The Thing About the Truth (7 page)

“It won’t get better soon!” she says, and marches over to the sink. “It’s three years of not getting better soon!” She turns the water on very forcefully, then pulls the lever on the soap dispenser, dispensing a bunch of soap into her hands. She starts rubbing them together under the running water.

“Oh,” I say. Well. That sounds like something that’s going to take a while to work out. I mean, three years of never getting better. That’s serious. Definitely going to take a long time to figure out. A long time that I don’t have. Probably some kind of major psychological problem. Girls that gorgeous always have a complete screw loose. More reason to start a counseling hotline at this school, for sure.

“I’m sick of it myself, even. I’m, like,
bored
with
myself
.” She’s looking at herself in the mirror now, and she reaches into her bag and pulls out a compact. She starts angrily applying foundation to her face.

“Wow,” I say. “Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt or anything.” And I am. Glad she’s not bleeding or beat up or otherwise
incapacitated. I’m slowly moving away, toward the door. I have enough of my own drama going on without getting involved in someone else’s, thank you very much.

“Not hurt?” the girl says. “Not
hurt
? Does this look like the kind of face you would have if you weren’t hurt?” She points at her face. Which, while still beautiful, is streaked with tears and dripping eye makeup.

“Well, no. But, ah, I just meant that you’re not
physically
hurt.”

She turns from the mirror and stares at me. “What’s your name?”

I swallow, not sure I want to tell her. “I’m Kelsey.”

“Well, Kelsey, did you know that the pain of a broken heart causes the same activity in the brain as physical pain?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, it does. There was a scientific study on it and everything.” She says it like all scientific studies are totally true, when everyone knows that scientific studies are totally dependent on the special interest groups that fund them. Not to mention that science is changing on, like, a daily basis. So whatever study came out even yesterday has almost instantly become irrelevant.

“I’ve been there,” I say, “with the broken heart thing. And so, um, I’m really sorry you’re having to go through that.” I’m starting to shuffle my feet backward, toward the door, because like I said, I don’t want to get involved in her drama. I’m searching my brain, trying to come up with something I can say to her, something that will be both poignant and helpful
but also put an end to our conversation, when she slings her bag over her shoulder and pushes past me.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

“You’re welcome for checking on you!” I yell after her. But she’s already gone.

•  •  •

When I get to the office, the secretary has me wait, like, fifteen minutes before she lets me in to see Mr. Colangelo, which makes me a little bit annoyed, because I made sure to get here exactly on time.

And when she finally does usher me into his office, Mr. Colangelo’s on the phone. He motions for me to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk while he finishes his phone call.

After a lot of “mmm-hmmms” he finally says goodbye to whoever it is and hangs up. Which is pretty disappointing. I mean, the first chance I get to eavesdrop on a conversation that the principal is having, and it’s not even about anything good.

“Hello,” he says, giving me an easy smile. He looks down at my file, which is sitting open on his desk. “So, Ms. Romano, what is it I can do for you today?”

I wonder if he had to look at my file to remember my name. If so, that’s kind of rude. Especially since he didn’t even want to take this meeting in the first place. I had to have a big conversation with the secretary this morning, where I begged and pleaded and practically promised her my firstborn. By the end she definitely hated me. I don’t understand what it is with me and secretaries. Why do they all hate me? Maybe it’s because
I’m focused and kind of pushy. But it’s not my fault I know what I want.

“Well.” I smooth my list out on the top of my binder and look at Mr. Colangelo across the desk, being sure to make meaningful and focused eye contact. “I’d like to start an extracurricular club here at Concordia Public.”

He looks down at my file. Which makes me nervous. Why does he keep doing that? And why does he have to have my file in here, anyway? More importantly, what exactly does it say? I wonder if I could get a copy if I wanted it. There must be some kind of law, like the Freedom of Information Act or something.

“Hmm,” Mr. Colangelo says. He takes a sip of this disgusting-looking cup of coffee that’s probably been sitting there all day and is now totally stale. “I don’t see anything in your file that would preclude you from doing so.”

Yay! “Well, that’s wonderful news,” I say.

He’s closing my file now, and his eyes flick to the clock over the wall. Does that mean that we’re done here? Is it that easy? Is he going to dismiss me, basically letting me start whatever kind of club I want? “So I was thinking about maybe newspaper,” I tell him. “I’ve always been interested in journalism.”

“We don’t have a newspaper here anymore,” Mr. Colangelo says.

“Yes, that’s why I was hoping I could start one.”

“Start one?” He sounds shocked. “I don’t think you need the kind of stress that comes from starting a school club when you’ve just enrolled here.”

“But you just said . . .” Wait a minute. Did Mr. Colangelo think I said I wanted to join an
existing
club? And so he was giving me permission to do that? Way to listen. Not that there’s anything
wrong
with joining an extracurricular activity, but let’s face it: When you don’t have an alumnus as a parent, or some kind of famous relative, you can’t just
join
some clubs for your college applications. You have to do something big and meaningful. Especially if you’ve gotten kicked out of your last school.

There’s a knock on Mr. Colangelo’s door, and the secretary pokes her head in. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but Isaac Brandano is here. He said he was supposed to be joining you and Ms. Romano?”

“Is that true, Kelsey?” Mr. Colangelo asks.

“Um, well . . .”

But before I can tell him no, Isaac appears in the doorway of the office. He’s now wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, with a blue zip-up on over it. Why did he change his clothes? And why is he here? Shouldn’t he have scheduled his own meeting?

“Hey,” he says when he sees me, like we’re old friends and not two people who barely know each other and got into a fight in the hallway this morning.

