Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

After AGD, I have lunch and free period. NextGen is a closed campus, which means I can’t leave to find food. Since it’s the first day of school and I don’t have any work to actually work on or friends to sit with—and I’m not looking to make any on this temporary detour—I decide to find a quiet corner where I work on finishing up the sketches for the next Graphic Grrl set while I eat. I was prepared for Austin to be a hellish pit of heat and humidity—it is Texas, after all—but amazingly enough the climate is not that different from New York in summer. And, if I’m being honest, it smells better.

So grabbing a lunch to go—an egg salad sandwich from the cafeteria and an apple juice from the vending machine by the front office—I head outside. I know exactly where I want to work.

At the center of the big geometric web-work of sidewalks is a giant sculpture. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It looks like someone dipped a Pokémon in stainless steel and set it on a square granite base. Still, it’s pretty cool. And since it’s after noon, there’s a bit of a shadow on the east side.

As I approach, I sling my backpack onto the ground and then drop to the grass. The base of the statue is still warm from the passing sun. It feels good on my back.

I close my eyes and let my spine connect with the warm stone. If I imagine hard enough, maybe I can make myself believe I’m sitting on the roof of SODA with Tash or against the arch in Washington Square Park. Only without the smell of pee and body odor.

Though I’m tempted to take a nap—everything about this spot feels nice and relaxing—I need to make progress on my sketches. Once I started publishing regularly, every Sunday, my fans started getting pretty rabid about it. If I’m even a few hours late they start hounding Graphic Grrl on her social media accounts. So I unwrap my sandwich, pull out my tablet, and get to work.

I lose myself in the process. The collection of shapes that create Graphic Grrl have become part of my physical memory. My hand goes on autopilot. I’ve been drawing her since the seventh grade, in one form or another.

Freshman year I showed some of my strips to Tash. Before that they were my secret, the hidden art I had never shown anyone. She convinced me to start publishing them anonymously online. It’s been our secret ever since.

Mom and Dad don’t know. Even Dylan doesn’t.

I’d been on the verge of telling Brice, but, well, that all went to hell in an instant, so I’m glad I didn’t. What a nightmare that would have been.

Graphic Grrl and I have been through a lot. Bad breakups. Fights with Tash. The Incident.

And now, the fallout.

As much as I miss home right now, as long as I have Graphic Grrl in my pocket then I think I will get through things all right.

“The last girl who sat under this statue died in a grisly axe murder,” Tru’s voice says from behind me.

I immediately click out of my drawing app, hiding Graphic Grrl safely away and swapping her for my class schedule, which I had captured in a pic and then tossed in the nearest recycling bin.

Austin apparently loves its recycling. Three big bins—blue for paper, green for glass, and red for plastic—are at practically every corner. And each building also has extra bins outside for cardboard, metal, and compost.

I’m all for saving the planet, but I don’t think I’ve seen a real trash can.

Tru’s shadow moves over me. “They say she still haunts the school.”

“Too bad for her I don’t believe in ghosts,” I toss back.

“She’ll haunt you for that.”

I ignore him. My next—and last, thank heaven for small miracles—class of the day starts in ten minutes: 3D rendering in Building F. I have plenty of time to hit the girls’ room first and dump my lunch containers in the recycle bins on the way.

I start across the lawn toward Building F. Tru falls in step beside me.

“Is there a reason you’re following me?”

“Two, actually.”

He doesn’t elaborate and I really don’t want to ask, but I can’t help myself. “And those reasons are?”

“One,” he says with a big grin, “if you recall, I am your official campus guide for the day.”

“My official campus guide who ditched me at the first opportunity,” I throw back.

“And two,” he says with a chiding tone, like he’s annoyed by my interruption, “I happen to also have class in Building F next period.”

