Four Truths and a Lie (2 page)

“I see you've already picked your bed.” Crissa thrusts her chin in the air.

“Oh, um, yeah.” Ooopsies. I just figured whoever gets here first gets first pick of the beds. That's how they do it on all those reality shows. Of course, a big fight usually ensues after that, but still. “I hope that's okay.”

She shrugs. The door to our room flies open again, and a gray-haired woman in a blue dress appears. “Honestly, Crissa,” she says. “You didn't have to run up the stairs. You know I have a bad knee.” She smoothes her hair. “It wouldn't hurt you to act like a lady.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Crissa says. She heads over to the other bed, and drops her bag on it.

“Hello,” the woman says, looking me up and down. “I'm Crissa's mom, Debbie Bacon.” She frowns, and her eyebrows wrinkle. “
Mrs
. Bacon.” I try not to burst out laughing. Bacon. Ha-ha. But then I realize she made a big point of making sure I knew to call her Mrs. Bacon, and it's not really that funny anymore. Does she think I'm some kind of delinquent?

“Pleased to meet you,” I say. For a second, I think maybe I should curtsy or something, but then I realize I'm not wearing my uniform yet. From behind me, my mom clears her throat. “Oh, I'm sorry.” I look from Crissa and Mrs. Bacon to my mom. “This is my mom, Mrs. Northon.”

“Nice to meet you,” my mom says.

We all stare at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“So the headmistress tells me you're a transfer from Rockville Public,” Mrs. Bacon says. There's a smile on her lips, but it's not quite reaching her eyes. And the way she says “Rockville Public” makes it sound really bad, like anyone who comes from public school is two seconds away from ending up on the streets. Which isn't true. I mean, Rockville Public is in the richest district in Massachusetts.

“Yes,” my mom says, standing up and putting her hands on my shoulder. “We thought Scarlett would benefit from a more challenging academic environment.” Wow. Way to go, Mom.

“Mmmm,” Mrs. Bacon says. “Challenging it certainly is.” She glances at her watch. “I don't mean to be rude, but I'm terribly late for my steering committee,” she says. Steering committee? Is Mrs. Bacon a race car driver? “Now, Crissa, please make sure you let me know when you find out who you have for math.” She tightens the scarf around her neck. “And if there's any problem with the gray knee socks, please call me immediately.” She kisses both of Crissa's cheeks, says good-bye to me and my mom, and then disappears out the door. Ooo-kay, then.

Crissa says nothing. Maybe she's just nervous around parents. That happens to me sometimes, like when my
friend (well, I guess ex-friend now since no one from my old school will talk to me) Taylor had a pool party and her mom kept asking all the girls if they were looking forward to starting eighth grade and who was the hottest boy in school. It was quite unnerving and very annoying. I shoot my mom a pointed look, which basically means,
If you want me to have any friends here, you should probably leave. Like now. I don't want to be the lame girl whose mom is hanging around her on the first day of school.

“Well,” my mom says, getting the hint. She checks her watch and stands up. “I should probably get going too.” I can tell she wants to say something else, but not in front of Crissa. “Call me tonight if you need anything.”

“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes to show Crissa that I'm not worried about it. No getting homesick for me, definitely not. Never mind that I've never spent any significant amount of time away from home, and never really liked sleepovers.

“So,” Crissa says, once my mom's gone. Her brown eyes look me up and down. “I heard you only got in here because your mom knows Headmistress O'Neal.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I reach into the box of books and pull out two more, then shove them onto the shelf. “Yeah. Well, I'm not, um …” Crap. I didn't come prepared with a cover story. Maybe I can tell everyone I got kicked
out of my old school for fighting or something—I always wanted to be a tough girl. “I'm not really supposed to talk about it,” I say, hoping she gets the hint.

“What's that supposed to mean?” She opens her suitcase, removes a gray cardigan sweater, slides it on, and begins to button it up very carefully. Then she takes out a picture frame and places it on her nightstand. It's a silver frame, with swirly black letters all over it, spelling out “friends,” “best friends forever,” and “love.” In it, there's a picture of Crissa with another girl, their arms around each other, smiling into the camera.

