“It was supposed to be just us,” I complain.
Her hands tighten around the steering wheel. “If you had told me about you and Tru…”
She leaves the end of that guilt trip hanging, as if I am somehow to blame for her totally ruining my plans.
“You could have at least asked,” I tell her. “Christmas is for family.”
“And for boyfriends I’ve never heard about?”
I bite back a low growl. She has a point.
“Besides,” she says, “the Dorseys are family.”
“That’s not the point!” I cry.
“Then what is the point, Sloane?” Mom asks with more edge in her voice than I think I deserve.
“You’re ruining everything! This was supposed to be a special family dinner.” I cross my arms over my chest. “This was supposed to bring us back together. To make you and Dad see that this long distance shi—” I stop myself before I say something that will get me grounded. “This long distance crap is stupid. It’s tearing us apart.”
“It’s not the distance that’s tearing us apart, Sloane,” Mom says.
Was that a dig at me? That this is all my fault? I already know that.
She doesn’t get it. Maybe I need to be completely honest with her. Not about the situation with Tru, obviously. But about my plans for the near future.
“I want to stay in Austin,” I tell her.
Her gaze darts to me for a split-second. “Really? Since when?”
“Since I don’t know. A while.”
“Is this because of Finn McCain?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “I want to convince Dad to move here. I want our family to be back together again.”
An expression flashes across her face so fast that I can’t quite read it. Pain, maybe? Or pity? That’s a strange reaction to my plan. Doesn’t she want our family back together? Doesn’t she want Dad and Dylan here with us?
She pulls up in front of the school.
“I want to show Dad how good Austin has been for me,” I explain. “I want to make the perfect meal, introduce him to the perfect boyfriend. Be the perfect daughter.”
She reaches out and pats my knee.
“Oh, Sloane,” she says, her voice tight, “you already are.”
I know that isn’t true. I screwed up. I’m the reason Mom and I moved here. And even if I’m happy with the relocation, I’m not happy about what it’s done to my family.
A perfect daughter wouldn’t break her family in two.
I hear a faint buzzing sound through the closed car windows. “Oh shoot, that’s the bell. I’m going to be late.”
I scramble to gather my stuff. I’m halfway out the door, when Mom says, “I mean it, Sloane. You’re the perfect daughter. I wouldn’t trade you for any others.”
I lean back down and give her a watery smile. “I wouldn’t trade you for any other moms, either,” I tell her. Then I crack a wider grin. “Except maybe Mia McCain. I’d be a great celebrity daughter.”
Mom waves me away with a watery smile of her own.
As I head into school, I know I’m just going to have to regroup. Dad is only going to be in town for a few days. I have to make them count. And I especially have to make Christmas Eve dinner as perfect as possible.
Mom’s opinion aside, I know I have a long ways to go to be the perfect daughter. But I’m going to do everything that I can. Starting with making Christmas Eve dinner the best one yet.
…
When Tru arrived at their picnic table at lunchtime, Finn was already there sitting next to Sloane, sitting way too close to Sloane for Tru’s taste.
As he walked up, Sloane started laughing at something the Hollywood playboy said. The muscles in Tru’s neck tensed and all of the lightness he had felt after unloading all of his bullshit on Maggie evaporated, replaced by a hard, heavy weight in his stomach.
This was worse than the withdrawal.
Sloane was still laughing as he walked around to the other side of the table and sat down next to Jenna.
“Oh my God, Tru,” she said between gasps, “Finn was just telling us the funniest story about this one time his mom was working on a set with a trio of monkeys and—”
She couldn’t finish, she was laughing so hard.
Even Jenna let out an uncharacteristic giggle.
Tru forced a small smile. “Maybe you had to be there.”
“Never let anyone talk you into working with a monkey,” Finn said. “It never ends well.”
Both girls started laughing again.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tru said.
The table fell silent as they ate their lunches. Tru had optimistically bought a roast beef sandwich and a bag of chips in the cafeteria, thinking he might actually have an appetite. But after seeing Sloane laughing with Finn, it was all he could do to choke down some of his root beer.
“Is everyone ready to present their state-of-the-project assignments?” Jenna asked.
Sloane and Finn groaned.
“I’m ready for winter break,” Finn said.
Sloane nodded. “Me, too.”
“As production manager,” Jenna said, “I have prepared a detailed shooting schedule with call times for all cast and crew.”
“We don’t even have a script, yet.” Sloane looked at Finn. “Right?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“It’s based on a hypothetical script.” Jenna didn’t seem at all phased. “Everything is color-coded and sortable by scene, actor, and location.”
Finn and Sloane exchanged a look.
The heavy weight in Tru’s stomach turned sour.
Sure, Jenna might have been a bit over the top—okay, a lot over the top. But she meant well. And at least she wasn’t sitting there flirting openly with someone right in front of her guy.
“Well I think it sounds great,” Tru told Jenna.
He wasn’t sure if he was trying to offer Jenna some support, or if he just wanted to show Finn up.
“I bet Oliver will be impressed,” Finn offered.
Tru growled in the back of his throat.
