Four Truths and a Lie (5 page)

“Is this for extra credit?” Crissa's asking.

“No,” Miss Cardanelli says. She sighs. She's weaving through the rows, letting everyone choose a slip of paper. “This is good practice for your writing skills, and you will receive a participation grade.” The class still looks worried. Not me. I'm not. I'm never worried when it comes to boys. Not like I've had that much experience with them or anything. Although there was this boy at my old school, Adam, who everyone was positive liked me. Well, until that whole thing with my dad happened. Then he kind of started avoiding me. Not that it was that hard, since our contact had been limited to him walking me to math class after gym. But whatev. I push Adam out of my mind and focus on my new prospects. Guys at Brookline Academy for Boys.
Private school
boys. Who probably wear ties and button-ups. Who probably are smart and talk about fun,
interesting things. I grab a piece of paper out of Miss Cardanelli's hat.

“Girls, there's no need to worry! You don't have to tell them your innermost secrets; you can tell them anything you'd like.” Miss Cardanelli glances at the clock. “Now, for the next fifteen minutes or so, I'd like you to all write an intro letter. It doesn't have to be long or in-depth, and you don't have to reveal anything you're uncomfortable with.”

She picks up a kitchen timer on her desk and sets it. “Go!”

Hmm. What to write, what to write.

I look at the slip of paper in my hand. It has a big “17” written on it in black Sharpie. All around me, girls are scribbling furiously. Wow. I guess when there's a grade involved, they get all into it and forget their fears.

Here's what I write:

Dear Number Seventeen,

Well, I guess I'm not allowed to tell you my name, but just so you know, seventeen is my favorite number. This is my first year at Brookline, and I actually do have a secret reason that I'm here, but I'm
not going to tell you that. I don't care if you're a stranger or not. Although maybe if you're nice to me, I will eventually tell you. And then we'll be able to prove if this experiment actually works. Do you have any deep, hidden secrets?

Anyway, I'm not sure what else to write. Oh, except I totally got conned into joining the basketball team somehow. Do you play any sports? Do you have any basketball tips for me? Boys are all supposed to be good at that stuff, right?

Talk to you later.
Number Seventeen

I shove my paper into the envelope Miss Cardanelli gave us, seal it, and sit back in my chair. Everyone else is still working, so I reach into my bag and pull out the romance novel I'm in the middle of reading. This being smart thing is no sweat. Seriously, I don't even know what I was worrying about. This school is even easier than my old one. I mean, writing letters that the teacher isn't even going to read?
Piece of cake. I'm probably one of those complete geniuses who no one realizes is a genius until they get pushed, or decide they should work harder.

“Okay, class,” Miss Cardanelli says when the timer goes off. “Pens down.”

The class lets out a collective groan. I guess they can't all be fast writers like me. After everyone seals their envelopes, Miss Cardanelli tells us to open our books to page sixty-seven. “We're going to start the year with a refresher,” she says. “Themes from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
.” Hmmm. Shakespeare? So much for being smart.

In math, I take a seat toward the back of the room, hoping this will ensure I don't get called on. If I'm in the back, I can sort of hide, right? I pick up my math book and pretend I'm engrossed in a chapter on fractions. God, it's hot in here. My uniform is way too long. I wonder if they have a sewing class here; it would be nice to maybe hem it up, put a cute little bow at the bottom, maybe some ribbon …

A strict-looking woman walks into the room and over to the whiteboard. She picks up a marker and slides it down the board. It makes a squeaking noise, like it's out of ink, and she shakes her head before throwing it back down on the tray in disgust. Yikes. Her hair's pulled back into a
bun so tight it looks like her eyes are going to pop out of her face.

“Open your books to page two hundred forty-three,” she says, popping the top off a new marker and writing
MRS. WALKER
on the board in big, angry-looking letters. The bell hasn't even rung yet, but somehow all of the students are here. That's ridiculous, starting class before the bell even rings. How will you know if you're late or not? How will—
RINNNNNGGG
. The bell goes off. Okay, then.

“Who can tell me the answer to problem number four?” Mrs. Walker asks. So much for a personal introduction.

I take a deep breath. Let's see, number four. This doesn't look too hard. I think it has to do with the quadratic formula. I pull a piece of paper out of my binder and copy down the problem with my pencil. I start to plug in the numbers, but before I'm even done, Crissa's hand shoots up.

“It's twenty-seven,” she says before Mrs. Walker can even call on her. “The answer is twenty-seven.”

“Right,” Mrs. Walker says. “What about number seven?”

The class bends back down over their books, and I look around suspiciously for calculators. They
must
be using calculators. In high school you're allowed to use them; I've seen some of the older kids with graphing calculators. But
graphing calculators were definitely not on the list of things to bring for school supplies, all it said was that we needed paper and pencils, a binder, and—

“Scarlett Northon!” Mrs. Walker yelps, and I jump. My pencil goes flying through the air and lands on the floor a few feet away from me.

“Yes?” I squeak. I slide my foot over the carpet and try to reach the pencil that's on the floor. Almost there. I try to slide it back to me with the bottom of my shoe, but it's too far away. It doesn't help that Mrs. Walker is looking at me with a very intense look.

“Number seven. What is the answer?”

The whole class turns to look at me. Actually, this isn't true. Only about half the class. Okay, so no one is really looking at me, but it FEELS like they are. The silence is starting to stretch. I rummage through my pencil case for a pen, so I can at least attempt to do the problem.

“Scarlett,” Mrs. Walker says. She folds her arms over her massive chest. “We're waiting. If you don't know the answer, please say, ‘I don't know.'”

