Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"
Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs
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When life gives you a blank canvas, make art.
Sloane Whitaker hates everything about moving to Texas. She hates leaving behind her friends and half her family in New York, starting over senior year at Austin’s NextGen Academy, and having to say she lives in Texas. Most of all, she hates that it’s all her fault. If she wants to earn her way back to the Big Apple, she has to prove she can still be the perfect daughter.
Which means no vandalism art, no trouble at school, and absolutely no Tru Dorsey, her serial screw-up neighbor, who loves nothing more than pushing her buttons.
But from the moment he vaults onto the roof outside her bedroom, there is something about him that makes her want to break every rule. Suddenly it’ s not the ten things she hates about Tru that are at the top of her list. It’s the ten reasons she doesn’t want to be without him.
a Creative HeARTs novel
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Discover more of Entangled Teen Crush’s books…
Aimee and the Heartthrob
Playing the Player
Center Ice
The Truth About Jack
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Tera Lynn Childs. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Crush is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Stacy Abrams
Cover design by Heather Howland
Cover art from iStock
ISBN 978-1-63375-425-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition September 2015
For Tracy, because she collected me, too.
Chapter One
Back home, whenever I needed to think, I would climb out on the fire escape and listen to the sounds of the city. The mix of car alarms, angry horns, and screeching tires was like a lullaby, its chaotic energy soothing me better than chocolate, a hot bath, or a full-body massage ever could. New York City is the soundtrack of my life.
Austin is like a silent film.
Our new suburban neighborhood is unnervingly quiet. No car alarms, no angry horns, no screeching tires. No human sounds at all. Only the occasional dog barking and the irritating chirp of some kind of bug. I’m picturing giant grasshoppers.
No fire escape, either. Instead, I had to push an unopened box under my second story window so I could climb out onto the roof above the living room.
The sky is an unfamiliar shade of midnight, the kind of dark blue you see in pictures and paintings but almost never in Manhattan. My city always has a kind of glow. Easter-egg colored, like a protective bubble of light. This darkness is too vast, too unending.
But at least out here I can breathe.
Inside, with the house too full of boxes and too empty of people, with Mom at the kitchen table, finishing the paperwork to enroll me at Austin NextGen Academy in the morning, telling me how much I am going to love this new place, I was suffocating. My heart rate sped up, and I started to see spots at the edges of my vision.
Rather than pass out on the kitchen floor, I fled to my room and out into the night.
Everything is wrong here. Not just the quiet and the dark. My whole world is missing. No Dad, no Dylan, no Tash or Brice. None of the friends I’ve gone to school with for the last three years.
Starting over senior year is bad enough, but to do it halfway across the country and with no friends and only half my family? That’s torture.
And the worst part is that it’s all my own fault.
I may not have made the decision to uproot and start over—had, in fact, fought tooth and nail to stay in New York—but my actions led to The Plan, and for that I can never forgive myself. Mom and Dad may have put the nails in the coffin, but I handed them the hammer.
Before the panic spots return, I flip open the cover on my tablet and open up my favorite drawing app. When in doubt, create. Stylus in hand, I start sketching out the first cell of the next issue of Graphic Grrl.
This week, Graphic Grrl finds herself in the middle of an empty, desolate ghost town, surrounded by crumbling gray buildings, grasshoppers sporting six-shooters, and fields full of cows. She is about to face down a herd of aggressive tumbleweeds.
Okay, so I haven’t actually seen a tumbleweed yet, but we’ve only been here a couple of days. They must be hiding somewhere.
When life gets too tough to handle, I retreat into Graphic Grrl. She’s my alter ego, a better me in a world I can control. The best therapy technology can buy.
I lose myself in the art. Sketching in the initial shapes and actions. Refining and filling in with detail. I make sure everything in the first cell is perfect before saving it and moving on to the next one. When I’m done, I’ll export them to my laptop so I can clean them up, finalize the line work, and add the color.
I’ve finished the first three sketches when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
A name flashes across the screen: Tash.
