This only seems to make Tru angrier.
Good. That makes two of us.
“This thing between me and Finn is fake,” I snap.
“Those smiles didn’t look fake.”
He can’t be serious. But the dark look in his hooded eyes assures me that he is. I jab my finger at his chest. “This was your idea, remember?”
“I’m trying to forget.”
What is going on here? Tears tingle in my eyes, but I take a deep breath and force them back. I am not going to cry over this, not in front of him. I’m only doing what I have to do in order to make the future better for both of us. I’m only doing what he suggested.
I haven’t done anything wrong.
“You know what? This whole argument is stupid. We’re on a Tru-imposed break,” I say. “Or are you trying to forget that, too?”
“I’m sorry if my treatment is inconvenient for you,” he throws back.
That hurts. I’m doing everything I can, everything he asks. I don’t deserve this.
“What do you want from me?” I demand. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore, but I’m still supposed to act like I am?”
That seems to get through to him. His expression softens just a little. My anger softens with it.
“All I want is to help you get better,” I tell him, lowering my voice.
“I know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Then stop acting like a jealous ass.” I step closer, until there are only inches between us. “I’m not into Finn. Period. But I have to pretend like I am.”
Tru closes his eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s in pain or relief. It takes all my self-restraint not to smooth my fingers over the lines in his forehead.
“This is harder than I thought,” he whispers.
“Which part?”
His eyes open, the dark depths full of turmoil and torment. “All of it.”
Every single part of me wants to reach out and wrap my arms around him. I want to pull him close and promise him everything will be okay, even if I’m not sure it will be. Even if it won’t be. I want things between us to be okay right now.
“This is all new for both of us,” I tell him.
And I don’t just mean him dealing with his drinking problem. I mean us. I know I’ve never been in a relationship anything like ours. I don’t think he has, either.
Which means everything we do is new territory.
But I have to remember what I’m going through here is secondary to what Tru faces. No matter how confused I get, no matter how much I miss kissing him or just snuggling against him under the stars, Tru’s health and well-being has to come first.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.
“And I don’t want to hurt you.” I flash him a weak smile. “Nothing is happening between me and Finn. Nothing.”
Chapter Eleven
Taking the notes Mrs. K gave me in Advanced Graphic Design, I work on finalizing my state-of-the-project assignment until Mom gets home with takeout Thai food. No day is ever so bad a spicy drunken noodle can’t make it better.
Once my tummy is full and my brain is empty, I head back upstairs with a sense of dread. It’s finally time to make a decision.
Morning is coming. And with it, my blackmailer’s deadline.
I sit down at my desk and pull up the Who Is Graphic Grrl? website. The countdown timer has less than twelve hours left. If I don’t make a decision soon, the choice will be taken out of my hands.
I have a rough sketch for this week’s strip done.
It’s a gruesome adventure where Engineering Boy shows up at the mechanical-pencil factory where the cyborg spiders are holding Graphic Grrl prisoner. It ends with her tied up, hanging over a vat of molten metal, while Engineering Boy casually juggles the Everything Eraser—the secret weapon that gets Graphic Grrl out of more tight spots than anything else.
It seems like a fitting cliffhanger, given my current situation with the real life Engineering Boy.
If I pull an all-nighter, I could probably get the strip close to done before the deadline. But do I want to?
I’ve been weighing this decision ever since my blackmailer made his demands, and I am no closer to knowing what I want to do. I can’t figure this out mentally. I need to process it visually.
I pull out a piece of graph paper and a pen and make a quick Pros and Cons list. Pros being reasons to give in to Engineering Boy’s demands, and Cons being reasons to tell him to go to hell.
Under the Pros, I list being able to keep my secret and, conversely, being able to share it when and how I see fit. I also add having a reason to get the strip done early—it might be a slightly warped bonus, but extra motivation is always a good thing and often hard to find.
Under the Cons, I write giving in to a bully, letting someone else be in control of my secret, and the pure, icky feeling knowing some random person out there would have my comic before anyone else. He could do anything with it. Even publish.
But in the end, it’s the last thing I write on the Cons list that makes my decision for me.
Only the beginning.
Just because this is all he’s asking for right now doesn’t mean that will always be the case. Next week it might be getting to name a character or suggesting a plot twist I don’t agree with. My favorite thing about Graphic Grrl is the total creative control. In a life where I have to give in to other people’s choices more than I like—my parents, my teachers, sometimes my friends—control is often in short supply.
While I might listen to fan suggestions on occasion, I know that it always comes down to me and my choices.
He could even try forcing me to monetize the strip, something Tash has been trying to get me to do for years, and to send him all the proceeds.
“No way,” I whisper.
I pull up my email account and start firing off a response.
Dear Engineering Douchebag,
After careful consideration of your generous offer, I have decided that you can go desaturate yourself.
