Four Truths and a Lie (14 page)

Amber frowns.

“What?” I ask, alarmed. “You think he sounds scary? I thought he sounded very innocent, actually. Like some
kind of foreign royalty, even. Something very innocuous.” I wait for her to notice that I've used the word “innocuous,” which means “not likely to irritate or offend.” It's one of our English vocab words.

“No, I just …” Her eyes dart around nervously, and she swallows.

“What?” I say. “What is it?”

“It's nothing, it's just … Scarlett, James McFayden is Crissa's ex-boyfriend.”

Of course he is. I mean, nothing can ever be simple, now can it? Does this mean I have to stop flirting with him? Does this mean Crissa's going to hate me even more? Will she find out? Is James McFayden a jerk? Is he flirting with girls now that Crissa has dumped him? Is he heartbroken? Does he like hanging out at family gatherings with Mrs. Bacon? My head is spinning as I rush across campus to the athletic building for practice.

The speed of my head must directly relate to the speed of my legs, because I get to basketball practice five minutes early. Coach Crazy is standing over by the bleachers, and the team's huddled around her, looking serious.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Oh, good, Northon, you're here,” she says. I'm not sure
what's more upsetting—that she got my name right, or that she's happy to see me. Neither is a good sign.

“What's up?” I say. At practice, you don't have to talk the way you normally would if you were in class. “What's up?” is a normal thing to say.

“Andrea's hurt,” Coach barks. I look down at Andrea, who's sitting on the bottom bench of the bleacher. And then I notice she has a cast on her ankle. “Oh, my goodness,” I say. “What happened to you?”

“I fell,” she says. “Up the stairs.” She looks miserable.

“I'm so sorry!” I say. And I really am. Basketball is like breathing to Andrea. She can hardly live without it.

“It's not your fault,” she mumbles.

“Northon, you know what this means,” Coach says. She's marking something off on her clipboard.

“What?” I ask. We need to organize a party for Andrea? Ooh, score! Like a “Get Well Soon” party for the whole class. That would be fab! And maybe I could set up a makeover booth, like a special treat since it's for a good cause. And we could have Sandy Candy, this totally cool thing where you make multicolored vases out of that powdered sugar candy that comes in Pixy Stix.

“It means you're in,” she says.

“In what?” I frown.

“In the game. You're starting. Now go suit up; we're going to have to rearrange all our plays.” She looks over her clipboard at me. “Since you're so short.”

“What?” I say, horrified. “Oh, no. I can't start. There's no way. Isn't there someone else?” I rack my brain, trying to remember if there are any tall girls I know who'd be good in Andrea's position.

“No,” Coach says. “There's no one else.”

“What about Morgan McGinley?” I try. “She's at least five foot ten. Or Michelle Radichio! She's super athletic, I saw her playing badminton on the lawn once, and it was fierce.”

“Northon, what's wrong with you? It's too late to get someone else—everyone has their extras set up already. Now go suit up.”

I march to the locker room, my eyes on the floor. Great. How could my luck get any worse than this? I can't
start
during basketball season! The only thing that's kept me going so far is the fact that I'm going to be riding the pine! Isn't that what everyone said? That I'd be riding the pine? I
wanted
to ride the pine! I loved the idea of riding the pine! Riding the pine seemed easy and fun.

I sigh as I slam my feet into my sneakers.

When I get back to the gym, the rest of the team is
standing around, and they don't look too pleased. No doubt they're seeing their perfect season going right down the toilet.

“Northon! There you are!” Coach hikes up her shorts. “Now, listen, take a look at this screen.” I realize she has a whiteboard behind her, with a bunch of marks on it. Now, it's not like we've never gone over plays before. But up until this point, I didn't really have to pay attention. I'd use the time to daydream up new color combos to try out during my makeovers, or to go over math problems in my head. One time I even pretended I was writing down basketball plays in my binder, when really I was reading my science homework. It was totally obvious, too, but the coach wasn't going to say anything, because it didn't matter. I was a pine rider—which is what I wanted to be!

“What screen?” I look around. Not all the classrooms have screens set up for PowerPoint. I didn't even know the gym had one. I mean, we've never used it before.

“This one,” the coach says, pointing at the whiteboard.

“That's a whiteboard,” I say. Maybe they just call it a screen at Brookline, so that no one feels bad. Kind of like when I was little and they used to tell my cousin Kristi that she was really driving her car at the amusement park, when in fact it was motorized and on a track. Of course, this is a
little bit different. I mean, all you have to do is look at the board to be able to tell that it's obviously not a screen. And the girls at Brookline are supposed to be supersmart, so I don't think the coach is really fooling anyone. Still, it's the thought that counts, right?

“The screen on the whiteboard,” Coach says.

“This is ridiculous,” Nikki whines. She pulls her long blond hair out of its ponytail, and then gathers it back up again. “Can we please talk about other options?”

“We've already discussed this,” Coach Crazy says. She puts her hands on her massive hips. “There are no other options.”

What does she mean they've already discussed it? How come I haven't heard about this? Are they having secret meetings that don't involve me? That's pretty rude. I mean, I don't want to start, but I don't want them thinking I
can't
start. I mean, hello. How mean.

“Coach,” I say, raising my chin. “I'm up for the challenge.”

The other girls sigh, and a collective groan goes up from the group. They all start talking at once.

“We're never going to—”

“Worked so hard for this year and now—”

“Forget the championship, we won't even get to the playoffs, this is—”

“Quiet!” Coach Crazy blows her whistle and the girls quiet down. “Now listen up,” she says. “We're on this team not because we're only going to be happy if we win the tournament. We're on the team to learn about teamwork, and how to become better basketball players.”

