Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru

by Tera Lynn Childs

  I don’t want to give that up.

  My phone dings with a text message sound. It’s a reply from Mom, saying that she just got my message, and she’ll be home late with takeout.

  “Same old Mom,” I mutter as I shoot back an ok.

  “Raising parents is so hard,” Tru teases.

  There is a smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Right?” I slide my phone back into my pocket. “You’d think they’d be grateful we don’t just run away.”

  His mouth lifts up into a halfhearted smirk. “Mine would throw a party.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “And not just any party,” he says. “An epic freaking gala.”

  There it is again, that bleak emptiness I saw in his eyes the morning after he showed up at my window, drunk. The emptiness that his dad put there.

  I don’t know if I should go there. I mean, we’re barely friends—or whatever we are—but I have to think that he doesn’t let slip even these tiny invitations into the inner Tru with just anyone. I can’t just let it slide.

  “So,” I say, careful to keep my voice soft, “I guess things aren’t great between you and your dad?”

  Tru lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “That’s the understatement of the millennia.”

  “Has it always been bad?”

  He shrugs. “Pretty much.”

  What can I say that might even remotely come close to making it better? Nothing, probably, but I feel like I have to try. Tru did an amazing thing for me today. I have to do something to repay him.

  “I think most kids have trouble with their parents some of the time.”

  “Yeah, well—” Tru stares down at the nachos, his dark eyes vacant. “Most of the trouble probably doesn’t end with a bloody nose.”

  It takes me a full three seconds to process the subtext of his words. His arguments with his dad aren’t just vocal…they’re violent.

  “Yours or his, Tru?” I ask.

  He looks up at me, smirking. “Does it matter?”

  Damn right it does. “Yours or his?”

  His gaze drops back to the nachos, and I know the answer even before he says, “Mine.”

  I gasp and clutch my hand to my chest as my heart drops. How could Mr. Dorsey do that to his own son? I’ve been in their house. I ate at their table.

  My stomach threatens to reject the nachos.

  “You have to tell someone,” I insist, reaching out to take his hand.

  “I just did.”

  He rubs his thumb back and forth across my palm. Like he needs that point of touch, of physical connection. I need it, too.

  “Someone like the police. Does your mom know?”

  He whispers, “I can handle it.”

  I don’t miss that he didn’t answer my question.

  “Tru—”

  “Really, Sloane,” he says, looking straight into my eyes, “it’s nothing I can’t take for a few more months.”

  He means it. I can tell he means it. But that doesn’t mean I like it.

  “I…I’m not okay with this.”

  There is extra pressure as he squeezes my hand, leans forward across the table. Brushes his lips across mine in the briefest touch. A gentle friction. My lips feel like they’re raw, on fire. My eyes flutter, but I don’t let them close. I don’t want to miss a heartbeat of this moment.

  This isn’t my first kiss, but it’s the first that sends lightning bolts through my entire body. That makes me feel lightheaded and powerful at the same time. That feels like so much more than a kiss.

  I draw in a ragged breath, filling myself with his scent—warm skin with hints of woodsy spice. I want to sink into him, to wrap my arms around him and never let him go.

  To protect him from something he shouldn’t have to face.

  “Trust me,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

  I don’t want to just let this go. He shouldn’t have to experience this. No one should.

  “If it ever gets too bad,” I say, trying to blink my eyes back into focus, “you can always knock on my window. Day or night. I want to help.”

  “You already have,” he says. “Just telling you makes it better.”

  If that’s what he needs from me, then that’s what I’ll give him. But the moment I think it crosses a line into something he can’t handle, I’m stepping in. Whether he likes it or not.

  When the nachos are gone, Tru dumps the plastic tray in the recycling.

  As we walk to the door, he says, “How does this rank?”

  “On a scale of what?”

  He pushes the door open. “First dates.”

  I almost trip over the doorjamb.