He flashes me a smile that I’m sure he thinks is charming-as-hell. All I see is a flashing sign that says Danger. Whether or not I actually believe he’s reformed, nothing about Tru Dorsey is anything but trouble for me. Trouble in the form of Mom canceling our deal. Trouble in the form of repeating the Brice-induced heartbreak. Trouble in the form of an attachment in a place I don’t intend to be for any longer than absolutely necessary.

I walk faster. With any luck, the class will go by quickly so I can get home and back to Graphic Grrl.

Chapter Four

Tense commute, the sequel.

Mom was more than half an hour late to pick me up. She sent me a bunch of running late and sorry be there soon and almost there messages.

Like I was in a hurry to spend another awkwardly silent car ride. I probably could have walked home in the time it took her to get there. But instead, I worked. I got more than half of my Graphic Grrl sketches done.

I’m used to waiting on Mom. Work and errands and appointments always seem to take ten times longer than she expects. At least back home I didn’t need her to get me from school.

What am I, in kindergarten?

Whatever, bygones. I survived. Now I’m in my room, sprawled on my bed, finishing the last of my initial sketches. This new mattress doesn’t creak like my one back home. Normally that would be a plus, but it’s become part of my process, my creative soundtrack, to listen to the rhythmic squeak as I bounce my feet on the bed.

To fill the void, I pull on my headphones and rock out to Carman Ten’s latest album. My stylus flies across the screen, leaving a trail of pixels in its wake. The faster the beat of the music, the faster my fingers fly.

I’m just putting the finishing touches on the last cell when my door swings open.

“Mom!” I shout, yanking off my headphones and leaping off the bed.

I make sure to toss my tablet face down.

She looks totally unapologetic. “I knocked three times.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to barge in.”

This never used to happen. Before The Incident my privacy was sacred. Mom and Dad wanted to be the kind of “cool” parents who didn’t dig into their kids’ personal stuff. They gave me as much freedom and independence—with school, friends, life—as I wanted.

Getting arrested has a way of erasing trust.

“What?” I demand when she just scowls at me.

“We’re late,” she says.

I frown back at her. “For what?”

“Dinner.” She turns away. “At the Dorseys’.”

“Great,” I mutter. I’d totally forgotten.

“You have five minutes,” Mom says as she disappears down the stairs.

I give the idea of changing clothes a total of three seconds and then dismiss it completely. We’re not going to a fancy restaurant. My school clothes are totally suitable.

A breeze wafts in through my open window, and I decide to add a black hoodie to my mourning clothes. I give myself two minutes in the bathroom to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some intense red lip gloss, mostly because I think it will bother Mom. And maybe partly because I’m hoping it will bother Tru.

I’m ahead of deadline, but drag my feet a few more minutes, just to make her wait. Turnabout’s fair play.

I don’t emerge until she’s called my name twice.

“Coming,” I shout as I thunder down the stairs. “Let’s get this o—” I freeze when I see a casserole dish in her hands. “What is that?”

“Peach cobbler.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No, I made it,” she says, as if her baking is an everyday occurrence.

I can count the number of times she’s baked back home on zero hands. Mom’s idea of home cooking is eating takeout in the dining room. Since when does she know how to do more with an oven than reheat leftovers?

I spend the short walk next door inhaling the alluring smell of peaches and sugar and throwing sidelong glances at the stranger next to me. Who is this woman and what has she done with my never-met-a-takeout-menu-she-didn’t-love mother?

Mom doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes open the door and calls out, “We’re here. Sorry we’re late.”

Mrs. Dorsey comes bustling into the front. “Lizzie,” she cries, pulling my mom into a huge hug.

Mrs. Dorsey hasn’t changed since the time she and her husband came to New York when I was like seven. Still tiny and intense, with blunt bangs, perfect skin, and a rough voice that is totally at odds with her delicate appearance.

“Oh Miko,” Mom says, “it’s so good to see you.”

They hug for longer than a normal, good to see you greeting. When Mom pulls away, Mrs. Dorsey’s eyes glisten with emotion.

She turns to me. “Sloane?” Her gaze takes me in from head to toe. “No way.”

