After tossing my blanket and pillow onto the end of the bed, I sit down next to him. I hand him the bottle of water I always keep on my nightstand.
“Here.” I push it into his hand. “You need to hydrate.”
He doesn’t say a word, but he unscrews the cap and throws back a long swig.
While I don’t personally have a lot of experience with overdoing it with the hooch, Tash thinks a party isn’t a party until she’s drowned her inhibitions. I’ve spent far too many mornings at her house, holding back her hair.
At least Tru doesn’t look green. Hopefully that means I’ll be spared witnessing the worst parts of a hangover.
The bed shifts as he leans to the side and digs a hand into his pocket. He pulls out a small tin of mints, flips open the lip, and holds it out to me. I take one. Then watch as he tosses back half a dozen.
I’m amazed that his eyes aren’t watering.
“How did I get here?” he finally asks.
I point at the window. “Your usual way.”
He squints at the barest trace of sunlight that seeps through my blinds.
His mouth kicks up in a wincing smile. “Pretty impressive.”
“Are you kidding?” I shove at his shoulder. “You could have broken your neck.”
“I’m like a cat,” he says. “Always land on my feet.”
“Well, don’t go testing the nine lives theory on my roof.”
“Would you cry for me?” he teases.
Is he serious?
“I’ve only known you a week,” I say, “and I’ve already seen you wasted twice. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yeah,” he replies with a surfer dude drawl. “Next time I get to see you wasted.”
“What is your problem?” I demand. “It’s not normal to get drunk twice in the first week of school.”
He shrugs. “Maybe not in New York.”
“Are you never serious?” I run a hand through my hair. “Do you know how bad things could go if you got caught? Your entire future could be up in smoke.”
A year ago, I would have been the one on the other side of this conversation. Hell, a few months ago, I was ready to throw away everything for the thrill of a dangerous act of art.
Now that I’ve seen what there is to lose—my home, my friends, my happy family—I have a different perspective. Now I can see what he’s throwing away.
“Life has consequences,” I say, wincing as I repeat words Mom has said to me more than a few times.
Tru just smiles. He’s trying to look unconcerned, like I’m overreacting to the situation, but there is something in his eyes that tells me real emotions are lurking beneath the surface. Real emotions that he doesn’t want anyone looking at too closely.
Whatever. If he’s going to keep everything locked away, then I’m going to stop even trying to figure him out.
“Next time,” I say as I push to my feet, “knock on someone else’s window.”
I start to walk away, but before I can move, his hand wraps around my wrist.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice rough and raspy.
When I look back down at him, the mask is gone, and his eyes are bleak with pain. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I lower myself back onto the bed next to him.
This is the real Tru.
“My dad,” he begins, then stops and lowers his head.
I slip my hand from his grip and instead lace our fingers together. The heat of our joined palms is like an inferno.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to—”
“He and my mom fight.” He huffs out a sharp breath. “A lot.”
“All parents do,” I say, trying to make him feel better.
He lifts his gaze, and there is a coldness in his eyes that chills me to the core. “He and I fight. A lot.”
There is something…dark and empty about what he’s saying. There is pain, yes, that’s obvious. But there’s also…rage, maybe? Grief? Loss? No, not loss. Lost. It’s like he’s lost.
Whatever his father did to cause this much pain in someone as joyful and light as Tru, someone should do right back to him. No one should ever be made to feel this way.
Almost without thinking, I find myself leaning forward, closing the distance between us. I’m not sure if I think it will erase that emptiness in his eyes, but I have to try.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
I can’t tear mine away from the desperate, hungry look in his eyes.
Just one kiss, I tell myself. What could it hurt?
But before I can answer the question, there’s a knock at my door.
I jump up and away like my bed is on fire. Only our hands are still interlaced, so I don’t get very far.
“Sloane, honey,” Mom says. She tries the door handle, but thankfully it just rattles. “Why is your door locked?”
Eyes wide, I give Tru a pleading look. He lets me pull him to his feet and I drag him across the room, toward my closet. I tell her, “Because you keep coming in without permission.”
“Let me in,” she insists. “This is serious.”
I shove Tru into my closet. There are no clothes for him to hide behind—nothing to hang if nothing is unpacked. I hold my finger to my lips, praying that he’ll do a better job than he did on the roof last night, as I swing the door mostly closed.
Then I unlock and open my room door the minimum amount necessary for her to see my face and nothing beyond. Thankfully the closet is behind the door.
“What?” I demand, affecting as much righteous annoyance as I can.
Mom makes a face. “Good morning to you, too.”
I sigh. “You said it was important.”
She looks like she doesn’t want to let my attitude go, but then decides it’s not worth the argument. “Tru is missing.”
My breath catches in my throat, but I quickly force it to resume a normal pattern. “What do you mean missing?”
“Miko says his bed hasn’t been slept in,” Mom says, a pained look in her eyes. “He even left his phone and his ID.”
I can tell from her expression and her tone that she’s feeling so very sorry for her poor friend who has to deal with such a troublesome son. Just like she feels sorry for herself for having to deal with me.
