If I'm Being Honest(34)

I know what you mean. I hate when girls look at a teenage computer nerd/gamer and automatically think “stud.” We’re so much more than that, you know?



I laugh out loud. I never knew Brendan was funny. I guess I knew nearly nothing about him. It’s just that a sense of humor is one of the things I definitely wouldn’t have predicted from someone who ensconces himself in the library and the robotics room every chance he gets.

    I’m glad you told me. I’ll correct the error of my ways.

No problem. Even though I’m definitely 100% not in the slightest the kind of guy who finds blondes hot or whatever, I’ll make sure no one gets the wrong idea from my game. The sorceress has depth, I promise, in addition to being the kind of girl SOME people MIGHT find hot.



I’m surprised how long this conversation has gone on, how much he’s saying. He has surprising charisma and charm for a guy with an antisocial reputation. I’m starting to suspect he doesn’t socialize not because he can’t but because, for reasons I don’t know, he just doesn’t want to.

Yet here he is, texting me like we’re old friends.

I feel like this means he possibly doesn’t hate me.

    You might want to decrease her cup size. People won’t see depth if they’re distracted by her double Ds.



I would expect an embarrassed smiley, except I’m not convinced Brendan’s discovered emojis.

    Damn. Noticed that, did you?

Don’t worry. I DEFINITELY believe you when you say she’s not your type.

Good. I DEFINITELY wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.



If I didn’t know Brendan better, I’d think he was trying to flirt with me. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was doing a pretty great job.

It feels like a natural place to pause the conversation. I let his reply be, even though a very unfamiliar part of me wants to keep talking. Putting my phone down, I feel how the stress and frustration I carried home have almost dissipated. It’s something I never would’ve expected, but it’s been an awful day, and Brendan Rosenfeld made it feel okay.

Returning to my response paper, I find myself rewriting. Katherine has her flaws. Why do they only ever earn her isolation and pain? I refocus my thesis and write a new draft. Katherine deserves to be held accountable for the horrible things she does. But underneath the nasty exterior, it’s possible she’s a person and not just a problem. A person who needs to change but deserves a chance.





Sixteen



WE’RE IN THE DINING HALL TODAY BECAUSE it’s raining. We’re packed into the wood-paneled room, elbows touching at the long oak tables. Morgan prudently went for a burger today. But she hasn’t taken a bite because she’s busy expounding on every detail of the role she landed in an indie horror movie.

I would be in a pretty good mood right now, even though rainy days usually frustrate me—L.A.’s not a city built for running in the rain. When I left for school in the morning, my mom wasn’t home. The black pumps she wears to job interviews were gone from the pile of shoes in her closet where I left them a week ago. It’s a start.

What’s bothering me is Leila. If we weren’t in the dining hall, I wouldn’t have to watch her with her friends. Wouldn’t have to be reminded of how guilty I feel.

Which . . . is weird. I didn’t expect to feel bad about what I said, not when I’m right about her and Jason. Not when it’s not even in the top ten worst things I’ve said to people. But I do.

She’s working hard to flirt with Jason next to her. I know she’s upped the PDA because of what I said. Every other second she’s draping herself on him, resting her head on his shoulder, or ruffling his hair.

“We’re shooting during the college fair. I don’t care. It’s not like I’m planning to go to college,” Morgan goes on. “The producer already loves me, and my costar wants to—”

I want to listen. I really do. I’m excited for Morgan—she’s a good actress, and this is the first role where she has a chance to show it. But I’m distracted by Jason, who gingerly removes Leila’s arm from around his neck, plants a peck on her cheek, and gets up from the table.

And walks straight toward ours.

He taps Elle on the shoulder. “Hey, want to help me with that . . . thing?” He’s wearing a winning grin, the one I remember from his Cyrano de Bergerac performance junior year.

Elle turns, her expression a combination of eager and wary. She chews her lip and glances at Leila. Who, unsurprisingly, is watching their interaction with undisguised displeasure.

“You know you guys aren’t being even a little subtle, right?” I ask abruptly. Elle’s eyes flash to mine, and she frowns.

“You told your friends?” Jason hisses over her shoulder.

Elle’s frown deepens, and she redirects it to Jason. “They’re my friends, Jason. What were they going to think when you and I disappeared from lunch? That I was helping you with your makeup?”

Brad stifles a laugh behind me. “Everyone knows anyway, dude. Half the football team saw you yesterday in the student lounge.”

With that, I watch the anger ebb from Jason’s face. He straightens his shirt, changing easily from indignant to arrogant playboy. “Whoops,” he says. I have to restrain myself from grimacing in revulsion, which I do for Elle’s sake.