I shrug. What? I’m supposed to say, Yes way?

I’m not that cliché.

“Hey Mrs. Dorsey.”

“Mrs. Dorsey?” She makes a hissing sound with her teeth. “You call me Miko.”

She wraps me in just as tight a hug as she did Mom. I awkwardly hug her back. I am momentarily transported by the smell of orange blossoms.

“Come in, come in,” she says, waving us inside. She takes the cobbler from Mom. “David is grilling out back.”

We follow her down the hall, into the kitchen, where she sets the cobbler on the counter. The thing that stands out to me as we walk through the house is how it looks just as clean and perfect as ours next door. Only we’ve lived in ours for just a few days and we don’t have a teen boy with us. No dust, no scuffs, not even a stray pair of shoes by the front door. The Dorsey house is like a showroom.

“Truman!” she shouts.

When there is no immediate response, she yells his name again.

Still nothing.

She shakes her head. “That boy. Come, let’s see what David has cooking.”

I eagerly follow outside, wanting to escape this eerily perfect house. But the back porch, a mirror image of ours next door, smells like burning meat. My stomach rolls. I wish I could bury my nose back in Mrs. Dorsey’s orange blossom scent.

“It smells delicious,” Mom says.

Mr. Dorsey turns at the sound of her voice. “Elizabeth,” he says with a warm smile. “You made it.”

He is older than I remember. Then again, I haven’t seen the Dorseys in more than a decade. But where Mrs. Dorsey looks exactly the same, Mr. Dorsey has a lot more gray in his hair and crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He still has the stiffest, straightest posture I have ever seen. If I were one to be self-conscious, I would un-slump a little.

Thank goodness I’m not.

I look past him to the grill and see rows of thick steaks. Only steaks. Great. Looks like side dishes for dinner.

Mr. Dorsey turns his attention to me. “Sloane, you’re all—” He stops, glances over his shoulder at the grill, and then back at me. “Something wrong?”

“Um, no,” I say, trying not to sound totally rude. “It’s just…I’m a vegetarian.”

“Since when?” Mom asks.

Is she kidding? “Since the eighth grade.”

She stares at me, unblinking, like she’s never seen me before. God, if she doesn’t even know I’m a vegetarian, then maybe she hasn’t.

And here I thought we had a good relationship before The Incident.

“I just thought you really liked vegetables,” she finally says.

I bite back whatever accusations I want to throw her way. Embarrassing her in front of her friends won’t win me any Mom points, which means it won’t get me any closer to closing our deal. It won’t get me any closer to home.

“I think I have some portobello steaks in the garage,” Mrs. Dorsey says. “I’ll go get them.”

She’s gone for a couple minutes, and I stand silent as Mom and Mr. Dorsey make it’s-been-so-long small talk.

In these kinds of awkward gatherings, I usually have Dylan to joke around with. He and Dad should be here. No, Mom and I should be back home, but, barring that, Dylan and Dad should be here. But where Mom could take a leave of absence from the firm, Dad couldn’t leave his job for this long.

Which gives me even more motivation to satisfy the requirements of Mom’s deal. It’s not just my life that’s been torn apart by this move. It’s my entire family’s.

By the time Mrs. Dorsey returns with the mushrooms, I’ve actually resorted to hoping Tru will show up. Anything to distract me from this soul-crushing tedium.

“Sloane,” she says after handing them to her husband, “we have pink lemonade in the kitchen. Would you go pour glasses for everyone?”

“Sure,” I say, thankful for the excuse to escape.

I slip inside. It takes me all of a few seconds to fill the six glasses, but the last thing I want is to go back out on the porch. Between the small talk and the smell of burning meat, it’s like the seventh circle of hell. So I grab a glass of lemonade and lean back against the counter in a spot where they can’t see me from the porch.

I should have brought my tablet. At least then the night wouldn’t have been a total waste. I upend my glass and gulp the contents.

