Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru

  At first, I think he’s going to leave it at that. And he should. We’re practically strangers.

  Then, as Oliver moves on to a girl named Willa, Tru leans closer still—if that’s even possible—and whispers right against the shell of my ear, “You should.”

  Despite myself, shivers race over my entire body as his lips tickle my skin.

  I spin my chair abruptly away from him, knocking my shoulder into his chin along the way. He doesn’t know anything about me, about what I want from life. He doesn’t get to have an opinion about it.

  “I can take a hint,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

  Too bad my swivel didn’t knock the cocky out of him.

  Chapter Seven

  After senior seminar, I have to stop by the front office to pick up some form Mom forgot to fill out, so Tru gets a head start to the parking lot. He is leaning against his car, face turned up to the gray sky.

  When I walk up, he gives me a sloppy grin.

  “Hey, New York,” he says, like he didn’t see me three minutes ago in seminar.

  I roll my eyes and start to walk around him.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” he says, placing his hand on my waist. When I stop, he adds, “Why are you being so uptight with me?’

  Every muscle in my body tenses. In anger.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been called uptight. The exact word Brice used when he explained why he wasn’t interested in seeing me as anything more than a friend. My jaw clenches.

  “I am not uptight,” I grind out.

  “Look, we’re neighbors,” he says, pushing away from the car and standing way too close. “Can’t we be friends?”

  He leans down until his mouth is right next to my ear.

  “Admit it,” he whispers. “You like me.”

  My mind is racing. He is so close, so warm, so there. That tingling sensation I seem to get whenever he’s around has my skin on fire. I barely know him, but I can’t decide if I should shove him away or lean in closer. Neither is a good answer.

  “Tru, I—” As I turn my head to respond, I catch a whiff of his breath.

  All trace of breath mint is gone. He smells like a liquor cabinet.

  “Oh my God.” I shove both hands against his chest. “Are you—” I realize I’m about to shout the word drunk at full volume on school property. I drop my voice to a whisper. “Have you been drinking?”

  He falls back against the car and shrugs, that crooked smile in place.

  He’s wasted.

  So many emotions rush through me. Shock. Shame. Confusion. And anger. Most of all anger.

  “Give me your keys,” I demand.

  His smile deepens. “Your eyes glow when you’re pissed.”

  I’m not the only one who’s pissed.

  How on earth could he have gone from totally functional in class to ridiculous in the parking lot? He’d had, at most, ten minutes from when we split up until I walked out here. I can’t believe he made it through senior seminar without anyone catching on. He must have started before class and he must have had practice.

  “Tru Dorsey, I swear to God, if you do not give me your keys in the next five seconds, I will castrate you.”

  The grin grows as his eyes squeeze shut.

  “Right here in this parking lot,” I add, just so there is no confusion about how serious I am, “in front of the entire school.”

  He digs into his pocket with his right hand but then swings his left around, dangling the keys in front of me.

  “I wasn’t gonna drive,” he says, slapping them into my open palm. “Be gentle with her. She has a sensitive clutch.”

  He pushes away, trips around to the passenger side of the car.

  Clutch? Oh hell, this is going to suck. Not only do I not have my license—who needs to drive in New York?—but I’ve only ever tried a stick shift one time. It didn’t end well.

  I fling my backpack into the back and then slide into the driver’s seat. If I wasn’t so angry I was seeing spots right now, I’d probably appreciate how comfortable and powerful his car is. Sleek controls and serious horsepower—I feel like I’m behind the wheel of a racecar.

  It was the same car this morning, but I’d been half asleep. It’s a miracle I even recognized it in the parking lot.

  I take a deep breath before I put the key in the ignition and turn. The engine makes a grinding noise.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Tru says, reaching over to turn back the key. “You have to put the clutch in.”

  I peer down to the floor.

  “The one on the left,” Tru says. His hand reaches across and grabs my left knee. Pure electric sparks race down to my toes. He moves my leg over until my foot is on what must be the clutch pedal, then pushes down.

  I’m too stunned to stop him. Even as angry as I am, his touch still gives me goose bumps. Something is definitely wrong with me.

  “Now try.” He doesn’t let go of my knee.

  The sparks burn a permanent track on my leg.

  I turn the key, and this time the car purrs to life.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I say, removing his hand.

  I need to be able to think clearly if I’m going to get us home.

  “Just remember—” He lets his head fall back against the headrest, just like I had done this morning. Only I’d been half asleep, not half passed out. “Put the clutch in to shift, up if she’s whirring, down if she’s groaning.”

  Whirring, up. Groaning, down.

  I think I’ve got it.

  I hope I’ve got it.

  My first attempt at movement sends us lurching then dying. Tru snorts but doesn’t give me any further advice. Great. It takes me three circles of the parking lot to feel comfortable enough to head out onto the road without posing a severe danger to other drivers. It only took two circles for Tru to fall asleep.

  He and I are going to have words about this. As soon as he’s conscious again.

  Who assigns homework the first week of school? Mr. Lufkin, that’s who.