  My breathing quickens, and I feel the surge of adrenaline flood my bloodstream. The surge of joy swell my heart.

  This is not good. So not good. Tru Dorsey cannot make my heart flutter. Tru Dorsey cannot slip past my defenses. I can’t let this become more than it’s already becoming. I have too much at stake.

  I have to recover.

  “I don’t think it counts as a date if you kidnap the girl,” I retort.

  “Don’t think of it as kidnapping,” he says. “Think of it as unexpected positioning.”

  “So…kidnapping.”

  When we get to the car, he circles around to my side and opens the door for me. “Fine, kidnapping.”

  “On the scale of kidnapping”—I drop into the passenger seat—“it’s at least a seven.”

  He laughs. “Then I’ll have to work harder next time.”

  Next time. As much as I know I shouldn’t, I like the sound of that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aimeigh cancels Thursday’s ArtSquad practice so we can meet with Mrs. K to work on our scholarship portfolios. Putting mine together meant actually unpacking a box—Mom would shoot off fireworks if she knew—to find the external drive with all my digital archives.

  A lot of my work is created digitally, but I’ve carefully photographed and documented even the analog projects. I have high-res pictures of paintings, collages, sculptures, even the lopsided vases I made in elementary school.

  It’s all in there. It’s just a matter of pulling out the pieces that best suit the scholarship.

  Mrs. K is projecting our portfolios on the whiteboard so we can participate in each other’s critiques.

  “Oh, I like this one, Hannah,” she says, stopping on a digital painting of an eye. “There’s a lot of detail. It almost feels real.”

  As I look around the room, I realize there are only four of us here. Hannah, whose portfolio is currently being critiqued; Liza, who is desperately trying to get her computer off the blue screen of death; Aimeigh; and me. There were seven of us at that first meeting with Mrs. K. Jaq has been expelled, but where is Jenna? And what happened to Mira?

  Last time I saw her was when Principal Ben came and escorted her out of senior seminar.

  Curious, I lean over to Aimeigh. “Where’s Mira?”

  “Suspended,” she whispers.

  “For what?”

  Aimeigh shrugs. “I heard drug possession, but who knows?”

  “That’s crazy.”

  No, seriously. That’s crazy. Why would Jaq get expelled for cheating, but Mira just gets suspended for having drugs, which is legit illegal? It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe Aimeigh has it wrong.

  “Okay, Sloane, your turn,” Mrs. K says.

  I hand over my flash drive, and soon my portfolio cover slide is projecting onto the screen. But before she can plug it into the computer, Jenna comes bursting into the room.

  “It’s gone,” she gasps.

  Mrs. K looks at her. “Jenna, are you okay?”

  “No,” she says, panting as she shakes her head. “My portfolio,” she says between gasping breaths. “It’s gone.”

  “You must have misplaced it,” Mrs. K suggests.

  “I’ve looked everywhere,” Jenna says, her voice getting tighter and higher with every word.


  She is clearly on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t you have a backup copy?” I ask.

  Aimeigh shakes her head. “Jenna works on paper.”

  “My sketchbook,” Jenna says, “is all I have.”

  Then the tears start, and we are all at Jenna’s side in an instant. A big, sympathetic art group hug. Even Aimeigh, who can’t stand Jenna. I can imagine what I would feel like if the entire archive of my art—even a portion of it—disappeared. I would be devastated.

  For once, I think everyone is on Jenna’s side.

  Tru is waiting outside the AGD classroom when the first period bell rings. He falls in step with us as Aimeigh and I walk into the hall. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten at Abbey Road.”

  “What?” I ask with a laugh.

  “It is an Austin institution,” Aimeigh says.

  “They have an entire menu full of your granola vegan rabbit food.”

  “I’m not vegan,” I argue, as if that’s the point. “Why are you tormenting me with this now, when I’m trapped on campus for lunch?”

  We reach the end of the hall and I push open the door to outside, preparing to head for the cafeteria. Tru blocks my path.