“Slow down, New York. No one wants to see that pink lemonade again.”

I finish my chug before lowering the cup and throwing my best panhandler-repelling glare.

Like me, he’s still got on his school clothes. But he’s ditched the blazer and wrapped his tie around his wrist like a layered bracelet. The cool black-and-white palette is broken up by the spots of smooth, golden tan skin where his shirtsleeves are rolled up and where his top three buttons are undone.

It’s almost impossible to hold a glare in the face of such appealing dishevelment. Almost, but I manage.

“Dinner at the Dorseys’,” he says, dripping with disdain. “You’re in for a treat.”

He looks through the glass pane of the back door to where our parents—correction, his parents and my mom—are gathered. There is something angry in Tru’s look. Almost resentful.

I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of those kinds of feelings from Tru.

No, I shouldn’t want to be on the other end of any feelings from Tru.

“I think I’ll survive,” I say, trying to lighten the tension.

His eyes sparkle as he looks back at me. “Yeah, you just might.”

For a moment our gazes hold, and I don’t want to look away. I’m not sure what it is about him that pulls at me, especially considering how many things about this situation are warning me to stay far, far away. But I can’t deny that there is some kind of connection here.

I fist my hand at my side to keep from reaching up to brush his messy hair into some kind of order.

Almost against my will—and definitely against my better judgment—my gaze drifts down to his lips. Only for an instant. A quick, impulsive glance. Barely long enough to see whether he’s smiling. But still long enough to make my heart beat faster.

If he hadn’t been watching me just as closely, he wouldn’t have noticed. But when his mouth twists up into an overconfident smirk, I know he did. He noticed, and he liked it.

Warning bells are clamoring in my mind as his grin deepens and he takes a step toward me. Back away, Sloane. Back away.

I stay rooted to the spot.

“And then she told me,” Mom is saying as the back door bursts open and the three adults file into the house, breaking my Tru-induced trance, “that if I wanted delivery it would be two weeks.”

The Dorseys laugh. Mr. Dorsey holds a platter of burned meat—and, hopefully, portobello steaks because I am famished—as he pulls the door shut behind them.

“That’s terrible,” Mrs. Dorsey says sympathetically.

Oh yes, terrible. Some great tale of furniture shopping woe.

“Come on, kids.” Mr. Dorsey holds up the platter, like some kind of TV dad from the fifties, calling the family to dinner. “Let’s eat.”

The Dorseys’ dining room is so formal it’s almost uncomfortable. A pristine walnut table, polished to a high shine. Huge matching china cabinet full of enough breakables to make anyone nervous. Six stiff-back chairs, a plush rug with a ginkgo leaf pattern, and a wall of mirrors at one end.

A kid couldn’t get away with slipping treats to the dog in this household.

Not that they have a dog.

Mr. Dorsey takes the end of the table, in front of the mirrors. Mrs. Dorsey sits at the opposite end, like some kind of joke in a movie. With Mom on one side of the table and Tru on the other, I have to make a choice.

Do I sit next to the guy who has done a better job of pushing my buttons in twenty-four hours than most people can in a year?

Or next to the woman responsible for my exile and pretty much everything that is wrong with my life right now?

No brainer.

As I pull out the chair next to Tru’s, he waggles his eyebrows at me.

I elbow him in the ribs.

“How was your first day at NextGen?” Mr. Dorsey asks.

He forks a thick steak onto his plate and then passes the platter to Mom. I nearly gag at the sight of it. For the most part, I can handle people eating meat. But the sheer in-your-face carnivorism on display is almost too much to take.

“Fine,” I answer.

“You know, David organized the fund raiser for the restoration of the lawn,” Mrs. Dorsey says, taking the platter from Mom.

“The campus is beautiful,” Mom says.

Mrs. Dorsey passes the platter to me. There are two fat portobello steaks on the platter, stacked on top of each other. The bottom one is swimming in a pool of steak juice. Luckily the top one seems uncontaminated.

