest conversation opener in history, I begin to ramble. “I just . . . we’re here together. Like a date. Except we’re just friends. You know.”

  Andrew gives me a look. He definitely doesn’t know.

  “You guys are friends?” he asks, obviously reluctant to be engaging me in conversation.

  “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

  Neither of us has anything to add to that. The pause yawns on into awkwardness, until finally Andrew declares, a challenging edge in his voice, “You and Paige are nothing alike.”

  I pick up on the implication. Andrew’s definitely not referring to my blonde hair and Paige’s multicolored stylings, nor to how out of place her Invader Zim sweatshirt would appear in my closet. It’s, Paige is understanding. Paige helps me on my homework. You’re judgmental. You’re a—

  I know, Andrew. I know.

  I remember The Taming of the Shrew and bite down what I have a feeling Katherine would say. “We’re not that different, actually, Paige and I,” I offer. “We have a pretty similar sense of humor.” Besides, she’s not exactly gentle with her commentary every now and then either. I remember the excoriation of my UPenn essay and a hundred often-deserved clap-backs since. We have that in common.

  “Except Paige doesn’t care about appearances.” Hardened in accusation, Andrew’s eyes find mine.

  I bite back a retort—Paige called herself shallow. “I don’t really care about appearances either,” I say instead. Andrew frowns, and despite the doubt it gives me, I continue. “I know you think I only liked you when you made varsity. But it had nothing to do with the team, I promise. You could’ve gotten a perfect score on the SAT or the lead in the spring musical.” Andrew’s mouth twitches, and I have a hunch he’s recalling telling me he peed his pants while playing an elf in The Elves and the Shoemaker in second grade. “I was just waiting for an indication you would commit to something. I wanted to know you would really try,” I continue.

  The defiance in his eyes fades a lit
tle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was replaced by interest.

  “You didn’t really have hobbies or aspirations when we met,” I say. “And then we started running together, and I realized you were really athletic. I just wanted you to try hard at it.”

  “And succeed,” he adds.

  “Hard work is good,” I reply, unabashed. “Success is better. You’ve met my mom. You know who my dad is. Can you blame me for caring about that?”

  When I find Andrew’s eyes, his expression is gentler. In a swell of hope, I feel his guard weakening, his resistance beginning to ebb. He lets his crossed arms drop. The crowd shuffles around us, and he ends up closer to me. “Speaking of running,” he says, “I heard you beat a school record at your meet the other day.”

  And just like that, it’s easy. I’m telling him how I had a tough first mile because it was windy, how I picked up half a minute in the final stretch when everyone else was tired. He’s bragging about being the fastest guy on the team, detailing for me a new route he’s found near his house. It feels instinctive, like the runs I’ve longed for the past couple weeks.

  I’m working up the courage to brush my arm against his when a curly-haired head emerges over the crowd.

  Brendan weaves his way through the courtyard. I watch him elbow gently past our classmates, hardly registering them. Not a single person waves him over. He’s solitary, a person-shaped space moving through groups of junior girls laughing excitedly and guys swapping stats on athletic programs. Gone from his face is the enthusiasm of his conversation with the MIT representative, and I’m left wondering again why he’s forever isolated if he has such charm in him. Wondering whether it’s entirely my fault.

  “I thought you said you don’t care about appearances,” Andrew says, his voice a razor. I turn back to him, uncomprehending. He nods in Brendan’s direction, and I realize I’ve been watching Brendan with a frown on my face.

  I round on Andrew. “You know, by saying that you’ve made it clear what you think of Brendan. I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

  Andrew pauses, caught off guard. “He’s Brendan now?” he asks after a moment. “What happened to BB?”

  “He’s Brendan now,” I repeat firmly, realizing I haven’t thought of him as BB in a while. It gives me an idea. Andrew’s not going to dictate who I am, and I want him to know who I’m becoming. With a quick look at Andrew, I wave and catch Brendan’s eye. He’s confused, I can tell, but I beckon him over.

  With what looks like reluctance, Brendan navigates the crowd over to us. I press into the back of the person in front of me to make room, earning a grumble from ahead of me, which I ignore. While keeping Andrew in the corner of my eye, I face Brendan and put every ounce of enthusiasm I have into my voice. “How was MIT? Looked like you were killing it with the rep,” I say.

  Brendan watches me warily, though not without a hint of humor. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Get over it.” I roll my eyes. “I’m giving you a compliment.”

  “That’s a first,” he replies. “MIT was . . . fine. My dad’s decided I’m going there regardless of what I want. I just wish they had a program for”—he glances quickly at Andrew—“what I’m interested in.”

  “Video games?” I ask.

  Brendan nods. “Video game development,” he corrects lightly. “It sounds more professional that way.”

  “You want to study video games in college?” Andrew interjects doubtfully.

  Brendan goes quiet, his features growing guarded. I speak for him. “Brendan’s designing his own video game. It’s, like, really impressive.” Brendan flushes, but not, I have to guess, with embarrassment. “I can’t imagine the initiative, the hard work . . .” I give Andrew a pointed look I know he notices.

  “It’s really not—” Brendan begins.

  “What will you do with the game when you’re done?” I interrupt before he can downplay his project.

  “There’s this, um, contest at UCLA,” he says haltingly. “The winners get internships with Naughty Dog.”

  This time I’m the one puzzled. Andrew, however, looks impressed. “Whoa, dude, that’s cool.”

