Being True (3 page)

Mr. Rodriguez hadn’t interpreted his shrug as a discipline problem, and the class apparently thought he was the emperor of ice cream since they practically clung to his every word like eager little kids.

How did someone my own age pull that off so effortlessly? Hell, it had never occurred to me to shrug off a teacher’s comment before.

“You can take it up with him after class,” said Castillo. He pushed himself off the door upon which he’d been leaning and suddenly noticed me standing slack-jawed in the middle of the room. His eyes caught mine, which made my dick jump within its denim prison, and for the briefest of moments, time slowed to a standstill.

Gazing into his eyes was heavenly and momentous, like watching a comet streak through the night sky. It also unleashed a flurry of sparrows in my stomach, which decided to take flight at once, flapping their tiny wings with all their might. If they flapped any harder or faster, I’d likely soar above the classroom, which, even though that would be pretty darn cool, would probably just alienate me further from my classmates.

I wouldn’t be that cool kid who could fly. I’d be that weirdo who couldn’t keep his feet on the ground.

“New kid, huh?” he asked as he crossed over to me.

I nodded. What else could I do? My lips could only tremble, and I had to keep my cock from burrowing through the book to the other side.

“I’m Javi.” He extended his hand, and his lips broadened into a genuine smile. I’d been on the end of supposedly friendly greetings from popular kids before. They claimed to want to be my best friend and show me the ropes when all they were doing was setting me up for an embarrassing prank that every asshole in school played on the new students.

But I could tell that wasn’t what Javi was about. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. It was just sort of a feeling. You know the kind I’m talking about. It’s how you just know a random dog you spot on the street won’t bite you. That was the same gut feeling I had with Javi’s smile and his offered hand. They told me I could trust him implicitly.

“Truman,” I finally responded, and when I took his hand in mine, an electrical current coursed through my fingers, up my arm, spread through my chest, and down into my balls. “But friends call me Tru.”

I winced at my stupidity. Now that I’d made that little revelation, everyone would make certain to address me as Truman. No one wanted to be the new kid’s friend.

“Nice to meet you, Tru,” Javi said without missing a beat. He gave my hand a friendly squeeze before withdrawing. He spun around to the shocked looks on the other students’ faces. They couldn’t have been more dumbfounded than I was. Javi didn’t even acknowledge their collective horror. Either he didn’t see it or he didn’t care.

He chitchatted with Gag-arella before heading to the back row. He took his seat beside Mr. Badass, who glared at me as if I’d stolen his best friend.

Why did I have a feeling I’d be paying for that, whatever
that
was, later?

M
UCH
TO
my surprise, most of my day had gone pretty much without incident and played out how my first days at a new school usually did. I ate lunch by myself in the outside quad on a bench far away from everyone else. I shuffled from one class to the next, where I was either scowled at or ignored. Most of the negativity came from the Jock Brigade and Mr. Badass, who had been in every class I had except physics and English.

Who exactly had I pissed off in an earlier life to be that unlucky?

I tried my best to be as invisible as possible, to lessen the serious hate-on they’d had for me since precalc. I didn’t answer questions when called on. I didn’t talk to other students. Hell, I didn’t get up to go to the restroom even though I’d had to pee since fourth-period US History.

My efforts had all been in vain.

Nothing seemed to stop the relentless piercing stare Mr. Badass shot at me every minute of every class, or every time we passed each other in the hall. My standard demeanor of head down and averted eyes hadn’t done its usual trick.

It only seemed to infuriate him more.

By the time sixth period rolled around, which was the only class I had actually looked forward to, I had become a bundle of nervous energy. The hairs on the back of my neck refused to go down, and I was about ready to jump out of my skin.

Only thinking about Javi Castillo settled my nerves.

Whenever I wanted to bolt from the classroom, I’d remember how warmly he greeted me. The memory of his friendly gaze and electric touch kept me from the agitated twitches that occasionally took control of my body in times of high stress.

The only negative side effect had been the never-ending wood I had to conceal.

