Falling for the Girl Next Door, Page 2

  Tru is the only one who isn’t here when the bell rings. That’s not at all unusual. He’s been late to almost every session of Senior Seminar since the year began—except on the days he chooses to skip altogether. Oliver marks the absences, but he tends to ignore Tru’s tardies.

  Which is probably why he’s always tardy.

  The door swings open and Tru saunters inside. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “And how are you this fine Friday, Tru?” Oliver asks, clearly hoping to get a better answer from Tru than he got from the rest of us.

  That man is way too cheerful.

  “I am excellent, Oliver,” Tru answers. His eyes flick to me. “It’s an excellent time to be alive.”

  Oliver grins and claps his hands together. Finally, the kind of response he was hoping for.

  “That it is,” he says, his face beaming. “That it is.”

  Tru makes his way around the huge table that fills the room and drops into the chair next to me. He gives my knee a quick squeeze under the table. I ignore him and focus my attention on Oliver.

  “I’m sure you’re all chomping at the bit to bid the year adieu and get to your winter vacation,” Oliver says. “But there is still one week left of classes and I have one last task for you before the extended break.”

  Jenna raises her hand.

  “No, Jenna, it won’t be for a grade,” Oliver says.

  She puts her hand down and returns to taking notes.

  “I want each of you to do a state of the project presentation.”

  Jenna’s hand shoots back up.

  “I am about to explain what that means, Jenna,” Oliver says with a slight sigh. “I’m sure you’ve all been working diligently, both individually and cooperatively, on the web series. But pedagogical responsibility compels me to confirm that you are all contributing meaningfully to the project.”

  When he’s met with blank stares, he shakes his head.

  “I need proof that Willa isn’t doing all the work.”

  Jenna looks affronted at the very thought that she might not be pulling her weight. Some of the other faces around the room look a bit more apprehensive.

  At the other end of the table, Willa blushes a bright red. From what I know about her, I’m pretty sure our project’s screenwriter isn’t too fond of excess attention.

  Her gaze shifts to her co-writer, Finn, who is also the son of Hollywood sweetheart Mia McCain and about to become Willa’s stepbrother. He looks unfazed by the implication that he might not be contributing equally to the script.

  “How are we supposed to prove that?” our lead actress Mariely asks.

  “Aha!” Oliver points at her. “That is where the state of the project presentations come in.”

  “I’m sorry?” she asks.

  “You will each present a progress report to the class—and, most importantly, to me—about what you have done so far on the project.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jacen says.

  “Let’s try for some examples.” Oliver scans his gaze around the room, and stops when he chooses his victim. “Dahlia, what have you been working on?”

  She looks startled to be called out. “Um, Keegan and I have been working on a song.”

  “Perfect!” Oliver claps again. “Then the pair of you can perform the song for the class.”

  Keegan’s eyes widen. “But it’s not finished.”

  Dahlia looks ghostly pale at the thought of performing. I wonder if she’s nervous to sing in front of the group or afraid that the song won’t be ready.

  With me, the art never feels ready.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Oliver explains. “Just share what you have so far. We all understand that it’s a work in progress.”

  “What about me?” Jacen asks. “Mariely and I are playing the leads. We won’t have anything to show until we start rehearsing.”

  Oliver looks at Willa. “I’m sure our fearless screenwriter has a working draft of the script by now.”

  Willa looks like she wants to throw up, but she nods.

  “Then perhaps you could give the cast members a scene or two to work on.”

  Again, Willa nods, even though she looks horrified at the idea of handing over her unfinished script.

  I can totally feel her pain. That would be like publishing some of my rough sketches of Graphic Grrl, the web comic that is my number one creative outlet. Sharing unfinished art is like letting someone see your raw, inner artist. It’s like ripping off your clothes and letting someone scrutinize every detail of your body. To your face. In public.

  Sharing the finished product—or at least as finished as a piece of art can ever get—is bad enough.

