If I'm Being Honest(13)



I nod, unconvinced. What my friends don’t understand is that I’m not only upset about a guy. Andrew is—was, it hurts to realize—a friend. He knows me as well as Morgan and Elle do, and I can’t just disregard his judgment. If Morgan or Elle thought I was a bitch, I’d want to prove them wrong. I’d need to prove them wrong. If I couldn’t, what would that say about me? I’d be my mom, refusing to disprove my dad’s criticism.

Elle shoves her textbook into her Prada bag, then stares at Brad like she’s just remembered something. “I need you,” she declares, “for a video.”

This gets Brad’s attention. His head pops up, his eyes wide. “We’ve discussed this,” he says, sounding scarily like his dad. “No. Get a model or an actor or whoever.”

Imploringly, Elle places both hands on the table. “But you’re so beautiful!” Morgan snorts. Elle goes on, “I need to do a video on male makeup . . .” I tune out while she pleads her case, my mind churning over the Andrew question. I can’t have him out there thinking badly of me. It feels like a bruise I can’t help but touch, hoping it’s healed and instead bringing on a fresh wave of pain.

When the bell rings, I head to Computer Science, a class held in the newly refurbished science and technology building someone’s mom funded a couple of years ago. The stainless steel curves of the Frank Gehry–designed building rise in contrast to the school’s adobe arches, making our campus honestly cooler than 90 percent of college campuses in the country.

I was scared to sign up for AP Computer Science at the beginning of the year. I thought my meager-to-moderate web building and design experience wouldn’t compare to the smarts of a bunch of scholarship geniuses. I hold my own, though. Coding takes creativity, but it’s clear and organized. If you watch for mistakes and don’t lose focus, you’re good to go.

I walk in behind Abby Fleischman and Charlie Kim talking eagerly over each other. I hear words like “paladin” and “orc knights’ guard” and have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t understand why people like Abby and Charlie bother with video games, especially when this class has proved to me they’re way good enough with computers to be designing apps and coding operating systems.

I sit in the far left corner of the room, where I have space to tune everyone out except the teacher and concentrate on my own work. The Computer Science room is no less impressive on the inside than outside. Under the high ceiling run rows of widescreen iMacs and those ugly-as-hell yet impossibly comfortable mesh chairs. On the board is the assignment I finished Friday.

Which is perfect. On the walk over from lunch, I decided what to do about the Andrew problem. I have to take the direct approach.

While the rest of the class opens Python to finish writing a hangman game, I log into my school email account—not the account I would have used to write a long apology to my crush, but the school blocks access to Facebook and Gmail on school computers, and I don’t want to be caught on my phone in class.

Dear Andrew, I write.

No. Too formal.

I go with just Andrew and then write from the heart. I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain. I don’t know how things got so messed up so quickly, but you’re important to me, even as just a friend. I hope you’ll give me a second chance—

I’m interrupted by someone tapping my shoulder firmly, like I’ve annoyed them. “You’re supposed to be working on the assignment from Friday,” I hear a low voice say.

Over me stands Barfy Brendan—no, looms, because he’s about six and a half feet tall. The way he’s looking at me, the blend of ambivalence and assertiveness in his brown eyes, is eerily reminiscent of how his sister stared me down a couple of hours ago. He’s a year younger than Paige, and he shares her freakish height and curly hair. His is brown, not red, and unlike his spindly sister, he has broad shoulders and somewhat muscular forearms. There’s a universe in which he’s cute, if you could overlook his social-pariah status. He’s the TA for Computer Science because he got a perfect score on the AP exam when he was a sophomore.

“Wait, what?” I ask, distracted by his T-shirt. It’s modeled after the Evolution of Man but shows four robots labeled DALEK, R2-D2, CYLON, BORG. For whatever reason, there’s a hot blonde on the end labeled CYLON, too.

“The assignment?” he repeats.

“I finished it on Friday.” I turn back to my email. “Thanks though, BB.” Before I get through a couple more words, he reaches down and force-quits out of Safari, and the draft is gone. I blink in indignation. “Hey! What was that for?”

“If you’re done with the assignment, you should submit it and start working on tonight’s problem set,” he says, almost with disinterest. Without another word he walks to the front of the class. I have no choice but to gape behind him. BB and I haven’t interacted often over the years, mostly because he avoids social situations like Elle avoids swim P.E.

I didn’t know he could be so commanding. I would be impressed if I weren’t annoyed.

Whatever. I wait until he’s busy with another student, then reopen my email to rewrite what I had to Andrew. Instead, I find a new message in my inbox.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Carol

Emily Wibberley & Au's Books