I'm scribbling furiously. Nine times two divided by three is … seven—no, six … minus two, carry the one … “Seventeen and one-eighth!” I announce triumphantly. Take that, Mrs. Walker and all you classmates who seem to be staring at me!

Mrs. Walker fixes her cold stare at me, then turns to Tia. “Tia?” she asks.

“Nine and three quarters,” Tia reports.

“Very good,” Mrs. Walker says. “I see
most
of you are having no trouble with the quadratic formula, so I see no reason for a review.” She walks over to the board. “Now open your notebooks and get ready to write down everything I say in EXCRUCIATING detail.”

Excruciating detail. Yikes. I open my notebook hastily and then pick my pencil up off the floor. I feel tears starting to build behind my eyes, and I slide my fake glasses up and brush them away with the sleeve of my uniform. I will not let anyone see me cry. Besides, it was only one wrong answer. And it's the first day. No one's even going to remember it. I take a deep breath and turn back to the board so that I don't miss anything. But not before I catch Crissa looking at me and see the smirk that crosses her face before she turns back around to face the front.

That night, all the eighth graders meet downstairs
in the common room of the dorm for “get-to-know-you games.” I am so not in the mood. The rest of my day was stressful at best. My classes are horrible. I'm behind in everything. (Although math is definitely the worst. When Mrs. Walker found out I didn't know how to convert fractions, she thought I was joking and almost laughed right in my face. When she realized I wasn't, her look turned to one of horror, and she told me we'd have to set up a time to talk, then sent me on my way with an extra review worksheet that no one else had to do.)

Then, at lunch, I had to ask some random girls if I could sit with them, and they had no interest in talking about
anything that was remotely interesting. All they wanted to talk about was debate team. Snooze. I told them I was on the basketball team, but they totally weren't impressed. And speaking of basketball, I was so exhausted after my day of stress, that I fell asleep on my bed after school, sleeping through my first basketball practice of the season. I'm about to flunk out, and it's only the first day.

Also, why is no one here being nice to me? At my old school, people were at least a little bit nice to new people. Even if they just pretended to want to show them around the school to get out of class, they at least
tried.
So far, no one here has even attempted to talk to me. And from what I can tell, Crissa is the most popular girl here. How can this be? It's like this place is the opposite of any kind of stereotypes you've ever heard. Here you're popular for being smart and plain, where a good pair of Christian Louboutins and a Fendi belt get you nowhere. No one even seems too impressed by my Chanel glasses. Sigh.

“Welcome,” Crissa says from the front of the room when I arrive in the common room. I guess she's in charge of the games. I slide down on the floor next to Tia. I'm wearing a cute pair of Seven jeans, a purple shirt that I found at this really cool flea market, and purple Skechers.

“Hey,” I say to Tia. “Why is she in charge?”

“She's president of our class.” Tia's still wearing her uniform. Most of the other girls are wearing pajama pants. Hmm. Does fitting in here mean I'm going to have to give up my whole wardrobe? That would be a shame. Although it does explain why the closets are so small.

“Already?” How can we have a president already? Shouldn't there be elections?

“She was president last year, so she gets to keep it until the new elections are held next month.”

Oh. Right.

“It's time to play four truths and a lie!” Crissa exclaims from the front of the room. She's sitting on a high-backed chair, and since everyone else is sitting on the floor, she's looking down on us all. Fitting. Everyone groans.

“I know, I know,” Crissa says. “It sucks since we all already know each other, but that's my job!” Everyone laughs, like she's said the funniest thing ever. Well, she does seem to have that whole slightly snotty, I'm-better-than-you routine down pat.

“Now, we'll start on this side of the room.” She points to her right. Which is where I'm sitting. Lovely. “You all know how it works. You have to say five facts about yourself, four of them are true, and one of them is a lie. Then everyone has to decide which one is a lie, and then it's the next person's turn!”

Hmm. “How do you win?” I ask.

Crissa ignores me. “So! We'll start with you, Amber!”

I look next to me and see the blond girl from English this morning. True to form, she looks nervous. “Um, okay,” she says. “Um, okay. Um … I have a brother, I don't like pink, I'm good at math, I have trouble falling asleep, and my favorite food is pizza.”

Everyone in the room groans. “The lie is that you don't like pink,” Tia says from the other side of me. “Bor-ing.”

“I'm sorry,” Amber says, shrugging. “I couldn't think of anything you don't already know.”

Crissa rolls her eyes. “Scarlett,” she says, “it's your turn.”

“Okay,” I say. “But how do you win?”

“You don't,” she says. “It's a get-to-know-you game, not a competition.” She looks like it's taking all her strength not to yell at me. It's not my fault I don't know how to play. Whatever happened to just going around the room and introducing yourself?

“Okay, let's see.” I rack my brain for some truths and lies about me. I decide to take a page from Amber's book and keep it simple and boring. “I've never played basketball in my life, I'm an only child, I don't like chocolate, my favorite color is purple, and …” I try to come up with one more truth about myself.

But before I can, Crissa chimes in. “… and you came here for a really mysterious reason that you don't want anyone to know about?”

An awkward silence falls across the group. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, and the air suddenly feels thick, like a rubber band is squeezing the room. I look down at my hands. “Oh, sorry,” Crissa says, forcing a laugh. “I was just joking around.” She doesn't sound sorry. I think that's her pattern—she says a lot of things without really sounding them: happy to meet you, sorry, just joking around, etc.

“I think the lie is that you don't like chocolate,” Amber pipes up. “No, no, wait. I think you said that to make us
think
that's the lie, but it isn't.” She bites her lip and considers. “I think it's that purple isn't your fave color.”