16 Things I Thought Were True
Read 16 Things I Thought Were True Online
Authors: Janet Gurtler
Copyright © 2014 by Janet Gurtler
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Cover image © plainpicture/Franke + Mans
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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For Jean Vallestros
Because I told you I would. So I did.
1. Working in an amusement park should be amusing.
#thingsithoughtweretrue
After pausing for a deep breath, I force myself to walk into the room with my head held high and my shoulders pulled back.
I
can
totally
do
this, show people who I really amânot the girl they saw dancing on the video.
I'm focusing so hard on keeping my cool that I trip over a chair and it clatters to the ground. Everyone in the staff break room stops talking and stares. They're all wearing the same Tinkerpark T-shirts but in different colors. Red, blue, yellow, or green, we're all dressed as brightly as a package of Skittles.
“Awwwk-ward,” someone mumbles. I see a girl waving and, relieved, I wave back but realize she's not even waving at me, but at a guy standing behind me. An idiot blush heats my cheeks, even though a blink later the tension evaporates and people go back to whatever they were doing.
I hold my tray high and hurry past a table lined with girls from the dance show that runs several times a day. They have big hair, lots of stage makeup, and sequins everywhere. I quickly claim an empty spot at a nearby table and turn my phone on to check for messages. This is my life now, and deep down I wonder if maybe, just maybe, they're right. Maybe I really am an attention whore who deserves to serve time in social purgatory for appearing in my underwear online.
At any rate, it serves me right for taking my brother's bet and hoping that today could be different, that today people would see past the rumors that float over me like rainclouds. At least Jake owes me ten bucks.
I stop chewing a French fry midbite when I get a feeling that people are staring and notice that one of the boys at my table is singing “Sexy and I Know It.” Slowly I look up. People are giggling. Whispering. And pointing. At me. I drop my gaze back to my phone, but my eyes sting. Crying in public is not an option, so I need to get out fast. I push away from the table, abandon my fries and soda, and ignore a wiggle of guilt for leaving stuff on the table for someone else to clean up.
“You're a jerk,” someone from the show-girl table calls to the boys as I zip by. That surprises me a little, but I don't look back.
Screw this. Why did I think I needed them anyway? I already have friends and I know where to find them, in a place where no one will bother meâan old restroom forgotten after renovations to the park.
I hurry to the bathroom, slip into a stall, and plop onto a toilet seat. Hunching down over my phone, my body finally relaxes. I'm finally free to check my Twitter feed without interruption. I breathe out relief and smile when I see my friends. And when I check my followers, see I'm up to 4,041.
OMG, almost at 5,000 followers. Help me reach 5,000. Please RT for new followers!
A whoosh of air swirls at my feet as the main door opens right when I send my tweet. The stall beside me is suddenly occupied, and quiet sniffles invade my space. I try to focus back on my phone, but the sniffling turns into gulping. I study the purple Converse sneakers under the stall door beside mine. They're clean; they look new. The gulps from their owner are tears that don't want to be held in. I know that kind. Whoever is in that stall is messed up.
I reach into my pocket for a tube of cherry ChapStick. “Um? You okay?” My voice bounces around the tiny space and comes back at me in a slight echo. I swipe some ChapStick across my lips.
The girl starts crying even harder, but helpful posts in 140 characters or less don't appear. Life should be more like Twitter.
“Are you all right?” I call.
There's no response, but then there's a clank and the stall door opens and huge glistening brown eyes stare out at me. I recognize the girl from the snack shop that's next to the gift shop where I work.
“You're Morgan McLean,” she says. It's a statement, but her voice goes up at the end, as if it's a question. She's short and skinny with surprisingly chubby cheeks. She looks fourteen but she's wearing a blue Tinkerpark shirt like mine, blue for concessions. There's rank and prestige attached to different jobs as well as different colors. Red is for the games people, yellow for rides. Blue shirts are the lowest on the employee totem pole, and she swims in hers.
“Um. Yes,” I answer.
She walks over and stands beside me at the sink, and then turns a knob to run water over her hands. “Ouch,” she squeaks. “Hot,” she says, turning the water off and shaking off her hands. “I'm sorry. I ruined your break.”