My attraction to Javi wasn’t a big revelation that I was gay or anything. Hell, I’d known I liked boys since Carl Delacruz kissed me in second grade. After that, it was pretty clear where my preference lay. Besides, it wasn’t like I was a typical boy who ran like a battering ram through life.

I was always more delicate. More sensitive.

My parents had always suspected I was gay. At least that was what my mom told me when I came out to her a couple of years ago. She hadn’t been surprised, and she didn’t really care either. She said my father had asked her if I might be gay when I was, like, four or five. And when I say father, I mean Alexander Cobbler, my real dad, not the jerkhole, Bart.

Apparently, I used to put string on my head and pretend I was a girl with long hair. And I’d begged for a tea set and an Easy-Bake Oven one Christmas. My dad had been taken aback by it, but according to Mom, it hadn’t mattered. I was his son.

Somehow, knowing that, knowing I had my parents’ support—even my dad’s from the great beyond—made being who I was a lot easier to bear.

At least when I wasn’t hanging naked upside down with my face shoved inside a toilet.

So when I finally got to my sixth period journalism class with Mr. Avila, I was a nervous wreck. Thankfully, Mr. Avila proved to be a decent human being. He was the only instructor who welcomed me with a smile instead of an apprehensive frown. He hadn’t seen me as a potential troublemaker or mistaken my extremely shy nature as social deviancy. Why did most teachers think I was one trench coat away from becoming a mass shooter?

“So, tell me, Tru,” Mr. Avila began. “Can I call you Tru?”

It was awesome to be greeted with familiarity, so I nodded eagerly as my gaze swept across Mr. Avila’s desk. It was littered with copy for
The Harvest
, the school newspaper. While most people might think the pile of papers a disorganized mess, I could see the order amid the chaos. To the right were the articles that had been approved. They were stacked in a small tower with notes legibly handwritten in the margins. The rejected articles lay strewn to the left. Huge, red circles enclosed words and sometimes, whole paragraphs, and the marks in the margins were roughly written. Had Mr. Avila been upset when he wrote those comments? It appeared to be the handwriting of someone about to fall off the edge.

It was an emotional state I could relate to.

“What do you have experience in?” Mr. Avila asked. “Writing copy or taking photos?”

“I can do both.”

His arched eyebrows indicated skepticism.

“I’ve done pieces on the school cafeteria, dress codes, you name it,” I said. “I took my own photos for each one.”

“And you know your way around a DSLR?”

I nodded. Mr. Avila was testing to see if I had any clue what the acronym stood for. “I’ve worked with a digital single-lens camera at most of my schools. I also know my way around Photoshop and InDesign. I’m also pretty good at web pages too.”

Mr. Avila stared at me for a few more seconds before asking a student named Trevor to get someone named Claudia out of the Mac lab. After Trevor disappeared, Mr. Avila’s attention returned to me.

“If what you say is true, and Claudia will be able to tell better than me, then I might just have use for you at both the newspaper and the yearbook.”

“Really?” I practically twittered with excitement. I’d spent so much of the day trying to appear as if I didn’t give a damn about anything, it was nice to not only let myself feel but to express it as well.

A wide grin spread across Mr. Avila’s lips as he nodded. He obviously enjoyed my enthusiasm.

“You sent for me, Mr. Avila?” a girl said to my right. It was Emo Girl from precalc. She had also been in a couple of my other classes, but this was the first time I’d heard her speak. Her voice was actually quite pleasant. Based on her gruff appearance and attitude, I’d expected her to speak in a low rumble. Instead her sweet, melodic tone served to counter the big red sad face on her T-shirt, which read “Don’t know” at the top and “Don’t care” at the bottom.

“Claudia, this is Tru. He claims to be both a writer and a photog. Care to take him for a spin?”

She studied me with her wary, dark brown eyes made darker by the heavily applied black eyeliner. The sweetness of her voice did not extend to her gaze. “Sounds too good to be true,” she said. “No pun intended.”

I laughed. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard that line before. With a name like Tru, I’d heard that and much worse. But I figured laughter might somehow make me more appealing. I should have known better. I’d forgotten that when I laughed, I bared my full set of horse teeth.