I debate not replying. I’m not supposed to talk to her—or any of the other so-called “bad influences” in my life. We’re not supposed to have any contact at all. It’s one of the “Three Rules of Sloane Surviving to Legal Adulthood” that Mom and Dad laid out after The Incident.
That’s not why I consider ignoring the text. Things have been strained between us since The Incident. We’ve only spoken a couple of times all summer, including when I texted her about the Texas plan.
But with so many miles between us—between me and my home—that all seems like a waste of energy. Tash has been my best friend for years. Despite everything that happened, I don’t want to throw that away because I’m mad about one little thing—okay, two not-so-little things. I’ll get over it. I always do.
Besides, at this point I’m desperate for contact with civilization.
I open my messaging app.
Tash: R u in redneck hell?
Me: x1000
Tash: :( kept hoping shemonster would back out
Me: U n me both. She is 2 stubborn
Once Mom sets her mind to something, there’s pretty much no stopping her. Even if it means splitting up her family and moving to the middle of nowhere.
Tash: Hows the house?
A million descriptions flash through my mind. Too big. Too empty. Too…suburban.
Me: Boring, so cookie cutter
Tash: *vomit-gags*
I never thought I would miss our brownstone on the Upper West Side. All my life I’ve wanted to live anywhere but—the Lower East Side, Williamsburg, Park Slope. Somewhere with more edge. More soul. More artistic heart.
But compared to suburban Austin, the Upper West Side is a freaking hippie commune.
At least the brownstone had personality. I miss the cool roughness of the exposed brick on the ground floor, the weird-shaped micro closet in my bedroom, and the ultra-creepy basement. The third step that sounds like a moaning ghost when you step on it just right. The way the upstairs windows rattle in the wind. Every corner had something unique to explore.
This place, with its uniformly plastered and painted walls, slab foundation, and spacious walk-in closet is too…normal.
At least it’s only a rental.
Tash: When duz school start
Me: 2moro
Tash: :( :( :(
Me: Ur telling me
Tash: SODA wont be same w/o u! Who will I sneak out w/ at lunch?
I almost reply, With Brice, but that wound is still too raw. Someday we’ll laugh about it. Not today. Not when Tash will be walking through the doors of the School of Drama and Art next week, the same as we’ve done for the last three years, only this time without me at her side.
Me: U’ll find some1
Tash never has a problem finding friends. Which is probably the only reason we’re besties. For the most part, I’d rather be on my own. Other people tend to get complicated. See: Tash and Brice, relationship of.
I sigh. No use going down that path for the millionth time. I guess if I’m looking for a bright side to being 1,750 miles away (I looked it up—just in case I decide to walk home) it’s that I won’t have to see my best friend and my almost boyfriend play lovebirds before my eyes.
Me: Better go. Skule starts early
Tash: Miss u! xxxooo
Me: Miss u
As I slide my phone back into my pocket, my vision blurs. But I know it’s not a panic attack this time. It’s the realization that life is going on without me back in New York.
Not that I expected Tash’s world to stop spinning. Nothing ever seems to derail her for long. I always knew that her days would go on like normal. I just didn’t expect the thought to hurt this much.
“Get a grip, Whitaker,” I tell myself.
It’s not like self-pity is going to change anything.
No, the only thing that’s going to fix my world is getting home to New York. The sooner the better. I just don’t know how to convince Mom of that.
“Do all New Yorkers talk to themselves?” a teasing male voice calls out from the dark below.
I sit up a little straighter, peering into our yard and the light spilling from the kitchen.
There’s no one there.
I sense movement from the corner of my eye and turn in time to see a boy climb onto the fence between our house and the neighbors’. I can barely make out his features in the glow from the window behind me. Tall, with tan skin and dark hair that falls to his shoulders in an artfully shaggy mess.
This must be the infamous Tru Dorsey.
Great. It’s his mom’s fault that I’m here right now.
Mom didn’t choose Austin out of thin air. She’s a native, born and bred until she went away to New York to attend Columbia Law.
Gramma and Gramps retired to Florida a few years ago, but she still has a lot of friends here, and Uncle Mason isn’t too far away in Dallas.