“Um, well,” I say slowly, trying to keep my voice light. “My mom thought it would be good for me.” Which is true. Crissa raises her eyebrows, which need serious tweezing. “Cool picture,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Who is it?” I pick up the frame and study the picture.

“My best friend,” Crissa says, taking the picture out of my hand and placing it back on the nightstand. “Her name's Marissa. She was my roommate last year, and she was
supposed
to be my roommate this year, but she moved. She goes to school in California now.”

“She looks nice,” I say.

“She's amazing,” Crissa says. “We totally ruled this school.”

Jeez. Way to be obvious. Okay, so maybe I'm not Marissa. But that doesn't mean me and Crissa can't be friends, right? I mean, I can be as cool as Marissa. I can smile into the camera and rule the school with Crissa, right? Although we're obviously not off to a very good start.

My thoughts are interrupted by squeals coming from our doorway. The squeals are coming from two girls, one with mopsy brown hair, and a blonde with large red-framed glasses. (Ha! I knew glasses would be popular around here.) Crissa jumps off the bed and runs to the girls — and they all embrace and jump around.

Well. She's obviously a little warmer to them than she was to me.

“I can't believe you cut your hair!” Crissa says to the blond one. “Does it feel weird, it being so short?” That's what she calls short? It's halfway down the girl's back.

“Not really,” the girl says, tossing her hair around.

“I love it,” Crissa says. “It suits your face.”

“I'm so sorry about …” the blonde trails off and gives Crissa a sympathetic look, then squeezes her shoulder. “I hope you're okay.”

“I'm so fine it's ridiculous,” Crissa says. “I mean, it was my choice.”

“Is your mom freaking out?” the blonde says. I have
no idea what they're talking about, so I can't even get in on the gossip.

“Kind of,” Crissa says. She looks uncomfortable. “But it's really not her decision.”

“Oh,” the brunette says, looking over Crissa's shoulder. “Is this your new roommate?”

“Yeah,” Crissa says, as if she forgot I was sitting there. Maybe I should have worn my fake glasses right off the bat. I wonder if it would be too obvious to go searching through my bag and pull them out. I could be all, “Look! I found my glasses, whew, much better. I totally need them when I read my copy of
War and Peace
, the print is so small.”

“Scarlett,” Crissa says, “this is Tia”—the brunette—“and Rachel.”—the blonde.

Upon further inspection, Tia and Rachel would benefit from my tweezers just as much as Crissa would. And then I have a brilliant idea. I could do makeovers! My heart starts to rise a little bit as I think about the possibilities. I could take these three under my wing, turning them from ugly ducklings into swans! And then the four of us would become the most popular girls in school, totally taking out the current most popular girls in school, who have always (of course) been mean to them in the past! And it would be way better than anything Crissa had with Marissa. It would be like a Disney
movie, only better because it would be my life! And sure, it won't
really
be the same, since there aren't any boys here (everyone knows that in these movies, the popular boys fall in love with the newly made-over girls), but still.

“Nice to meet you,” Rachel says.

Tia just looks me up and down.

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, making a big production of pulling out my makeup bag. “Does anyone want any”—I pause for effect—“Kiehl's products?”

I expect this announcement to be met with squeals of excitement, and then a trip down the hall to the (communal, eww) bathrooms for facials and fun. But they all just stare at me blankly.

“It's okay,” I say. “I don't mind sharing. We can do facials!”

“What are Keels?” Crissa peers over at my bed for a closer look. Is she kidding?
What are Kiehl's?

“They're product,” I say. “Skin stuff. You know, for facials?”

“Ooooh,” Rachel says, nodding. “My sister gets those.”

“Let's go do facials,” I say. “I have exfoliator, a mud mask, a—”

“We can't,” Tia says, speaking to me for the first time. “We have to sign up for extras.”

“Extras?” I ask.

“Extracurriculars,” Rachel explains. She holds up a jar of moisturizer. “I wonder if this would help my dry skin.”

“It totally would,” I say. “And this is the lotion that goes with it.” I hand her the bottle.

