If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

“Websites?” Brendan’s eyes light up. We’re in front of the locker room now, but I don’t go in.

  “Really, it’s boring,” I say. “I do web design as a hobby is all.”

  Brendan looks at me with new interest. “Can I see one?”

  I toe the concrete uncomfortably, my cheeks heating. I’m not used to sharing my design work outside my closest friends. “It’s really not a big deal.”

  “God, Cameron,” he says, shaking his head. “Like I said. Thoroughly unimpressive.”

  I laugh. The discomfort drains from me in an instant. “Hey,” I say, wringing my headband in my hands. “Thanks for coming to my race.” There’s obviously no way he knows what it meant to me, with my friends not here and everything. But he chose to come here with his extra time, without knowing if I’d even want to hang out with him. It means something. I don’t know what.

  He shrugs. “You played my game.”

  “Yeah, but that was fun. This was just a boring race.”

  “Believe me,” Brendan says, “I wasn’t bored.” He heads back toward campus, leaving me chewing my lip, trying to stop the stupid smile spreading on my face.

  Twenty-Four

  THE BELL RINGS HALFWAY THROUGH ENGLISH ON Friday. Kowalski cuts off her exhilarating lecture on essay thesis statements and reluctantly instructs us to walk down to the gym for a pep rally.

  I’m out of my seat immediately. Elle flew up to San Francisco for the day to film a collaboration video with a YouTuber she describes as frustratingly popular. While everyone begins to pack up and file out, I wait for Paige by the door. Andrew walks past me, dressed in his Beaumont soccer polo, his chest a little puffed up in a way he doesn’t try to hide.

  “Don’t let the fact that the entire school is required to celebrate you go to your head,” I say to him. I meant the comment to come out flirtatiously, but there’s something empty in it. I don’t know if Andrew hears it.

  He doesn’t seem to. “I won’t,” he says, smiling over his shoulder and leaving the room to a smattering of applause from the class.

  Beaumont is generally terrible when it comes to sports. We have a student body of two hundred, and we don’t have athletic scholarships. We’re not exactly a powerhouse. The one exception is boys’ soccer. They went to the California championships last year, and while they didn’t win, they might as well have for how excited everyone was. They’re the only team on campus that inspires school spirit. To celebrate the kickoff of their season this year, the headmaster declared a school-wide pep rally.

  Paige meets me in the doorway. We walk into the hallway together, joining the mob of everybody filing out of their fourth-period classrooms.

  “Rocky this Sunday,” she reminds me. “You really don’t need help with your costume?” She holds open the hallway door.

  I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say. “Have you, um, told everyone I’m coming?”

  We file into the gym. It’s chaos, our two hundred classmates crammed into the echoing, high-ceilinged space. “Everyone loves you,” she reassures me. “It’ll be fine.”

  I give her a look.

  “Okay, Hannah hates you,” she corrects herself. “But it’s all worked out.”

  We push toward two empty seats on an aisle near the front of the bleachers. The school settles in, the collective sound of a hundred conversations about college and Halloween and hallway gossip coming to a clamor. The cheerleaders form a line on the court, where the teachers and the soccer team sit. Andrew watches the crowd, his eyes bright. He looks better than ever. I find my gaze wandering to the bleachers, to everyone fighting for seats, before it comes to rest on a tall figure on the opposite end.

  Brendan’s looking at his phone, ignoring everything going on around him, or trying. He pockets his phone and turns to survey the crowd disinterestedly. I wait, wondering what he’s looking for.

  His eyes find mine, and a slight smile lifts the corners of his mouth. He glances down, and a moment later, I feel my phone vibrate.

  Hi.

  I roll my eyes very obviously. Fighting the pleased flush rising in my cheeks, I reply.

  Hi.

  The band erupts into the fight song, which no one knows, and Brendan faces front. I notice Grant playing trumpet in the second row. The soccer coach walks up to the podium, and conversations change into whispers.

  “Ugh,” Paige groans next to me. “I do everything I can to escape the inanity of campus athletics, and yet I get pulled out of my favorite class to witness this. Sports are the worst. No offense.”

