Tru Love (20 page)

              “Really?” Her mother challenges. “What are you celebrating?”

              “Freedom. Independence. College and law school and motherhood.”

              Genny watches her mother absorb Serena’s last words and will swear later that her mother lost her balance for a moment and tilted like a flower in the wind.

              “Motherhood?” her mother whispers.

              “Yes.” Serena’s smile grows so big it’s blinding.              “My mother loves me. I really am all she says I am.” In her exuberance, Serena pulls the test applicator from her pocket and waves it at Genny’s mother, who loses at least two shades of color. “I’m. Not. Pregnant.”

              Genny’s mom leans heavily against the granite vanity top and takes a moment to compose her next words. Genny watches her, fascinated, then turns to Serena and notices the color high in her cheeks and the glassy light in her eyes. Her first thought is that her friend is burning up with fever, which would explain what she was doing spilling her guts to Genny’s mom, as well, but she realizes it’s more than that. This is the ride down. Serena was so scared, treading that tight rope above ruin, expecting a long and treacherous drop, that the sudden, lilting descent knocked her off kilter.

              “You thought you were pregnant?” Genny’s mom asks. “How late are you, Serena?”

              “Six weeks,” she admits. “But I took the test and it says I’m not. See?” She holds the applicator so that the window is facing Genny’s mother. “Nothing. Nada. I think white is my favorite color,” she finishes, gazing again into the window which really is the portal to her freedom.

              Genny’s mother steps closer. She places a hand on Genny’s waist and pulls her in for a semi-embrace. To Serena she asks, “You haven’t been to the doctor then?”

              “I don’t need to go to the doctor,” Serena returns. “This is all I need.”

              But Genny’s mom is shaking her head. “There’s a reason you’re late, even if you’re not pregnant.”

              “I’m not,” Serena insists.

              “OK, honey. But you need to go, to make sure. And you need to know what’s going on, if you’re not.”

              Genny watches her mother’s words undo the brief, liberating confidence in Serena’s face. Her friend’s lips tremble. Her tears start again, slow and quiet. Genny wants anger, but what she gets is fear. She slips an arm around her mother’s waist and seeks her comfort. She reaches a hand out to Serena and pulls her into their embrace.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

              Genny sits beside Truman in their U. S. history class and does her best to ignore his worried, penetrating glances. She won’t answer his questions and he isn’t happy with her decision to remain silent on the issue of Serena and her troubles, but he’s even more unhappy with what the silence is doing to Genny. Several times he’s had to reach over and pull her lip out from under the chisel of her upper teeth; once, he wiped a fingertip over the flesh and when he drew it away it was smeared with blood.

              This morning, Genny’s mother is taking Serena to the doctor. She glances at the clock: eight-forty-five. In fifteen minutes, Serena will give blood and urine samples and she’ll have to undergo an internal examination. Genny’s mother described it all to them last night, what Serena could expect. Then they drove Serena home. Alone with her mother on the drive back, Genny asked her if she thought the test Serena took in their bathroom could be wrong.

“The body doesn’t lie,” her mom said. “Tests have been

known to be faulty.”

              Genny forgot to call Truman. She fell asleep on top of the covers, fully clothed, and using the power of her mind to try and sway Serena’s outcome. Her cell phone woke her at midnight. It was Truman and Genny heard the concern in his voice.

              “Sorry,” she said. “I was going to call…” She had no excuse and wasn’t ready to share the truth—that Serena’s situation could so easily be theirs, if they made a bad decision. Just one bad decision, like taking her father’s car. And it scares Genny. 

When he asked after Serena, Genny changed the subject. Just thinking the word pregnant made her shake.

              “That bad,” Truman said and waited. And waited. Genny struggled to control her voice, but it was a losing battle. Eventually, she whispered a simple, “Yes.”

              “Do you want me to come over?” he offered.

              “No.” But her mind was screaming YES. “I need to get some sleep.”

              He reminded her that he would pick her up in the morning and then they hung up.

              Genny sat in the dark room thinking about how much lonelier

she felt without Truman, after hearing his voice and listening to his words. It’s always that way—she wants to be with him twenty-four-seven. She wonders why Serena won’t tell Victor so he could be with her. At the same time, she understands it. Would she tell Truman? Probably not. Not until she knew exactly what she was dealing with and the direction she was going to take. There’s something very personal and paralyzing about Serena’s situation.

The bell rings and Truman stands. He grabs Genny’s back pack, and his own, then waits for her to shrug into her sweater before he slips an arm around her waist and guides her out into the hall.

Their next class is calculus, but he’s urging her in the opposite direction and Genny follows him. They’re outside, in front of the school, when the tardy bell rings.

“We’re late,” she says.

“It’s worth it, if you’ll talk to me.”

She gets caught up in his gaze, lured to comply, but then shakes loose.

“No. Not yet.”

“When?”

“Later. I promised Serena. . .”

“We don’t make those kinds of promises,” he says. “The kind that hurt. Not when I can help you.”

“Serena needs the help,” Genny says.

“Why isn’t Victor with her?” They saw Victor earlier, on his way to class. Serena called him the night before, from Genny’s house, but said very little about what was bothering her. This morning, Victor was frowning and moving like a linebacker, nearly pushing through people he didn’t seem to notice.

“He doesn’t know—” she begins, but then stops when she sees Truman’s eyes flare. Surprise or indignation, she isn’t sure which. Neither is good, because he’s right. Victor
should
be with Serena.

              “Talk to me, Genny,” he says.

              “Later. I promise.” She can hear the plea for understanding in her voice and knows that there’s more than that there. She feels vulnerable. Her eyes are too dry and she feels like she has sand paper for lids.

