If I'm Being Honest(31)

“I’ll tell you if you let me help you,” I offer.

He slides the textbook out from under me with a wry expression. “Unfortunately, there isn’t some girl I’m interested in who you could fix me up with and thereby solve my problems.”

“How about a boy?” I realize the second I’ve said it, I should have put it a little more delicately. It’s not that I’m inclined to think he’s gay. I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion either way. I haven’t seen him with guys in a romantic way. Then again, I haven’t seen him with girls, either. I wonder if that’d be different if I hadn’t given him his nickname.

His eyebrows go up. “You think I’m gay?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I reply.

“I’m not,” he tells me. “Well, as far as I know I’m not. Either way, Cameron, there’s nothing I want from you.”

He runs a hand through his curls and reclines in his chair, his eyes lively. I know that look. He was stubborn, possibly intrigued, when we started this conversation. Now he’s daring me to reply.

“Bummer.” I straighten and cross my arms. “I guess you’ll never know my motivations, then.”

Brendan eyes me evenly, weighing his response. “I guess not,” he finally replies.



* * *





In Computer Science, I sit down to find I have one unread email in my school inbox. It’s from—Brendan Rosenfeld. With a small rush of excitement, I open the message while the bell rings and Mr. West writes the day’s coding exercise on the board.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Less “third grade”?

How bout this? I would ask you to give your honest opinion, but who am I kidding? You always do.



He’s attached three screenshots to the email, the files titled The Girl’s a Sorceress. Catchy.

I recognize the sorceress and the boy character from Brendan’s video game. Only this time, he’s working with an elegant blend of blacks, blues, and silvers. I’m flattered to recognize the one I suggested, palette number 27.

I open a reply. I’m beginning to write when I catch Brendan’s tall frame coming toward me as he walks down the aisles, checking on everyone’s work. He reaches my row, pauses by the edge of the desk, and gives me an exaggeratedly stern look.

“You wouldn’t be writing a personal email in class, would you, Cameron?” he asks.

“Of course not,” I reply.

Brendan waits a moment more, then nods with that faint half smile of his. I open the day’s assignment, still smiling to myself.





Fifteen



I RUN, FEET POUNDING THE PAVEMENT. THE perfect hedges and big Beverly Hills houses fly by, and I draw breath after even breath, weightless. With everything on my mind, weightless is what I need right now.

It’s the third week of October, though you wouldn’t know it from L.A.’s unchanging heat. I’m three miles into the course for cross-country practice, miles I’ve used to force from my head the Taming of the Shrew act 4 reading worksheet I have waiting for me when I get home. I’ve run past Ca?on Gardens and the talent agencies, and I have only a stretch of Camden Drive left until I reach school.

The Christina Perri on my playlist fades out, replaced by my ringtone. I hit answer on my earphones since my phone is strapped into my armband. It’s probably Elle or Morgan wanting homework help. Elle despises History like I do English, and—

“Cameron?”

I can actually feel my knees weaken. I never knew that really happened to people. I stop so hard I stumble momentarily, because the voice on the line is my dad’s, cold and direct. “Can you hear me?” He knows I can hear him. He’s impatient, and he wants me to acknowledge him.

“Yeah,” I say. I irrationally sweep a strand of hair out of my face. It’s not like he can see me, but talking to him feels like a formal occasion. I feel very out of place in my running shorts and tank top.

“I don’t have time for this, Cameron,” he charges on, like I expected. “You have to speak with your mother.” I practically hear his frown.

I struggle to steady my breathing. He won’t like it if he realizes I’m in the middle of something, even though he’s the one who called me without warning. “What about?” I ask.

“You know full well what. I’m extraordinarily busy. I cannot check on her every day. She’s a grown woman, and she needs reminding to remember to go to work? It’s out of control.”

I know, I admit to myself. It’s been a week since she didn’t go to the job he set up for her. I say nothing. I have no idea what she said to him to prompt this call.

“It’s not my job to babysit her,” he finishes.

“And it’s mine?” The words fly out of my mouth, and instantly I know I should have pushed them down. But on the rare occasions when we talk, I’m always the one who calls him. I have time to prepare, to choose my words carefully in anticipation of what he’s going to say. Today, he caught me off guard. He’s the one person I never—never—speak my mind to. For good reason.

His voice cuts through the speakers, carving into me. “Of course it’s your job. I go above and beyond when it comes to that useless woman.” I feel myself getting smaller with every word. “She’s spoiled. I’ve spoiled her. And you—you go to the expensive school I pay for and waste time with your bratty friends. You’re ei—seventeen years old, and you can’t get your mother out of the house. It’s pathetic, Cameron.”