Silence stretches through the phone, across the short distance between our two houses. I stare up at the night sky, clear of this afternoon’s gloomy clouds. I wonder if Tru is staring out his own window.
Finally, he huffs a derisive laugh. “No good reason,” he says. “It seemed like a good idea.”
It’s a lie. I know it is.
And just like that, the moment of connection is over. I don’t know him well enough to call him on the bullshit. I’m not sure I even know him well enough to care. We barely met two nights ago.
The only reason I’m concerned at all is that Mom would have judged me guilty by association.
No, that’s a lie, too. I would feel terrible if anything bad happened to him. We’re…I don’t know, starting to be friends maybe.
Maybe. If neither of us screws it up.
“Is it going to happen again?” I ask.
“Never,” he says. “Not at school. Not anywhere near a car.”
I don’t miss the subtext. Not no drinking again ever. Just…not at school or when he might be driving. That bothers me.
It’s not that I have anything against the drinking. I’m not some teetotaler who brings pamphlets to parties or who’s taken a Straight Edge pledge, but I have a feeling there’s something more going on here than just having a good time.
But, like I said, I don’t know him well enough to play therapist.
I trace my fingers along the window frame, sighing loudly enough for him to hear. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” he says, sounding relieved.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Just know that if it ever happens again—”
“It won’t.”
“If it does.” I lean forward, press my forehead against the cool glass. “You will regret it.”
He laughs. “I have no doubt.”
There’s kind of a long silence, and I expect him to say a quick good-bye. I’m not sure why I’m not saying a quick good-bye. But it’s almost like neither of us is ready to go yet.
Suddenly my room feels too small, too confined. I open my window and climb out onto the roof.
“So,” he finally says, like he’s buying time, “things are cool with your mom?”
“Yeah.” Barely. “I handled it.”
Another pause. Then, “Have you thought about it?”
“About what?”
“Getting your license,” he says. “From what I remember, you did a decent job driving stick. I could…teach you, or something.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
There is something easy—too easy—about talking on the phone with him. Almost as if I’ve forgotten how much he bugs and bothers me the rest of the time. But I can’t forget it. I can’t forget that, barring any repeats of the getting-caught-driving-without-a-license situation, I’ll be out of Austin soon. With no looking back.
“We could start—”
“But what’s the point?” I cut him off before he begins making plans for driving lessons. “I’ll be back in New York when the quarter’s over, and I won’t need a license there.”
“Right,” he says, his voice a little tighter. “I forgot.”
The long pause this time is laced with a hint of tension. I don’t know exactly what his game is here, but I know I just shot it down. I had to.
Still, I don’t like how this tension feels.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say as I lay back on the roof.
“’Night Sloan.”
“’Night Tru.”
I slip my phone into my pocket and stare up into the starry sky.
There are forty-five school days in this quarter. Two down, forty-three to go. It’s starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I might survive my time in Texas after all.
Chapter Eight
“We are definitely going to blow up the school.” Aimeigh sets her brown-bag lunch down on the picnic table we’ve been eating at all week, the one with the best view of the Pokémon sculpture. “Art students should not be allowed to play with dangerous chemicals.”
“I think the key is actually following the instructions,” I argue. “Winging it leads to…”
“Explosions! Exactly my point,” she says, swinging her long legs—clad today in a pair of rainbow unicorn leggings—over the bench. “I’m an artist. I can’t be expected to follow rules.”
I open the boxed salad I grabbed from the cafeteria and pour the dressing onto the baby spinach.
One thing NextGen definitely has over SODA is the food choices. As a vegetarian, my options back home usually consisted of rice or pasta, dressing on wilted iceberg, and steamed broccoli. I love grains and veggies, but even I have my limits.
The dining spread at NextGen is inspired. It’s not the cheapest school lunch, but I guess they figure anyone who can afford to attend can afford to eat well. There are at least a dozen different tasty meals I can choose from.
I’m not saying that’s enough of a reason to make me like it here, but between that and the early-stages friendship between Aimeigh and me and the early-stages whatever with Tru, I’m getting by.
“My two favorite ladies in the entire school.” Speak of the devil. Tru has a huge smile on his face as he drops onto the bench next to me.
“What do you want, Dorsey?” Aimeigh asks as she unwraps a soggy-looking sandwich, like she’s trying to sound tough, but I know it’s just talk. She adores him.
“Can’t a guy want nothing more than to eat with the prettiest girls in school?”
Aimeigh and I exchange a look. Aimeigh rolls her eyes. I ignore him and swirl the dressing into my salad.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he says, leaning in. “ArtSquad team gets passes out of class. I want in.”
Well, he’s nothing if not to the point. Where most people would feign interest in ArtSquad, disguise their true motives, Tru just lays it all on the line. It’s a ballsy move. I admire that.
“I’ve been trying to get you to bring your epic film knowledge to the team for three years,” Aimeigh says, sounding skeptical. “What’s changed?”
Tru clasps his hands together on the table. “Grandig.”
“Ahhh.” She nods in understanding.