The team mumbles something that kind of sounds like agreement, but could just be something they do to make Coach Crazy think they agree when they really don't.

“Excuse me,” I say. “But has anyone bothered to ask
Scarlett
what she thinks of all this?”

“It doesn't matter what you think, Northon,” Coach barks. “We need you. And you need us.” She's right. I can't switch my extras. Everything else is full. “Now let's get to work.” And she turns back to the board.

That night, my mom comes to take me out to
dinner. I catch sight of her through the window of my dorm, hurrying across the front lawn and up the steps. She's wearing her long woolen coat with her Burberry scarf, and she's carrying my black carry-on bag, the one I use when we go on vacation. Probably filled with the workout clothes I asked her to bring.

I feel my throat catch at the sight of her. I didn't realize until now how much I missed her. And then I feel guilty for kind of sort of forgetting that she was coming to visit today, what with all the James/Crissa and basketball drama going on. What kind of daughter am I? Especially with my dad out of the picture, she's all I've got right now. When she
appears in my room a few minutes later, I throw my arms around her, taking in the scent of her lavender perfume.

“Hi,” she says. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” I say.

“Wow,” my mom says, pulling back and surveying my room. “It looks different.”

“What? Oh, yeah. I guess because it's lived in.” I look at the array of papers on my desk, along with my unmade bed. Whoopsies. If I'd remembered she was coming, I would have cleaned up.

“I brought the clothes you wanted,” she says, setting the suitcase down. “And I found a really cute little Italian place where we can have dinner.”

“Perfect,” I say. I pull my new pink Bebe sweater off one of the hangers in my closet and pull it over my jeans and T-shirt to keep me warm outside. “Oh, you'll never guess what happened! You know how I'm only on the basketball team because I got semitricked into it?”

“Yes,” she says. I recounted the horror of being tricked into joining the basketball team in one of our phone conversations. My mom seemed to find it exciting.

“Well, turns out that Andrea Rice is hurt!”

She looks blank. Then I realize she doesn't know who Andrea Rice is.

“Andrea Rice is our starting point guard,” I explain. “And since there are only six girls on the team, guess who has to take her place?”

“Wow,” my mom says. “So you're going to be starting on the basketball team? Scarlett, that's wonderful.” She looks genuinely pleased. I wonder why parents get all emotional about that kind of stuff. I mean, it's just a sport. “Your dad is going to be thrilled.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn't be saying that if you'd seen me play,” I say, ignoring the comment about my dad.

“Nonsense,” she says. “I'll bet you're wonderful.”

“Not really,” I say. “Although I do think my layups are improving. I hit four in a row at the end of practice today. I think I was finally getting the hang of it. I would have gotten the hang of it even more if Coach Crazy hadn't been screaming, ‘That's it, Northon! Keep it up!' It made me nervous.”

“Well, I hope the things I brought are okay,” my mom says.

She unzips the bag, and a colorful array of fabrics peek out at me. Reds, blues, grays, and pinks. All my fave colors.

“I've been borrowing things from Crissa.” I shudder and my mom laughs. “It's not funny, I have to wash them out in
the sink every single night! Plus it's like I'm beholden to her or something. Definitely not the position I want to be in.”

As if the devil herself heard me, the door to the room flies open and Crissa comes flouncing in. “Oh, hello, Scarlett,” she says. “I didn't know your mom was coming.” She paints on a forced smile. “It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Northon.”

“Nice to see you too, Crissa,” my mom says, smiling. I shoot her a look. Traitor.

“My mom came here to take me to dinner,” I say. “And to bring me new gym clothes. So I won't be needing yours anymore.”

“Fine,” Crissa says, waving her hand as if she didn't pitch a big fit about having to lend them to me. She starts rummaging around in her closet. I roll my eyes at her behind her back, but my mom shoots me a look like
Be nice
. Why is it parents always want their kids to be nice no matter what? You'd think they'd want to look out for their own.

“I'm just getting my coat,” Crissa's saying from inside the closet. “It's getting cold out there.”

“It certainly is,” my mom says, nodding. Crissa is obviously very good at handling parents. There are certain things parents love to talk about, the weather being one of them.

Crissa smiles and stops in front of the mirror. She smoothes
her long brown hair back into her headband. “Anyway, I better go. Don't want to be late for student council!”

“Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth. “You better go.”

“Sorry I can't stay longer, Mrs. Northon. Have a nice visit with your mom, Scarlett.” And then she's gone.

“Remind me again why you don't like her,” my mom says. “She seems like a nice girl.”

“Yeah, well, she's not,” I say. “She totally wasn't being nice. She was forcing it that whole time.” How can parents be so clueless?

My mom and I pile into her car and drive to a little Italian place about twenty minutes from campus. I order chicken parm and an antipasto, and eat it all, plus three pieces of garlic bread. The food is hot and filling, and the restaurant is cozy and warm. My mom and I talk about clothes and makeup, her job, how school's going. The waiter is bringing us a yummy-looking tiramisu for dessert when she finally asks me about my dad.

“So,” she says, clearing her throat. “Have you talked to your dad?”

I pretend I'm chewing a bite of cake and swallowing carefully, even though there's nothing in my mouth. “Well,” I say. “No. Have you?”

“I've talked to him a few times,” she says. She takes a sip
of her water, and then sets it back down on the table. A ring of moisture stains the tablecloth.