Where the Truth Lies, Page 3

  My roommates call my father “Dad.” You’d think it would bother me, but it really doesn’t. After all, I’m his real daughter; we both know that. I’m so used to sharing him, and besides, my roommates all have strained, sad relationships with their parents, whereas my own father is loving and kind and … well, wonderful. I love my roommates like sisters; they deserve someone like him in their lives.

  Grace is holding up an airbrushed license plate that says “Dadmobile” in hot pink letters.

  I clap a hand to my mouth. “Oh my God. He’ll die.”

  “I was thinking we could switch it with his real license plate,” Grace says.

  I nod. “Yes! We should do it after dinner, when he’s still up at school.”

  For a split second, Stephanie frowns. “You don’t think Dad will be mad?” She rolls her eyes. “My dad would flip.” Her father is a total jerk. We have nicknames for him, too, but none of them are very nice.

  I shake my head. “Come on. You’re talking about Headmaster John Meckler. He’s a teddy bear.”

  “I don’t mean to change the subject,” Grace says, “but we need to tell her about the other thing, Steph.”

  Stephanie picks up the Latin quiz from the floor. She peers at it for another few seconds, sighs, and tosses it away again. “Right. So let’s tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Oohhhh …” Grace, who is petite with curly chestnut hair and a pixie’s face to match, rubs her hands together in excitement. “We were over at Winchester, right?”

  I nod.

  “And there’s a new boy. He’s a junior like us. He said his parents enrolled him over the weekend.”

  This is beyond unusual for Stonybrook. There’s a long wait list and an exhaustive admissions process; nobody ever starts after the beginning of the school year.

  “A new boy?” I repeat. A boy! A boy a boy aboy!

  “Is he ever.” Grace reaches out, grasps my wrist. Her hands are clammy. “Emily. He has a tattoo.”

  I feel a tingle of excitement in my spine. “He does? Where?”

  “On his wrist,” Stephanie interrupts. “It’s right over his veins.” She shudders. “I didn’t even want to ask him about it. Must have hurt like hell.”

  “Oh, you could barely talk to him,” Grace says. “She let Ethan do all the talking. Steph could hardly look Del—that’s his name—in the eye.”

  Stephanie flicks Grace on the ear. “Shut up, Grace.”

  “You shut up!”

  “His name is Del?” I ask, ignoring the bickering. “That’s not a name.”

  “Del Sugar,” Grace finishes. “What do you mean, it’s not a name? It’s his name, isn’t it?” She pauses. “Okay, it’s a little bit weird. But Emily, he’s so cute.”

  “What does his tattoo look like? What does he look like?”

  “Emily,” Stephanie says, “calm down. You’ll see him at dinner.” She pauses. Then, trying to be nonchalant, she adds, “It’s not like it’s a big deal that he has a tattoo. People have tattoos, Em. You know, my brother and I are getting matching tattoos once we turn eighteen.”

  Grace and I share a quick glance. We’re both trying not to smile.

  “What, um, what tattoo are you getting, Stephanie?” I ask, winking at Grace.

  Steph narrows her eyes at us. “You know. You both know.”

  “I forgot,” Grace says. “Why don’t you tell us again?”

  Everyone calls Ethan “The Prince.” Mostly because that’s his last name, but also because it’s just too perfect. He’s something like six feet five, really well built with dark hair and a coolness to him that isn’t a bit intimidating. He plays baseball. He loves music, and is really good at percussion instruments. Aside from my father, he’s just about the nicest person I’ve ever met.

  His constant kindness is what I’d say is Ethan’s only downfall: he’s so nice, he gives people the benefit of the doubt too much. It’s like he has blinders on when it comes to other people—especially his sister. I mean, sure, Stephanie is my best friend, but I’m not oblivious to the finer points of her personality. Ethan, however, does seem oblivious. He thinks she can do no wrong. He doesn’t even acknowledge that she smokes cigarettes, and more often than not, she reeks unmistakably.