  After leaving Tru asleep in his car in the Dorseys’ driveway—as if I was going to help him into the house after that—I grabbed a handful of Twizzlers and then headed upstairs to get my first reading assignment done. Ulysses, chapters one through three. Yay.

  I’m only two pages into chapter one when Mom knocks on my door.

  And doesn’t wait for an answer before barging in.

  My jaw almost drops when I see that she’s wearing yoga pants. I can’t remember the last time Mom wore anything that casual. Or anything casual period. Her entire wardrobe is suits, suits, and more suits.

  See, being away from New York is already ruining her sense of style.

  “Did I just see you driving Tru’s car?” she demands.

  “What?” I ask, caught off guard.

  Great. This can’t go badly.

  “Just now,” she says. “You were behind the wheel in Tru’s car when it pulled into the driveway next door.”

  “What, were you spying on me?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Answer the question.”

  I have to think quickly. If I’m not careful, if I even hint that I had to drive because he was drunk, I would lose what little freedom I’ve gained by not being at her mercy for transport.

  “Yes,” I admit with a huff, because I can’t exactly deny what she saw. “I just took it for a spin around the block.”

  “Sloane…”

  “What? I wanted to see what it was like.” I shake my head, like she’s totally overreacting. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You don’t have a license,” she argues. “You don’t have insurance. If you got caught, it would be a really big deal.”

  “Well, I didn’t. So you can just chill.”

  “But what if you had—”

  “God, Mom, I just wanted to try, okay?” I turn my attention back to my book. “It won’t happen again.”

  Because I will leave Tru bleeding on the sidewalk a
nd take the bus home if it does.

  I sense her hesitate, watching me from the doorway and trying to figure out what to say. How to react. I wish she would just decide and get it over with.

  Finally, after what feels like forever, she walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. “Okay,” she says. “Just be sure you’re making smart choices. I don’t want you to find more trouble that will haunt your future.”

  What am I supposed to say to that? It’s the same old song. I’m tired of trying to defend myself and my ability to make good decisions.

  She fidgets with the edge of my comforter. “So, how was your second day at NextGen?”

  Oh, is that how we’re going to play this? Like that’s why she came up here in the first place, to do the mother-daughter check-in conversation.

  Good luck with that.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  “Make any friends?”

  Another shrug.

  “Do you like the classes?”

  I give her a look that says, They’re classes. What’s to like?

  She stares at her hands. With her head angled down, dark circles appear under her eyes. Is that from the lighting?

  “Honey,” she begins, “I know this is hard.”

  It’s hard not to laugh out loud at that understatement. Hard? Hard? Calculus is hard. Finding the man in Picasso’s The Accordionist is hard. This—the move, the new school, the new life—is torture.

  But I just give her another shrug.

  Mom sighs, is silent for several long moments.

  Rather than sit around waiting for her to figure out what to say to her Troubled Teenager, I focus on my homework. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get back to Graphic Grrl.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  With a sigh, I hold up the book.

  Mom makes a face.

  “It’s not bad,” I say. Knowing that she doesn’t like it makes me even more determined to love it.

  I keep reading as she watches. Sure, it’s awkward as hell. But I can stand awkward all day and all night if it makes her even half as uncomfortable. Maybe if things between us get bad enough, she’ll give in and move us back to New York just to end the torment.

  Before The Incident, I never thought I’d feel this way about Mom. Sure, we had our differences and I had my secrets—what teen doesn’t? But I always used to feel like I could go to her, ask her anything, get honest feedback. Now it’s like we view each other as the enemy.

  After a few more beats of silence, she asks, “Have you spoken to your father?”

  I shake my head. “I texted him.”

  Dad’s never been the most available. He works crazy hours and is usually gone when I get up in the morning and rarely gets home before dinner. A lot of times it’s not until after I’m in bed.

  Being halfway across the country doesn’t change too much about our relationship.

  Mom nods, as if that’s what she expected me to say.

  I’m not sure what makes me ask, “Have you?”

  “No, he’s been busy with the Titanium Towers project.” She looks up, smiles. “I’ve talked to Dylan every day, though.”

  Her eyes are sad and I can tell—as much as I don’t want to see it—that this move is hurting her, too. She’s halfway across the country from her husband and her son. From her job and her friends and her life, too.

  The big difference is that she could make it all go away if she wanted.

  Me, I’m just stuck here.

  “I’m leaving early for a job interview downtown,” she says, “so I won’t see you before—”

  “A job?” I echo.

  “Yes,” she says, forcing a laugh. “That’s a thing where you do work and they pay you.”

  I glare at her.

  “I can’t sit around and do nothing for a year, Sloane,” she says as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

  “It won’t be a whole year,” I argue.

  We have a deal and there’s no way I’m screwing it up.

  “We can’t get by for long without my income,” she explains. “Between your tuition and Dylan’s, the mortgage in Manhattan and the rent here, we need the second salary.”