I glance at us in the old mirror above the sink. It's dark and scratched, and our reflections are barely visible, but I see misery in the tightness of her lips and the droop in her eyes.
“No. No you didn't. What's wrong?” I ask her.
“It's Adam,” she says and sighs. She reaches for the white, pulley, continual towel to dry her hands. I cringe at the germ count that must be on it.
“What did he do?” I ask.
She leans against the sink and sighs deeply. “Heâ¦yelled at me.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Welcome to the club. He's the boss. It's pretty much his job to yell. Maybe you shouldn't take it so personally.”
Adam is a senior next year, like me, but we never hung out with the same people even when I had people to hang out with. I've avoided him at work since he yelled at me on my second day when I forgot my name tag. He seems like he's trying too hardâprobably that's why he's in management.
“Butâ¦I mean, I want him to like me,” she says.
“Why?” Even as I ask the question, the answer is written all over her face. “Oh. You have a crush on him?”
She lifts her shoulder and chews her lip, sneaking a look at me. “Kind of?”
I can see how he's cute in a smart-nerd way, with black plastic-framed glasses and wavy hair. Not my type though. That makes me wonder for a fraction of a second if I have a type. “Why'd he yell at you?”
She tugs on the bottom of her T-shirt. “He saw me eating popcorn from a bag before I served it to a customer.”
I imagine her dipping her fingers into someone else's food and then serving it to them. Ew. “Well, you know that's kind of against the rules, right?”
She bats her eyes and lowers her gaze to her purple shoes and shuffles her feet around. “It was a mistake.” She sniffles and fresh tears brew in her eyes.
Mistake? How do you accidentally stick your hand in someone's food? “Still. Kind of gross,” I tell her.
In the silence that follows, I realize I sound like a pompous jerk who's never done anything wrong. Ha. I am the queen of wrong. “But yeah. I get mistakes.”
“Yeah. I know you do,” she says and stares at me. Blinking.
My cheeks heat up.
“I was hungry,” she says. “I never ate breakfast and I forgot to bring my lunch.”
“Maybe you could have, you know, bought something to eat?” I glance at my phone. I haven't got much longer left on my break. My foot taps up and down and I glance at my Twitter feed. “You work in the snack shop, right?” I smile down at a tweet from one of my favorite Twitter friends, @debindallas. Her icon is of her in a flared black dress with red cowboy boots.
Dads
are like noses,
her tweet says.
They're always in your face
.
Dads aren't like noses,
I tweet back.
You're not allowed to pick them.
“Yeah. But. Um. I don't have money,” she says.
I look up. “You get paid to work here. Right?” I return my attention to my screen, wishing she'd go away.
“I, uh, have to give my paycheck to my parents,” she says quickly.
I frown and glance up to study her.
“We, uh, need the money. For groceries and rent and stuff.” Her cheeks redden and she looks away.
“Really?” Great. Once again, I feel like a jerk. I turn my phone off and tuck it in my pocket. “You have to give them your paycheck for that stuff?”
She nods. She looks like an underfed dog with jutting ribs, like she needs a steak or something meaty and juicy to bite into. I dig into my front pocket and pull out a wrinkly five. “Here.” I put it in her hand. “Go get yourself a hot dog. Don't eat from customer's stuff anymore.”
She stares at the money and then slowly makes a fist around it. “Uh. Thanks.” She pauses. “Do you think Adam will forgive me?”
“Why don't you explain it to him? Tell him the truth.”
“I can't do that.”
“Then maybe just avoid him.”
“But I don't want to avoid him,” she says quietly.
“The crush?” I guess, and she sniffles again and her eyes get brighter.
“At least he noticed me. No one ever notices me. My dad says it's probably because I'm so little.” She stops to catch her breath. I ignore the roll of jealousy in my belly at the casual way she mentions her dad.
She sniffles again. “I'll pay you back.”
“Don't worry about it,” I say. It's only five bucks, and she obviously needs it more than I do even though almost every cent I make is going to my college fund.