  Anyway, for years Stephanie has been trying to give herself the nickname “The Princess.” But as much as she’s tried, it just hasn’t stuck. Sometimes Ethan calls her Princess—but Ethan calls lots of girls Princess. Mostly, he calls his sister Stephie.

  But the plot gets thicker. Last year, Ethan went out with Lindsey Cole for about six months. They were like the golden couple. Since everyone calls Ethan the Prince already, they started calling Lindsey the Princess. To say that Stephanie didn’t like it at all is a major understatement. After Ethan and Lindsey broke up, Stephanie got the idea that she and Ethan should get matching Prince and Princess tattoos someday. And she made sure nobody ever called Lindsey the Princess again.

  I know Steph better than I know Ethan, so I can’t really say how he feels about the idea. But I know how Grace and I and pretty much everybody else feels, and as her closest friend, I haven’t held back in sharing my opinion with Stephanie.

  “Please stop talking about that,” I say. “It’s so gross.”

  Grace nods. “You need to let it go. Just imagine how your husband will feel someday.”

  Stephanie has full, pouty lips, which she presses together now in agitation. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, then you need to have a talk with Dr. Miller. I think there’s a name for it.” Grace glances at the clock. “We have to go to dinner. Somebody wake up Franny.”

  Steph glares at both of us. “You two go ahead.”

  “I’ll spray some perfume on her,” I say.

  “Uh-huh.” She continues to pout. “Don’t save me a seat.” For a second, I think she might really be mad. But when she remembers to slip the Dadmobile plate into her backpack as she’s getting ready to leave, I know she’s mostly joking.

  Grace and I head out together. Franny peers at us with sleepy eyes as we walk into my room, but she doesn’t say anything. Her frame is so tiny that I can barely make it out beneath the sheets.

  I go over to her bed and kneel beside her. “Hey, my little waif. Time to wake up.”

  “Mmmm … ,” she murmurs. “I want cuddles, Emily.”

  “Later. It’s time for dinner.”

  Once we get outside, we join the threads of students leaving their dorms to head up to dinner, everyone eventually forming a thick cluster of bodies that winds up the hill.

  Just ahead of us, Renee walks with the seventh-graders from earlier. They’re almost tripping over each other as they try to stay close to her, hanging on her every word.

  At one point, when she turns around to say something, she catches my eye. She raises her right hand and wiggles her fingers in an easy wave.

  “You know how her mother’s a cocaine addict?” Grace murmurs under her breath.

  I nod. It’s been in the tabloids, on and off, for years.

  Grace hooks her arm through mine, leans closer to whisper, “I heard she relapsed.”

  Grace can be a major gossip sometimes. But I still feel bad for Renee. I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up with a mother like that.

  Before I have a chance to respond to the wave, Renee turns around to lead the way again. She isn’t wearing her school blazer. The back of her white shirt is untucked from her plaid skirt. Her hair is pulled into two messy braids that trail down her back, leaving wet spots that make it obvious she isn’t wearing a bra.

  “I don’t know how she gets those groupies,” Grace says. “For someone so rich, she’s awfully … disheveled.”

  I’m wondering if she has a blow-dryer back in New York; if she let her hair air-dry when she went to the Oscars with Bruce Graham. “I don’t know, Grace,” I say. “If you were in seventh grade, wouldn’t you want to be just like her?”

  Grace doesn’t
say anything; she just shakes her head.

  “Tell me if you see the new boy,” I say.

  “Oh, I will.”

  We walk silently, both of us staring at Renee.

  Even now—even though we don’t have a single thing in common, besides Franny—I can’t stop feeling disappointed that she didn’t wait for me to wave back before she turned around.

  chapter three

  Tonight we’re having ham for dinner, carved on a marble slab by Digger, the head of the dining hall staff. He’s a tall, quiet guy in his late sixties whose wielding of a carving knife makes everyone somewhat uncomfortable. The ham is cloyingly sweet, its smell thick enough to make me want to gag in this heat.