“What’s a Grandig?” I ask.
Tru turns his dark eyes on me. “Who’s a Grandig,” he corrects. “Calculus teacher. He makes the Puritans look like a bunch of free-love hippies.”
“Yikes.” I stab my fork into my salad.
“His failure rate is the highest in the school,” Aimeigh adds.
“And his boredom rate is even higher.” Tru leans across the table, closer to Aimeigh. “What do you say?”
Aimeigh tilts her head, gives him a considering look. I’m amused by the exchange between them. If I were making bets, I would say that she is just messing with him. From the start it’s been pretty clear that Aimeigh has a soft spot for Tru. I’m not sure if it’s a full-on crush, or if they’re just kindred spirits. Either way, he could ask her to burn down Building D—the math and science hall—and she would totally consider it. Especially on chemistry day.
But she’s also clever—or evil—enough to make him sweat it out.
She takes a bite of sandwich, chews, and swallows before responding.
“Okay,” she finally says, but before he can get too excited, she adds, “on one condition.”
He spreads his arms dramatically over the table. “Anything.”
I bite my lips to keep from smiling. What will she ask for? Will she ask for homework help in another class, so she can spend more time with him under the guise of school? Or will she be bold enough to ask for a date? Maybe to a school dance—if NextGen even has dances…
She jerks her head at me. “Help me sweet-talk someone into taking Ziggy’s place.”
Well that kills any questions about a crush. If Aimeigh were interested in Tru that way, she totally blew her advantage there.
“What am I?” Tru demands, acting insulted. “A body double?”
“I only want you for yo
ur cinematic skills.” She bats her eyes flirtatiously. “If we’re going to have a chance at winning the tournament we need someone to fill in the void on graphic design.”
Her big blue eyes focus on me as she takes a huge bite of her sandwich.
Wait, what? No, I already told her I wasn’t interested. I’m shaking my head when Tru turns his attention back to me.
“Huh-uh,” I hum around a mouthful of salad.
“Sloane, babe,” he says, turning up the charm to blinding, “come on. Take one for the team.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close. He means it as a joke. Nothing more than a tease. But between the touch of his hand and the heat of his body where it’s pulled tight against mine, I have the completely absurd urge to lean in to him. To press myself even closer. To turn my head so we’re face-to-face, so his mouth is only inches away from mine.
Something is definitely wrong with me.
I finish chewing and carefully swallow my salad before I elbow him in the ribs. “Not interested.”
“You’d be saving my life,” he says, rubbing at what is hopefully a bruised rib. “I literally will not survive a year with Grandig.”
“I won’t be here that long,” I explain. “I’m out at the end of the quarter.”
He frowns. “That’s not what my mom says.”
I don’t care what Mrs. Dorsey says. Mom promised.
“My mom and I have a deal.” And she doesn’t back out of deals. “I keep my nose clean this quarter and I can go home for the rest of senior year.”
“Why?” Aimeigh asks.
Why what? Why return to New York? What kind of obvious question is that?
“Because it’s my home,” I say. “It’s where I belong.”
“No.” She breaks off a piece of her breadstick. “Why do you have to keep your nose clean?”
I open my mouth, ready to give some bratty answer about Mom being strict for no reason, but something about the earnest look in her eyes and Tru’s makes me want to tell the truth. These two are the closest things I have to friends in this town. For however long I’m here. I can’t just outright lie to them.
“I screwed up,” I say, hedging. “Big time.”
“How big?” she asks.
“Five hundred hours of community service.”
Basically my entire summer vacation.
Tru whistles, and I’m not sure if it’s shock or respect. Despite all of his supposed delinquent tendencies, as far as I know he hasn’t actually been arrested yet.
I win the blue ribbon for that one. Yay me.
Everyone eats quietly for a few minutes. I chomp on my salad, the crunch of lettuce and croutons deafening in my own ears. Maybe they’re going to let it go at that, without any of the juicy details.
It’s not that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about The Incident—that’s Rule Two. But more that I’m… What, embarrassed? Ashamed? Maybe both.
I’d gladly trade the blue ribbon for a time machine. But unlike my drawing app, life has no undo button.
I’m just downing the last of my juice when Aimeigh drops her fork.
“Oh my God,” she says. “It was the Midtown Tower, wasn’t it?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“The what?” Tru asks.
Aimeigh turns to him. “It was in all the papers last year. That teenager in New York broke into a construction site and spelled out the words Art Saves Lives in red sheet plastic.”
“That was epic,” Tru says. “That was you?”
My eyes are on my now-empty salad box as I push one soggy piece of carrot around in a circle. My heart rate speeds up, and I have to force myself to keep my breathing calm.
“Well,” Aimeigh prods, “was it?”
I take a deep breath, look her straight in the eye as I say, “Yes.”
“I knew it!” She gives herself a high-five.
“New York,” Tru says with a smile in his voice. “I have new respect.”
I drop my gaze to my salad.
I haven’t talked about The Incident with anyone. I haven’t even told anyone before now. And despite the thrill in Aimeigh’s eyes and the respect in Tru’s, I can’t help but feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me.