But she’s only seeing—and hearing—one side of the story. The poor, put-upon parents who can’t seem to control their troublemaking son.
Mom didn’t see the broken look in Tru’s eyes just a few minutes ago when he was telling me about the fights with his dad. She didn’t hear the start of the one last night, the way his dad was tearing into his mom.
The whole one-sided, Tru-against-the-world argument is bullshit. His dad is at least an equal participant. Maybe more.
“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing my eyes not to check out the closed closet door just a few feet away, “what do you want me to do about it?”
“Miko thinks you two are becoming friends,” she says, and the disapproval in her tone is obvious. “I told her I would ask if you knew anything.”
I’m walking a fine line here. Between Tru hiding in my closet and Mom standing in front of me. Say something to defend Tru, and I wind up pissing Mom off and giving Tru’s big ego a steroid shot. Although he might actually need that boost right now. Say something to satisfy Mom, and the hungover eavesdropper in the closet will hear every word, and Mom will keep thinking he’s something that he’s not. In the end, I decide to err on the side of getting back to New York, to reassure Mom that the supposed future delinquent and I are nothing anywhere near friends.
Which is, of course, mostly true.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “I think he’s an ass.”
“Sloane Whitaker!” Mom gasps, as if she’s never heard me swear.
As if that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.
“We’re not friends, Mom. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Both absolutely true. We’re not really friends. I don’t know what we are, especially after what almost happened o
n my bed before Mom showed up, but I’m not sure there’s a word for it in the English language.
There’s no one word—or ten thousand words—that can describe how I’m drawn to him, despite all the reasons I should want to stay away. How he makes me want to sink into him, to absorb his smiles and let some of his who-gives-a-crap attitude rub off on me. To make sure he never again feels the kind of pain I saw in his eyes this morning.
The pull between us is indescribable.
“Okay,” she says, seemingly satisfied for the moment. “If you hear anything…”
“I’ll let you or Mrs. Dorsey know.”
When she’s gone and my lock is back in place, I head straight for the closet. “You need to go,” I order as I yank open the door.
And find myself looking at an empty closet.
I spin around. My blinds are up, my window open.
That boy is stealthy like a freaking cat.
The first ArtSquad practice is surprisingly fun. I never thought about turning art into a competition, but tackling everything from basic design terms to art history to on-the-spot art challenges in a kind of Pictionary meets Academic Decathlon is actually a blast. I thrive on pressure, so the added motivation of time limits really brings out my competitive nature. I could get used to this.
Aimeigh runs a tight ship, and by the time our thirty-minute practice is over, she has given each of the twelve of us a homework assignment and two specialties to focus on.
Mine are typography and color theory, which I am totally cool with. Core principals of graphic design.
After everyone else heads to first period, Tru sticks around to help us clean up.
“Did you hear about Jaq?” Aimeigh asks as she gathers up her team materials.
Tru goes looking for a marker that went rolling across Mrs. K’s classroom after Aimeigh threw it at one of the guys for giving a smart-ass answer.
“Who’s Jaq?” I ask.
“She sits next to me,” Aimeigh answers, nodding to the table she sits at when AGD is in session.
I picture the girl with a messy bob died deep red with blond streaks. I think she’s in my modern lit class too. She always wears cute floral dresses with knee-high boots.
“What about her?”
“Expelled,” Aimeigh whispers, as if just saying the word is inviting the same punishment.
“For what?” Tru asks.
“Cheating,” Aimeigh says. “She plagiarized a paper or something.”
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“Who cheats in the first two weeks of school?” Tru asks. “You gotta save that shit for the end of the quarter at least.”
I punch him in the arm.
Despite all the talk about rule breaking and authority flaunting, I’m starting to suspect that—aside from the drinking—his serial screw-up persona is totally fake. Nothing more than a show he puts on for his parents and anyone he wants to impress. The bad boy image might be nothing more than a facade.
“So just like that?” I ask. “She’s out?”
“Zero tolerance,” Aimeigh says.
Tru hands her the marker. “I’ll see you lovelies later. I gots to get to film and video.”
“Good morning, girls,” Mrs. K says as she sweeps into the AGD room. “You’re here early. I didn’t miss an appointment, did I?”
“ArtSquad practice,” Aimeigh says.
“Of course.” Mrs. K smiles. “Have a good team this year?”
“The best.”
As Mrs. K goes about her prep for class, I put away my ArtSquad homework assignments.
“You’re in my seat,” a stiff voice says.
Aimeigh looks up at Jenna. “You don’t own it.”
“I do when the bell rings,” Jenna retorts.
“Then when the bell rings,” Aimeigh says, a huge fake smile in place, “I’ll move.”
“Now girls,” Mrs. K says. “Play nice.”
Aimeigh rolls her eyes, but she shoves the rest of her materials into her backpack and heads for her own desk. “See you after.”
I head for the supply bar at the back of the room. When I’ve picked out a set of oil pastels and a sheet of newsprint, I head back to my seat.
Jenna has her sketchbook in front of her and her pencils lined up neatly next to it. She has them sorted in order of hardness.
