Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

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Chapter Five

Tru smiled to himself as the front door closed behind the Whitakers. He stood in the kitchen, rinsing off the dessert plates in the sink and adding them to the dishwasher, replaying the film of tonight’s dinner in his mind.

If he were making a short, he would do the whole thing in black and white, with only Sloane’s bright red lips in color.

From the moment he’d come downstairs and seen her chugging the glass of his mom’s pink lemonade, leaving a semi-circle of shiny red on the rim of the glass, he was a goner. Her lips were a perfect blood-red Cupid’s bow against her olive skin, and the contrast only made her green eyes burn brighter. That bold statement, a big screw you to her mom and his parents and anyone who tried to get close, only made him want to know her more. It was like a challenge, like waving a big red cape at the bull. His self-appointed mission to get her to crack, to break down her armored facade, was in full effect.

He’d almost succeeded at the table. When he pretended to drop his napkin and used the excuse of retrieving it to whisper that his dad wanted NextGen to place a statue of his ass on the campus lawn so the entire school could kiss it, she’d really struggled to keep in the laughter. The small success filled him with a strange kind of light. An energy.

When the subject of Sloane getting to school came up, he volunteered without thinking. It would give him more time with her, more time to provoke a blush that made the freckles on her nose disappear. More time to bring out the joy he sensed was buried deep inside.

Tru had always been an expert at pushing people to lose control. It would be nice to unleash something good for once.

The sound of footsteps approaching cut off his thoughts.

Heard his mother whisper some plea for her husband to let it go.

Heard his father’s barked response. “He needs to learn.”

Tru stiffened. Oh yes, it was always a lesson. Always punishment under the guise of education. Of training.

Tonight, Tru knew, he would be trained to not embarrass David Dorsey in front of guests.

“Turn around,” his father demanded from right behind him.

Shoulders squared, ready for first contact, Tru kept rinsing the dessert dishes.

“I said turn around.” His father’s voice was low and calm. Too calm.

The calm before the storm.

Tru finished rinsing the last plate, slid it into the waiting dishwasher, and closed the door. Only then, when he had finished his task, did he turn to face his father.

If the world saw David Dorsey as his son did now, they would have a far different opinion of him. Face red, nostrils flared, veins throbbing. The very picture of a man on the verge of losing control.

Tru forced himself to maintain eye contact. The urge to look down, to see if his hands had formed into fists, was almost undeniable. But he held his gaze steady. Dared his father to look away.

His father never looked away.

“Do you think it’s funny?” his father asked. “Did you have a good laugh over making me look stupid in front of our guests? In front of our neighbors?”

Tru failed to see why neighbors would be more polite company than other guests, but clearly his father thought the distinction worth emphasizing.

“Did you?!” he roared.

Tru hesitated only a moment before saying the words that rushed to his tongue. “You don’t need my help to look stupid.”

The fist came at lightning speed.

One solid punch to the ribs, where bruises wouldn’t show. Few things could sink a rising political career faster than allegations of domestic abuse. Couldn’t have the public seeing evidence that the beloved and respected David Dorsey beat his son. David Dorsey was far too important for that.

It took every ounce of Tru’s strength not to buckle over at the blow. The pain was nothing he hadn’t felt before. Neither was the humiliation. The helplessness.

Over his father’s shoulder, he could see his mother. Standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, her face blank and unseeing.

In a lot of ways, that was worse. To have his mother stand there and do nothing, say nothing, hurt him more than any blows his father delivered.

Which gave him the strength to ask, “Is that all?”

Another blow.

Two more.

Tru kept his own arms clenched carefully at his sides. He had learned that lesson the hardest way. Once he had struck back. Once he couldn’t stop his own fist from defending himself, from getting in a blow of his own.

His father, the great and powerful district attorney, had called the police.

Oh, the irony.

It took him a moment to realize the blows had stopped. Tru dared a glance down and saw that the fists were gone. The rage had passed.

He didn’t wait to be dismissed. Just pushed past his father, letting his shoulder knock into the older man on his way by.

The taunt did its job. Tru felt hands on his shoulders, and then he was stumbling forward. Headfirst into the edge of the refrigerator.