Mrs. Dorsey is Mom’s college BFF, and she and Mr. Dorsey own this house and like three others in the neighborhood. When she told Mom that the house next to theirs was available, Mom jumped on the chance to get me out of the city and away from my “bad influences”—her words, not mine.
When we arrived, we found the keys in an envelope under the doormat and a letter letting us know that the Dorseys were away on a last-fling-of-summer vacation.
Apparently they’re back.
“Does every Austin-dweller invade their neighbor’s privacy?” I return.
His face is a map of shadows and light, but I can clearly see the Asian influence of his mom’s genetics. High cheekbones, thick slashing brows, a square jaw. The light catches a flash of white teeth from his smile.
“Actually,” he says, not looking down as he walks without wobbling across the top of the fence toward me, “the proper term is Austinites.”
I turn back to my tablet. “I can think of some other terms.”
“I’m wounded,” he says. “You don’t even know me.”
I feel like I do. I’ve heard Mom talk a lot about Tru over the years, how he’s such a disappointment and always in trouble. How Mrs. Dorsey is just heartbroken and doesn’t know how to get through to him, to get him to take his future seriously.
After The Incident, Mom made plenty of comparisons between him and yours truly.
She also gave me an explicit warning to stay away from him.
Not that I need to be warned away from guys like Tru. All false smiles and pretty words, handsome enough to melt the hardest heart, and he knows it. Certain he can flatter or flirt his way out of anything. He and Brice have that in common. I got burned once, and now I carry a fire extinguisher with me at all times.
I focus on my sketching.
There is a scraping sound and then a grunt of effort. When I look toward the fence, he’s gone.
For a second I wonder if he fell—and I probably would feel bad about it if he did—but then I see him hefting himself up over the end of the roof.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Tru pushes to his feet and walks confidently toward me. “Coming to meet the new neighbors.”
“We have a front door.”
“Front doors are so pedestrian,” he says as he plops down next to me.
“Exactly,” I say. “Meaning you’re supposed to walk to them.”
“But this makes our meet-cute so much more memorable.”
“This is not a—”
“Sloane?” Mom’s voice calls from the yard below. “Is that you? I heard footsteps on the roof.”
Her hair appears past the edge of the roof, and I know she’s walking out on the porch so she can turn around and look up. If she does, she’ll see me sitting with Tru Dorsey, and my prison sentence will be upgraded to maximum security. I don’t want to lose what little freedom I have left.
Without stopping to think, I reach over and push Tru down.
When he starts to say something, I slap my hand over his mouth.
“Just getting some air,” I call down as Mom’s face appears in the glow from the porch light.
She frowns. “Is that safe?”
“It’s fine,” I reply.
Considering how much I don’t want to be here, she should be more concerned about the possibility of me jumping off the roof than falling. Tru chooses that moment to lick my palm.
“Eeeep!” I can’t help but squeal as I yank my hand away.
“Sloane?!” Mom gasps.
“I’m fine,” I grind out, throwing a quick glare at Tru, who is grinning like an idiot. I want to wipe my hand on my jeans—because gross—but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Just saw a spider.”
“Have you unpacked yet?” she asks.
I picture my room full of boxes, the packing tape still intact. They are all neatly labeled—thanks to Mom—but inside they’re disasters—thanks to me. I just can’t bring myself to open them. It’ll be like I’ve given up, given in. Like I’m admitting that we’re actually in Texas, which I’m not.
“Some,” I lie.
“Sloane…” Her voice takes on that warning tone.
“Fine,” I say. “Not yet.”
She frowns. “You can’t live out of a suitcase forever.”
Watch me.
I don’t say the retort that itches on my tongue because: points. If holding in my backtalk gets me home sooner, then I can manage.
“Be careful up there,” Mom says. “And don’t stay out all night. We need to get you to school early to finalize your enrollment.”
Lucky me.
She disappears back into the house.
What did I do to deserve this?
Oh right. Destroyed our family in “an act of wanton irresponsibility” and my “unwavering spiral into delinquency.” Parents can be so melodramatic.