I plop it onto my plate and then pass the whole thing to Tru.

“Go ahead and take both,” Mr. Dorsey says. “No one else is going to eat them.”

I flick a glance at the meat-soaked mushroom. “Uh, that’s okay,” I say, trying to be polite. “I’m not that hungry.”

“It’ll go to waste,” he says, like he’s trying to make me feel bad.

I look across the table, and Mom is scowling at me. Everyone is looking at me, expecting me to what? Just grab the beef-juiced mushroom and eat it because that’s the polite thing to do?

I can’t. I just can’t.

“Actually,” I begin, trying to come up with a non-rude, non-grounded-for-life, non-deal-breaking way to explain.

“It’s soaked in meat,” Tru says, lifting it off the plate with his fork. The juices drip off like a leaky faucet. “No wonder she doesn’t want it.”

“Truman,” his dad says with a warning tone.

“That would be like asking you to eat tofu.” Tru drops the meat-soaked mushroom onto his own plate. “Or to watch one of my student films.”

“Tru!” his mom gasps.

At the same time his dad snaps, “That is enough.”

“Sloane,” Mom says, like she can’t miss out on this chance to get mad at me. “Apologize right now.”

“No,” Mr. Dorsey says, “it’s fine. This isn’t Sloane’s fault.”

You would have to be deaf not to hear the subtext in that statement. It’s not my fault…it’s Tru’s.

All he did was defend me, defend my right not to eat something I am ethically opposed to eating. And for that he’s in trouble.

Looks like the Dorsey family is just as screwed up as the Whitakers.

“Let’s just eat,” Mr. Dorsey says, as if we’ve all been waiting for permission.

The rest of the meal is as awkward as my car rides with Mom today. While the adults make small talk, Tru and I eat our food in virtual silence. Every so often he whispers some obnoxious comment that no one but me can hear. Mimicking his dad’s pompous tone. Insisting that there’s meat juice in the lemonade. Daring me to jump up on the table and tap dance. It’s everything I can do not to burst out laughing.

I’ve been so locked in my bubble of bitterness since the announcement of the Austin plan that I don’t think I’ve really, truly laughed in weeks. Every comment he makes pushes me one step closer to losing it.

But I can’t. I have to keep my head down and myself out of trouble at all costs. If I’m ever going to have a chance of getting back to New York before I’m old enough to drink, I can’t push Mom’s buttons like this. Even if it isn’t my fault.

After what feels like a painfully long time, Mr. Dorsey dabs his napkin at the corners of his mouth and then places it on his plate. “That was delicious, Miko,” he says. “The mashed potatoes were inspired. Did you use cream?”

“Butter.” She smiles back at him. “And thank you.”

Someone kill me now. If I have to sit through another minute of Leave-it-to-Stepford-Wives small talk I am going to bash my chair against the wall of mirrors and use one of the shards to stab myself in the thigh.

Mrs. Dorsey pushes back from the table. “I’ll clear these dishes out of the way so we can get to Lizzie’s famous peach cobbler.”

Lizzie’s famous peach cobbler? Is she serious? I can’t quite stifle the choking laugh that bubbles up.

“Let me help,” Mom says, throwing me a brief glare.

Tru practically leaps up from the table. “I’ll do it.”

He sounds as desperate to escape as I feel.

“Me too,” I add, hurrying to grab Mrs. Dorsey’s stack of dishes and add it to mine. “I’ll help.”

“In fact,” Tru says, balancing a stack in each hand. “We’ll even do the dishes.”

I nod in agreement.

Normally chores are among my least favorite things, right after eating grilled steak and starting my senior year in Texas. But I’ll take any lifeline I can get to escape that table for any amount of time.

In the kitchen, I start rinsing off the dishes and stacking them in the sink for him to load into the dishwasher. I’m through half of them before I realize that Tru isn’t helping.

