Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru

  Great.

  After the day I had, I’m not in a mood to deal with wasted Tash.

  “Call me when you’re sober,” I tell her.

  “No, no, wait,” she begs. “Just wait.”

  I do, holding the phone against my ear while I’m waiting for her to continue.

  “Sloane?” she asks tentatively.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Oh, I thought you hung up.”

  “Nope,” I say. “Still here.”

  I switch over to speakerphone and let my hand drop to my side.

  “When are you coming home?”

  I sigh. “I told you. After first quarter.”

  “No, you should come home now. I have to tell you about Mr. Noble.”

  Since I don’t know Mr. Noble, I assume he’s Tash’s hot new painting teacher. I’ll be amazed if she hasn’t flirted herself to an A in the class already.

  “I would if I could,” I tell her. “But you know Mom. I’m lucky I even got her to make this deal with—”

  “No!” Drunk Tash turns petulant when she doesn’t get her way. “You come home now. I need you, so just tell her—” I’m not sure what pushes me over the edge. It could be the crappy day. Or the late hour. Or I could be just at the end of my rope when it comes to Tash.

  Whatever the reason, I bolt up in bed, switch off speakerphone, and snap, “You know what? I’m sorry if my absence is inconvenient for you. But do you think I want to be here? Do you think I asked to be moved halfway across the country? Do you think I wanted to have an arrest on my permanent record?”

  “No, but—”

  “Ever since that night, my life has been pretty much shit,” I continue. I’m really on a roll now. “And I’m sorry that you don’t understand it, since you got off scot-free, but I actually do have to pay the price for what we did.”

  “Sloane—”

  “We couldn’t both be around the corner making out with the guy who was supposed to be mine.” I pace a pattern between my bed and the window. “But then I guess I actually owe you for that one, don’t I?”

  She gasps. “You liked Brice?”

  “Oh come on,” I reply. “You had to know.”

  “I didn’t, Sloane. I swear.”

  I press my head against the cool glass of the window. “Yeah, I know,” I say, realizing as I say the words that I believe them. “I know you didn’t.”

  “I would never,” she insists.

  “I know,” I repeat. “I’m just… It’s been a rough couple days.”

  I hear her sobbing softly through the phone, and even from so many miles away, I want to reach out and reassure her. Despite my harsh words, I’m not really mad about Brice. And I don’t blame Tash for not getting caught—that’s as much my fault as it was hers. I just need her to show a little understanding for what I’m going through. Is that too much to ask?

  “I’m so sorry about Brice and the cops and everything,” she says through the sniffles. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t get caught. I’m so sorry that you took all the blame and you’re suffering all of the consequences.”

  Sounds like my real talk sobered her up quickly.

  “If I could trade places with you, I would in a flash,” she insists. “But my mom—”

  “I know, Tash. I really do understand. “I just… I need you to understand, okay? I miss you more than anything, and I want to be home more than anything.”

  “Me too!”

  “And even if I could go back and not tell the cops that I did it all on my own, I wouldn’t. You’re my best friend, and I don’t regret protecting you.” I take a breath. “But please, you have to stop with the guilt trips. Because I’ll be home as soon as I can. You know me well enough to know that’s true.”

  She’s silent for a long time. I strain to hear the sounds of more sniffles, but it’s just silence. Did we get cut off? Maybe she hung up on me.

  “Do you—?” Her voice is feather soft. “Do you want me to stop texting?”

  “No,” I blurt. “God, no, of course not. Some days you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

  “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk to.”

  In that moment, in that one sentence, I have an epiphany. I’ve always known Tash was my only close friend, and I’m okay with that. I just never stopped to realize that I was her only one, too. She seems so over-the-top outgoing, I guess I imagined she had legions of other friends just waiting to take my place.

  But with me gone, she must feel as lonely as I do.

  “We should talk more,” I say. “Not texting. Actual real talk.”

  “I’d like that.”

  I glance at the clock on my phone. “Just not at two-twenty-eight in the morning.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Good night, Tash,” I tell her.

  “’Night, Sloane. I love you.”

  “Love you.”

  We click off and, just before I drift back to sleep, she texts me a kissy-face emoji. I send the same one back and then mute my phone. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

  Now if I could only solve the problem of Tru and the copycat vandalism, I’d be back to my one and only big problem: being stuck in Austin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oliver rubs his hands together. “The time has come, my little seedlings, to tell you about the senior projects.”

  Everyone sits up a little straighter in their seats.

  I slump farther down into mine. For the past couple days I’ve been in a kind of fog. It’s like I’m going through the motions, hearing the world around me, responding when necessary, but not really fully engaged. Since Tru confessed to the copycat vandalism, nothing has felt quite right.

  Without his constant smiling and teasing and outlandish comments, the classroom full of people feels too empty. I feel too empty. How had he become such an integral part of my day in such a short period of time?

  “Or, should I say,” Oliver teases, “project.”

  He places a hard emphasis on the final letter of the word project. As in singular.

  A couple of students groan.

  Willa drops her head to the table.

  “What?” Jenna cries.

