If I'm Being Honest(40)

He and Paige share a look. I’m left wondering if I’ve stumbled into something private, until Paige pokes my arm. “Ready for our date?”

Brendan jerks up, obviously wondering if he heard right.

Paige and I exchange glances. “Don’t I look ready?” I eye Paige invitingly, straightening my lapels. “I got dressed up for you and everything.”

“This . . . really throws things into a new light.” Brendan’s watching the two of us curiously.

“Relax, Brendan.” Paige stretches to perch her chin on her brother’s NBA-height shoulder. “We’re joking.”

“For the most part,” I chime in.

Brendan blinks. “I’m glad you guys have each other. I’m going to the MIT booth.” He affectionately prods Paige’s hair. “Please feel free to continue your non-date without me.” He leaves, and Paige and I share an amused look.

“I don’t really want to wait in this line,” Paige announces. “They have a computer-aided design program I thought Brendan would be interested in, but, well . . .” She gestures in the direction he disappeared into the crowd.

“Where to?” I ask.

“I want to check out RISD and Tisch. What about you?”

I dodge the question, deferring to Paige’s choices. “Art school, huh?”

Paige shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know. I’m not like Brendan, who’s brilliant enough he could probably pick whatever school he wants.”

“But you’re here on scholarship,” I reply. “You have to be kind of brilliant.”

Paige shakes her head. “Not like Brendan. Believe me.” Once again, I can’t completely read the combination of emotions in her voice. I hear . . . not jealousy. Closer to pride churned together with protectiveness.

We push our way into the crowd. Without completely avoiding trampling our classmates’ toes, we finally reach RISD. I wait while Paige collects a couple brochures, feeling my stomach clench—RISD’s a few tables over from Penn. I’m practically right under the blue banner emblazoned with the Penn crest.

I guess Paige notices me looking at the banner when she returns from the RISD table. “You want to check them out?” She nods upward, following my eyes.

“Uh,” I demur. “Not right now.”

Paige nods once. I’m grateful for her not remarking on the obvious unease in my voice. I follow her once more into the crowd, figuring we’re probably headed to Tisch or possibly CalArts. I’ve read their program measures up to the East Coast schools.

While we walk, I glance through the crowd and catch a glimpse of Brendan. He’s reached the front of the MIT line, and I watch him talking to the representative. Not just talking—charming. His shoulders back, a rakish confidence on his features, Brendan finishes some sort of story or explanation, prompting a real laugh from the representative. If I hadn’t seen Brendan spending every lunch in the robotics room for myself, I’d never believe this collected, charismatic boy in front of me is the same person.

I’m starting to say something to Paige when, without warning, she ducks behind a display. Her cheeks burn bright enough to match her hair.

I look around, confused, until my eyes alight on Jeff Mitchel. And it is a miracle—a mercy—I didn’t notice him before. He’s wearing a horrible pink blazer and green striped tie, the type of outfit intended to tell college reps he couldn’t care less what they think of him because Daddy’s donations will get him in wherever he wants.

I give Paige an uncertain glance. “Tell me when he’s gone,” she says.

I watch Jeff while Paige hides. The only college prep he’s getting here is practice for an inevitable career of harassing girls at fraternity parties. I watch him ogle a group of juniors. When they relocate, obviously uncomfortable, he follows.

I beckon Paige out.

“Care to explain?” I ask.

Paige is incredulous. “Do I need to? It’s Jeff. He’s a loser.”

“But you wanted to hook up with him,” I point out.

“I did hook up with him,” Paige corrects me bluntly.

Surprised, I privately wonder why she ended up in tears that night. But it’s not my place to ask. I cut her a droll glance instead. “I can’t believe you actually hooked up with Jeff Mitchel. What, did he show you the sensitive side he hides behind his asshole exterior? You probably helped him with a school project, and he realized you’re not the weirdo everyone thinks you are, and you learned he takes care of his sick grandma or something when he’s not trying to be cool in front of his friends.”

Paige laughs.

“Was I right?” I press.

“No,” she says. “I only know the Jeff Mitchel everyone else unfortunately does. I’ve hardly said two words to him.”

“Then why?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why’d you hook up with him?”

“Because he’s hot,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining something to a child. “Did I need any other reason?”

I laugh. “Fair enough. I can respect that. I just thought someone like you would have less shallow reasons than the rest of us,” I tease.

“Weird artsy girls can be plenty shallow,” she replies assuredly.

“I’m getting that.”