“Hello,” I say tightly. “It’s nice to see you, Isaac, but Mr. Colangelo and I aren’t done with our meeting. As soon as we are, you can talk to him about how you want to run an extracurricular too.”

“Oh!” Isaac says. “I thought we’d talked about doing it together.”

“You two?” Mr. Colangelo says. He looks interested, probably because anything Isaac does is going to get a lot of people signing up for it. Not to mention some kind of funding from his dad. Hell, maybe they’ll even pass some kind of bill, like “Isaac’s Law” or something, and his club will get a big grant from the state that won’t ever be able to be taken away.

“Yeah,” Isaac says. He’s moving into the room now, I guess because he thinks he’s been invited in, even though he so totally hasn’t. He drops his book bag down at my feet and then slides into the chair next to me.

“Ow,” I say, pretending that he dropped his bag on my foot. I move my feet away from him.

“We were talking about it this morning before school, remember?” Isaac asks, ignoring my fake injury.

He gives me a big grin, like he’s challenging me to say we weren’t.

“Well,” I say, wondering how I’m going to get out of this one, “we
were
talking about it, that’s true, but—”

“Well, Kelsey, why didn’t you say so?” Mr. Colangelo bellows. “As long as you have another student helping you, I think starting a club is a great idea. Does either of you have any ideas about what it could be?”

“I do,” Isaac says.

I cannot believe this. Not only is Isaac pretending that we had some kind of plan to do this together, but now Mr. Colangelo is giving me permission just because Isaac is
involved. And now Isaac is even claiming he has some ideas about what kind of group we can start!

“Me too,” I say, not wanting to be outdone. Maybe when Isaac starts giving his half-baked ideas for whatever stupid things he’s come up with, I can jump in with mine. And then maybe Mr. Colangelo will see that I actually
can
do this on my own, and I don’t need Isaac Brandano’s name or influence to help me.

“That’s so great,” Isaac says. “Do you want to present your ideas first?” He’s giving me this sort of smarmy smile, a smile that makes me think he just wants me to give my ideas first because he doesn’t actually have any ideas of his own. So I’ll give mine, and then we’ll decide on one of them being perfect, and that will save him from the embarrassment of having to admit that he has no idea what he’s even doing.

“No, that’s okay,” I say sweetly. “Why don’t you go ahead?”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Isaac shrugs, then reaches into his bag and pulls out a black leather notebook. Taped to the front is piece of computer paper with the words “Face It Down” printed in swirly script on the front. He opens up to the first page.

“Now,” he says, “this is just an overview, of course. I was hoping we could get into the specifics later, if we do decide to move forward with the project.”

“Of course,” Mr. Colangelo says, like this makes perfect sense. He nods and leans back in his black swivel chair.

My mouth has dropped open.

Isaac turns his attention back to his notebook. “I was thinking that what we all need is some understanding.”

I snort. Because honestly, what does he know about understanding? I mean, that sounds so political. He’s acting just like a politician, someone who wants to get along with everyone, someone who wants to be one of the little people or whatever, while meanwhile, I’m sure he surrounds himself with people who are just like him. Not to mention that “what we all need is some understanding” are song lyrics. At least, I’m pretty sure they are.

“Something funny?” Isaac asks.

“No,” I lie.

“So what I’m
proposing
,” Isaac says, giving me an admonishing look out of the corner of his eye, like I’m a child who’s interrupted the teacher during an important lesson, “is that we set up a group of students who are interested in advancing the idea of understanding and acceptance for everyone. We could work on spreading these things throughout the community. For example, I was thinking our first project could be setting up Face It Down Day, where students from Concordia Prep and Concordia Public join together and talk about how even though we come from different backgrounds and families, we’re basically all alike, facing the same challenges and insecurities.”

I’m speechless. The idea is so simple, and so brilliant, that I’m pissed I didn’t come up with it myself. Mr. Colangelo is eating out of Isaac’s hand. He’s leaning forward over his desk,
his eyes on Isaac’s. Which makes me even more angry. I mean, it’s not enough that Isaac has this kind of effect on girls, now he has it on guys, too, including the principal?

“That sounds absolutely amazing,” Mr. Colangelo says, sounding like a smitten schoolgirl. He pauses, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“And I’m sure my dad would be happy to get involved,” Isaac says, realizing what Mr. Colangelo is looking for. Which means that he’s a lot smarter than I first gave him credit for. “You know, with money or whatever.”

“Fabulous,” Mr. Colangelo says. Seriously, he’s about three seconds away from clapping his hands in glee. “So you two can get together and work on the club, and then report back to me about how it’s going. You’ll want to get it up and running as soon as possible, I’m assuming?”

“Don’t you even want to hear my ideas?” I ask. Obviously, I’m not going to bring up the idea of a book club now, since Isaac’s idea was so good, but you’d think Mr. Colangelo would at least
pretend
to want to know my ideas.

“Well, we’re running out of time,” Mr. Colangelo says. He’s looking at the clock again and picking up his phone. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

“Sounds great,” Isaac says. “Me and Kels will get to work on this right away.”

Kels?

“Yeah,” I echo weakly. “Sounds great.”

Kelsey

The superintendent’s office is actually really nice, with a big huge oak desk in the middle and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in stripes of sunlight that fall against the soft cream-colored carpet. It’s probably intended to foster a sense of security. Kind of like those newfangled dentists’ offices where they hide all the equipment so you’re blissfully unaware of the amount of torture you’re about to be in for.

“Now,” Dr. Ostrander says once we’re sitting down. He’s behind his desk, his hands crossed in front of him. “Which one of you wants to start?”