  “That’s right, kids.” Oliver gestures around the table at all of us. “This year, senior seminar projects are going to be a group project.”

  While this doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me, some of the other students look outraged. I guess if they’ve been looking forward to doing solo senior projects for three years, it could be annoying to find out we’re going to do one big group thing.

  I turn to stare out the window. It is a brilliantly sunny day and the Pokémon statue is gleaming like a fresh-off-the-mint dime. Could a day be more completely at odds with my mood?

  “What kind of group project?” Willa asks, back in an upright position.

  “The group will decide,” Oliver answers. “You can choose any media, any format, any direction you, as a group, decide.”

  “What about the end-of-year exhibit?” Jenna asks.

  Oliver smiles at her. “That will still happen. But instead of individual and small group presentations, you will present as a single group.”

  Mariely raises her hand. “Can I ask why?”

  “Yeah,” Dahlia says. “Why the change?”

  Oliver nods. “I understand that many of you have been waiting years to work on these projects. You may have already been planning them, working on them even. And that’s part of the reason. We want everyone to be starting from scratch.”

  Jenna looks like she’s about to cry. I know her type. She likes to be ahead of schedule. She probably started working on this freshman year, has it all planned down to the tiniest detail, and now it’s been pulled out from under her.

  Kind of like my life. I spent three years at SODA, waiting for my time as senior to come. And then, because of one stupid decision, I had to start everything from scratch. Jenna should be hap
py it’s only an art project.

  “And the other reason?” Willa asks.

  “Because working entirely on your own or even choosing your own small groups isn’t necessarily realistic or representative of the real world.” Oliver starts a circle around the room. “You will often have to work with people you don’t know, don’t know well, or—to be honest—don’t even like.”

  He pauses behind an empty chair, places his hands on the back.

  “As part of the life skills initiative,” he continues, “we want your senior projects to mimic a real-life working artist scenario as completely as possible.”

  I can’t stop staring at the empty chair Oliver is leaning on for emphasis. Tru’s empty chair.

  There are a few other empty chairs in the room, and Tru always sat next to me, but for some reason the image of Oliver standing over that one across the table just shoots right through me.

  Everything about this feels wrong. Tru should be sitting in that chair, should be in this classroom right now. Should be part of this group project, whatever it’s going to be.

  I haven’t seen him since he barged into Principal Ben’s office and confessed to the art crime I’d been accused of. Two days with no teasing in the halls. No knocking on my bedroom window. Not even any sounds of yelling coming from next door.

  I’ve texted him several times. I know I shouldn’t, since I’m the one who broke off with him, but this kind of changes things. This really changes things.

  He hasn’t responded.

  I’m worried about him. Mom says Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey have been out of town since the end of last week, so at least I know he hasn’t had to face his parents yet. The thought of what will happen when he does makes me sick. He shouldn’t be punished for something he didn’t do.

  I jerk back.

  That’s the exact moment I realize that, despite his confession and the lack of evidence otherwise, I know that Tru didn’t plastic the school. He couldn’t have, wouldn’t have. No matter how mad he might have been at me, he wouldn’t have set me up like that. I have nothing to go on except my gut, my instincts about him, but I believe it as strongly as if I’d seen the real vandal—whoever that is—plasticking the school with my own eyes.

  Besides, if he really wanted to get back at me, he has everything he needs to totally ruin my life. He knows about Graphic Grrl. After the Artzfeed post, the quest to uncover my identity went viral. There’s even a whoisgraphicgrrl.com website. With a reward and everything.

  Breaking that story would be way juicier than a repeat of my illegal trespassing and vandalism charges.

  Tru didn’t set me up, which means he only confessed to save me. He sacrificed himself, for me. That kind of loyalty shouldn’t be punished by expulsion and whatever his parents will do to him. It should be rewarded. Revered. Returned.

  “Oliver,” I blurt in the middle of his answer to yet another group project question, pushing to my feet as I snatch my backpack from the floor, “can I be excused?”

  He studies me for a second, and I silently beg him to give me permission. Because I’m going whether he gives it or not, and I’d rather not get in bigger trouble for what I’m about to do than is absolutely necessary. Finally, he nods.

  I’m out the door and racing down the hall in a flash.

  Tru fell on his sword to protect me. And now it’s my turn to protect him.

  I rush into the main office and throw open Principal Ben’s door before Agnes and Kyle even have time to notice me. I’ve had the entire run from senior seminar to build up my adrenaline for what I’m about to do.

  Panting and desperate to make things right, I blurt, “Tru didn’t do it!”

  Principal Ben just stares at me, eyes wide. Maybe barging in the same way Tru did two days ago wasn’t the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had, especially when I see who is sitting in the chairs across from his desk.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey.

  The look on Mr. Dorsey’s face could melt the Iron Throne.

  “Sloane?” Mrs. Dorsey asks.

  Oh shit. I didn’t think this through before I raced inside. Not that I could have known Tru’s parents would be here. I didn’t know they were back in town.

  My first thought is, Have they seen Tru already or did they come straight here before going home?