  The cheerleaders start a “Go Beaumont” chant, and I join in, pointedly cheering in Paige’s ear, earning a scowl. “Get over yourself,” I reprimand her jokingly. “Sports are fun.”

  Paige shakes her head, unable to hide the grin behind her grimace. “Sometimes I don’t understand how you can be friends with me and my brother,” she says.

  “I question it, too, sometimes,” I reply, and Paige punches me in the shoulder.

  The coach leaves the podium, and the captain replaces him. I half listen to him hype the team’s prospects for the season until he brings up their impressive new talent, and the crowd begins a new cheer. “Rich-mond.” They’re chanting Andrew’s name, which he evidently notices, looking surprised if not entirely displeased.

  “Go Andrew!” I hear next to me. I round on Paige, my eyebrows flying up. She doesn’t meet my incredulous gaze, her eyes fixed on Andrew and written with feelings I can’t decipher. I’ve never seen this side of Paige before, this eager, un-ironic enthusiasm.

  “Andrew told me you and I should go to one of his games,” I say, watching her carefully.

  Her eyes don’t leave Andrew. “What? Oh, uh, yeah,” she says distractedly. She turns to me, her expression shifting. She studies me with an uncomfortable seriousness. “I know you like him, Bright,” she says. “I respect you, and I wouldn’t want to—” She cuts herself off, her cheeks heating, and a knot forms in my stomach. Paige’s feelings are obvious.

  “Did you just say you respect me?” I ask, wanting to steer this conversation onto safer subjects. But instead of punching me in the arm again, Paige drops her eyes.

  “I’m not an idiot, Bright,” she says. “I know you’re trying to repair things with Andrew, and I know he’d probably be impressed by you fixing things with people like me. But tell me one thing,” she continues. “You’re not just being my friend, being Brendan’s friend, to win over Andrew, right?”

  I can hear her hesitation, her fear. The knot in my stomach clenches. Paige has figured it out. Of course she has. She saw right through me when I botched her apology in English. I should have guessed she’d know I had a purpose in righting my wrongs toward her and her brother.

  I don’t want her to think our friendship is only for Andrew, though.

  The thought hits me with unexpected force. This all began with Andrew . . . but I’m no longer only doing it for Andrew. I don’t want Paige to doubt whether I genuinely like her, or her brother, because truthfully, we are friends, however unimaginable the thought would’ve been to me months ago.

  “I like being your friend. And Brendan’s,” I say carefully. “Whatever happens with Andrew, that won’t change. I promise.” It’s the honest truth, even though it’s not a direct answer to her question.

  Paige nods, her expression guarded, no doubt understanding what I didn’t say. Whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t press it. “I don’t hate being your friend, either,” she informs me, and I know we’re okay, or the weird kind of okay I’ve found with Paige over the weeks.

  “Hey, Paige.” Andrew’s voice cuts between us. “Lunch?” he asks.

  I turn, yanked from the conversation—which I’m realizing I was focused on enough not to notice that the pep rally is over. Everyone’s getting up, heaving backpacks and Kate Spade bags onto their shoulders. The rest of the soccer team
is still on the court. Andrew must have leapt up two rows of bleachers to reach us this fast.

  Or rather, to reach Paige. His eyes find me and flicker with surprise.

  “Oh, hey, Cameron,” he says stumblingly. “You want to come, too?”

  It’s an afterthought. I hear the reservation in his voice. I’ve been on the inviting end of enough insincere lunch plans to recognize he’s reluctant to have me join him and Paige. Uncomfortable, even.

  Which . . . bothers me, but it’s not crushing.

  I stand, waving off the offer. “You guys go,” I say. “I’m going to hang with Morgan. Then I might drop in on Brendan.”

  “You sure? You’re welcome to come,” Paige replies, and at the same time, Andrew says, “You’re having lunch with Brendan now?” He sounds slightly . . . jealous?

  I don’t give myself the chance to dwell on it. “I’m good,” I say to Paige, then turn to Andrew. “From time to time. Turns out I kind of like video games.” His eyebrows twitch up. “Want to run again on Monday?” I continue evenly.