  “Aha!” He raises his finger. “That is my point. You are not trapped on campus for lunch.”

  “Yes I—”

  He presses his raised finger to my lips before I can finish. I throw Aimeigh a help me look, but she just shrugs.

  “I have wheels,” he says, “and you have lunch followed by free period.”

  Aimeigh nods. “More than enough time to get there and back.”

  I wrap my hand around Tru’s wrist. “Oh no. I am not getting caught sneaking off campus for lunch. Mom would weld me into my room.”

  I push past him and step out into the sunlight.

  Aimeigh winces. “That sounds painful.”

  “Exactly,” I say, as if she’s made my point.

  “We won’t get caught,” Tru argues, catching up to me in two long strides. “I promise. If we do, you have my permission to say I kidnapped you.”

  “Again,” I mutter.

  “I’ll cover for you,” Aimeigh says. “If you’re not back in time, I’ll tell Mr. Vasquez we have ArtSquad practice.”

  “You aren’t coming?” Tru asks.

  “I have my gourmet lunch.” Aimeigh lifts her brown bag. “And library aide after. You two kids have fun.”

  “I can’t,” I repeat, although no one seems to be listening to me.

  Tru pulls me to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing other students to stream around us.

  “Please.” He gets down on his knees, like convincing me to go with him will make him the happiest man on earth. “My treat.”

  One look into his soft brown eyes, glinting with danger and adventure, and I know I’m lost.

  “One time,” I say, holding up my own finger. “That’s it.”

  Tru jumps to his feet and grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Be safe!” Aimeigh calls out cheerfully. “Don’t do anything I would do!”

  We cross the lawn and circle around Building A as casually as possible, trying to make it look like we are going somewhere totally legitimate. But the moment we clear the edge of the parking lot, we run. Dashing for Tru’s car, which is—of course—in the far back corner.

  By the time we’re inside and driving away, we’re both panting.

  “Oh my God,” I say between pants, “I haven’t run that fast since fifth grade field day and I wanted to win the Superman tee prize.”

  “Did you?”

  “You know it.”

  He laughs as we pull onto the freeway. Traffic isn’t the worst I’ve seen, but by the time we get to the tiny green house that houses the Abbey Road restaurant, I’m starting to feel nervous that we won’t get back in time.

  But I push that worry away as we go inside.

  The interior is small, but luckily there is a table open and we get seated right away. After I order migas—a Tex-Mex skillet scramble that Tru insists is the house specialty—and he orders a jumbo stack of cinnamon swirl pancakes, the waitress takes our menus and we’re left to fill the silence.

  “Pancakes?” I raise my brows skeptically. “For lunch?”

  He grins. “It’s always the right time for pancakes.”

  “Fair point,” I reply with a smile of my own.

  There is just something so easy about talking to Tru. Like we’ve been friends forever, instead of only a few days. One minute we’re discussing last meal choices, the next his plans to become a filmmaker and mine to become the next Stan Lee. Favorite pets (we’re both dog people), car movies (I’m a Fast & Furious girl, he prefers the more atmospheric Gone in 60 Seconds), and holidays (he picks St. Patrick’s Day for the color palette, while I choose the extreme fireworks of Independence Day and/or New Year’s). We cover anything and everything. Except family situations—his or mine.

  For this space of time, we’re in our own bubble. Nothing outside of Abbey Road matters. By the time our waitress returns with our food, I feel like we know each other better than anyone else.

  “One vegetarian migas,” the waitress says, sliding the plates onto the table, “and one cinnamon swirl stack.”

  My mouth starts watering immediately.

  “Can I get y’all anything else?” she asks.

  “We’re good,” Tru says.

  Oh yeah. We are so good.

  I practically inhale the food. Between my overflowing plate and the several bites of pancake that Tru makes me try, soon I feel like I’m ready to explode.

  “You know, I’m actually glad I came,” I tell him, collapsing against the back of my chair.