  “Those of you who have only been involved in planning up to this point,” Oliver says, “should come up with some representation of your individual contribution to the project as a whole. Tru, for example, could film some footage of possible shooting locations.”

  Tru shrug-nods, which I interpret as guy speak for, Sounds good to me.

  As Finn asks a question, I mull over what I could possibly present. As the graphic artist for the project, my work doesn’t really start until the filming is done. I’m going to be responsible for the opening and closing credits and, with Tru’s help on the editing software, some special effects graphics we’ll be using in the series.

  I suppose I could start working on some graphics for the credits. I wouldn’t have time to create any actual animations—I’ve only just started playing around with that software and I am miles from feeling confident enough to do something with it. But I could start working with typography.

  Not exactly the most thrilling project ever.

  “Maybe Sloane could make a movie poster for the series,” Jenna suggests, looking giddy at the prospect of being helpful.

  Oliver nods. “Good. Yes.”

  I give Jenna a thumbs-up and she beams. That sounds way more fun than spending countless hours staring at fonts, fonts, and more fonts.

  “Does anyone else need suggestions for their presentations?” Oliver scans his gaze over the room, but everyone shakes their heads.

  “Good,” he says, finally dropping into the chair at the head of the table. “Now that business is taken care of, let’s talk about Lizzie Borden.”

  As the rest of the class jumps into a discussion of the web series, I pull out my tablet and start rough-sketching ideas for the movie poster.

  Tru leans in close, gesturing at my tablet as he whispers against my ear, “There needs to be an ax.”

  “Definitely,” I reply with a smile. “A big one.”

  “Dripping with blood.”

  He leans away, chiming in on the discussion of possible shooting locations for the first episode of the web series. My stylus flies over my tablet, creating the rough outline of an ax. Then I add details, from the woodgrain on the handle to the dripping blood on the blade.

  By the time the final bell rings, I have the basic layout done.

  Finn, who is sitting on my other side, gestures at my tablet as I’m putting it away. “That looks great.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him.

  His gaze flicks to Willa. “Everyone will love it.”

  “I hope so.”

  I recognize that kind of furtive glance. Unless I’m wildly off base, Finn has more than a friendly interest in Willa. I prefer the roof-climbing, emotionally-damaged bad-boy neighbor types to the Hollywood pretty boys. But Finn is a good guy. Willa could do a lot worse. Though I’m sure the soon-to-be-stepsibling thing complicates the situation.

  Tru swings his arm around my shoulder. “Ready to blow this joint, New York?”

  “Always.” I wave goodbye to Finn. “See you next week.”

  “Have a good weekend,” Finn says.

  I sink into Tru’s side as we walk out. I have to absorb as much of him as I can before heading to the Big Apple for winter break. I ignore the twinge in my stomach that wants to spend the holidays with Tru. He can have me the rest of the year. C
hristmas belongs to New York.

  “Tell me your five favorite things about New York.”

  I look up at Tru, who is—I should have guessed it—filming me with his phone as we walk to his spot in the school parking lot. Last commute of the week. The one thing I hate about weekends is that I don’t get my isolated alone time with Tru each morning and afternoon on the way to and from school. I have to make do with our time on my roof.

  Still, I can’t help teasing.

  I flash a fake grin for the camera. “The fact that it’s almost two thousand miles away from you.”

  He gives me a chiding look. “I’m serious. Fave five about the Big NYC. Go.”

  Tru usually treats everything as a big joke. He deflects most things with sarcasm and humor. We have that in common, but he takes it to a whole other level. He’s rarely serious, so when he is, I try to be, too.

  “Okay…” I glance down at the grass to make sure I don’t trip and make a total fool of myself. Knowing Tru, he would post it on Instagram immediately. It would be a viral meme by the time we got home.

  “Any day now,” he teases.

  “I’m thinking.” I scowl at him. “It’s hard to narrow it down to just five.”