His mother gasped.

Tru stood up, felt at the warmth spreading across his face from above his right eye. His hand came away streaked with blood.

That was his victory. He had pushed his father to the point of making a visible mark. No one might notice the cut tomorrow, and even if they did they might not question its origin, but for as long as it remained, he would know that in this fucked-up relationship, he still had some semblance of control.

If he were lucky, it would leave a scar.

Chapter Six

“Morning, New York,” Tru says as I climb into his car.

Why am I not surprised that he drives a bright yellow Mustang?

I grumble something that could be interpreted by the generous as Morning or by the realistic as Shut it.

“Not a morning person, I see.” He puts the car in gear as I buckle my seat belt. “Would coffee help?”

I flop back against the headrest and groan, “God yes.”

“Ask and ye shall receive.”

I roll to the side to say thank you.

That’s when I notice the cut above his right eye. “What happened?” I ask.

“What?” He turns to look at me and I nod at his cut. “Oh that.” He shrugs. “Run-in with the refrigerator.”

“Looks like the refrigerator won.”

“Not before I got in a few good swings.” His tone is light and his mouth forms a smile, but there is a certain heaviness in his eyes.

While his attention is on the road, I have the chance to really study his face for the first time without him noticing. Individually, his features might not be the most attractive. His cheekbones are a little too sharp. His nose may be too long. His lips could be too full, if that’s even possible.

And that hair. He takes disheveled to a whole new level. I don’t think any two strands on his head are going the same direction.

But as much as I don’t want to admit it—and wouldn’t confess it under pain of torture or death—together they make a really appealing package.

He’s looking a little less J-Pop today, with a gray plaid shirt over a Godfather tee and dark gray jeans instead of the suit jacket and tie he wore yesterday.

We are in and out of the coffee shop in less than five and back on our way to school. With my triple latte steaming beneath my nose, I’m actually starting to feel human.

“Mind if I turn up the tunes?” he asks.

I shake my head, and seconds later The Librarians are blasting through the car. The button-pusher gets points for good taste in music. I’m sure I would still rather take the bus, but this is a major improvement over riding with Mom. If for no other reason than the silence is way less awkward. It’s almost a comfortable one.

While he drives and rocks out, drumming on the steering wheel, I pull out my tablet and work on the Graphic Grrl character sketches I’d started on the roof last night after dinner. I’m careful to keep my screen angled away from him. His attention should be on the road, but I can’t take any chances.

Good music, plenty of caffeine, and no family-drama tension. I could get used to this kind of commute.

Tru either knows some shortcut to campus or he’s a traffic genius because in half the time it took Mom yesterday, he’s pulling up by the main entrance.

“Door to door service,” he says.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

“Got an errand to run first,” he says. “Catch you in seminar.”

Okay, weird. I stuff my tablet into my backpack and then climb out. Almost before I’ve even shut the door, he’s squealing away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” I call out lamely as he disappears.

Must be a critical errand.

Aimeigh is just walking up from the student parking lot. “Hi, Sloane.”

“Hey Aimeigh.”

“Don’t you have chem first period?” she asks. When I nod, she smiles. “Me too.”

We fall in step as I follow her lead to whichever building houses the science classrooms, glad I don’t have to whip out my tablet to check the map.

Aimeigh and I have polar opposite personal styles. Today she’s wearing a rainbow of colors. Royal blue jeans, a neon orange and pink tee, purple wristbands, and scuffed yellow All Stars.

My All Stars are black. Which matches my black jeans, black one-shoulder tee, and black tank top. Even my underthings are black, not that anyone is going to get a glimpse. When Mom met me in the kitchen with a glass of juice and a pair of toaster waffles, I thought for sure I was going to get another lecturing look. But she just sighed and put another pair of waffles in the toaster. Maybe I’m wearing her down.

Last night I went through my boxes of clothes—didn’t unpack them, just dug through them—and I’m pretty confident that if I do laundry every weekend, I can make it indefinitely in all black. Longer if I don’t mind re-wearing jeans two or three times.

For the sake of protest, I think I can manage.