“Happy times with Mom,” Tru mocks. “You’re practically the Gilmore Girls.”
At least he’d had the good sense to stay down. If Mom had seen him up here, I would have had to kill him. And I’m pretty sure cold-blooded murder is the final destination on my delinquency spiral.
I flick him a quick glare before punching him in the arm. “Get off my roof.”
“Technically,” he says, pushing to his feet, “it’s my roof. Well, the old man’s roof, anyway.”
He walks without hesitation right down to the edge, right above the spot where, moments ago, Mom stood lecturing up at me. It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall off.
No, it’s a miracle I don’t push him off.
All I want to do is finish the initial sketches for my strip, unpack enough clothes to wear tomorrow, and then bury my head for eternity under the pillows on my hastily bought bed.
He reaches the edge of the roof, executes a left turn, and begins balance-beam walking along the edge. Whatever. If he falls off it’s not my fault.
“Austin’s not so bad,” he says.
I don’t look up. “Are you still here?”
“You’d miss me if I was gone.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Not yet,” he says.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Admit it.“ He leans forward, places all of his weight on his left leg, and swings his right leg out over the porch, arms wide like a tightrope walker’s pole. “You never met a charming stranger on your roof in New York.”
I snort. Charming? He’s about as charming as a subway rat.
“I thought it was your roof,” I retort.
“It is,” he says. “But I’m going to let you have it for a while.”
My brow drops. “Why is that?”
“Because…” he says again, drawing out the word. His face is a study in focus as he brings his right foot back in and places it behind his left. “You clearly need it more than I do right now.”
I’m about to snort again when he squats low, swings his arms back, and then—in a blur of motion—flips over backward. My breath catches in my throat as he lands, then wobbles.
“Tru!” I gasp, tossing my tablet aside so I can rush to his rescue.
He starts laughing before I can even push to my feet. “Gotcha!”
As he stands up straight—and sure-footed—my tablet slides quickly down the sloped roof. I scramble for it, but it darts out of my reach. I watch, helpless, as it picks up speed.
Tru bends down and snatches it right before it sails over the edge.
My heart is pounding, and I don’t know if I want to kill Tru or kiss him.
His mouth kicks into a cocky smile.
I hold out my hand as he treads back up the roof. He holds out my tablet, but as I reach for it, he pulls it out of my grasp.
Kill him. Definitely kill him.
“Tru…” I say, hoping my voice sounds like the deadly warning that it is.
He holds the tablet out to the side.
“I think,” he says, “that my daring rescue deserves a reward.”
I choke out a stunned laugh. “A daring rescue that you caused.”
“Hmmm.” He waggles my tablet menacingly.
“Okay, okay,” I relent. “What reward?”
Honest to God, if he asks for a kiss I’m pushing him off the roof. I don’t care if Mom has a conniption or I go to jail for life. It will have been worth it.
“All I ask for”—he steps closer—“is a smile.”
“A smile?” I echo. “You’ve got to be—”
He lifts his brows.
“Fine,” I say, forcing the corners of my mouth up into an imitation of a smile. I point at my face. “See, I’m smiling.”
He immediately hands over my tablet. “Nice to meet you, Sloane Whitaker.”
Then he turns, jogs back down the roof, and jumps off. I gasp and scramble as close to the edge as I can without following him over. I watch in horror as he walks up to the back door and knocks.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
A second later, Mom opens the door. “Hello, Tru.”
Her voice is taut, and I can just picture the disapproving look on her face. One that would be multiplied by a thousand if she knew he’d just been up here on the roof with me.
“Hi, Mrs. Whitaker,” he says to her, “my mom wanted me to ask you and Sloane over for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, sounding stunned at the very polite invitation. “What time?”
“Seven.”
“Sounds great. We’ll be there.”
He smiles and nods, then turns to walk away. I hear the door shut as I follow his every step. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or enraged.
As he reaches the fence, he turns to look up at me.
“Welcome to Texas,” he says, before vaulting back over into his yard.
Enraged. Definitely enraged.