  “Stop thinking. Answer from the gut.”

  I don’t say it’s also hard to think in front of the camera. There’s a reason I’m into animation and graphic design and not, say, dance or drama. I like to stand behind my art, not be the art.

  And I don’t say it’s hard to focus on what I love about New York, when I’m falling for Austin just as hard as I’m falling for Tru.

  “Okay,” I say finally. I tick off the answers on my fingers. “One, museums. There are so many I don’t think I could see them all in my lifetime.”

  “Favorite museum?” he asks.

  I glare at him. He’s deliberately making this hard. “The Museum of American Illustration.”

  He grins at me from behind the phone. “Why am I not surprised?”

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  As the only person besides my best friend, Tash, who knows that I draw the Graphic Grrl web comic, he should have expected my choice. Illustration is my jam.

  We reach the edge of the parking lot, but I keep walking and talking as Tru keeps filming.

  “Two, theatre.” I hold up a second finger. “Everything from school productions to weird experimental shows to Broadway mega-hits.”

  “You like a good musical sing-a-long, do you?” Tru teases.

  I ignore him. “Three, public transportation. Especially the art in the subway stations. My favorite is the Alice in Wonderland mosaic in the 50th Street station.”

  To my utter shock, Tru doesn’t say anything snarky about that one.

  I expected at least some comment about the Mad Hatter. Instead, he just grins like the Cheshire Cat.

  We reach his car. I set my backpack on the trunk and lean my hip against the side.

  “Four, it’s superhero central.”

  He comes out from behind the phone for that one.

  “Whoa. You can’t mean that New York has real life superheroes, keeping the streets safe from colorfully dressed villains.” He gives me a wry smile. “Because if it does, I’ll drive us there right now.”

  I laugh at the idea of jumping in the car and heading for New York. A few days on the road with Tru sounds like the adventure of a lifetime. It’s as appealing as it is impossible.

  “Sadly, no,” I clarify, “I mean that every major comic book publisher is either headquartered or has an office in Manhattan. And there are major animation studios in the city, too. For anyone interested in comics and superheroes, there is nowhere better.”

  I close my mouth before I say too much on camera about my interest in comics and animation. Before I blurt out some clue as to my identity as the creator of Graphic Grrl, one of the most popular independent web comics in the country. Tru knows the truth and that it’s a closely guarded secret, but I can’t be sure I wouldn’t accidentally give it away—or that he wouldn’t unwittingly post the video to his YouTube channel before we realized what I’d done.

  I’m not ready for the world to know that I created Graphic Grrl. I’m not even ready for my family to know I created Graphic Grrl. My best friend and my boyfriend are enough for now.

  “And your fifth favorite thing, New York?” Tru asks.

  “Five,” I say, closing my eyes and pointing my nose up to the sky with a huge smile on my face as I draw up a lifetime of memories, “is Christmas.”

  “You know we have Christmas in other places, too,” Tru jokes. “We’ve been celebrating it here in Austin for years, now.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, not meaning it. “Christmas in New York is special. The city is covered in decorations, from the red ribbons and glittering snowflakes and elaborate store windows on Fifth Avenue to the trumpeting angels at Rockefeller Center. There are amazing concerts, ice rinks, and giant Christmas trees everywhere.” I probably have a ridiculously dreamy expression on my face, and I don’t even care. “And the Nutcracker. I love the Nutcracker. We’ve gone every year for as long as I can remember.”

  “Sounds great,” Tru says without a hint of sarcasm. Maybe he senses I might challenge him to duel over this one.

  I open my eyes, and I can’t keep the silly sentimental grin off my face. “New York at Christmas is pure magic.”

  In T-minus eight days, I’ll be on a plane to the city. I can almost feel the snowflakes on my nose. I can almost taste the magic.

  Tru lowers his phone.

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing my backpack off the car and heading for the driver’s door, “let’s get moving. Friday afternoon traffic is going to be a sonofabear.”