“Yeah,” Sloane said to Jenna, throwing Tru a confused look. “Can’t wait to see it.”
Great. Now they were all agreeing with him.
Hidden beneath the table, Tru’s hands clenched into fists. He knew he shouldn’t be mad at Sloane for spending time with Finn, for pretending to be into him. After all, Tru had suggested the fake match in the first place.
But he hadn’t thought she would be so convincing. He hadn’t known how much it would hurt.
He had never been the jealous type. He’d dated a few girls over the years and had been in a longish relationship sophomore year with a senior girl. He didn’t remember ever being jealous.
With Sloane, every time she looked at McCain, Tru wanted to punch the pretty boy grin off the guy’s face.
Maybe it was all part of the emotions churned up by his treatment, or maybe the alcohol had been clouding over his emotions in the past so he wouldn’t have to feel like this.
Either way, as much as he didn’t like it, he knew it wasn’t Sloane’s fault.
It was his.
If he hadn’t pushed her to take Finn to the dinner, if he hadn’t wanted to keep her at a safe distance from his spiraling problem, if he hadn’t been an addict in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this situation now.
He had no one but himself to blame.
“How about you, Tru?” Jenna asked. “Are you ready to present?”
“Don’t have much choice, do I?” he replied.
“We always have choices,” Finn said with a grin. “They just have different consequences.”
Tru didn’t want to agree with the guy who was currently rubbing his thumb in small circles over Sloane’s hand. But Finn was right.
Tru shrugged in begrudging acknowledgment.
“Oh, there’s Mrs. K,” Sloane said, jumping to her feet. “I need to ask her something about our winter break daily sketc
hing assignment. I’ll be right back.”
Tru watched Sloane run across the quad to catch her Advanced Graphic Design teacher before Mrs. K entered the admin building. His chest tightened as he had the strangest thought that she was running away from him.
“You have any big plans for break?” Finn asked Tru.
Tru looked at him. Without responding, he decided to try forcing down a bite of his sandwich.
Jenna cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Look, man.” Finn leaned forward over the table. “I get the tension you’re throwing me. I’d be a mess, too, but you got nothing to worry about.”
Tru looked at him as he took a giant bite. He suddenly wished he had taken his grandfather up on the karate lessons he’d been offering since Tru was a boy. Right then he would sure love to know how to knock Finn unconscious in a single blow.
“Sloane is a great girl,” Finn continued, “but she’s one hundred percent into you. And I’m one hundred percent not into her.”
Tru chewed slowly, carefully, making sure his bite had the best chance of staying down once it got there. He knew Finn was right. Sloane had told him the same thing.
But knowing the words were true and actually believing them were two different things.
He closed his eyes and tried something Maggie had taught him. He pictured his negative thoughts as a ball of light in the middle of his chest. It started off dark and gray, like a storm cloud. He concentrated on making it lighter, shifting it through increasingly lighter shades of gray, until it finally turned bright white.
Then he let it go. Allowed the light to explode out of him, away from him.
The whole thing sounded a bit too woo-woo for him, but when he opened his eyes he felt closer to believing what he knew to be true.
He trusted Sloane.
“I know you’re right,” Tru finally said, after he’d washed the roast beef down with a swig of root beer. “I’m just going through some shit.”
Finn nodded and reached for a French fry. “Been there, man.”
Sloane returned to the table and took her seat next to Finn. Tru forced himself to breathe, to remember that the sham was his idea—and his fault—and that neither Sloane nor Finn had wanted this.
“Everything okay?” she asked, looking from Tru to Finn and back again.
“Yeah,” Tru said, glancing at Finn, who was fast becoming one of the few people he would call a friend. “We’re good.”
Finn grinned and popped a fry in his mouth.
Tru took another bite. He was suddenly ravenous.
Chapter Thirteen
“I know you have been waiting for this class all day,” Oliver says as we file into the Senior Seminar classroom, “because you are just so excited to present your state-of-the-project work. Right?”
Literally everyone grumbles.
“I am,” Jenna says.
Okay, not everyone.
Even though she’s my friend, it’s really hard not to glare at Jenna when she is so perpetually excited about academic work. Especially when every other person in the classroom is on a desperate countdown to winter break.
We’re down to minutes.
Oliver gives her kind of a sad smile. “Thank you, Jenna.”
Besides the countdown to the end of classes, I’m also on a countdown to the end of this pretend whatever between me and Finn. After this class, there’s just the Christmas Eve dinner, and then we’re done.
No more faking interest.
The class door swings open, and Tru saunters in.
My breath whooshes out of my body, just like it has nearly every time I’ve seen him since he first showed up on my roof. I don’t have to fake any interest there. I always have that reaction when he sweeps into a room.
He looks good. Much better than he has in a long time.
Better than he did at lunch.
His dark hair still has that messy, I-don’t-own-a-brush look, but it’s slightly more tamed than usual. His T-shirt—a bright red one that proclaims Happy Chrismahanukwanzakah—is wrinkle-free, and so is the red-and-black plaid shirt he has layered over it. For once he doesn’t look like he artfully selected his clothes from the floor of his closet.