  “Definitely,” he says.

  I climb down the bleachers, Paige and Andrew a few feet behind me. We file out with the crowd, and I can’t help glancing over my shoulder, watching them together. Paige laughs at something Andrew says, her cheeks flushing a pleased pink. I face forward, leaving them to whatever joke they’re sharing.

  Paige likes him, and I have no idea how I feel about it.

  Twenty-Five

  PAIGE’S HOUSE IS ORDINARY. IT’S IN CULVER City, on a wide street lined with enormous trees. Their hulking limbs have littered the pavement with endless brown leaves. It’s quiet here, way quieter than Hollywood or where I live. I notice half a dozen cars in front of the curb, including Paige’s beaten-up black sedan. The house is one story, with chipping paint and overgrown hedges.

  It’s nothing like the rest of my classmates’ homes. Refreshingly, I have to say.

  I walk up the paved path to the front door on Sunday night, the bag containing my costume under my arm. It’s Halloween weekend, and trick-or-treaters prowl the streets. I knock on the door next to a gaggle of Elsas from Frozen.

  “I’ll help you with your corset in a minute, Grant,” Paige’s voice calls from inside, followed by footsteps. She opens the door dressed in a black suit jacket and white button-down unbuttoned enough to reveal her nude-colored bra. I feel my eyebrows rise when I take in her wig. It’s pale and stringy with a big bald patch on the top of her head. I vaguely recognize the costume from my Rocky research. She drops a couple pieces of candy in the Elsas’ pillowcases, and they run off giggling.

  “Wow, your wig is incredible,” I say. “It looks so real.”

  Paige holds the door open for me. “It is,” she says.

  In the entryway, I round on her. “What?” She’s grinning like this is the response she hoped for. “You shaved a bald patch on your head?”

  “It’s going to be the next big trend,” she says easily. I gape. Paige bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, it’s for Riff Raff. The character,” she clarifies. “I’m going to shave the rest of my head when we get back from the movie.”

  “Okay, when I said I wanted to be a part of this,” I warn, “you know I wasn’t volunteering to permanently change my appearance, right?”

  Laughing, Paige leads me into the living room. The house is impeccably tidy, the shelves dust-free, nothing except a book of photography on the coffee table. I follow her into the hallway, past framed baby pictures of her and Brendan in perfectly coordinated outfits. We reach what could only be Paige’s bedroom door—there’s a poster on it of two vampire guys gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, one dark-haired and brooding and the other peroxide blond. I hear weird accordion music from past the door and a nasally voice singing about urchins in a priory.

  “Don’t worry, Goldilocks,” Paige says, hand on the door. “Cameron Bright without blonde hair would upend the order of the universe.”

  Paige opens the door, and my comeback dies on my tongue. Four pairs of eyes find mine. Grant’s, Charlie’s, and Abby’s hold open confusion, and it dawns on me that Paige didn’t tell them I was coming. I knew she was full of it when she said it was all “worked out.”

  In Hannah’s expression I find only fury. “You’re joking, Paige,” Hannah says harshly. “Please tell me this is a prank and not Cameron Bright in your bedroom right now.” She drops the glue gun onto the costume she’s working on repairing in her lap. I can’t help noticing that Paige’s room is a complete mess. Clothes piled on top of and around a hamper, her dresser covered in papers and empty water bottles and figurines I don’t recognize, a sewing mannequin adrift in a pile of shoes in the corner. I cringe in spite of myself, checking the impulse to organize and declutter.

  “You’re the one who told me to experience Rocky live,” I remind Hannah.

  “I didn’t mean with us,” she fires back.

  “Cameron’s coming with us,” Paige says. I recognize the authority in her voice from when she first brought me into the Depths of Mordor. “She’s got a costume and everything.”

  Hannah gets up from Paige’s bed abruptly, the glue gun and a handful of sequins falling to the floor. “If you think I’m hanging out with her tonight, you’re crazy. I’ll drive over by myself,” she declares.