They only read the headlines, so they don’t know the full story. They don’t know about the lives that have been affected in the aftermath. Not just mine and my family’s, but people who had nothing to do with The Incident. Innocent bystanders.
Mom may not think that I’ve learned anything from the mistake, but I have. I think about those consequences every day.
“I had respect before,” Tru argues, as if I were reacting to his words and not my shame. “I just have more now.”
Aimeigh pushes the remains of her lunch aside. “Look, ArtSquad doesn’t have to be a full-time commitment,” she says. “Even if you only practice with us for the rest of the quarter, your experience will help the team a lot.”
And just like that, they’re back to normal. I wish my life could switch back so easily.
Tru presses his palms together, begging. “Please. Save me from Grandig.”
Between the two of them, even my steel-coated heart softens.
“Okay, okay,” I finally relent. “I’ll do it.”
“Awesome,” Aimeigh cheers.
Tru grins. “My savior.”
Then, before I can even react, he leans forward a presses a kiss to my cheek. Lips that I had once described as too full brand a perfect pucker into my skin. It feels…just right.
I’m not used to being around a guy who is so comfortable flirting and touching. I like it more than I should.
“My mission here is done.” He climbs to his feet. “See you lovelies in seminar.”
“Don’t forget,” Aimeigh calls out to him as he struts away, “we meet before school on art days. First practice is on Tuesday!”
He waves at her over his shoulder.
My cheek is still warm from his kiss, and I have the strangest urge to reach up and cover it with my palm. I force myself to gather my trash instead.
“On the plus side,” I say to Aimeigh as we head for the recycle bins, “this will probably make the time I’m stuck here go by faster.”
Aimeigh smiles. “It’s not so bad, you know. There are actually a lot of really cool people—”
Jenna steps out of nowhere into our path. “Mrs. K wants to see us.”
She turns awkwardly and starts for Building C. Aimeigh leans over to me, whispers, “She isn’t one of them.”
There is definitely something off about Jenna. Maybe I’m being generous, but I’m just chalking it up to social awkwardness or maybe mild Asperger’s. I’m not going to judge.
I’ve known way weirder people than her.
When we get into the AGD classroom, there are several other girls from our class standing around Mrs. K’s desk.
“Oh good, you found them,” she says to Jenna.
“What’s up, Mrs. K?” Aimeigh asks.
“I’ve just received an email about a new scholarship opportunity,” she explains, “specifically for women in graphic arts and design. Because they are short on entries, they have opened it up to a wider applicant pool.”
“Cool.”
“Great.”
Aimeigh moves closer to the desk so she can read over Mrs. K’s shoulder.
Jenna stands up straighter, which I didn’t believe was even possible.
“Since you are all seniors,” Mrs. K continues, “I wanted to make sure you saw this as soon as possible. It requires some extensive portfolio preparation, so the more time you have to work on it the better.”
She hands each of us a paper containing the competition information. The application deadline is just before Christmas, so there’s plenty of time. But I can see what she means about it being time intensive. It requires a twenty-four-page portfolio, showcasing as many different techniques, media, and scope as possible. There are several levels of prizes, with the grandd
addy being a whopping $10,000 renewable scholarship to the school of the winner’s choice.
That’s definitely worth putting in the effort.
“I will be available during free periods and before and after school for anyone who wants extra help.” Mrs. K gives us a big smile. “You are all talented and motivated. I am confident that one or more of the winners will come from NextGen.”
“Awesome, Mrs. K,” Aimeigh says.
As the other girls say thank you and begin to filter away, Jenna steps up to the desk. “I’d like to schedule my first session for Monday morning.”
Aimeigh shakes her head as we turn away. “Kiss-up,” she mutters under her breath.
I fold the paper in half and swing my backpack around so I can slip it inside.
“I need to go check something out in the library before trig,” I tell Aimeigh. “I’ll catch you later.”
As I break off and head for the library in Building A, I’m already starting to think about what pieces I might want to include in my portfolio.
On my way to meet Tru in the parking lot, I check my phone and find a voicemail from Tash. That’s weird. She’s almost exclusively a texter.
“If it isn’t my savior!” Tru calls out.
He has a pair of steaming coffee cups in his hands. As I approach, he presses one into my palm.
“My way of saying thank you.” He flashes that shining grin and then opens my door for me.
I drop into the seat. As far as bribes go, caffeine is at the top of my list, with candy coming in at a close second.
Cocking an eyebrow, I ask, “How long is this gratitude going to last?”
“A week or two, at least.”
I yank the door shut.
While he makes the trip around to the driver’s side, I resist the urge to lock him out. Instead, I listen to Tash’s message.
Sloane-I-need-you. Call-me-right-away. I-I-I-please-call. Miss-you.
Her voice sounds tight and emotional sniffles punctuate her faster-than-usual speech.
As Tru climbs in and starts the car, I dial her number.
She picks up on the first ring. “Sloane,” she cries.
“What’s wrong?”
Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru (Creative HeArts) Page 8