“If we sit at the same table,” Aimeigh says as we walk into the chemistry classroom, which is in Building D, “we’ll be lab partners. Danziger always assigns them on the first day.”

“Great.” I climb onto the stool next to her.

Something about Aimeigh reminds me of Tash—maybe it’s the fashion sense, or the insider info, or just the fact that she seems intent on being my friend—and that makes me feel just the tiniest bit closer to home. Especially since I haven’t heard from Tash since the text convo on the roof two nights ago.

A pair of guys at the table in front of us is talking animatedly about something. I’m paying more attention to getting out my tablet and setting it up to take notes. Until I hear one of them ask, “Did you see the Artzfeed post about Graphic Grrl?”

My fingers freeze over the virtual keyboard and blood starts throbbing in my ears.

Artzfeed is a super popular art blog, practically required reading for artists and art students everywhere. Graphic Grrl has been mentioned a couple of times before, included in lists of art-related webcomics. My site always saw a spike in new subscribers afterward.

But there’s never been an entire post about her.

“It was epic,” Aimeigh says, jumping in. “I totally agree that the creator must be female.”

“No way could a girl write her,” the other guy says. “She kicks too much ass.”

“You’ve obviously never met my sister,” the first guy says with a laugh.

“Plus,” the first idiot says, “she never wears makeup. A chick would always put her in makeup.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” the other boy says.

Aimeigh scoffs. “Could you be any more sexist?”

“Not being sexist,” the idiot counters. “Just factual. Graphic Grrl is too good to be created by a girl.”

My cheeks feel like they are going to burst into flames. Either because I can’t believe they’re talking about my webcomic—mine—or because the one idiot is, well, such an idiot. I force myself to take a calming breath. I need to be under control if I want to keep my identity as Graphic Grrl’s creator a secret.

“Actually,” I say, tapping away on my tablet, “it’s the dudes who usually sex up the female comic heroes. Not the ladies.”

“What?” The idiot sounds like some California surfer.

“Exactly, man,” the other boy says.

“And besides,” I continue, “women created Green Fury, Ms. Marvel, and Titan.” I look up at the idiot with a falsely pleasant smile on my face. “I think they kick more ass than any ten heroes.”

“Right on, Sloane,” Aimeigh says, applauding my tirade. “She shut you down, Clay.”

“And the greatest argument against Graphic Grrl’s creator being a dude?” She’s me. I laugh at the secret knowledge, at the idea of totally blowing these guys’ minds. “No dude would be able to sit by and not take credit.”

Aimeigh laughs out loud.

The second guy kind of shrugs and nods.

Clay’s jaw drops.

He’s about to reply with some kind of lame argument when the classroom door shuts abruptly behind us. “Okay, class,” the teacher, Mr. Danziger, says as he walks to the front of the room. “Let’s start by assigning lab partners.”

Aimeigh and I exchange a look. Yep, she totally called it.

Maybe by the end of class my heart rate will return to normal.

“Hey, Sloane, wait up.”

I stop to let Aimeigh catch up with me on my way to the cafeteria.

“So Tru tells me that you have mad skill with that tablet of yours.”

Mad skill?

“And I’ve already seen your talent in AGD.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure where this is heading.

“Join ArtSquad.”

“What?” I remember her mentioning ArtSquad yesterday, that she’s captain of something like an art decathlon.

“ArtSquad,” she repeats. “It’s the best extracurricular around. We study art history and design terminology, practice a huge variety of art techniques. It’ll make you the most well-rounded artist around.”

“It sounds like fun,” I say, trying to find a nice way to say no thanks. The last thing I want is to get involved in anything more than I have to while I’m stuck here in Austin. “But I’m not—”

“I just found out one of our team members is taking a year off from school to travel through South America by bicycle.” She flashes me a big smile. “You would really save my life if you took his spot.”

“Aimeigh, I just don’t think—”

“The commitment is minimal,” she insists, practically begs. “We meet for practice a couple times a week, compete in informal matches against other Texas art schools throughout the year, and there’s a big tournament over spring break.”

She hands me a business card.