  I can’t seem to form words. “Um…”

  “What do you mean Tru didn’t do it?” Principal Ben asks, apparently not thrown by my unannounced arrival. “Do you have new evidence?”

  Think, Sloane. Think.

  “He, um…”

  When I dashed out of senior seminar, my only plan had been to beg Principal Ben to reconsider, to tell him what my gut told me. I was running on certainty and adrenaline. But with three very intense pairs of eyes focused on me, I know gut feelings won’t be enough. I need real, tangible evidence. Evidence I don’t have.

  I could confess, but where would that get me? I’d be expelled in Tru’s place, when neither of us is guilty. If he sacrificed himself to protect me, it’s kind of messed up to do the same. We could find ourselves in some never-ending cycle of self-sacrificing. They might just kick us both out and be done with it.

  Great. What am I going to do?

  I care about him too much to let him go down for this. For me. Even if it means never getting back to New York.

  Oh God, I have an idea. It might be a royally stupid one, but it just might work. Or at least buy us some time.

  “Principal, um…” I bite my lip, force myself to relax so I look as sincere as possible. “Principal Haverford,” I begin again, “I can’t stay quiet anymore. I know Tru didn’t vandalize the school.”

  Tru’s parents must be stunned silent or something, because they just keep staring at me. Mr. Dorsey looks a bit like he’s ready to crush something and Mrs. Dorsey like she’s hoping I have the lifeline she so desperately wants for her son.

  “How do you know this?” Principal Ben asks.

  I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the fallout.

  This is going to get me into a whole different kind of trouble. Without an audience, I might have had a chance at getting through this without anyone outside the office finding out. But that’s not an option at this point. If the Dorseys are here, that means they’re home and they know their son has been expelled. I have to do this now, or who knows what will happen to Tru?

  I have to do it now, and there’s no going back.

  “Because,” I say, not meeting the Dorseys’ interested gazes, “he was with me that night.”

  Principal Ben gives me a sympathetic look. “Sloane, we don’t know what time the vandalism happened. Just because Tru was with you for part of the—”

  “No,” I interrupt, sealing my fate as a perpetually grounded individual. “We were together all night.”

  Mrs. Dorsey gasps, slaps her hand over her mouth in supposed outrage, but I can see the sparkle of relief in her eyes.

  Mr. Dorsey huffs out an annoyed breath. Like he wanted Tru to be guilty, wanted to be able to punish him for this ultimate act of rebellion. Tough luck, dude.

  Principal Ben blinks. Several times.

  “I see…” he says. Clears his throat. Looks down at his desk, shuffles some papers. “So, ahem, then why didn’t you tell me this when Tru confessed?”

  “Because my mom was there,” I say, as if the answer was too obvious to even ask. “And because she doesn’t approve of Tru. I was afraid of what she would say if she knew we were seeing each other.”

  I hold my breath.

  For several long moments, everyone is quite still. Frozen, and staring at me. No matter what happens, all I can feel is relief. I know I’ve done the right thing, saving Tru from his misguided attempt to protect me. Whatever happens after this…at least I’ve done that right.

  Mom doesn’t look at me as I climb into the car.

  Great. Another fun-filled drive.

  “So, you heard,” I say.

  She draws in a deep breath and then sighs.
“Were you going to tell me?”

  “What?” I feign innocence, buying myself even a few more seconds before Mom-rage is in full effect.

  “About Tru.”

  “Why would I?” I retort.

  “Because I’m your mother,” she says, her voice way more calm than I expect as she pulls out into traffic.

  “You expressly forbade me from having anything to do with him.” I pluck at the hem of my black Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. tee. “Must have slipped my mind to let you know we’re friends.”

  “You were with him at Abbey Road, weren’t you?”

  I see no point in lying anymore. My fate is sealed. “Yes.”

  There is a long pause as she navigates her way onto the freeway, and then she asks, “How long have you been sexually active?”

  I cough-choke on my own tongue.

  Clearly I had not thought through that part of my non-existent plan. If I could magically climb into a Graphic Grrl strip right now and disappear forever rather than have this talk with Mom, I totally would.

  I slump lower in my seat. “I’m not.”

  “That’s not what your principal told me,” she says.

  “God, you’re talking about my sex life with Principal Ben?” I cover my eyes with my hands. “I hope you have a nice therapy fund set aside.”

  “Sloane…”

  “Ugh, I’m not, okay,” I say. “I’m not sexually active.”

  “Then you didn’t spend all Sunday night with Tru?” she asks. “When I thought you were upstairs—alone—and asleep?”

  I could make this fight about something it’s not. Tell her that what I do in the privacy of my own room is none of her concern, that I am adult enough to make my own decisions about my life. But while that might score me some major Rebellious Youth points, in the end we would still be at war over this.

  And, to be honest, I’m tired of being at war. I’m tired of tiptoeing around everything, terrified that I’ll do something against The Rules and wind up sentenced to Texas for life. I probably already am.

  There’s no way I get out of this unscathed. Either I’m the girl who’s sleeping with the screw-up neighbor, or I’m the girl who lied to the principal. I’m going to face Mom-wrath no matter what I choose.