Sincerely yours.
Graphic Grrl
I smile at my use of Graphic Grrl’s favorite design-inspired expletive. I click send before I have time for doubts and second guesses. The message has been sent. Engineering Boy has been told off and I am ready to face the consequences.
Whatever they are.
I switch back over to whoisgraphicgrrl.com and watch the counter ticking away.
My heart pounds with every second that disappears from the clock. Am I going to sit here all night and stare at it?
No. I’m going to take control of my art. Rather than worry over when Engineering Boy might derail me, I’m going to work on the strip.
I get lost in the act of creation. Time slips away as I polish the sketches into outlines, fill in with color, and add text and texture.
Before I know it, the sky outside my window is turning pink with the morning sunrise. The latest Graphic Grrl strip is done, and there is still time left on the blackmail clock.
Tru was right. I could do it.
I pull up whoisgraphicgrrl.com and watch as the time slips away.
Five minutes.
Four minutes.
Three min—
My inbox dings with a new message.
I click over, my heart already hammering in my chest as I wait for my identity to be revealed. It’s an email from Engineering Boy.
You win this round, Graphic Grrl. I’ll have to wait to read this week’s strip with the rest of the pitiful populace. Until next time…
EB
I flop back in my chair, eyes wide and mouth hanging slack. Really? Just like that?
I click back over to the website and watch as the timer reaches zero. The clock dissolves. Instead of turning into a picture of my face or a graphic of my name, it reveals a giant comics-style pop bubble with the word Gotcha! in bright red.
I burst out laughing.
I’m almost angry I went through all th
at stress for, apparently, nothing. But mostly I’m relieved. My secret is safe, apparently, for now.
If only everything else in my life could get resolved so easily and painless. If only life could be as straightforward as a Graphic Grrl strip.
If only.
…
By the time he got to Maggie’s office, Tru was feeling better. Or at least well enough to drive himself there without feeling like he would need to pull over every two miles to dry heave.
He hadn’t had the courage to look at himself in the mirror. For all he knew, his clothes were on backward and inside out.
When Maggie walked out of her office, her expression didn’t betray any judgment.
Tru had a feeling he could look like roadkill and she wouldn’t give him a clue about what she was thinking.
“How are you doing, Tru?” she asked as they made their way to the armchairs.
He let out a flat laugh. “I’ve been better.”
She gave him a genuine smile. “And you will be even better in the future.”
After a miserable night, he wasn’t sure if he would ever feel better again.
“Today,” she said, “I would like to talk about your parents.”
Maggie said the words like they were nothing, but Tru saw the intention behind her deceptively curious eyes. Her poker face couldn’t disguise the way her eyes narrowed, focusing intently on him.
“What’s to talk about?” he replied with a forced shrug. “They’re my parents. It’s not like I chose them.”
She scribbled something on the pad. She didn’t look up as she asked, “Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Choose them.” She rested her hand on her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “Given the option, would you choose your parents as your parents?”
Tru fought a snort.
What kid would choose their parents? Sure, he supposed some teen somewhere must get along with their parents, but he didn’t know any of them.
Still, could he say that out loud? Would that make him a bad son? A bad person?
He didn’t think his mother was entirely bad. She had hooked him up with Maggie and hadn’t given him any lectures about his problem or told his father. She might not have stood up to her husband as much as Tru would like, but other than that he supposed she was as decent a mom as any.
“I might choose my mom,” he answered honestly.
“Might?” Maggie asked.
“Yeah,” he said, thinking about it more, “I would choose my mom.”
“Mmm-hmm.” More scribbling on her paper. “And your father?”
This time, Tru couldn’t keep the snort to himself. He straight-up laughed out loud.
He didn’t care if it made him the worst son in the history of all humanity. He couldn’t pretend for even a second that his father was anything other than a terrible excuse for a human being.
“No,” he said, a slightly maniacal laugh bubbling out after the word. “No, I wouldn’t choose him.”
“Why is that?”
Tru shoved his hands through his hair. “Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”
“Whichever you want to give me.”
His stomach turned. How much could he bring himself to say out loud? The only other person he’d ever talked to about this was Sloane. He didn’t think he could unload on a virtual stranger.
In the end, he decided on the short answer. “David Dorsey expects everyone to do, say, and think exactly what he wants them to.”
“I assume that creates a lot of conflict,” Maggie offered. “Do you fight a lot?”
“A lot?” That was a pretty subjective term, wasn’t it? “No, not a lot.”
At least not as long as Tru could keep his mouth shut, as long as he could suppress the impulse to push his father over the edge.
“What do you fight about?”
Tru laughed again. “What don’t we fight about? My clothes. My interests. My education. My behavior. My future.”
“Are the arguments verbal?”
