Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru

by Tera Lynn Childs

  But I’m tired of playing the what-will-get-me-in-the-least-trouble game. And I’m tired of Mom thinking the worst of Tru, when he’s definitely one of the best.

  “No,” I admit. “I wasn’t with Tru Sunday night.”

  She jerks the car two lanes to the left. Clearly Mom is getting used to the Austin traffic scene.

  “Then why in God’s name did you say you were?” She shakes her head. “I swear, Sloane. Sometimes I don’t think you use your brain at all.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I don’t think you know me at all,” I throw back. “You don’t trust me anymore, and I get it. I deserve it. I screwed up, and I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I ruined everything with one stupid mistake. I’m sorry I broke up our family, but—”

  “Honey, no,” Mom interrupts. “You didn’t break up our family. You have to know that.”

  I wave off her words. “But you have to forgive me. I’m still the same daughter I was before The Incident. Someday you’re going to have to trust me again. You might as well start now, because Tru didn’t do it.”

  “You can’t know that.” She shakes her head. “You said yourself he is one of only a couple of students who know about your stunt. Do any of the others who know have a delinquent past?”

  She can’t even see how prejudiced she’s being. All she can see is the serial screw-up that his mom is always telling her Tru is. She’s never even given him a chance. Never actually tried to get to know him or see what he’s really like. Just sentenced him based on gossip evidence from his mom. It must be nice to live in such a black and white world.

  Sure, Tru has screwed up. On multiple occasions. But that doesn’t make him irredeemable.

  “Have you never made a mistake?” I ask, turning the tables on her. “What am I thinking, of course you haven’t. Sorry, not all of us can be as perfect as you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one is perfect,” Mom returns. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes.”

  I almost die of shock that the Queen of Perfection is actually admitting to the occasional error in judgment. “Does that mean we should spend the rest of our lives paying for them? How is that fair?”

  “It’s not fair. That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand since you got arrested!” she throws back. “Choices have consequences. I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life regretting them.”

  Okay. Clearly the can’t-we-all-relate strategy isn’t getting us anywhere.

  Not that I think there is anywhere to get, but she’s my mom, and I don’t want things between us to always be like this. I have to keep trying. For her, for the relationship we used to have, and—right now—especially for Tru.

  “Look, I know the Dorseys have told you some bad things about him,” I explain, keeping my voice even. “And maybe they’re all true. But he’s never in trouble at school. The teachers and administrators adore him. He has a hard time with his parents. That’s it. Tru isn’t a bad guy, he’s just…a difficult son.”

  Mom dives back across traffic as we get closer to our exit.

  “You like the boy, I understand,” she says in a patronizing tone that makes me want to jump out of the car. “You can’t see—”

  “He did it for me, okay?” I blurt.

  I can’t take it anymore, the tiptoeing, the strategizing, the trying to find the right angle. There is no angle. There’s just the truth.

  And the truth is Tru and I care about each other. We shouldn’t be punished for that.

  As she steers off the freeway, she asks, “What do you mean?”

  “He confessed to protect me,” I explain. “He knew I would be blamed even if I didn’t do it, knew it would get me kicked out or worse. So he confessed. He sacrificed himself for me.”

  For once, Mom doesn’t have a response.

  “He didn’t care if I had done it. He still confessed to protect me,” I repeat. “So I have to protect him right back.”

  She’s quiet for a long time. I don’t know what else to say, how else I can make her understand. I’ve tried everything. I just give up.

  Leaning my head against the window, I stare out as the fences and roofs of suburbia drift by.

  When we first made this drive, all I knew of Austin was the bland, boring monotony of the suburbs. But now I know there is a lot more to the city. If I have to be stuck somewhere, at least it’s somewhere with culture. I can think of a million worse places to be.

  Mom stays silent as she navigates our neighborhood, past all the houses that look just alike, down one street and then another until she’s pulling into our driveway. There are no cars in the Dorseys’ driveway, but they park in the garage. They could be having a knock-down, drag-out inside. Or there could be no one home.

  “He really did that?” Mom finally asks, her voice soft. “He confessed to keep you out of trouble?”

  I look away from the house next door. She is staring straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. Maybe things are finally sinking in.

  “Even though he was mad at me,” I explain. “Even though I told him we couldn’t be friends because you would disapprove, and I’d lose any chance of getting back to New York. He had every reason to let me hang, but he sacrificed himself anyway.”

  Mom chews on her bottom lip, lost in thought. Probably trying to figure out whether I have blown my chance of getting back to New York.

  For the first time since she and Dad sprang this whole move-to-Texas plan on me, that’s not my biggest concern. Whether she lets me go home when the quarter ends in a few weeks, or I’m stuck here through the end of the year, I plan to make the most of it. And that means seeing where things lead with Tru.

  Can’t she understand that he put me first? He cares about me and, even though he had no proof that I was innocent—could have thought I was guilty, for all I know—he was still willing to put himself on the line to protect me. He put me first.

  Mom should appreciate that.

