Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

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Chapter Twelve

Oliver walks into the senior seminar classroom Wednesday and sets his bag on the chair at the head of the table. “Before we start working on our projects, I think it’s important for each of you to be as self-aware, as self-knowledgeable as possible.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers that look suspiciously like test booklets.

Everyone groans as he slaps them down on the table.

“This,” he says, jabbing one finger onto the stack, “is the Myers-Briggs personality test.”

Jenna asks, “How do you spell that?”

Oliver crosses to the whiteboard and writes it out.

“Does it test whether you have a personality?” Tru asks.

Someone whispers, “Then Jenna will fail.”

Across from me Willa bites back a laugh as she looks sideways at Damien.

Oliver doesn’t hear the comment. Or he chooses to ignore it. He hands the stack of booklets to Jenna, who takes one and passes them on.

“The test should only take about thirty minutes.” He grins like he’s granting us the best prize ever. “As soon as you finish, you can head home for the day.”

Cheers go up around the room. Suddenly everyone is very interested in taking the test. Heads down. Pencils scratching on paper. Rhythmic breathing.

The concentration only lasts about fifteen minutes.

“What if my test says I’m a serial killer?” Keegan asks.

Oliver laughs. “It’s not that kind of test.”

“What if it says you should be a nine-to-five drone who lives a soul-sucking existence that consists of nothing more than going to work, going to the gym, and going to bed?”

Everyone turns to stare at Tru.

Because seriously, the last person on the planet who could ever end up working an ordinary job, living an ordinary life, is Tru Dorsey.

There is definitely something extraordinary about him. About the way he can make people smile and laugh and feel good about themselves, even on their worst days. Aimeigh’s shown me some of his film clips, and he’s an extraordinary artist, too. Where his personality—or at least the personality he chooses to show the world—is bright and uplifting, his art delves into the deeper, darker emotions. He’s an enigma, a contradiction. A unique voice in a world of sameness.

There is no way Tru could ever live an ordinary life.

“It’s not that kind of test either,” Oliver repeats. “Now get back to it.”

Another five minutes in and Jenna closes her booklet. She hands it to Oliver and then, in a voice I’m pretty sure she meant to be a whisper but isn’t, asks, “When are you going to give us our final project assignments?”

Everyone turns to look, and for once they’re not glaring at Jenna in mock derision. They apparently have the same question.

All I know about these mysterious final projects is that NextGen students spend three years looking forward to them, and they are supposed to be epic on every level. Epic scale, epic scope, epic creativity. Epic is something I can definitely get behind.

For a moment, Oliver looks stern—which is hard to pull off when you’re wearing a bow tie, thick-framed glasses, and your shirt collar is sticking up at three different angles. He finally gives up the pretense. “Okay, okay, you beat it out of me. Next Wednesday. You’ll find out about this year’s senior projects next Wednesday. Now if you will just—”

There is a sharp rap at the door before Principal Ben steps into the room. Unlike Oliver, he is a master of the grim look, and he is full of grim right now.

“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Wendell.” He nods at our teacher and then scans the room. “I need to see Mira Jacobson in my office please.”

Mira looks stunned. I don’t really know her—she’s also in my AGD class, but we haven’t spoken or anything—but I’m stunned, too. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who gets in trouble. Aside from the purple streaks in her hair, she looks completely good girl.

“Now,” Principal Ben says.

He is not playing around.

Mira quietly gathers up her things and follows Principal Ben out of the room.

We are all silent for several moments. Something is way not right about this situation. Usually when a student is in trouble, he or she gets called to the office—not that I ever have, but I’ve seen plenty—usually Tash—and they have to make that walk of shame/glory out of the room and down the hall to see the principal. The summons usually comes by office-aide-delivered note or office-to-classroom phone call.

When the principal himself makes the request in person… That has to be bad news.

“What could she have done?” Willa asks breathlessly.

“Nothing good,” Damien says.

Tru shakes his head. “Even I’ve never been called out by the man himself.”

We go back to finishing our tests.

For some reason, Jenna is still here. Why is she sticking around? Oliver said we could go when we finish. The moment I’m done, I will be out the door.

“Can you give me a clue?” Jenna asks Oliver, and everyone groans because, really, at this point, every delay only pushes back our escape. “Just a hint?”

