Vérité (21 page)

Chey snorted. “She knows what they look like, Tiff. She sleeps over at Ty’s . . . and Trey’s.”

Tiffanie’s eyes lit up. “No shit? Girlie! Trey’s smokin’. He lights me on fire, girl! You gotta give him my digits. Talk to him about me.”

My shoulder was going numb from Tiffanie and all her slapping. She wasn’t a small woman; I was pretty sure she played center for the women’s team.

“Sure thing,” I said, afraid to mention the girl in Cleveland or anything other than my agreement. I liked Trey, but there was no way I was getting mixed up in his love life. He’d been nice enough to me all week, minding his own business when I spent the night with Tiberius.

The lights in the stadium went out and the crowd cheered. A spotlight whipped in figure eights around the field house as a rap song played with heavy bass and some yelling that sounded like “Bring ’em out!” Then the announcer came over the loudspeaker, introducing the team one by one. Tiberius was at the top of the lineup, the last one waiting to slap hands with the starting five. Chey explained this was normal for the new guy on the bench.

My heart swelled a little as the announcer’s words echoed throughout the arena. “Starting at guard, a six-foot-four junior, number thirteen, Trey Dawson.”

Trey made his way through the line, slapping up high-fives, and the girls all gushed and swooned around me.

“He is one fine brother. Damn, girl, you gotta introduce me to him,” rang in my ears from behind me.

“Look at your man’s ass,” Stacy said on my left as she elbowed me. “You could bounce a quarter off that shit.”

“Ladies, let’s all calm down,” I said, patting the air to encourage them to hush up.

Before we knew it, the team was at center court, ready for the tip-off. Hafton got the ball, and Lamar dribbled it toward the hoop. He sprang up on both feet, dunked the ball, and hung on the rim while the Jumbotron flashed a replay with the words
SLAM DUNK
plastered across the screen. The girls went into another series of oohs and ahs and general chatter about Lamar’s body and form.

I watched as the opponent brought the ball back down the court. They were a smaller school from Georgia, and their bright-yellow uniforms left something to be desired. The other team made it all the way to the basket, where Jamel slapped the ball out of their hands into the stands.

“Ooh, he got stuffed,” Chey yelled.

“What?” I asked.

“Stuffed, that’s what that is.”

“You mean when he slapped the ball out of his hands into the crowd?”

“Yes, Tingly. Pay attention, girl.”

The first half went by fast, finishing with Trey “crossing someone up” at center court and “driving” for his second three-pointer. Hafton was up by twelve as the boys went to the tunnel toward the locker room, when Chey stood up and yelled, “Hey, Ty! Look up here!” She was jumping up and down, pointing at me, until his sight line focused on me.

Unfortunately, so did the Jumbotron. There I was, blushing, surrounded by the women’s basketball team, with the camera traveling between Tiberius winking at me and me sitting there, mystified.

I sank down in my seat, hunching my shoulders to make myself smaller, and my phone pinged like crazy in my pocket. Sliding it out from my jeans, I noticed ten notifications from Facebook. I hated that app—I needed to delete it—but I pressed the icon to open it. Sure enough, ten people had just written on my wall.

“Tingly, just saw you on the Jumbotron!!”

“Who is the guy winking at you? You sure know how to pick them.”

“Go, Tingly—at the game.”

One of the posts was from Stephanie, my section coach.

“Hey, Tingly, just saw you starring on the big screen at the basketball game!”

Was she here? Christ, I needed to get out of this place; the walls were starting to close in on me. Why couldn’t I remain anonymous?

“Hey, girls, this was fun, but I gotta go. See you at home. Great meeting you, Tiffanie,” I said as I stood and grabbed my backpack.

“Why’re you leaving? Because I embarrassed you?” Chey stood up, towering over me.

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just have work and an early practice,” I lied, swinging my bag on my shoulder.

“Tiberius isn’t gonna be happy about this,” she whispered to me, the tips of her braids brushing along my cheek.

“I’ll text him,” I said, and then I was out of there.

I walked back to my dorm as fast as my feet could take me, and locked myself in my room. My phone buzzed with a call, and I answered in a fit of rage, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Tingly, I’m glad you answered.”

Shit
. Second fuckup of the day.

“What, Dad?”

“We’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Why?” I stalked around my room, stopping to kick at the closet door to vent my frustration.

“Well, your mom and I weren’t happy how things ended for you last year. And I’m dealing with it.”

“What do you mean, dealing with it?” I made my way over to my bed and flopped down on my back, squeezing my eyes shut. “I thought I told you that I was fine on my own.”

“Well, I know you’re not in a good space out there, and I’m fixing it.”

“What the hell do you mean?” I shrieked into the phone.

“You’ll see, darling, and then maybe you’ll consider paying us a visit?”

I hung up. Just pulled the phone away from my ear and swiped my finger across the
END CALL
button.

It was always
quid pro quo
with my parents. They did something for me, and then expected something in return. Although usually both things ended up in their favor—like Blane Maxwell. I’d been so in love with him, ever since we were little kids playing out back in the pool with our nannies watching from deck chairs. As we grew older and my feelings matured, it was hard to hide them. My eyelashes seemed to bat of their own volition, my hips cocked his way, and my heart rate sped up, even though I constantly pleaded for all three to stop.

Sometimes I’d flirt over a glass of lemonade or run by his house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He was the captain of the soccer and tennis team, and his long and muscular frame had caught the eye of all the girls in our prep school. We’d all pull up in the morning in our Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs, unfold our bodies from the air-conditioned cabins of our luxury vehicles, and all eyes would be on Blane Maxwell. The real kicker had been, he didn’t really even notice it. He was shy, quiet, a leader on the field, but not in class or student council—where his parents wanted him to show his prowess. Otherwise, how would he take over the family shipping business?