  She turns off the ignition.

  “Mom, look,” I say when she reaches for the door. “I know I screwed up. Multiple times. I know I lost your trust, and you don’t want to see me mess up that epically again.”

  When she looks at me, her eyes are glistening.

  “But I’m asking you to trust me on this.” I lay my hand over hers where it rests on her thigh. “Trust me to have learned from my mistakes.”

  “I want to,” she says, looking into my eyes like she might find answers there.

  This is about more than Tru, more than The Incident. This is about me being a responsible almost-adult. About her believing in me again.

  “Trust that I’m too stubborn to be a follower. Just because I hang out with someone who is a screw-up doesn’t mean I’m going to be one, too.” I lean forward so I can look into her eyes. “And Tru is not a screw-up.”

  I wait, anxious, as she processes the conversation. I consider it a really good sign that she’s no longer dogmatically defending her opinion about Tru. No longer dismissing my words as a matter of course. That she is actually thinking about what I’m saying can only be a good sign.

  “Occasional poor decisions aside,” she says, nodding, “you have always been a good judge of character. If you say Tru is a good guy, then I believe you.”

  I sigh with relief, a huge smile on my face. I hadn’t realized how much it bothered me that Mom wouldn’t trust me on this. That I might have really lost her trust for good.

  Maybe, just maybe, re-earning her trust is my first step back to New York. At the very least, it’s the first step back to our old relationship.

  She turns to face me. “Now what?”

  “Now,” I say, my relieved smile turning a bit to the maniacal side, “we find out who tried to set me up.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tru finished editing his short film on the second day of expulsion, so when he woke up on Wednesday afternoon, his first thought was, What the hell am I going to do today?

  His second was, Shit, my parents get home today. />
  They might have been home already.

  No, if they were home, his father would have woken him with a patented David Dorsey alarm clock. Right to the jaw. No, they weren’t home yet, but they would be soon enough.

  He pulled the comforter up over his head and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. When he’d barged into Haverford’s office and confessed to a crime—and a breach of school rules—that he hadn’t committed, his only consideration had been saving Sloane from a punishment she didn’t deserve.

  He hadn’t stopped to think about the punishments he would have to face.

  His mother had started calling within minutes of the security guard escorting him off campus. Though his father hadn’t called once, Tru knew this wasn’t a secret his mother would keep.

  He might have had a short reprieve while they were off recreating their honeymoon in Galveston, but as soon as they got home, the fight would be epic.

  Well, if he was going to die, he might as well spend his last hours doing something he enjoyed: watching movies.

  He was halfway through Return of the Jedi when he heard the garage door opening. If he hid out in his room, things would only be worse. He was tired of hiding. Tired of cowering, of sneaking through his life. If he could stand up for Sloane, he could stand up to his father. So he paused the movie—only somewhat optimistic that he would be alive later to finish it—and headed downstairs to meet the coming storm head on.

  When his mother walked through the door alone, he held his breath. Waiting.

  But the door remained shut. His father never followed.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “He had to go into the office,” Mom explained. “Some big new case.”

  “I don’t—” Tru shook his head, not understanding. “Didn’t you tell him about the expulsion?”

  To his shock, his mother stepped forward and placed her hands on his face. “Why didn’t you tell Principal Haverford the truth?”

  “The truth?” he echoed. What was she talking about?

  “We went to the school as soon as we got into town,” she explained. “To see if they could be convinced to reinstate your enrollment.”

  Convinced as in bribed. His father wasn’t afraid to throw money around if it would give him what he wanted.

  “While we were there,” his mother continued, “Sloane came in and told us everything.”

  His heart slammed against his chest. “Everything?”

  He had no idea what everything meant, but his breath quickened more than he would like.

  His mother stepped close, her voice a gentle whisper. “She told us the two of you spent the night together. That you couldn’t have been the vandal.”

  Tru was stunned. “She did?” he asked dumbly. “Why would she do that?”

  He hadn’t meant to ask the second question out loud. It just…came out. He had tried to save her, to save her chances of getting out of this hellhole before it sucked her in as deep as it had him. Why would she throw that away?

  “The real question,” his mother replied, “is why didn’t she say anything in the first place?”

  Tru couldn’t seem to make sense of what his mother was telling him. Sloane had lied. To protect him. She had lied, even knowing that it would probably destroy her chances of getting back to New York.

  “It’s complicated,” he told his mother.

  But in truth, it had just gotten a lot simpler.

  His mother frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

  He knew why he had confessed to the vandalism: to protect someone he cared about. If she had fabricated this alibi for the same reason, then he had reason to be happy. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had something to genuinely smile about.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hey.”

  The Tru who walks up to me before school the next day isn’t the same Tru I’ve known for just over a couple weeks. Gone is that cocky, charming smile. The mischievous glint in his eyes. The arrogant tilt to his head.

  No, the Tru who stands before me today is totally subdued. Raw. True.

  “Hey,” I say back. “Principal Ben let you come back?”

  He nods. “Thanks to you.”