  We can sit anywhere we want. Since I know Steph was a little miffed by all the joking about her and Ethan, I decide to sit with just Grace tonight. I can see my parents across the dining hall; Stephanie and Franny are at their table, along with Ethan and a few other boys from his dorm.

  Even though the room isn’t that big, Grace can’t spot Del Sugar.

  “He must not be here,” she says, shrugging. “Oh well. You’ll see him tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  I nibble at the edge of a dinner roll, unwilling to touch my ham, which appears to actually be sweating. “Then where is he?”

  She shrugs again. The topic feels old already, like the whole thing might have been a misunderstanding or exaggeration, like maybe he’s not really here at all. As I said, nobody ever comes after the beginning of the year. If he were here, everyone would be looking at him.

  “I heard he’s some kind of prodigy,” Grace says, “and that’s why Dad let him in.”

  “Really?” I don’t even flinch when she calls my father “Dad.”

  “Yes.”

  A prodigy. There are plenty of those here already. It doesn’t make any sense.

  After dinner, I kind of forget about Del. I’ve got more important things on my mind.

  It’s already pitch-dark, but still hot. Outside the dining hall, it smells like warm ham and autumn. There’s just a twinge of the smell of the ocean, which is always present in Connecticut, no matter how far inland you go.

  Grace and I wait for Steph and Franny outside the dining hall. Once the four of us are standing alone together, I say, “Okay. How are we going to do this?”

  Stephanie still wants to sulk a little. “I just want to say again,” she announces, “that plenty of people get matching tattoos.”

  Franny wasn’t in on our conversation earlier, but she’s heard about Steph’s whole “matching tattoos” idea already. She snorts. Tug. “Husbands and wives. Rock stars and gold diggers. Not brothers and sisters, Stephanie.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” Grace says. “I want to play a joke on Dad.”

  “Steph, honey.” I put my arm around her. “It’s okay. We’re just kidding.”

  She pouts. “No, you aren’t. You think it’s weird.”

  “We think it’s weird,” I pronounce, “because it is. Besides, it’s never actually going to happen.”

  Even though the tattoo idea is gross, I can sort of understand where Steph is coming from. Like so many of the kids who go here, her family life is less than enviable. Ethan is pretty much all she has, even though her parents come around often enough. Like I said, Steph’s dad is an attorney. He’s well-known within the dorms for having outbursts of anger over the most trivial of issues. For instance, at the beginning of the year, he threw a fit when he found out that his daughter—his princess—was staying in a captive room with no fire escape outside the window. He threatened to sue everyone: the school, my dad, our dorm mother. Like most of his outbursts, it ended in a compromise. Now, under her bed in her room, Stephanie has one of those collapsible cloth ladders with metal hooks that can be attached to the window in case of a fire. I still remember my dad standing there, shaking his head, telling Stephanie, “Now make sure you use this to sneak out of your dorm every night, okay?”

  He was kidding. But we do it all the time.

  The four of us make our way into the school parking lot, where my dad’s black Escalade is parked outside his office.

  “Okay,” Steph murmurs. We’re all staring at my father, who is clearly visible sitting at his desk, head bent over a pile of paperwork. “He’ll definitely see us if he looks outside. Somebody has to distract him.”

  I shrug. “I’ll do it.”

  “But then he’ll know it was us,” Grace says.

  “Grace,” I say, “we’re putting a plate on his car that says ‘Dadmobile.’ He has one daughter. The four of us are the only people in the world who call him ‘Dad.’ He’s going to know it was us anyway.”

  “Then what’s the point?” she asks. “Do you think I can smoke a cigarette out here? Because I’m very nervous. Did anyone bring cigarettes?”

  “Grace, be quiet. You can’t smoke out here. Now, listen. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll go inside and talk to him. You three stay out here and switch the plates.” I pause. “Did anyone bring a screwdriver?”

  Steph holds up a flathead.

  I frown at her. “Where did you get that?”

  She’ll only give me a Cheshire smile. “I have my sources.”

  “Okay.” I shrug. Her “source” is most likely Ethan. “Whatever. Good. I’ll be right back.”