Tru’s jaw clenched. This was another fork in the road. A moment to decide just how honest he was going to be with Maggie, to decide how much of his soul he was going to bare for her.
In the back of his mind, he heard Sloane saying that his getting better was the most important thing. It was the only thing that mattered.
If he was putting his faith in Maggie to help him get there, then he had to commit all the way.
“Yeah,” he said, taking a deep breath for courage. “Mostly.”
Maggie’s eyes widened slightly, just a tiny expansion that wouldn’t mean anything in anyone else, but with Maggie it was like a jaw dropping.
She recovered quickly, though, scribbled something onto her legal pad, and then continued the questioning.
As the interrogation went on, Tru delved into more and more detail about his relationship with his father. He told her about the time in second grade when Tru brought home an art project and his father had thrown it away because it was too sloppy. He told her about the time in fifth grade when Tru’s math grade had been struggling and his father spanked him with his textbook. He even told her about the time a few months ago when his father’s rage had boiled over to the point where he shoved Tru into the refrigerator.
He told her everything.
At first, rehashing all that garbage and nastiness made him nauseous, worse than the other day in the car. A few times he thought he was going to lose it all over her fancy rug.
He didn’t think he had ever wanted a drink more.
But as the conversation went on, as he unburdened himself from story after story, he began to feel lighter, more in control. His hands stopped shaking and his stomach settled down.
He was actually hungry.
By the time he left Maggie’s office, nearly two hours later, he was actually looking forward to his next session.
He was actually looking forward, period.
Chapter Twelve
My alarm goes off way too early on Friday morning. For half a second I consider hitting the snooze about forty-seven times. Until I remember that it’s the last day before break.
That gives me all the motivation I need to drag myself out of bed and get ready.
Mom doesn’t interrogate me when I ask her for another ride to school, just grabs her purse and heads for the door.
We’re halfway to NextGen when she finally can’t stand the silence.
“Is everything okay with you and Tru?” she asks.
My instinct is to say, Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s been years since I talked to Mom about boy drama. She was too busy working to be around the Tash and Bryce drama last year. Even before that I had stopped telling her things. It wasn’t worth the stern looks and lectures.
But I don’t have that option now. Unless I tell her something, she’s going to be really confused when Finn shows up for Christmas Eve dinner.
“No,” I finally say. “Not exactly.”
Her eyes widen. She can’t stare at me because she’s watching the road, but I can tell she wants to. “Really?”
“Yeah, we’re…” I hate even saying this out loud. Since I’ve mostly been hanging out with Finn around only Tru and Jenna, it’s been easy to pretend like it isn’t real. To pretend like it’s just about bringing Finn to dinner to appease Dad. To pretend like Tru hadn’t told me he needed to step away for a while.
Saying it out loud makes it real.
“We’re kind of on a break,” I finish.
“You…” Mom shakes her head. “What happened?”
“It’s complicated,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t tell you everything.” Or even most things.
“I know, but…” She guides the car onto the freeway. “You know your father is expecting to meet your boyfriend.”
“He will,” I tell her. “Just not Tru.”
Her eyes narrow
as she navigates the early morning traffic. “You have a new boyfriend already?”
I close my eyes and say, “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Finn,” I tell her.
“Does Finn have a last name?”
“McCain.”
“McCain?” Mom’s jaw drops. “Mia McCain’s son?”
Of course she’s heard of him. Who hasn’t? He’s the only child of America’s sweetheart.
“You’re dating Mia McCain’s son?”
“Yeah, we’re kind of…” God, none of this is easy. I hate lying almost as much as I’m bad at it. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while.”
That’s not technically a lie. We see each other every day at school. And we’re seeing each other for the purposes of making Willa jealous and impressing Dad.
We’re just not seeing each other in a romantic way.
“Well,” Mom says. “I wish you had said something. This complicates things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Um…”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Mom doesn’t um. In fact, the last time she ummed it was when she finally got around to telling me about the move to Texas.
This does not bode well.
“What?” I ask, when she doesn’t continue.
“It’s just that…” She half groans to herself. “I invited the Dorseys to Christmas Eve dinner.”
“You what?” This is bad. So bad. “Why would you do that?”
“I did it for you. So you could spend Christmas Eve with Tru.”
“But you hate him.”
“Hate is a very strong word,” she argues. “Besides, I thought it would be nice to have big holiday get-together.”
I collapse back against my seat. This is like a worst-cast-scenario situation. It’s not just that Tru is going to be at dinner, watching me pretend Finn is my super-perfect-awesome Austin boyfriend. But suddenly my intimate family dinner, the meal at which I am trying to woo my dad into moving himself and Dylan to Austin, is now going to be a big holiday get-together.
Complete with awkward tension between my sort-of-ex boyfriend and my totally-fake boyfriend. How could anything go wrong with that?