Aimeigh Anderson

ArtSquad Team Captain

Austin NextGen Academy

austinnextgen.com/artsquad

“We have a lot of fun.” She practically bounces along next to me. “I mean, of course it’s a lot of work and sometimes it’s a lot of pressure, but it looks great on admissions applications.”

It actually sounds like something that would be a ton of fun. I love learning more about the art world, anything and everything, because I think it helps make me a better artist. Plus, I’m all for anything that looks good on admissions applications. But ArtSquad sounds like a year-long commitment. If I play all my cards right, I’ll be back at SODA by the end of the quarter.

I would only be letting Aimeigh and the team down in the long run.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to hand back the card. “But I’m not planning on being here for very long.”

“It’s cool, keep it.” She pushes my hand away. “Check out the link to see what we’re about. You might change your mind.”

“Welcome to senior seminar.”

Our teacher, Oliver—who insists we call him that and not Mr. Wendell—stands at the head of the huge table that fills the room, his hands braced on the end and leaning in like he’s pretty sure this class is going to be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to us.

I’ll keep an open mind, but that seems like a pretty high expectation.

I look around the table and see a few familiar faces from my other classes. Jenna is directly to Oliver’s right. The boy who’d been talking about Graphic Grrl with that idiot in my chemistry class is halfway down on the other side. A couple of the students walked here from trig with me. There is one face that is distinctly missing, though. Tru.

When he dropped me off—and then drove away—this morning, he said he’d see me in this class. Now that I think about it, I haven’t spotted him around all day. That could be just because this is a big campus. I wouldn’t necessarily cross the path of anyone I didn’t have a class with. But what if he hadn’t come back from his errand?

“Now I know you all have heard what seminar has been like in the past—”

Oliver freezes mid pep talk as the classroom door swings open.

Tru, looking even more carelessly rumpled than he did earlier, bursts into the room. His plaid shirt is half tucked in and buttoned up, and I think the buttons are off by one. Like he tried to make himself look a little more pulled together but failed.

“Ah, Truman,” Oliver says, an oblivious smile on his face. “Better late than never.”

Tru grins, his smile a bit lopsided. “That’s what I always say.”

He spies me across the table and, rather than take any of the open seats between the door and me, he circles the room and plops into the seat right next to mine.

“Now, as I was saying,” Oliver continues, “you’ve probably heard what seminar has been like in the past, but this year we’re going to do things a little differently. Shake things up.”

Tru leans over to me, whispers in my ear, “Sorry I’m late.”

He smells like he ate an entire tin of Altoids.

I’m not sure if it’s the freshness of the mint or the way his breath whooshes over my neck, but my entire body shivers in reaction.

I frown at him, at my reaction to him. “Whatever.”

Seriously, what’s his deal? It’s nothing to me if he shows up late. It’s nothing to me if he sits so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“First, we’re changing the way we do senior projects,” Oliver says, and I swear the entire class groans.

“Oliver—”

“But what if we—”

“I worked all summer—”

Oliver holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You’ve spent three years waiting for this class.”

Not me.

“That’s exactly why we’re changing it up.” He starts moving around the table, stopping at each student as he walks. “Senior seminar is supposed to be about self-exploration, self-analysis, and—most of all—self-experimentation.”

He frowns at the last one, as if he’s not sure he chose the right word. But then he shakes his head and goes on.

As he talks about the inspiration of change and the excitement of the unknown—as someone who has recently experienced plenty of both, I think I can safely say I’ve had enough—I stare out the wall of windows that line one end of the classroom. Outside, the sky has turned to clouds and all trace of the morning sun has disappeared. From my seat I can see the Pokémon sculpture. Washed with diffuse light instead of sharp direct sun, it transforms completely. It almost looks like it’s made from fuzzy wool instead of cold metal.

Out of habit, I flip open my tablet and start sketching. Trying to translate the idea of what I see into pixels.

“And that,” Oliver says from right behind me as his hands land on my shoulders, “is why I think the journey we take together this year will be transformative.”

I quietly fold the cover back over my tablet.

“First things first,” Oliver says, back at the head of the class, the windows behind him. “I have had most of you in class before”—his gaze drifts to me and I realize I am probably the only one of the dozen students in here who is new to the school—”but let’s do a round of introductions.”