  It’s always weird to be in the school at night, when it’s empty. Aside from my dad and possibly Digger, there’s nobody in the building.

  His office door is open. I step inside and wait for him to notice me. Glancing toward the window, I can’t help but roll my eyes a little bit. My roommates are all huddled around the back of the car. Grace is on her tiptoes, and she’s audibly clapping in excitement. Franny is, of course, tugging her hair out. Steph is crouched down, doing all the work. The thought How many boarding students does it take to vandalize the headmaster’s car? crosses my mind.

  “Emily,” my dad says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  I step in front of the window. “Nothing, Daddy. Just, you know, wanted to say hi.”

  So there’s that: none of my roommates have ever called my dad “Daddy.” I suppose it’s possible I’d be a little irritated if they did.

  “You should be at your dorm.” He pauses, smiles at me. Then he says, “Have a seat.”

  Are they finished? How long can it possibly take them? I imagine the three of them out there, falling all over each other in giggles. God, I hope they don’t set off the alarm.

  “That’s okay,” I say, glued to my spot in front of the window. “I just had a question.”

  “Okay. What’s up?” He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms behind his head.

  “Did you … um, did you let in a new student today?”

  For a split second, I see a flash of something cloudy in his expression. But as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. “Yes, I did,” he says. “A very smart boy.” He nods to himself. “He’ll be a great asset here.”

  “Uh … Grace and Steph told me he has a tattoo.”

  My dad shrugs. I can tell he’s only pretending to be unaware. “Does he?”

  “Well, Steph said it’s kind of hard to miss.”

  “His name is Del,” my dad says. “And he’s absolutely brilliant. Now, that’s between you and me.” And he winks.

  “So I should make friends with him?”

  There’s that cloudiness again. Just for an instant. “Sure,” my dad says. “Why not?” He narrows his eyes. “Why won’t you sit down, Emily?”

  They have to be done by now. I can sense that they’re finished. At least, I can’t hear Grace clapping anymore. “Oh, I have a bunch of precalc to study. It was nice talking to you, Daddy. Don’t work too hard in here, okay?”

  “What, are you leaving already?”

  I’m at the door. “Yes.”

  He frowns. “That wasn’t much of a visit. Come give me a hug.”

  So I do. My father holds me close for a second. I turn my head to look out the window,
and I don’t see my roommates anywhere. They’re finished.

  “Emily,” he says, “about the new boy.”

  “What, Daddy?” I keep my tone light and innocent.

  “It’s just … nothing. I think you should focus on academics, that’s all.”

  Like I said, I’m lousy in school.

  “Well, you know how I love to study.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, get outta here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.” I kiss him on the cheek.

  When I leave the building, I take a second to look at his car. I giggle out loud. The Dadmobile vanity plate looks ridiculous. I wonder how long he’ll drive around before he notices it. I don’t worry for a minute that he’ll be mad; he just isn’t like that. He’ll be flattered. He loves the nickname Dad; I think it makes him feel appreciated.

  Every night after dinner there’s a two-hour study hall in our rooms. We have to leave our doors open while the faculty strolls from dorm to dorm, offering help to whoever needs it, making sure that nobody’s slacking off.

  Emotional stuff, like my nightmare earlier in the day, Franny, and the whole exchange with Renee, always leaves me physically exhausted, which makes my reluctance to sleep that much worse. I can hardly keep my eyes open as I try to get through my last two pages of precalc homework. Franny sits at her desk, struggling to stay awake as well while she reads what seems like the same page of Catcher in the Rye for the whole two hours.

  Finally, she tosses the book on the floor. “I give up,” she says. “Steph loves this book. She’ll tell me all about it.” She yawns. “I’m going to go put on my jamiflams.”

  I pause in my homework. “Your what?”

  Franny gives me a timid smile. “My jamiflams.”

  “What the hell are jamiflams?”

  “The word I made up for pajamas.”

  I’m almost speechless. I just want to hug her, to cuddle, to let her know how much she’s loved. “That,” I say, tossing a pencil playfully in her direction, “is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”