“I could talk to him, Adam,” I say without thinking. What am I doing? I don't want to get involved. But she bats those teary eyes. I'm a sucker. But what if he puts her on probation? She needs the money. Her family is poor.
“Really? You'd do that? For me?” She blinks fast, her eyes bright and sparkly with moisture. She sounds so grateful that I ignore the nausea building in my belly at the thought of confronting him.
“Sure.” Great. I have to do it now.
She grins and it improves her looks about seven hundred percent. “That's super nice. You know everyone says you're stuck up.” She stops and her eyes open even wider. “I mean, you're not. I'm sorry. Things just come out of my mouth sometimes.”
“I'm getting that.”
“I saw your video on YouTube.” She clamps her hand over her mouth, and her wrist is covered in colorful string bracelets.
For the second time that day, I laugh out loud. It's kind of refreshing to have things said to my face instead of behind my back. My laughter bounces around the walls of the bathroom, and she half grins, as if she's a little confused but also encouraged. “Sorry. My dad says I don't have a filter on my brain.”
Him again. “He may be right. But that's okay. What's your name, anyway?” I ask, noticing she's not wearing her name tag.
She crosses her arms. “You don't know my name?” She frowns. “I work beside the gift shop. I say hi to you every time I walk by.” She sighs dramatically. “My name is Amy.”
“Nice to meet you. I mean officially.” I walk toward the main door. “Okay. I should go. My break's almost over.”
“I'll walk back with you.”
“Sure.” I hold the door open. “So, how'd you find this place?” I ask her as she slips by. “I thought I was the only one who knew about it.”
She smiles. “Honestly?”
I squint at the glare of bright sun and then step outside.
“I saw you going this way last week and I checked it out. I didn't know you'd be in here today. I was upset and wanted to be alone. I didn't mean to butt in.” She looks off the opposite way.
“It's okay,” I say. Funnily enough, I even mean it.
As we walk side by side down the old cracked pavement that used to be the park entrance, strange noises fill the airâthe buzz of the crowd. We reach a shaded tree area and a grass pathway back to our workstations.
“I'm taking my dad to Big Beautiful Burgers for dinner tonight. His favorite restaurant. He's an inventor.” She takes a breath and glances at me. “When I get nervous, I talk too much.”
“No kidding,” I say but smile to soften it.
“What's your dad's favorite?” she asks.
I skip a breath. “My dad?” We walk past a janitor's cart, abandoned behind a huge tree on the pathway.
She stares. “Yeah. Where does he like to eat?”
I reach for my phone, pull it out of my pocket, and stroke the cover. “I have no idea.”
“Why?”
“Because.” I blow out long and hard, so the stale air from the bottom of my lungs leaves them. I glance at my phone. “I have no idea who he is.” I glance up, and she's staring at me.
“What do you mean?”
“He took off before I was born. I don't even know his name.” That's more than I've said about him out loud in a long time. It suddenly feels like I've just stripped down to my underwear. And there's a hole in the crotch.
“You don't know his name?” she repeats.
“My mom won't tell me. It's not even on my birth certificate.”
“That's kind of weird.”
“You're right,” I agree. “But you should meet my mom.” I start walking faster.
She matches my pace. “You want me to meet your mom?” Her eyes sparkle and her lips turn up into a smile.
I don't have the heart to tell her I don't mean it literally.
“You could come to my house, meet my dad,” she says, trying to keep up with me on her short legs. “He's awesome. We're really close. My mom's okay too, but I'm closer to him.”
“No thanks.” Her comment makes me miss my best friend, Lexi. Well, ex-best friend. Her dad left her when she was in second grade to start a new family with a younger wife. She rarely saw him. We shared daddy issues. We got that about each other. But she left me too.
“Why not? Because you don't have a dad?” Amy hurries to catch up to me on the pathway. “That's sad.”
We reach the end of the treed path that leads back into the crowds. Now I notice all the dads wandering around with their kids. Dads come in all shapes and sizes.
“My break is up. I have to go,” I say.
She glances over to the snack shop to our right. Adam is visible at the till inside, serving ice cream to an elderly lady. To the left is the gift shop where I work.