  I want to argue with that, but what can I say that isn’t a rehash of the same old if-we-went-home-this-wouldn’t-be-a-problem argument? She’s obviously not listening. I just have to keep up my end of the bargain and get us home as soon as possible. Before Mom starts putting down roots.

  “Besides,” she says, pushing to her feet, “it’s not in my nature to do nothing but cook and clean.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not in my nature to be in Texas,” I toss back, “so I guess we both have to make concessions here.”

  She draws in a deep breath, and I can practically feel her trying to decide if she should rise to the bait. In the end, she doesn’t.

  She heads toward the door. “I’ll leave you money for lunch on the counter.”

  I want to shout that I don’t want her money. I don’t want anything from her except a ticket back to New York.

  Of course the only things Mom has given me recently are disapproving looks and lectures on my irresponsible behavior. I screwed up. I admit that. I accept full responsibility for what happened. She acts like I set out to intentionally betray her.

  I’ll never forget what she said to me the morning after The Incident, as we walked out of the police station.

  “I don’t even know you.”

  Does one misstep mean my entire life has been a lie?

  I’m still the same me. Why can’t she see that?

  She closes the door behind her, and I go back to reading. But I can’t get past the first page. My focus is blown.

  I grab my phone off the charger.

  Dylan picks up after three rings. “Yo, Sloaner.”

  “Dyl-dog.” I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of his voice.

  We get along better than a lot of siblings, probably because of the age difference. He’s just going into sixth grade this year. And although he has the attention span of a grasshopper on crack, and sometimes he says the grossest things ever imagined, he’s pretty great.

  The suckiest part of the suckfest that is me in Texas is the fact that Dylan is still in New York. I’m jealous, sure. But also I miss him. He’s my best bud.

  “Whatchya up to, fartface?” I tease.

  He snort-laughs. Eleven-year-old boy humor achieved. “Just watching VGHS.”

  “Haven’t you seen that like eighty times?”

  “No,” he says in all seriousness. “Only seventeen.”

  His school doesn’t start until next week—I’m the only lucky one with an early matriculation date—so he’s probably stuffing in as many late nights as he can manage before Dad Law, aka a ten o’clock lights out curfew, goes into effect. Dylan attends a super rigorous math-science-engineering magnet school, and his homework schedule tends to get insane. I could never take it.

  Academically, we could not be more opposite. It’s still a complete mystery to me that we share a gene pool. I’m fully aware that I’m the anomaly here.

  “Well lucky you,” I say. “I’m doing homework.”

  He groans dramatically. “What kind?”

  “Reading.”

  His groan rises to epic levels.

  “I know,” I say. “Almost makes me wish for some math homework.”

  Not really. For the most part I actually like reading—with notable exceptions like Johnny Tremain, The Old Man and the Sea, and anything by Nathaniel Hawthorne—but to Dylan it’s like Brussels sprouts.

  Come to think of it, I actually like Brussels sprouts. Maybe we aren’t related. Some nights I really think I must be adopted.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your marathon,” I say. “Can I talk to Dad?”

  There is a sound that I recognize as Honeycombs clattering into a bowl. His favorite treat. Who is there making sure he eats right if Mom and I are here? Certainly not Dad.

  “Still
at work,” Dylan says.

  Beep, beep.

  I hold my phone away and see an unknown Austin number on the screen.

  “Hey, Dyl, someone’s buzzing in,” I tell him. “Can you leave Dad a note to call me?”

  He says, “Okay,” around the crunch of cereal.

  “Love you,” I say. “Eat some vegetables.”

  “Love you,” he says back, “and no thanks.”

  I’m laughing as I click over to the other call. “Hello?”

  There is a pause and then, “It’s Tru.”

  My humor fades. My first instinct is to fling my phone out the window. Enough time has passed that I’m not quite raging with the fire of a thousand suns. But I’m still plenty pissed.

  “Please,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”

  There is a long silence.

  “How did you get my number?” I finally ask.

  “Your mom gave it to my mom. So we can coordinate transport to and from school.”

  Another silence.

  Maybe it’s a good sign that he’s calling, but I’m not going to make it easy on him. I made my opinion clear in the parking lot. The ball is in his court.

  After a while, he sighs. “I fucked up, okay?”

  “You think?”

  “I know, I just…” He trails off, like he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe like he doesn’t want to say it. “I was an ass.”

  “A dumb ass.” I climb off my bed and pace to the window.

  And I should know. I’m the queen of dumb actions with enduring repercussions. Case in point: The Incident. It’s also a prime example of letting your friends convince you that something epically stupid is actually pure genius, but that’s not quite as relevant at the moment.

  “My mom saw me driving,” I tell him. “I don’t have a license, so she immediately assumed I’ll get arrested. She grilled me for twenty minutes.”

  An exaggeration, but he doesn’t know that.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  Good. At least he knows how much he almost screwed me today. I think I got out of it okay, but the driving is only part of the issue.

  “If you get caught drinking,” I explain, “she’ll assume I am, too. I’ll be under house arrest for eternity. I won’t let you screw up my plans to get home.”