She’s not exactly begging, but the look on her face says it all. It’s stressing her out that she doesn’t know what the big assignment is, that she can’t make plans and schedules and to-do lists and crap like that. I’m allergic to to-do lists. I think Jenna’s addicted to them.

“Okay,” Oliver says with a big sigh, like he’s making a big sacrifice. “One hint.”

Jenna practically explodes with relief.

“The project will embrace what I believe to be the true purpose of art.”

We all stare at him, blank-faced and waiting for him to say more. For him to explain or give some actually tangible detail.

He just smiles smugly and leans back in his chair.

“What does that even mean?” Jenna whines.

Oliver leans forward, rests his elbows on the table. “That is the question, isn’t it? What is the purpose of art? Is there a universal answer, or are there as many answers as there are artists—as there are people—in the world?”

I lay down my pencil. I sense a discussion coming.

“Dahlia, what do you think the purpose of art is?”

She frowns in concentration. “Art is about connecting with the universe,” she says. “About finding something pure and true in a world where so much is fake.”

“Not necessarily,” Mariely counters. “Sometimes the lie is part of the art.”

“Then what is your definition?” he asks her.

“Art should raise us above the mundane,” she answers. “It should take the ordinary and elevate it to something better.”

“Interesting,” Oliver hums. “Willa?”

She shifts in her seat, bites her lip as she glances at Damien and then quickly looks away. “Art should let us see the world through someone else’s eyes, so we can know what it’s like to be someone other than who we are.”

I wonder if Damien knows how Willa feels about him.

Oliver nods, looking around the room for his next victim. “Jenna?”

“Art is beauty,” she answers, almost mechanically.

“But what is beauty?” Damien asks. “There is ugly beauty and beautiful ugliness. Who decides?”

“The artist,” Cabot suggests.

Tru shakes his head. “The viewer. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the piece, if the viewer doesn’t get it then it’s worthless.”

The room erupts into a lively debate over this. My head is spinning. Part of me wants to jump in—I love a good debate about anything art-related—but the question kinda has me floored. I agree with all of them, but in some ways they seem inadequate. Art is so much more than words can capture.

“Sloane,” Oliver says, cutting through the voices. “You’ve been terribly quiet. What’s your answer?”

Great, put me on the spot to form into words the random thoughts that are flying through my mind.

“Well,” I say, buying time, “I think art is something different to everyone.”

Oliver laughs. “I think our debate has made that obvious. What is it to you?”

Somehow the words fall into place in my mind. “To me,” I say, equal parts confident and hesitant, “art is about connection.”

“How so?” Oliver asks.

“By tapping into an emotion, a universal truth, and figuring out how to convey that to another human being.”

“Which is why art takes so many forms,” Tru says.

Damien adds, “And why people feel so strongly about it. It’s about people.”

“So it’s all of those things,” Will says. “It’s honesty and deception. Beauty and imperfection. Artist and audience.”

Oliver smiles at all of us.

“Okay, my brilliant seniors, now get back to finishing those tests.” He turns to Jenna. “You can leave, you know.”

She smiles weakly and then gathers her things. Everyone keeps working, handing in their tests as they finish, and then escaping into the real world.

I’m the last one done—mostly because I keep stopping to think about our little impromptu debate. About The Incident and whether, in retrospect, it really qualifies as art.

I had a message, sure, but does that satisfy the requirements for art that we’ve just been talking about? Does forming letters on a building qualify as making a connection? As conveying an emotion or a universal truth?

Or was it just—as Mom is always so quick to call it—a stunt?

My shoulders hang a little lower as I cross the room to hand Oliver my test.

“That was a very thoughtful answer you gave,” he says with a smile.

I sling my backpack onto my shoulder. “Thanks.”

I start to leave, and then turn back to him. “Do you think that a message can have an emotion?”

“Of course,” he says. “But I also think that artists have to be careful not to let their message get in the way of the emotional core.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

“Sloane,” he says, stopping me at the door. “Some messages are so emotional that they can stand on their own as artistic expressions.”

I’m not sure what he’s trying to say.

I must give him a confused look, because he adds, “I believe that art saves lives, too.”

My jaw drops. I want to be shocked, but then I suppose it makes sense that Principal Ben would have told my teachers about The Incident. I just never imagined that anyone—any adult—would see value in my message.

Senior seminar is fast turning into my favorite class.