  “Did you think you wouldn’t be?” he asks with a laugh.

  I shrug. “It was a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  The question takes me aback. Why did I come?

  “I think…I needed a taste of freedom. Mom’s kept me on such a short leash I feel like I’m strangling.”

  Tru leans his elbows on the table and smiles. “Then I’m double glad I convinced you to come.”

  There is something so sweet about his words that my cheeks burn. I look around to hide my blush.

  Abbey Road has a simple décor, with a mishmash of different tables and chairs and walls covered in big stars and Texas flags. The music is cool, too. A steady stream of indie beats.

  Just as I’m starting to nod my head to the groove, the song changes to “Pieces of Heart” by Buffalo Range.

  I sigh. “I love this song.”

  “You dig Buffalo Range?”

  “With a fiery passion.”

  He purses his lips. “They’re coming to Austin City Limits next month.”

  “Seriously?” I bolt up straight in my chair. “You’re not messing with me?”

  “Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up his hands in a mock Boy Scout salute.

  No way Tru Dorsey was ever a Boy Scout.

  “If you’re still around,” he says, “I’ll take you. My dad’s office always gets tickets.”

  “If I’m still around,” I reply with a smile, “I’ll let you.”

  We’re both grinning when, from across the small restaurant, a familiar voice says, “Table for two, please.”

  I look up to see Mom and a woman in a gray pantsuit standing just inside the door, waiting for the hostess to find them a table.

  “Oh crap.”

  I don’t think. In a flash, I’m on my hands and knees under the table.

  “Um, Sloane,” Tru leans down to look at me.

  “Shhhh!” I try to mouth, My mom is here, but he just frowns in confusion.

  Then, before I can explain, he’s on the floor right next to me.

  “What’s going on?” he whispers in my ear. “Are we ditching on the bill?”

  “What? No!” I’m not above petty trespassing or other no-victim crimes, but I draw the line at theft. And everything on the other s
ide of that line.

  I move so my mouth is right next to his ear. “My mom is here.”

  “Well that sucks.”

  I peer around him to see if she’s moved from the door, but I can’t see anything. “She’s going to kill me.”

  “Obviously,” he says, his voice full of way more humor than I’m capable of right now.

  My vision starts to swirl as the true panic sets in. “If she catches me with you,” I whisper, “it’ll be even worse.”

  His grin fades. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He digs out his wallet and reaches up to set a few bills on the table, then starts to crawl past me. I wait, shaking and on the verge of puking up my scrambled eggs and tortilla chips.

  Suddenly, something behind me crashes to the floor, followed by the slosh of water and ice.

  “Go,” he says, pushing me toward an exit sign in the back.

  I head for the door, making it halfway across the restaurant before I hear Mom’s voice call out, “Sloane?”

  I freeze, my heart hammering against my chest. This is it. My life is over. Mom has caught me off campus at lunch with the screw-up neighbor. What little hope I had of ever getting home has evaporated without possibility of a second chance.

  As I spin around to face her, I expect to find Tru right behind me.

  But he’s nowhere in sight.

  I hold my breath, not sure if I should be relieved or concerned.

  “Sloane?” Mom says again, her voice sharper this time. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, um…” I glance around one more time and see no sign of Tru. “Having lunch?”

  “Having lunch?” she echoes. Her heels echo on the hardwood floor. “NextGen has a closed campus.”

  “I know, I just… I needed to get away for a while.”

  “Get away?” Her voice is practically a shriek. “How did you even get here?”

  “I took the bus.”

  “The bus?”

  Now that irritates me. I’ve taken the bus countless times in my life. The idea that I took one today should not shock her this much.

  “Yes, Mom, the bus. I am capable.”

  “Of course you are, but—”

  “Oh my God, this is why I needed to sneak away for lunch. I feel like I’m in prison, like my every move is being watched and cataloged for later review.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “I just needed to feel in control for a little while.”