  “What’s Naughty Dog?” I butt in. “Please tell me it’s not porn.”

  Finally, Brendan smiles. “It’s not porn,” he confirms, sounding a little more at ease. “It’s a video game developer. Their games are really innovative while being fun in traditional ways. They’ve pioneered in-depth narratives, they’ve won every award . . . Working there would basically be a dream come true.” He’s rambling a bit. It’s kind of cute. But his eyes close off, as if he’s just remembered where he is. “It probably sounds geeky to you guys,” he mutters.

  “No,” I rush to say. “It sounds incredible.” I mean it, too. I didn’t even know Brendan made video games weeks ago. Now I find out he’s kind of legit.

  I realize the instant after I’ve said it, I’d actually forgotten Andrew was next to me. Brendan smiles again. The crowd pushes in on us suddenly, and Andrew’s arm is pressed into mine. I wait for him to step away. Instead, he remains, and a pleased flush heats my cheeks.

  “How’s it going with Grant and Hannah?” Brendan asks.

  I’m jolted from the happy daze of Andrew’s skin on mine. “Um,” I say, recollecting myself. “No progress yet.” I look at Andrew, whose face is almost irresistibly close. “I’m going to get Grant and Hannah back together,” I inform him. “I won’t be deterred, though,” I tell Brendan. “You may not know this about me, but I’m very persistent.”

  “Oh, I know,” Brendan says wryly.

  Andrew’s head jerks in his direction, like he’s startled by the familiarity in Brendan’s voice. I wonder momentarily if Brendan’s going to bring up my repeated efforts to apologize to him.

  Instead, he continues, “I remember when I was in eighth grade, you got mandatory swim P.E. cancelled for the entire school.”

  I laugh, a little pleased Brendan remembers, until I hear Andrew chuckle coldly next to me. “Yeah, because you didn’t want your perfect hair and makeup wrecked.”

  “No.” I round on Andrew. “It was because Elle didn’t want her hair and makeup wrecked. She was just starting her channel then, and her parents wouldn’t let her wear makeup when she was home. She had to film everything at lunch. Think she would’ve hit fifteen million subscribers if she’d had chlorine hair in her first videos?” Andrew falls silent, and it occurs to me I might’ve come on a little harsh. I’m just sick of him judging every word I say. “It wasn’t entirely altruistic, I’ll admit,” I add. “I didn’t want my perfect hair and makeup wrecked either.”

  Both boys turn to me, amused admonishment on their faces.

  “What?” I protest jokingly. “Like aspiring to hotness is criminal.”

  “That reminds me,” Brendan speaks up, “I took your feedback into account. The sorceress in my game now has proper, um, proportions.”

  “Wait.” I grin. “How did my hotness remind you of your sexy sorceress?”

  Brendan rolls his eyes, but he’s blushing, like I’ve caught him red-handed. “It was the abstract concept of hotness,” he fumbles to say. “I thought we established that the”—he clears his throat—“‘sexy sorceress’ wasn’t my type.”

  “And that extends to anyone who might or might not resemble her,” I ask leadingly.

  “Naturally,” he replies.

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “Am not.”

  Andrew’s watching us curiously.

  Paige emerges from the crowd, holding a handful of flyers. Noticing Brendan with Andrew and me, her eyes light up. “Cameron,” she says, holding a program out for me. “I got you this.”

  I take the program. Flipping it over to the front, I read, UCLA DESIGN MEDIA ARTS. The text is imposed over a photograph of a big, beautifully modern building.

  “I know y
ou want to go to UPenn. But check out this design program,” Paige goes on. “You know, if you ever want to do web design in college.”

  I feel my mouth working, but I find nothing to say. To be honest, I’m touched by Paige’s completely unexpected thoughtfulness. Web design in college—I never even knew you could do web design in college. For the briefest moment, the idea rushes into my head of spending days in front of layouts and color palettes instead of spreadsheets and algorithms.

  Then it’s gone. Paige, no doubt noticing my dumbstruck expression, gives me a quick grin.

  “We’re doing Berkeley, right?” she asks Andrew, who nods a confirmation. “We have to get in line,” she says. “The fair’s practically over.”

  I check my phone—she’s right. It’s ten minutes to nine. “Crap,” I say under my breath. It’s now or never. “I have to talk to Penn,” I tell the group. “Um . . .” I find Paige’s eyes. “Thanks. For the UCLA thing,” I get out.

  “Of course.” Paige nods.

  I try to pass through the group in the direction of UPenn. The crowd contracts, and momentarily I’m pressed chest-to-chest with Brendan. I glance up at him. He’s averted his eyes, but I’m fairly certain I feel his breath catch. I inch past him, not entirely knowing why my face flushes once more.

  I get out into the crowd. By the time I turn to tell the group good-bye, the line for USC’s formed in my way. I’m walking up to the Penn table when I feel my phone vibrate. I pull it out to find a text from Andrew.

  I hear our moms are doing their dinner thing this week. Want to run?

  I reply immediately, feeling excitement tingle into my fingertips.

  I’d love to!!

  While the person in front of me talks to the rep, I’m unable to hold back a smile. Talking to UPenn feels a little less daunting. Before it’s my turn, I find myself writing a text to Brendan.

  You are too a liar.

  I pause when his typing bubble appears.

  Am not.

  Okay, I might be.