“Are you ready for adventure?” Tru pulls out of the parking lot into traffic.

Why did the hair on the back of my neck just stand up? “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs and smiles mischievously. Instead of turning left onto the freeway, like we’ve done every single day since he started giving me rides to and from school, he turns right.

“Where are you going?”

“On an adventure,” he says, as if that answers my question.

“Tru,” I warn with my best mom tone, “where are we going?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, flashing me that charming smile. “You’ll like it.”

I pull out my phone.

He glances at it. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police,” I say, even though I’m just texting Mom an excuse for why I’ll be late. I want to prevent any unnecessary grounding.

Despite the new job, she’s actually been home when I got there every day this week. She’s usually gone before I leave, but still, it’s such a huge change from life in New York that I’m kind of in shock each time I walk through the door.

“Chill, drama queen.” Tru grabs for my phone.

I pull it out of his reach. “You’re kidnapping me,” I say. “Someone needs to know in case they never find my body.”

“Just…relax.” He drops his hand.

“Where. Are. We. Going?”

“Can you not trust me for two seconds?” He flashes a quick smile. “Look, if you don’t love it, I’ll let you drive home.”

My ears perk up. This is an opportunity. “How about you buy my morning coffee for a month?”

He hesitates—maybe rethinking how much he really thinks I’ll love this whatever we’re doing—then says, “Deal.”

I settle into my seat, smiling at the thought of an entire month of free coffee. There is no way I’m going to love what he has planned. Even if I really do, there is no way I’m letting him know.

Two exits later, he pulls off and turns to go under the freeway. On the other side there is a huge cube-shaped building with a massive banner covering one side.

Indoor Skydiving

My heart skips several beats. I don’t want to let him see—there is a month of caffeine on the line, after all—but I have always wanted to do this. Real skydiving, too, but the next best thing to jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is flying right here on the ground.

“Told you,” Tru says as he pulls into the parking lot.

I pretend to be confused. “What?”

“Don’t lie.” He shuts off the ignition. “You’re practically exploding with excitement.”

I try to disguise my pure joy, but totally fail. “That obvious?”

He winks at me. “Come on.”

Turns out, Tru’s buddy Dane works at the place. Dane is a true thrill-seeker, the kind who looks like he’d be up for anything that might ignite his adrenaline. That’s my kind of buddy.

Since it’s a slow afternoon, Dane lets us fly for free. Once we’re outfitted with goggles, helmets, and jumpsuits that are specifically designed to catch the wind from the massive turbine in the flight chamber, he leads us past the benches in what he calls the ante-chamber and into the air lock that separates the wind tunnel from the no-fly zone.

He gives us a few quick instructions and then guides me to the doorway of the air lock. I can already feel the wind rushing over my face. The noise is almost overwhelming.

Then Dane waves me in and, with a little guidance from him, suddenly I’m floating.

It is the most unreal experience I’ve ever had. It really does feel like flying. The adrenaline rush rivals the feelings pumping through me when I stood on the edge of the fortieth floor of Midtown Tower and looked down over the glittering city. And this rush doesn’t end with me in jail.

After a few minutes, Dane taps me out, and Tru enters the flight chamber. I stand in the air lock and watch as he dives headfirst into the wind. The way he swoops and dives and does flips and other tricks, it’s clear that he’s done this before. Probably many times.

I don’t peg Tru for the thrill-seeking type. If the look of pure joy on his face is any indication, I’d guess it’s the sensation of complete freedom that draws him to this. The feeling that not even gravity has a hold on him when he’s flying.

Tru doesn’t stay in for as long as I did before he’s tapping out and sending me in again. I know it’s because he wants to give me more time. And I’m not even going to argue. I could do this every day and never get tired of it.

I can’t wait to try the real thing.

Afterward, we head to the small café in the front lobby. I definitely owe Tru a snack for this, so I load us up with a giant-size nachos and two huge sodas.

As we sit, crunching and sipping, I realize that I can’t stop smiling. It’s been a long time since I can remember being this completely happy.

“How did you know?” I ask.

I could have been terrified of skydiving, could have preferred rock climbing or pottery making or even going to a gallery downtown.

But he nailed it.

“I just knew.” He shoves a cheese-coated chip into his mouth.

“Come on.” I punch him in the arm. “How?”

