If I'm Being Honest(70)
Like it’s nothing, Brendan takes my hand.
“Let me show you. It’s on me,” he says.
I don’t remove my hand. I follow him into the market, wondering for the second time what this is to him. He was just talking about going over to another girl’s house, I remind myself. But the way my hand feels in his, I’m having a really, really hard time convincing myself this isn’t a date.
Thirty-Three
AN ENTIRE WEEK GOES BY WITHOUT CLARIFICATION on the date-or-not-date question. Brendan took me to his favorite place and bought my dinner. He was perfectly friendly, but only friendly. He tried to explain Game of Thrones to me, and we placed bets on Paige’s next hair color once she grows enough back to dye it again. He didn’t take my hand again.
Things were normal at school, or whatever this new normal is. I had lunch with Brendan in the robotics room once while he worked on his game. Elle continues to ignore me, and I’ve given up trying to engage with her.
It’s Friday night, and I’m for once eagerly anticipating an entire weekend alone in my apartment. I don’t have a single social obligation, which admittedly is because I’ve managed to alienate my friends, reject my only dating prospect, and propel my crush into such new heights of popularity he’s sure to have dozens of plans from which to choose.
I force the thoughts from my head. I’m not wasting the weekend on self-loathing and other useless emotions.
I could hang out with Paige. But she’s picked up the vexing habit of dropping casual references to Brendan, and I’m not interested in hearing about his wonderful weekend plans or what he’s probably doing with Eileen Roth. In the midst of a completely ordinary conversation yesterday—or as ordinary as Paige is capable of—about why I “need” to watch some show called Boys Over Flowers, she just had to mention that Brendan got a ride home with someone else yesterday, thereby giving her Boys Over Flowers time. He and I haven’t talked about whatever he’s doing in the dating realm after our awkward conversation outside Grand Central Market.
Every time Paige says his name she gives me this curious look. I don’t know if she wants me to demand information or break down in tears or what, but I get the feeling she might be the only person—other than Elle—who knows the real reason behind the kiss, and now she’s torturing me until I admit it. As if admitting it would change anything. It would only put Brendan in the position of having to reject me.
Regardless, knowing Paige, if I texted her she’d probably invite me over to witness firsthand whatever date Brendan will be on. Not something I need visual evidence of.
I kick open the door to our apartment, ready to collapse on the couch and watch something mindless and without even a trace of romance—Animal Planet, I think—when I’m stopped short by the sight of my mother wearing my old Homecoming dress.
It’s a little too small, especially in the chest, and the length’s shorter than acceptable for a work event. Her curled hair bounces down her back, and her eyes are painted gold and brown in a way that’s pretty if a little ostentatious. She’s pulling on a pair of very high strappy stilettos.
I’m almost afraid to ask. “Where are you going?” I say from the doorway.
“Oh, hey, Cameron,” she replies brightly, fluffing her hair in the mirror next to the window. “Is it okay if I borrow your dress?”
I consider asking her to change, but she’ll likely wave away my request with a muttered It’s just a dress, Cameron. It’s not the point anyway. I drop my bag on the kitchen counter and face her. “Where are you going?” I repeat.
“PTA meeting,” she answers brightly.
I let out a relieved breath. As long as she’s not going to a work function. I drop down onto the couch and reach for the remote. “Since when do you care about the PTA?”
“Since Deb texted me that your father is on campus talking to the board.”
“What?” I twist around. I was on campus an hour ago. It doesn’t seem possible my dad and I were in the same place and I didn’t know.
Mom checks her phone and stows it in a sparkly gold clutch. The magnitude of her outfit choice hits me. She’s dressed like she’s going to a bar or a high school reunion—somewhere old people try to pretend they’re twenty-five—not a PTA meeting at an elite private school. I know what those parents will be wearing, and they won’t look kindly on my mom for treating our illustrious campus like a singles’ night.
“There was some donors’ meeting, and now the board is staying to sit in on the PTA meeting,” Mom replies, unaware of whatever expression of horror I’m wearing. She grabs her keys and heads for the door. “I’ll see you later tonight. Maybe,” she adds with a wink I immediately try to obliterate from my memory.
Dad’s here.
I’m out of my seat before she’s reached the door. “Wait. I’m coming, too.”
Mom’s mouth twitches into a frown. “Cameron, I don’t think students are typically invited to these.”
I level her a dry look. “Are you even a member of the PTA?”
She meets my gaze, then holds open the door. “Point taken.”
* * *
Mom starts collecting raised eyebrows and backward glances before we’re out of the parking lot.