“Hey,” I say, looking over my shoulder at where he’s lounging against the counter, “this was your idea.”

He laughs. “Just wanted to see how long it would take you to notice.”

I look at the small mountain of dishes in the sink. Longer than it should have.

I stick my tongue out at him and go back to rinsing.

We quickly fall into a rhythm. I rinse the dishes and hand them to Tru so he can set them in the dishwasher.

“Sorry about that,” he says quietly.

About what? I almost ask. But when I look at him, he nods his head back toward the dining room. Toward his dad.

“Not a big deal,” I say. “He’s not the first carnivore I’ve had to take on.”

“If anyone can put David Dorsey in his place, it’s you, New York.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, so I ignore it.

As I set a dish in the sink and he reaches for one, the backs of our hands brush. A shiver of tingles races up my arm and down my spine at the insignificant touch.

The next time, it happens again. At first I think it’s an accident, but then it happens every time. With each new touch, a new wave of tingles washes over me, and my heartbeat speeds up. I’m sure if I could see myself in the mirror right now my cheeks would be magenta.

The bad thing is, I think I actually like it. It’s like a game to see how he will make contact this time, how long he will make it last. And even though I know it’s a game, even though I know he’s trying to work his charms on me, I’m not immune.

I dare a quick glance, to see if he’s having the same kind of reactions, but he is studiously focused on his work. If it’s affecting him at all, it doesn’t show.

“Hurry up,” Mr. Dorsey calls out in a teasing tone. “This cobbler won’t eat itself.”

Tru stiffens at his father’s words, and just like that our game is over.

I make a gagging gesture. I would rather wash dishes with Tru all night long than go back in there. Does that say more about what I think of the situation in the dining room…or what I think about Tru?

Correction, what I should not think about Tru. If all goes according to plan, I won’t be here for more than a few more weeks. Letting Tru Dorsey make my heart beat faster is the last thing I should be doing.

We’re just finishing, so I dry my hands and then grab the stack of dessert plates and forks Mrs. Dorsey had set out next to the cobbler. Tru carries the cobbler into the dining room, stepping back at the door to let me go through.

“The traffic is overwhelming,” Mom is saying as we enter. “I left early and was still thirty minutes late today.”

Almost an hour, but who’s counting? I hand out the dessert plates.

“I could ride the bus,” I suggest.

Even if it takes five times as long, I would love to take the bus. Not having to wait on Mom and not having to spend two hours a day in the car. Getting back a taste of my pre-Incident freedom.

“No, no,” Mr. Dorsey says. “That wouldn’t be safe.”

Not safe? I want to point out that I grew up in New York City. If I can handle the MTA in grade school, I’m more than capable of riding a bus as a teen in Austin.

Tru serves a slice of cobbler onto his mom’s plate. “I can take her.”

Everyone turns to stare at him. Even me. Especially me.

He ignores us and dumps a slice of cobbler onto Mom’s plate.

I look at her. I can tell she’s skeptical but maybe also desperate.

“I can take the bus,” I insist.

Mom’s eyes narrow just a tiny bit, and I can see the question. The chasm of my lost trust. She’s weighing the options between giving me even a taste of freedom and putting me in regular, direct contact with the serial screw-up.

“Let Truman drive her,” Mr. Dorsey says. “He needs to do something to earn his car.”

Tru makes a face that I think means he’s pretty stunned that his dad is siding with him on this. I’m pretty stunned that anyone is siding against Mom. It’s usually everyone against me.

In the end, she turns a tight smile on Tru.

“All right,” she says. “That will make things a lot easier. Thank you.”

I fork a mouthful of cobbler between my lips. I can’t even appreciate how delicious it is—okay, I’m lying, it’s amazing—because all I can think about is how my own mom doesn’t even trust me enough to take the bus to school, and it requires reinforcements from a virtual stranger to get her to let me out of her sight for the duration of a car ride.

Getting back enough trust to earn my ticket home to New York is going to be harder than I thought.