“We
have
to get to extras,” Crissa says forcefully. She taps her sneakered foot on our floor. “But maybe later we can play with your
product.
” She says “product” as if it's some kind of dirty word. Plus you don't
play
with product. It's not a yo-yo.

Rachel rolls her eyes, and pulls a bag of Swedish fish out of her pocket. She opens them and pops one into her mouth. “Extras don't start for another ten minutes.”

“Yeah, but if we don't get there, all the good ones will be taken.”

Good ones? There is nothing good about extracurricular activities. Extracurricular means extra—as in after school. Time when you could be doing something else. Like having fun.

“Fine,” Rachel says. “Time to go to extras.”

“We'd invite you,” Crissa says. “But new students have to sign up for extras through their advisor. Sorry.” She doesn't look sorry at all.

They file out of the room, leaving me by myself.

I look down at my hands. Whatever. I mean, they can't be the
only
girls here. There are tons of students in my class. Well, okay, like a hundred and fifty. But still. Three out of a hundred and fifty is like … Um. Well, it's not a huge percentage. Like, 2 or 3 percent, I think. I've never been good at math. And what was it my mom said? That it would only take one or two really good friends for me to start feeling comfortable? She's totally right.

And besides, after what happened to me at my old school, this is nothing.

I gather up my Kiehl's products and get ready to head to the bathroom. I can give
myself
a facial. It will cheer me up. And maybe while I'm in the bathroom, I'll find another girl there, giving
herself
a facial, and she'll be all, “Oh, hi, I'm so glad there's finally someone here who understands the value of a good facial!” Cheered by this, I grab my facial bag, and then go digging in my luggage for a towel.

I don't need friends to do a facial. Take that, Crissa, with your Tia and your Rachel and your haircuts and your gossip I don't know about. And your probing, sort of inappropriate questions and your—

“Hi!” a voice screeches from the doorway. I drop a tube of moisturizer on the ground and it goes rolling under my
bed. What is up with people just appearing out of nowhere in this place? I feel like I'm at Hogwarts.

“Oh,” I say. “Uh, hi.” I get down on my knees and reach under the bed, groping around for the tube. Eww. It's kind of gross down here. You'd think since it's the first day of school the rooms would be a little cleaner.

The girl (woman?) standing in front of me looks like she's about twenty-five, with long blond hair and green eyes. “You must be Scarlett,” she says. “I'm Miss Cardanelli, the eighth-grade English teacher, and also your academic advisor.”

“Yes,” I say, “I'm Scarlett. And it's nice to meet you.” This whole boarding school thing is weird. I mean, having a teacher in your room? Strange. What if I have something embarrassing in here? Like all the romance novels I brought, for example. I definitely don't want my English teacher seeing my romance novels. (Note to self: Buy Shakespeare plays and keep them in room. And definitely find those glasses.)

Miss Cardanelli plops down on Crissa's bed. “So where's Crissa?”

“She went to sign up for extras.” I slip the Kiehl's back into my makeup case.

“You didn't feel like signing up for extras yet?” Miss Cardanelli's studying herself in the mirror over Crissa's desk. She has what appears to be glitter in her hair. Figures
that the one person who's cool around here happens to be a teacher. This place is like bizarro world.

Somehow it seems inappropriate to tell a teacher that I don't plan on joining any kind of activity. Especially if I'm trying to pretend to be smart. “Crissa told me that I have to wait and sign up through my advisor, so …”

Miss Cardanelli frowns. “That's not true,” she says. “You have to sign up the same as anyone else. She checks her watch. “And you're already ten minutes late, so if I were you, I'd hurry.” She jumps off the bed. “Come on,” she says. “I'll show you where to go.”

Ten minutes later, I am in the student activities center, trying to weasel my way out of a huge disaster.

“You see, I've never actually played basketball before,” I say to the woman sitting at the table in front of me. “I'm not sure if I'd be the best
asset
to the team.” Plus I don't want to. I hate sports of any kind. This dates back to two unfortunate incidents, both occurring in the fourth grade—one where I got hit in the head with a volleyball, and then another where I tried to hit a softball in the air, and it came back down and hit me in the eye. I had a black eye for six weeks, and the social worker at my school called my mother to confirm there was nothing scandalous going on at our house.