“Moww,” he says around his mouthful of nacho, rubbing his arm. When he’s done with his bite, he says, “Okay, okay, no need to get violent.”

I dip a chip into cheesy goodness and wait patiently for an answer.

“Fine. You pulled off the Midtown Tower incident,” he says, “so I know you love adrenaline.”

I nod. “True.”

“And you hang out on your roof a lot, so clearly you don’t have a thing about heights– Ow, what was that for?”

“For spying on me,” I say. “How do you know I hang out on my roof?”

Sure, he joined me up there that first night, but how could he know that I’ve been out there almost every night since?

He blushes—actually, honestly, blushes. “I plead the fifth.”

I feel my cheeks burn in response. But not from embarrassment. I’m reacting to the idea that Tru watches me—or at least notices me—on the roof outside my bedroom. That he’s interested enough to notice. That he’s interested enough to be embarrassed by the revelation of his interest.

I’m interested, too. More than I should be, considering all the reasons I have run far away from any sort of romantic connection between us. There are just too many obstacles.

So, instead of reaching across the table and taking his hand, leaning across the table to claim the kiss that my lips are itching to take, I deflect the emotion with sarcasm.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, so I’m not afraid of heights and I’m not opposed to adrenaline,” I say. “But how skydiving?”

He sucks down a long draw of soda before answering. “Graphic Grrl loves to fly.”

My lungs freeze and my heart stops for three full seconds before launching into a drag race. Did he just say Graphic Grrl? No, it’s not possible. He can’t know. Only Tash knows. Only Tash.

“Wha-what do you mean?” I stammer. “What does that have to do with me?”

He gives me a come on look. “You write it.”

I’m going to pass out.

He said it casually, nonchalantly, like it was just no big deal. Like anyone anywhere other than Tash knows that I write and draw Graphic Grrl.

Even though the place is deserted, I glance around to make sure no one is nearby. Even if there were, the odds that they read or are even aware of Graphic Grrl are pretty slim. Web comics are pretty niche. Even after the Artzfeed post, most of my readers are artists. The general public isn’t interested.

“How—?” I shake my head and start over. “Why do you think that?”

He shrugs. “Little things. Your drawing style is the same. You say things sometimes that I’ve read in the strip.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, desperate. “I could just be a fan.”

“You could,” he says, his eyes meeting mine across the gray plastic table. “But that first night on the roof, when I caught your tablet?”

“Yeah?” I say with a sinking feeling of dread.

“It was open to a half-done sketch that appeared in the next strip.”

I have no words. Oh, plenty are racing through my mind, but I can’t make any of them come out through my mouth. Full mental paralysis.

Tru knows the truth.

He’s known since the first night we met.

He reads my strip!

I know that last one seems totally lame, because thousands of people read my strip—now tens of thousands. But somehow, knowing that this one person, this boy who doesn’t seem to care about anything or anyone, has read my strip enough to recognize when I say something that Graphic Grrl says… It’s kind of amazing.

And the fact that he has kept this secret without my even having to ask is even more amazing.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

His face twists in confusion. “For what?”

“For not telling anyone.”

He shrugs. “It’s your secret. If you wanted people to know, they would.”

“Still,” I say. “Thanks.”

Keeping the secret isn’t always easy. Dylan has seen a few sketches over the years, but I told him they were homework. None of the math and science nerds at his school would read my strip anyway. Mom and Dad were never around enough to notice what I was doing, and probably wouldn’t recognize it if they were.

Tash insists that it will look great on college applications if I reveal myself, that I’ve built such a solid following and created such a huge body of work. Also I think she wants to take credit for being the best friend of Graphic Grrl’s creator.

Just like the thought of selling ads on the site, I think being the real life face of Graphic Grrl would change things more than I’m willing to let them change.

Some people would think I’m crazy not to come clean and admit to being Graphic Grrl’s creator. There have been times when I wanted to. Times when I wondered if the money and the fame and the opportunities would outweigh everything else. I have a blog post sitting in my drafts folder. It’s been there since the third issue of Graphic Grrl went live. I’ve rewritten it again and again, thinking that if I can just make it perfect I’ll finally tell the world. But I can never quite bring myself to click publish.

I can never quite bring myself to release this thing that only one other person in the world knows. Well, now two others. It’s hard to describe, but keeping the secret makes me feel…in control. Powerful. Special.

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.