When he turns to Jenna, she stands up and starts talking. “I’m Jenna Nash. I’m a graphic design focus. I attended the Summer Institute at University of the Arts and I plan to enroll there next fall.”

I got a good idea of Jenna’s type in advanced graphic design yesterday. Good girl, teacher’s pet, all around suck-up. Boring.

“That’s very nice, Jenna,” Oliver says, placing a hand on her shoulder, “but instead of the normal who, what, where intros, I’d like you to talk instead about two things: The first time you ever remember creating art. And describe the ideal image of your artistic life five years from now.”

“Oh.” She frowns, probably because she’s not used to ever being wrong. “Um, the first time I created art…”

As Jenna starts talking about her artistic past and future, I pull my tablet into my lap. If I angle my body just right, Oliver won’t be able to see it, and I will look like I have my head bowed, listening.

I can’t risk opening any Graphic Grrl sketches in class, so I flip to the next blank page after my Pokémon sketch. My stylus would be too obvious, so I choose the pencil setting and start tracing shapes with my fingertips. Soon, the shapes start to look like objects. Like people.

This table. Jenna sitting awkwardly while the next student does his past-present intro. Oliver, facing the window with his arms wide. The Pokémon statue through the glass.

A tan hand appears over my screen. I watch, transfixed, as Tru clicks the watercolor setting and starts tracing shapes over mine. A blue wash on the window. Shades of gray on the sculpture. A hideous orange on Jenna’s sweater.

I glance up and have to bite my lips when I see that her sweater really is that unattractive color.

I’m about to look back down to see what he colors next, when Oliver says, “Truman?”

Tru leans back in his chair. “Oliver?”

“Your first creative memory,” our teacher says, “and your artistic dreams.”

Tru’s is the first person whose answer I actually want to hear.

He stands. “First creative memory,” Tru says, his face a study in carefree charm. “Putting together this outfit this morning.”

Everyone laughs, even Oliver. Tru bows. I have a feeling that’s exactly the reaction he wanted. There was a distance in there. An attempt to keep anyone from seeing all the way in to the truth, to protect that secret memory.

Which only makes me wonder why, makes me want to find out. Like a puzzle I have to solve.

“And five year dreams?” I ask.

Tru looks down at me. For just a beat, I see a flicker of seriousness in his dark eyes. An instant of pain and reality.

Then it’s gone.

Tru turns his attention back to the rest of the class. “I want what every eighteen-year-old wants. To take over the world.”

Another laugh.

Another deflection.

When he sits down, I put my tablet away.

Oliver turns to me. “You must be Sloane.”

I nod and then push to my feet. “I’m Sloane Whitaker. Like Jenna, I’m into graphic design. My first creative memory…” I force my mind to drift back and am surprised when I find the answer. “Is tracing the Sunday comics in the New York Gazette.”

The reason the memory is surprising is that in it, Mom is at my side, encouraging me. Encouraging my art. I mean, it must have happened, because she enrolled me in art school. Twice. But I can’t remember the last time she encouraged anything except success, following the rules, and not ruining my future.

“And my dream,” I say, “is to be back in New York, graduating from SVA with a degree in animation, and actually getting paid to draw comics.”

That’s it. Doesn’t seem too unreachable.

Tru leans over, his breath hot on my neck as he whispers, “Way to dream big, New York.”

Something about his tone, about the condescension, grates me the wrong way. Who is he to judge my plans?

“Sorry,” I say, not meaning it at all, “not everyone wants to take over the world.”

At first, I think he’s going to leave it at that. And he should. We’re practically strangers.

Then, as Oliver moves on to a girl named Willa, Tru leans closer still—if that’s even possible—and whispers right against the shell of my ear, “You should.”

Despite myself, shivers race over my entire body as his lips tickle my skin.

I spin my chair abruptly away from him, knocking my shoulder into his chin along the way. He doesn’t know anything about me, about what I want from life. He doesn’t get to have an opinion about it.

“I can take a hint,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

Too bad my swivel didn’t knock the cocky out of him.