Tru landed on the grass in his backyard with a satisfying crunch.
When his mom asked him to go next door and invite the Whitakers to dinner, he had totally planned to ring the doorbell. But then he thought, Why go to the front door when you can climb over the fence?
Knowing his father would hate the idea made it all the more appealing.
He was glad he’d had that brilliant idea. When he looked up and saw the girl sitting on the roof, all alone with the light from the window behind her casting an atmospheric glow around her, the pull had been instantaneous. She looked as alone as he felt.
And she hadn’t disappointed.
As he slipped quietly across the yard, he smiled at the memory of their feisty exchange. She was a prickly one. Small but feisty. He liked that in a girl. Liked that she said what she meant and stood up for herself.
There was a fire in her, one she was trying desperately to keep under control. He hadn’t missed the way her green eyes flashed beneath arched brows a shade darker than her chestnut hair, even when she was trying to pull off the don’t-give-a-shit attitude.
It made teasing her more fun, more of a challenge. He would have to work harder to earn a true smile from her, but when he did, it would be worth all the effort.
There weren’t enough people like Sloane Whitaker in the world.
When he reached the back porch, his footsteps automatically softened. He padded across the perfectly stained and sealed boards, carefully avoiding the one halfway across that creaked like a dying goat.
At the door, he squeezed the handle and turned it slowly, careful not to let metal scrape against metal. Once it was open, he slipped inside and closed it again just as quietly.
His body went on autopilot, treading softly past the kitchen toward the stairs.
His foot had just touched the first step when he heard his father’s angry voice.
“He should be in military school.”
Tru couldn’t hear his mother’s response.
Then his father barked, “Oh no, you couldn’t subject your sweet, artistic son to a system of rigorous discipline. Arlington Military Academy is exactly what he needs.”
Tru didn’t need to hear the rest of the conversation. If they could even call it a conversation. His father barked, his mother simpered.
It was a miracle she had saved Tru from being shipped off to military school for this long.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t his mother’s intervention that kept him at home. Despite all the threats, his father didn’t want him out of reach. If he was away at AMA, who would his father berate to feel better about himself? Who would he beat to feel more powerful?
No, his mother might protest the exile, and his father might blame her for preventing it, but Tru knew that military school was an empty threat. Otherwise he would have been sent away years ago.
Tru continued up the stairs, slipping quietly into his room and closing the door behind him. Safe in his personal cave, he dropped into his desk chair and woke up his computer. He had been in the middle of color correcting a scene from the short film he’d worked on over the summer when his mom had asked him to go next door.
He had just gotten back into the file when there was a soft rap on his door. He didn’t answer, knowing she would enter anyway.
Less than a second later, the door cracked open.
“Truman?” his mother’s soft voice asked.
He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah.”
She took his response as an invitation and opened the door the rest of the way. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“Yeah, well, you were in the middle of a conversation.”
The silence was all too predictable.
They didn’t talk about it, never talked about it. As if by some unspoken agreement they had decided not to.
Tru didn’t remember ever agreeing to that.
“Are they coming to dinner?” she asked.
He added a filter to the scene, making the blues brighter and softening the reds and yellows. It instantly made the entire image more vivid. He played the preview, just to make sure it worked throughout the scene.
“Truman?” She fidgeted in the doorway. “Tru?”
“Yes,” he said absently. “They’ll be here.”
To witness the freak show firsthand.
He had to keep that in mind. No matter how much Sloane intrigued him, no matter how much he wanted to draw her out, draw her in, he had to keep her at a safe distance. Seeing the freak show was one thing. Getting caught in it was a whole different mess.
When his mother didn’t leave after getting her answer, Tru’s gut knotted. The longer she waited, the tenser he became. Shoulders stiff, neck tight, breathing shallow.
The longer she took to tell him, the worse it was going to be.
The panic shamed him the most. He knew what was coming. He always survived it. And still, he couldn’t control the fear.
That was, he often thought, his father’s greatest power.
Finally, after waiting long enough that Tru started to worry he might actually throw up, she said, “Your father wants to see you.”