Claudia rolled her eyes and then abruptly turned around.

So much for that. My one chance to be involved in something I really enjoyed, and I’d blown it. After all, those who embraced the emo lifestyle preferred the dark and brooding. If I’d played it smarter, I might have been given a chance to prove myself.

“If you’re waiting for an invitation, you’ll be standing there with your thumb up your butt until the zombie apocalypse.”

Claudia had paused outside the doorway that most likely led to the computer lab. She waited for me to join her.

“Really?” My voice cracked with excitement. Could I be any more of a dweeb?

Claudia sighed and stepped over the threshold. Before she could lock the door behind her, I sprinted across the room and followed her inside.

“N
OT
BAD
,”
Claudia said as she inspected the typographic layout I’d created. I’d even inserted a couple of photos into the design just to impress her. Since her face lit up with genuine surprise, she’d obviously expected me to fail. That was nothing new. Pretty much everyone except my mom had low expectations of me. Most people only saw a skinny little screw-up with a weird face and God-awful clothes.

No one really took the time to get to know the person underneath.

But now that I had impressed Claudia, who scanned me up and down with a begrudging pale smile, perhaps she’d be one of the first.

“But can you write as well as you design?” The smile disappeared from her face. Clearly, she still had doubts. Since she was the editor for both the newspaper and the yearbook, she had a lot on her plate, as she had told me while I’d worked on the computer. She didn’t have time for people who didn’t know what they were doing.

“I like to think so,” I said.

Once again she studied me apprehensively. Her lips hooked up to the left as she pondered whether I was telling the truth. I certainly wrote better than I lied, but she didn’t know I couldn’t fib to save my life. And I really didn’t see the point in deception either. Wasn’t it just better to be honest?

“Give me a chance and I’ll prove it to you. You can even give me an assignment. Due tomorrow. And I’ll write it up and have it ready for you first thing in the morning. Then, if you don’t like it, well, it’s no skin off your back. But if you do, then maybe you’ll let me on your staff.”

She scrutinized both my words and me in silence. Whenever people took that much time to look at me, when they appraised me on my appearance, it rarely boded well. “There’s just something about you—”

“I know I don’t look like much,” I said. I tried my best not to come off desperate even though I was. Working for the newspapers at my other high schools had been the only way I’d felt connected. As if I actually belonged somewhere. “Lots of people don’t think I can do a whole lot because of the way I look. I’m kinda odd, and my clothes aren’t exactly the best, but I’m a good worker. I make good grades, and it’s not like I have friends, so I could devote pretty much all my free time to what you’d need from me. Think of me like an indentured servant.”

When I stopped speaking, Claudia’s demeanor changed. Her shoulders tensed, and she bit her lip. What unseen toe had I just stepped on?

“I’m not some shallow bitch who judges other people based on the way they look. Don’t put me in the same category as Lucy Canales or Rance Parker.” I’d come to learn that Gag-arella and Mr. Badass from precalc were Lucy and Rance, who made up one of the most popular power couples on campus. Like that was any surprise. “I don’t give a flying fuck what people look like. I judge people on how they act. What kind of people they are. So don’t go judging me either, Tru.” Even though she muttered my name with disdain, I couldn’t help but notice she’d called me Tru. Not Truman. Not Goody Tru. Or any other awful name I’d been saddled with.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“And another thing,” she said, cutting me off. “You’ve obviously had a tough life. I sure as hell can spot misery in someone else. Believe me, I’ve had experience with life crapping all over me. With people seeing me as some devil worshipping, homicidal, depressed drug addict because I like to wear black. Which I’m not by the way.
Any
of those things.” She arched her eyebrow to punctuate her statement. I nodded. I wasn’t about to interrupt. “And it sucks when people do that to me, so I don’t do that to others.”

After she stopped speaking, I waited a few moments to see if she would start up again. I’d pissed her off enough and didn’t want to add more gasoline to the blaze of indignation I’d unintentionally ignited. And even though she was obviously upset, Claudia’s displeasure offered comfort. She might be the friend I’d always wanted.