  Minutes later, we’re in the long line of students trying to escape campus. And then in the long line to get on the freeway, heading for the long line that is the freeway. It’s going to take at least an hour to get home in this.

  “Any big plans for the weekend?” I ask.

  “Scouting shooting locations, apparently.” He keeps his eyes on the taillights of the car in front of us. “You?”

  I reach forward and angle the dash vent so it points the heat straight at me. Who knew Texas could get so cold? There’s no white on the ground, but at least it feels like winter.

  “Same old, same old,” I answer. “I’ve got a Graphic Grrl to finish up.”

  “Are you finally going to add in the Film Maestro?”

  I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s waggling his eyebrows. This has become a recurring gag with Tru. A few weeks ago, he decided he should become a character in my comic. He’s mostly joking. I think.

  Instead of dignifying his question with a response, I ask, “Want me to go location scouting with you?”

  “Sure.” He’s totally unfazed by my evasion. He should be used to it by now. “Willa gave me a list of, like, twenty places to check out.”

  “Cool,” I say. “I’m all yours.”

  I flash him a beaming smile and place my hand over his on the gear shift.

  “Now that’s what I like to hear.” He turns his hand over so I can lace our fingers together.

  …

  Tru pretended not to hear the heavy footsteps. Dinner with his mother had been quiet, but now that peace was shattered by angry stomps. His father rarely made the trek all the way upstairs, so this boded for a particularly ugly exchange.

  Tru would rather delay his fear response as long as possible.

  When the door of his room flung open, he had his headphones on and was pretending to work on a digital story board for the web series.

  No, he wasn’t pretending. He actually was working on the story board. He was only pretending to be listening to something loud enough to prevent him from hearing his father’s less-than-subtle entrance.

  “Have you lost your mind?” his father demanded.

  Tru made a copy of the last board and started changing the graphics to represent the next angle. He loved seeing
the idea of what the camera work would produce, even in this rudimentary sketch format.

  When his father grabbed the headset and yanked it off, Tru pretended to be shocked.

  “Whoa, Dad, didn’t hear you come in,” he said with a genial smile on his face.

  His father frowned, probably trying to decide whether or not to believe Tru’s surprise.

  In the end, he decided to ignore it.

  “I just got off the phone with Braden McDaniel,” his father barked.

  Tru asked, “Who?”

  But he had a pretty good idea who McDaniel was. Or at least what he had told Tru’s father. Tru had been expecting this confrontation for more than a week—with equal parts anticipation and dread. Had been waiting for it at least as much as he’d been dreading it.

  “A member of the Board of Regents at UT who just told me that they have no application on file for Truman Dorsey.”

  Tru had practiced his response to this revelation a dozen times, a dozen different ways. Horror? Like maybe he had totally forgotten and tragically missed the December first application deadline. Sadness? Like he was just as devastated by this news. Mockery? Anger? Defiance? In the end, he had decided blissful ignorance of his father’s stance on Tru’s higher education plans would raise the old man’s blood pressure the most.

  “I would be surprised if they did,” he said, feigning confusion, “since I didn’t apply.”

  He forced himself not to smile as his father’s face turned a less-than-charming shade of beet red. It really clashed with his lavender tie.

  His father drew in a breath, pretending as though he was going to try to be reasonable about the discussion. “Why didn’t you apply?”

  This would be a turning point in the conversation. Tru could lie, tell his father that he forgot, and the Great David Dorsey would magnanimously volunteer to speak to his good friend on the Board of Regents. Exceptions would be made, and before he knew it, Tru would be matriculating at UT just like his father always planned.

  But Tru didn’t want to attend UT. He didn’t want to attend any school in Texas. Tru didn’t have anything against his home state. He just had something against his home. He wanted to get as far from it as possible.

  So, instead of telling the lie that would make his life easier in the short run, he told the truth. And braced for the backlash.