But the biggest change is in his eyes. Normally, they have this kind of haunted look. A little empty, a little distant. Here, but not really here. And usually his under-eyes smudges could paint circles around mine.
This afternoon, however, he looks shiny and new.
It’s only been a few days since he admitted his drinking problem, and he already looks a thousand times better.
A small part of me wonders if it’s not just the drinking. What if it’s our relationship break? What if I was part of his problem?
I hope not. Because I care too much about Tru to let myself be in a position to contribute in any way to his self-destruction. And I care too much to let myself just walk away.
I guess I’ll find out when our break is over.
If it ever is.
In any case, seeing him look so improved makes me think we’re doing the right thing, that this is actually helping him. If us being on a break is what it takes, then I’m all for it.
Tru drops into the chair across the table from me, the one he’s chosen all week, ever since we started this whole fake thing with Finn.
“Who would like to go first?” Oliver asks the room.
When no one raises a hand to volunteer, not even Jenna, Oliver announces he will start choosing at random. He begins with Willa, who is directly to his left.
“Um, okay…” Willa reaches into her bag and pulls out a stack of papers. “I’ve got a decent draft of the script done. I mean, it’s not perfect, yet, but it’s a lot better than the rough draft which was, honestly, really, really—”
“There are no judgments here, Willa,” Oliver says.
She gives him a grateful smile and then starts to pass the scripts around the room. Finn leans close to me, reaching across to accept the stack from Damien. He sets one down in front of me, takes one for himself, and passes the last one to Jenna.
I try to focus, but it’s hard when Finn keeps leaning close to me, whispering funny things only I can hear, and making sure that everyone in the room knows something is happening between us.
I can feel Tru watching me—watching us—from across the table. He knows it’s all for show, and still I can feel the tension radiating off of him.
Imagine how bad it would be if this thing between me and Finn was for real.
Keep the end goal in mind, I tell myself. I block out my awareness of Tru and focus all of my attention on Finn. I narrow my world down to him.
I doodle a little face in the corner of Finn’s copy of the script. Finn flashes me a conspiratorial grin before adding hair and a hat to my doodle. I contribute a body. Finn draws a dress.
Lost in the world of the art that we’re creating, I’m only vaguely aware of Willa telling us about the storyline for the series. I hear a few strains of the song Dahlia and Keegan are working on.
I force myself to face the front of the room when Mariely, Jacen, and Damien get up to perform a short scene from the first episode, but then Finn pushes the script toward me and I see the Arthurian sword he’s added to the doodle and I almost lose it.
By the time the trio is finished performing, I’ve transformed Finn’s dress into full-body medieval armor.
“Thank you,” Oliver tells the actors as they return to their seats. “That was an illuminating performance.”
Mariely grins from ear to ear as she drops back into the seat next to her boyfriend. Cabot reaches up and takes her hand, lacing their fingers together.
My heart aches a little at the obvious sign of affection.
Oliver gestures at me. “Your turn, Sloane. You ready?”
I jump at the sound of my name. Oh, right. I have to present. “Yes,” I blurt. “Yes, I’m ready.”
I walk up to the computer station at the front of the room. It takes me a few keystrokes to log i
n, get to my email account, and pull up the images. Then I activate the digital projector, sending my art into larger-than-life display on the whiteboard behind the chair where I’d been sitting.
“This is, um, the poster,” I explain, suddenly nervous to present my work to the class. I’m not at the top of my game right now. In fact, I’m probably as close to the bottom of my game as I’ve ever been. But that doesn’t mean I give up. I push on.
I describe the process behind the design. Why I made the choice to focus on grays and browns more than the red that someone might expect. Oliver asks a few questions, and I think I manage to answer them.
Then, when I’m done presenting the poster, I switch to the other image, the album art I made using Dahlia’s picture. I’d added in an image of a guitar I found online that looked like the one I saw Keegan had been using the other day.
“I also made a design for the album cover,” I tell the room, looking directly at Dahlia and Keegan. “In case we want to release it when we’re all done.”
The looks on their faces are priceless. They seem stunned, to put it mildly. Dahlia looks like she can’t decide if she wants to laugh or cry. Keegan looks…I don’t know. Honored, maybe?
Their reactions are better than I’d hoped for.
This is one of the most amazing things about art. How one simple creation—a little 1400 by 1400 pixel square with a couple of images and some text—can evoke such emotion.
Oliver was right when he said art is about connection.
“Bravo, Sloane,” he tells me. “Really great. Anyone have comments?”
He glances around the room, but no one offers anything.
He’s starting to turn to the next victim when Willa raises her hand.
“Yes, Willa?” Oliver nods at her.
“Actually, I think the poster design might be heading in the wrong direction.”
“In what way?” Oliver asks.
She gives me what I think is supposed to look like a sympathetic look. She doesn’t quite carry it off. “Sloane, could you go back to the poster?”
I click back, so the poster is displayed on the white board again.
“With all that brown,” Willa says, eyes focused on the image, “it looks more like a poster for a Western.”