  His clothes are slightly less disheveled than usual. The ironic tie that hangs loose around his white button-down is actually pretty straight. And his shirt is tucked in. Well, half tucked in. I can see the white hem hanging out below his black jacket in the back.

  He has never looked more sincere.

  And I have never felt the urge to kiss him more.

  I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is,” he says, stepping closer. “Thank you.”

  With only a few inches separating us, his head hanging low so he can whisper, it would only take a little lift. I would only have to rise on my toes an inch or two to close the distance.

  But we’re still in an uncertain place, and I’m not sure that will make anything better. And I’m not sure that I want to push things in that direction.

  My relationship history is rocky enough. I’m going home soon, hopefully. Anything between us would only complicate my leaving.

  “You’re welcome,” I answer, turning away from him to busy myself with my books. “But I didn’t do it for you.”

  “No?” he says, leaning against the locker next to mine.

  I don’t have to look at him to know that the cocky smirk has returned. I can hear it in his voice.

  “No,” I say, slamming my locker shut and whirling to face him, “I did it for me.”

  His brows draw together, confused, like he can’t see what I could possibly get out of saving his ass from Principal Ben’s lawnmower. But he’s still smiling.

  “I didn’t vandalize the school,” I explain. “And I know you didn’t.”

  He shrugs one shoulder.

  “But someone did. That someone clearly wanted me to take the fall for it.” My blood boils at the very thought. “Someone knew I would be blamed and wanted me kicked out because of it.”

  His smile falls. He considers my words for a moment before answering. “You’re right.”

  I give him an obviously shrug.

  He runs a hand over his shaggy hair, sending the straight, shiny locks into every direction. My fingers itch to smooth them back into place.

  “Who would do that?” he asks. “Who would want you out of NextGen?”

  “Not only that,” I say. “Who even knew about the original vandalism?”

  “Aim and me,” he says. His mouth twists into a wry smirk. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I know,” I say. “You’re good with secrets.”

  We start walking down the hall, heading toward the AGD classroom.

  “I haven’t made any enemies that I know of,” I say as we turn a corner. “I can’t see any of the faculty doing this. Aimeigh’s my friend. She has no reason to want me gone, and she swears she hasn’t told anyone else. She thinks it’s Jenna.”

  “For real?” Tru sounds surprised.

  “Yeah. She thinks Jenna overheard the conversation when I told you guys the truth,” I explain. “Remember she came up to us right after?”

  He nods slowly, like he remembers but doesn’t necessarily believe.

  “Jenna is a weird one,” he says, “I’ll give you that. But pull off something like this?”

  “That’s what I thought. But I don’t know who else to suspect.”

  “Yeah, I guess…”

  We reach the end of Building C and the door to Mrs. K’s classroom.

  “Want to meet up for lunch?” he asks. “Maybe we can brainstorm some ways to smoke Jenna out.”

  “Sounds good.” I nod. “I’ll bring Aimeigh. We can meet at that same picnic table.”

  He smiles at me. For a moment, just a fleeting instant, he pauses like he wants to lean in. Wants to kiss me good-bye.

  And for that same instant, I want him to.

  Is it possible he’s feeling the same pul
l that I am? Are we back in that place? Before the vandalism, before Abbey Road?

  Then he pulls back. “See you at chow time.”

  Apparently we’re not there yet.

  I watch him walk away and stare at the spot even after he’s gone. I force myself to turn away. To focus on the real problem: the vandal. My mind is full of thoughts—none of them make sense, just a jumble of words and names and places and motives—as I walk into the AGD classroom and take my seat. Jenna is, of course, already there.

  As Mrs. K readies something on her computer, I grab my supplies and get ready for the free sketch period. My mind is so full of other things that I can’t think of anything to sketch. I hold my pencil above the paper, waiting for inspiration to strike.

  When it doesn’t, I fall back on something that my very first art teacher in fifth grade taught me.

  When all else fails, draw the world.

  Meaning you should take inspiration from the world around you when you have none of your own.

  I start at the bottom of the page, sketching the surface of the table I share with Jenna. Slick white melamine, with a soft glare and a few scuff marks from overeager artists who couldn’t contain their work to the page.

  I sketch Jenna’s hands, small and delicate as she creates yet another one of her recurring shape drawings into her new sketchbook. Could she really have set me up? Honestly, she doesn’t seem like she has enough imagination to come up with the idea in the first place. She has decent technique, but her artistic voice is lacking.

  Then again, maybe that explains the copycat art. She couldn’t come up with her own epic art, so she ripped off mine.

  Maybe.

  I expand my sketch to include the other tables in the room. From the back row, I have a clear view of them all. There are eight tables in all, enough to seat sixteen students.

  As I rough sketch the tables and begin to pencil in the students seated at each one, I notice something. Several of the seats are empty.

  On the first day of class, every seat was occupied—hence the fact that I got the last available next to Jenna. Now, there are several open spaces.

  I pull up my memory of that first day and picture who was seated where.