If I'm Being Honest(54)

“Was,” I hastily amend. “You’re not gross now. Not at all.”

I blush when I say it. I don’t know why.

“Engrave that on my tombstone,” he jokes. I laugh, relieved he’s broken the emotion of whatever that was. Brendan goes on. “Speaking of teenagers in lingerie—”

“Now that’s a promising lead-in,” I cut in.

Brendan grins. “You’re dressed modestly for Rocky. I’ve had to watch Grant walk around in a corset and underwear and my own sister with her shirt upsettingly far open. Yet here you are in a tuxedo.”

“This is Hannah’s night,” I say earnestly, ignoring the possibility he’s suggesting he wishes I were wearing less. His face reveals nothing. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“About how hot you are, you mean,” Brendan replies.

My eyebrows spring up. “So you admit it!” I can’t ignore the thrill that runs through me, and not just because I’ve caught him after he’s been trying to cover it up.

But Brendan shrugs, unfazed. “It’s an objective fact, Cameron,” he says easily.

I reach for words and come up empty. It would be cavalier coming from anybody, declaring I’m objectively hot. I’m doubly in disbelief because it’s Brendan coming right out with it instead of dancing around the idea like he’s done in our texts.

Before I figure out what to say, the door flies open and a tall man walks in without knocking. “1540, Brendan?” he says. This must be Brendan and Paige’s dad, I assume from his gargantuan height and curly brown hair. Noticing me, he spares me a glance but continues like I’m not here. “You had a perfect score on the PSAT. What happened?” he interrogates Brendan.

I cut Brendan an impressed look. 1540 must be his SAT score, which is way higher than I scored.

But I read defeat on Brendan’s face. “The Beaumont college counselor said 1540 is definitely enough for MIT,” he says.

“I don’t care what’s enough,” his dad returns. “I know you’re capable of getting a perfect score. You demonstrated it on the PSAT. You know how many more scholarships you could earn with a 1600.” He walks to the door. “You’ll retake the test in December,” he says, his hand on the knob. There’s no hint of a question in his voice.

I study his uncompromising expression. Brendan’s dad is definitely handsome, for being dad-aged. The hard line of his jaw, his straight and narrow nose. They’re Brendan’s features, drawn by years of responsibility and sharpened with an edge of cruelty. It’s what sets them apart from his son’s. I prefer Brendan’s, kinder and gentler. I hope they stay that way.

“I have a heavy course load this semester,” Brendan protests. I understand what he’s not saying. He has the video game contest coming up, and either his dad doesn’t know or Brendan’s wise enough not to bring it up. “I don’t have the time to study right now,” he continues.

“Well, you might if you didn’t spend your time playing video games,” his dad shoots back. “If you’d studied enough the first time you took the test, we wouldn’t be in this position. Say good-bye to your guest”—he nods in my direction without looking at me—“and spend the afternoon working on critical reading.”

Brendan nods. I don’t know if his dad catches the way Brendan’s jaw tightens, like he’s biting back a refusal.

Mr. Rosenfeld’s voice softens, if only slightly. “I’m just trying to help you achieve everything I know you can,” he says like it’s a compliment and walks out of the room.

I hear Brendan exhale—in relief or frustration or both, I can’t tell. Part of me doesn’t want to look at him, in case he’s embarrassed or wants time to himself. I felt my insides twist hearing his dad belittle Brendan’s interest the way I did when we first talked. Not just from the unfairness of what Brendan’s dad said but from guilt over my own words. What I said—mindless video game—would have reminded him of criticism he probably hears over and over when he’s home. No matter how hard Brendan works to hide his interest in computer games, his dad probably picks up on the smallest signs and never lets them go. I know what it’s like to have your dad’s voice echoing in your head, wishing you could shut it out and failing.

“Sorry about that,” Brendan says stiffly. He reaches for the SAT prep book on the shelf over his desk.

“It’s okay,” I say. Then before I know it, I hear myself add, “When I sent my dad my scores, he only said he’d hoped I’d get at least twenty points higher than I did, what with where he pays for me to go to school.”

Brendan’s eyes find mine. “When you sent—” he begins delicately, thinking. “Does your dad not live with you?”

“No. He lives in Philadelphia,” I reply, feeling how weird it is to say it out loud. My friends barely know my family situation, and they’ve known me for years. I’m definitely not the hi-nice-to-meet-you-here’s-my-autobiography type of person. I don’t want pity, sympathy, preferential treatment. I haven’t wanted to confide in anyone new. Not until now. “He and my mom never married. I’ve never lived with him. He only visits when he has business in town, which is, like, once a year.”