There is definitely something odd about her.
I pull out my tablet, figuring I can check the traffic data for the latest Graphic Grrl strip that I posted late Sunday night. There’s always a huge spike in visits on Monday and Tuesday morning. This week, after the high-profile Artzfeed article, I’m prepared for a bigger-than-usual boost. Tilting the screen slightly away from Jenna, I log in to my site and scan for the numbers.
I am not prepared for the huge figure I see on my analytics dashboard.
Tash is always pushing me to add advertising to the site. Her uncle’s in marketing, which makes her a self-appointed expert, but she thinks I could make a lot of coin that way. For now, though, I’m just doing it for fun. I think it would change things if I decided to commercialize my art.
Still, these numbers are astounding.
“You should watch out,” Jenna says, so softly I almost don’t hear her.
“What?”
She keeps her head lowered, but twists to the side. “You should be careful.”
“Of what?” I ask.
“Of Aimeigh,” she says. “She isn’t very nice.”
I snort out a half laugh. “Okay, thanks.”
I can get why she feels that way. I’ve seen Aimeigh be kind of harsh to Jenna a couple of times. Of course she thinks Aimeigh’s mean.
But I definitely don’t need anyone to look out for me. I’m more than capable of looking out for myself.
On the way to the parking lot after school, my phone dings with a text message. I smile when I see Tash’s name on my screen.
Tash: SODA started 2day. Not same w/o u!
Me: Wish I wuz there
Tash: New painting teach is HAWT!
Me: Pic?
Tash: He took my phone
Tash: Will sneak 2moro
Me: Pls do
Tash: Any reprieve from shemonster?
Me: Not yet
Me: Hopefully soon
Tash: Tell me if I need 2 put out hit
Me: Haha
Tash: Or send chocolates
Me: Def send chocolates
Me: From Amuse Bouche
Tash: Done deal
Tash: Xoxo
Me: *mwuah*
I smile and sigh as I slip my phone back into my pocket.
I picture her walking up the dark gray steps at SODA along with the horde of other students rushing in late for the first day. Walking the halls, flirting with any halfway cute guy she sees—teachers included—and daring any girl to cross her path. Sneaking out onto the roof to eat lunch in our spot.
I feel like I’m missing out on what is supposed to be the best year of my life.
I have to keep that in mind. I have to remember that getting back to New York is my number one goal, every second of every day. No matter how fun ArtSquad may be or whether I’m making new friends—new whatever-Tru-is—or feeling challenged by exciting classes, it all pales in comparison to what I would be doing at SODA.
New York. My one and only mission.
Chapter Twelve
Oliver walks into the senior seminar classroom Wednesday and sets his bag on the chair at the head of the table. “Before we start working on our projects, I think it’s important for each of you to be as self-aware, as self-knowledgeable as possible.”
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers that look suspiciously like test booklets.
Everyone groans as he slaps them down on the table.
“This,” he says, jabbing one finger onto the stack, “is the Myers-Briggs personality test.”
Jenna asks, “How do you spell that?”
Oliver crosses to the whiteboard and w
rites it out.
“Does it test whether you have a personality?” Tru asks.
Someone whispers, “Then Jenna will fail.”
Across from me Willa bites back a laugh as she looks sideways at Damien.
Oliver doesn’t hear the comment. Or he chooses to ignore it. He hands the stack of booklets to Jenna, who takes one and passes them on.
“The test should only take about thirty minutes.” He grins like he’s granting us the best prize ever. “As soon as you finish, you can head home for the day.”
Cheers go up around the room. Suddenly everyone is very interested in taking the test. Heads down. Pencils scratching on paper. Rhythmic breathing.
The concentration only lasts about fifteen minutes.
“What if my test says I’m a serial killer?” Keegan asks.
Oliver laughs. “It’s not that kind of test.”
“What if it says you should be a nine-to-five drone who lives a soul-sucking existence that consists of nothing more than going to work, going to the gym, and going to bed?”
Everyone turns to stare at Tru.
Because seriously, the last person on the planet who could ever end up working an ordinary job, living an ordinary life, is Tru Dorsey.
There is definitely something extraordinary about him. About the way he can make people smile and laugh and feel good about themselves, even on their worst days. Aimeigh’s shown me some of his film clips, and he’s an extraordinary artist, too. Where his personality—or at least the personality he chooses to show the world—is bright and uplifting, his art delves into the deeper, darker emotions. He’s an enigma, a contradiction. A unique voice in a world of sameness.
There is no way Tru could ever live an ordinary life.
“It’s not that kind of test either,” Oliver repeats. “Now get back to it.”
Another five minutes in and Jenna closes her booklet. She hands it to Oliver and then, in a voice I’m pretty sure she meant to be a whisper but isn’t, asks, “When are you going to give us our final project assignments?”
Everyone turns to look, and for once they’re not glaring at Jenna in mock derision. They apparently have the same question.
All I know about these mysterious final projects is that NextGen students spend three years looking forward to them, and they are supposed to be epic on every level. Epic scale, epic scope, epic creativity. Epic is something I can definitely get behind.