Our parents were friends, of course, society buddies who shared expensive cocktails at the club or the Beverly Hills Hotel. From time to time, they would meet at our house for an aperitif, and I would sit at the top of the stairs and eavesdrop.

“Oh, our Blane, what will we do with him?” his mom would say. “How will he find his way? He doesn’t even have a lady by his side.”

I wanted the position more than anything, and somehow my parents had caught wind of this. When I was fifteen, they arranged for a big family cookout—catered, of course—where Blane and I were thrown next to each other at the end of the large picnic table set up on our deck. My dad had offered Blane a beer, calling him a man for the night, and Blane didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. Blane took a few sips of the pale ale while eating, and then he suggested we take a walk behind the pool house.

My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
Behind the pool house
? That could only mean one thing. Blane Maxwell was going to make a pass at me . . .
me
! I agreed to go, and we strolled out back. I took in the rolling pink-and-purple landscape set against the Hollywood Hills, and I couldn’t believe I was sharing this moment with Blane.

When we got behind the pool house, I turned and faced him with bright eyes and a pouty, seductive smile.

Blane faced me, his expression somewhat bored. “Look, I know you like me, and I know I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but your dad offered your virginity to me. My dad says if I take it, he’ll know I have the balls to run the family business. After all,” he formed his fingers into air quotes, “‘anyone willing to deflower Colt Simmons’s daughter has balls enough to run the world.’ And I need that company in my name,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Shocked, I stood there gaping at him as a lone tear trailed down my cheek. The sun beat on my fair scalp as I stared at him, sweat pooling under my arms. I couldn’t understand why Blane would agree to this, or why deflowering Colt Simmons’s daughter was such a prize.

“It’s because you’re such a butch and flat-chested from all that running, always wearing cutoffs instead of dresses,” he said, answering my unasked question.

I cocked my head to the side and stared at him. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah,” he said, zero emotion in his eyes. He was all business when it came to my virginity and my apparent butchiness. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t want your virginity.”

It was then that I slapped him—hard—and his eyes widened with shock as my handprint marked his face, the imprint growing redder with each passing second.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” he said, defending himself. “I’m gay, but my parents would never accept that. I need this, Tingly.”

I’d never hated my stupid, stuck-up name more than when I heard it roll off his tongue. It was a family name—my mother’s maiden name, in fact—and I detested what it stood for. Money, bureaucracy, political bullshit, the cornerstones of my mother’s family. Now it stood for Blane’s personal wishes, spoken in his whiny voice and infused with his deep-seated desires. It was like hearing nails on a chalkboard.

“I just need you to say it happened to a few girls, let it get around school. We’ll pretend to date and then break up. Please, Tingly?”

I agreed to it, though, but our breakup didn’t go as he’d planned. He may have made everyone believe he’d deflowered Colt Simmons’s daughter, but I’d decided that Blane’s father—my dad’s closest business friend—was way more appealing.

My ugly trip down memory lane was interrupted by my phone ringing again. I felt around the bed for it, but it wasn’t there. The ringing stopped and started again. Leaning over the side of the bed, I saw it buzzing on the floor and snatched it up. This time I made sure to check the caller ID, and saw it was Tiberius.

“Hello,” I said, my voice still hoarse with pain.

“T, what’s wrong? What happened to you?” His voice was laced with worry and heavy New Jersey. “Where’d you go?”

“I had some work, but I caught the first half. Sorry, I missed the rest,” I said, trying to steady my tone.

“Rex? Come on. You mad about the big screen?”

“I’m just trying to lay low, Ty. Now we’re everywhere.”

“So? When it means something, T, that’s a good thing.” I could practically hear him smiling through the phone. “I thought I told you to tell me you were coming. I would’ve got you a ticket.”

“I didn’t decide till last minute. I was tutoring that girl I told you about.”

“Well, you missed me. I got in during the third and fourth.”

If I didn’t feel like shit before, I felt it now. “Oh, Ty. I’m sorry. It’s just I don’t want you to be that guy. The one who picked up Professor Dubois’s sloppy seconds.”

“You in your room?” he asked, ignoring my remark.

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’m coming up.” The line went dead.

A moment later I heard a knock on the door, and ran my fingers through my ratty hair on my way to answer it.

A
s soon as I opened the door a crack, Tiberius pushed his way inside and kicked it closed with his basketball shoe. I heard the lock click as he turned, and then he was on me—pushing me against the wall, hammering my mouth with his.

I let out a tiny moan, and his tongue slipped between my lips, tangling with mine. Although
slow, take-our-time Tiberius
had clearly left campus, the kiss wasn’t barren of feeling. To the contrary, it was fueled with meaning. I could feel passion radiating off Tiberius, flowing from his pores.

“T, baby?” he said, breaking away from my lips. We were still pushed up against the wall in the hallway, my back flush with the drywall, his front pressed against mine.

“Yeah?”

“Good thing you weren’t near me when the cameras swung our way, because I’d have done that. And I would’ve got thrown off the team,” he said through uneven breaths.

“I don’t want that.” I sucked in a gulp, trying to catch my own breath as my chest heaved.

“What? Me off the team? Or me to kiss you like that?” He leaned his forehead to mine.

“You off the team, but I also don’t want you saddled with my rep.”

“I told ya, Rex, I ain’t gonna let you hide behind that shit.”

He took my hand and walked me toward my room. “Lock the door,” he instructed, and I did. “You gonna ask me about my game?” He leaned against my dresser while I stood in the middle of the room under his scrutiny.

I nodded. “How’d you do?”

“Had eight points, two from a dunk. Was pretty good for the minutes I played.”