  I’m hard to perturb, but the intensity of Hannah’s glare makes me uncomfortable. I never wanted to ruin Hannah’s event for her. Exactly the opposite. I reach for something I can say, a justification or a compromise or even a plea. Before I open my mouth, I hear Paige.

  “Hannah, that’s enough,” she orders. I give her a surprised glance. “When have we ever told people they can’t hang out with us or experience our amazing fandoms?”

  Hannah throws a hand in my direction. “Come on, Paige, she’s—”

  “Yeah, I know. She’s Cameron Bright,” Paige interrupts. “She’s done shitty things. She’s not perfect. Who is? We’ve messed up, each of us. Grant cheated on you, and we hang out with him. No offense, Grant.” She darts an apologetic look in Grant’s direction.

  Grant shrugs genially. “None taken.”

  “I’m not blameless, either. I blew off trivia night to go to a party held by a spoiled cheerleader I’ve never talked to and hooked up with piece-of-shit Jeff Mitchel.”

  Hannah goes quiet. In her expression I watch resistance collide with understanding.

  “If Cameron wants to experience Rocky Horror for the first time in her life,” Paige continues, “I’m not going to say no.”

  There’s a long pause. Everyone stares at Hannah, waiting. I don’t dare move, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I’m kind of unable to believe Paige stuck up for me like that. Even if Hannah kicks me out and I completely fail in my goal for the night, it will have felt good to have heard Paige say what she did.

  Abby speaks up hesitantly, her voice cutting the uncomfortable quiet. “Hannah, you did say it would be better if we had a couple more people in our group for the costume contest.”

  Hannah turns toward Abby. I watch her take in her friends, the way Charlie’s pointedly concentrating on picking a thread from his costume and Abby’s folded her arms like she’s made up her mind. Even Grant doesn’t meet Hannah’s gaze. Finally, Hannah faces Paige, not sparing a look in my direction.

  “Fine,” Hannah says. “She better have a good costume.”

  Turning her back to me with thorny deliberateness, Hannah collects her costume from the floor and goes into the closet to change. I mouth a thank you to Paige, who gives me a wink. “Grant!” she says. “Corset time.” Grant dutifully gets off the desk and follows Paige into the bathroom connected to her room.

  “There’s another bathroom in the hall,” Abby offers.

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully.

  I wander into the hall and find the bathroom. Closing the door, I place the costume on the
floor and release an even breath in front of the mirror. I didn’t realize how nervous I was until now.

  I’ve never had to try to impress my classmates, to win them over. I’ve never known how it feels to want them to like me. With Paige and her friends, it’s different. I want them to talk to me, to include me in their unusual interests. To not hate me.

  I want to be their friend. Not for my amends list, not for Andrew. But because I like them.

  They’re not that different from my friends, I’m realizing. They’re knowledgeable about their passions and fiercely devoted to them, and they won’t take shit from anybody. The main difference—other than taste in clothes, movies, and pretty much everything—is the willingness of Paige’s group to invite others into what excites them.

  I check my phone. No messages.

  I put on my costume, the woman’s tux I took from my mom’s box with a hideous glittery orange cummerbund I picked up from Party Central a couple days ago. I don’t care how ridiculous I look. I only want to look good enough to help Hannah win the costume contest. There wasn’t enough time for me to find the components for a lead character’s costume, but I think I pulled together a pretty decent Transylvanian, one of the background ensemble I found in a couple images.

  Nervously, I glance at my phone again. It remains black, and I begin to worry my plan’s going to fall through.

  I open the bathroom door and walk in the direction of Paige’s room. I’m nearly there when I catch sight of a door cracked open—revealing Brendan. He’s at his desk, working on the computer, predictably.

  I knock. Without waiting for him to invite me in, I push the door open and barge into his room. Brendan swivels in his desk chair, his eyes widening when they find me. “Cameron?” His voice comes out an utterly charming squeak.

  I close the door and walk brazenly over to the one open place where I can sit in his room: his bed. I gesture to what he’s wearing, corduroys and a RAVENPUFF shirt. I feel a small swell of pride that I understand this one. I’m pure Slytherin, obviously. “You definitely can’t wear that to Rocky Horror,” I inform him.