              Truman doesn’t reply. He takes her hand in his and they walk to the office where they’re given tardy slips and thirty minutes of detention to be served after school.

              Genny sits in her French class, staring at Serena’s empty desk. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. She thought her friend would be back by now. She taps her pencil against her notebook, staring at and keeping time with the second hand on the wall clock, until Mr. Langier calls her name.
Again.

             
“Sorry,” she mumbles. She sits up in her chair and makes a show of attending to the assignment on the board, but it isn’t enough. Langier is rising from his desk. He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he strides down the aisle toward her. In a low voice he asks, “Everything OK, Genny?”

              “Yeah,” she says. “Fine.”

              “You’re crying,” he says. “Something has to be troubling you.”

              Genny rubs her hands across her face. When she pulls them away her palms are damp. She didn’t know she was crying. “I’m OK,” she insists.

              The bell rescues her. Genny gathers her things and smiles into Mr. Langier’s frown, trying to reassure him. “I’ll get this done tonight,” she promises, stuffing her notebook into her back pack.

              In the hall, Genny allows herself to be pulled into the stream of kids heading toward the cafeteria. She usually meets Truman and then they head to the lunch line together, but she decides to go outside, to find their bench, and wait for him. And to call her mother before he arrives with their lunch.

              She isn’t looking where she’s going—her feet know the way without her conscious navigation—so she nearly bumps into Hunter before she sees him.

              They stop and stand wordlessly in front of each other. Genny waits a beat or two, staring into his face and thinking about the Hunter who was her friend, and briefly a little more than that. If she were in Serena’s predicament and Hunter was the father, would Genny tell him? Would she have a shoulder to lean on?

              Definitely not. Hunter would break Olympic records making himself scarce.

              “Looking for me?” he asks, and his sunny, lopsided grin slowly emerges.

              “Hardly,” Genny says, and steps around him.

              “Ouch,” he complains.

He follows her. Genny can hear his footsteps and feel his presence looming behind her. “OK. I deserved that. I’m a jerk. And a sore loser,” he admits in a placating tone.

Genny pushes through the double doors and into the crisp spring air. Some of the benches are already taken, but not hers and Truman’s. She cuts across the grass and settles onto the stone, still damp from the morning’s rain.

Hunter stops in front of her.

“I’m not in the mood right now, Hunter.”

He nods. “I mean it, though. I get it now. I understood even then.” He ducks his head as he thinks through his next words. “I guess I always knew we were friends, but I wanted it to be more. It didn’t feel right, but I still wanted it.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

“And I hated it, that you called it. That you hooked up so fast with. . .someone else.”

“That’s the real problem,” she insists.

“It would bug you, too,” he says, “if I hooked up with another girl the next day.”

“It wasn’t the next day,” she murmurs. ”But you’re right. It would have hurt.”

“My pride more than anything else.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Her lips twist sourly.

“I miss talking to you,” Hunter admits. “And jamming with you.”

She laughs at his outrageous lie. “Hardly jamming. I know two notes.”

“You play those two notes better than anyone else.”

She smiles, reaching for the olive branch.

“I wrote my best song yet,” he tells her. “The best break up song
ever
.”

“Great,” she says, but she’s OK with it. “I still have a chance at the Hard Rock Hall of Fame.”

“Definitely.”

              Genny can see the doors from where she’s sitting and catches a glimpse of Truman’s mahogany colored hair and the strong angles of his profile through the glass before he breaks into the open.

“So where does that leave us?” she asks. “Are we friends, Hunter?”

Hunter shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not like before.”

“Pride.”

“Yeah. I don’t like him. It’s impossible to change that.”

“Not while he lives as the villain in your songs.”

“Exactly. I need that,” he admits. “Not just for the writing, but to—“

“Save face?”

He nods but the color in his cheeks is high. “Yeah. Stupid, huh?”

“No. I understand that.”

Genny watches Truman’s progress across the grass but can still see exactly when Hunter notices the change in her. It’s automatic, the way her smile takes over her face and her skin warms. She hears Hunter groan just a second before Truman says, “Genny,” like she’s recovered treasure.

              “Hunter,” Truman greets him and places their tray of food on the bench. “Joining us for lunch?”

              Truman’s voice is pleasant on the surface, but Genny can hear the tension beneath it. It’s anything but inviting.

              Hunter backs off, taking several steps before turning and calling over his shoulder, “No, thanks, man.”

              Truman is smiling when he says, “I know how to clear a room.”

              “And you like that, don’t you?”

              He nods. “Yes. Definitely.”

              “And you don’t like him.”

              “It’s a natural animosity.”

              “Rivals.”

              He raises an eyebrow. “I hope not.”

              “You know what I mean.”

              “Yes, I do. I just need a little reassurance every once in a while.”

              Genny takes his hand and pulls him down beside her on the bench.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she promises.

“Even now?” He sits back and pulls her to his side. “You’ve been keeping your distance.”

“It’s Serena,” she says. “Not us.” Not really.

He considers that. “Serena, yes. And whatever it is it’s got something to do with us, too, you just don’t want to tell me yet.”

She nods reluctantly. “You’re right. I just need to get it straight in my head, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Right now I’m in the dark.”

She nods and manages to hold his gaze.

“But later,” he prompts. “You’ll tell me everything later, after you talked to Serena?”

              She wants to tell him now. She wants him to look into the future and find out if Serena is pregnant, if her life turns out OK. But Truman’s gift doesn’t work that way—
it’s not like tuning into a TV station
—and, anyway, she promised Serena that she would not breathe a word of it to anyone, Truman included.

“Yes.” She thinks about that and knows they’ll need to talk. “Everything.”