Four Truths and a Lie (13 page)

“Sorry,” I say.

“Yeah, I'll bet you are.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to her book. I want to say something mean back to her like, “Sorry some of us actually have a life and aren't always studying,” but at this school, having a life is a bad thing.

“So,” I say, sliding into the softness of my bed. Mmm … I probably shouldn't be lying on my bed, since every time I do, I seem to fall asleep. I reluctantly sit up. “Are you looking forward to the social?”

“Not really,” she says. “Dances are just another way of taking our repressed societal values and imposing them on our adolescents.”

I have no idea what she's talking about, so I decide it might be better to just ignore her. And then I realize I might get to see the mysterious bookstore boy at the dance! Or maybe even my secret pen pal. Or at least have him pointed out to me so I can see if he's psychotic-looking. Maybe he has dark hair and eyes and wears a seersucker coat! A lot of
times in the books I read, there are very sinister characters wearing seersucker coats.

My curiosity peaks even more on Wednesday in English, when I get two more letters from Number Seventeen.

The first one says this:

Dear Number Seventeen,

I have a confession to make, something that might make you kind of mad. (Yes, in addition to the fact that I'm sending you silly tasks to complete.)

On the second day of school, my friend Davy Pierce and I snuck into Mr. Lang's office in the English department and looked up the list of stranger pen pals. So I know your name is Scarlett Northon. Then, on Saturday, we had an off-academy at the mall, same as you guys, and I asked one of the girls at your school to point you out. I saw you sitting in the food court, eating a taco. You had on a sweatshirt that said
I DO IT BECAUSE I CAN
and your hair was all messy.

You are very cute, and obviously very smart, because I overheard you talking to your friend about something to do with math. Plus you are a good writer, I can tell from your letters.

Anyway.

I don't know anyone who wears a Notre Dame hat, but I will keep my eyes peeled. And
The Catcher in the Rye?
That book is so overrated. What's so cute about this guy anyway?

Number Seventeen

The second letter says this:

Dear Number Seventeen,

I am glad you have decided to participate in this game. You have made a wise choice.

Your calling statement number one the truth was correct.

Statement Number Two is as follows:

NUMBER FOURTEEN ON THE SECRET PEN PALS LIST IS A BOY NAMED LOUIS MASTERPOLE.

You have until tomorrow to figure this out. Good luck, and remember: If you choose not to participate in this task, you will be revealed.

Number Seventeen

Hmm. Well, that's a weird choice of words. “You will be revealed”? It's like he's going out of his way to make this seem scary. Although I'm sure he's just doing it to make it interesting. I mean, there's no way he could know about my secret. He doesn't even know me.

Here's what I write him back:

Dear Number Seventeen,

I accept your challenge. After all, I wouldn't want to get “revealed.” Ha-ha. Also, I appreciate your honesty. Honesty is very
important in any relationship, even one like ours, which is based only on letters. And thank you for calling me cute. The reason I was wearing that sweatshirt was because my friend Amber and I had been spying on Mr. Lang and Miss Cardanelli, and it was part of our disguise.

Why were you so interested in finding out who I was, anyway? I wish you had introduced yourself to me. It would have been nice to know if I could return the compliment, and call you cute as well. Right now I have no idea what you look like— do you ever wear seersucker coats?

I have started reading
The Catcher in the Rye,
and I think it is a very good book. So if you ever do figure out who it was that recommended it to me, please thank them for me.

Talk soon,
Scarlett

“Oh my God,” Amber says in math. “You were totally flirting with him!”

“I was not!” I say, shocked. “I don't even know him.”

“This is just my luck,” she says, her eyes crinkling up at the sides as she lets out a fake groan. “You get a pen pal that you're flirting with, and meanwhile”—she pulls a letter out of her bag and waves it around—“I'm getting letters about this guy's bug collection, and how he'd really like to show it to me.”

“Well,” I say, “that sounds kind of like flirting. Maybe he's going to ask you to a bug convention or something.”

“A bug convention?” she says, sighing. “Doubtful.”

“Anyway,” I say. “My next thing is that I have to find out who number fourteen on the secret pen pal list is.”

“Number fourteen?” she says. “That's me!”

“Well, I'm supposed to find out if your pen pal is a guy named Louis Masterpole.”

“It definitely must be,” she says. “That sounds like a bug lover's name.” She frowns. “Although if his name is Louis, why would he want his alias to be ‘Stuart'? You'd think he'd go for something a little more manly, like …” She frowns.

“Stone?” I suggest.

“Rafe,” she says.

“Draco.”

“Granite.”

We both burst into giggles.

“What are you two laughing about?” Crissa asks as she brushes by Amber and slides fluidly into her seat.

“Bug conventions,” I say. “And bug lovers.”

Amber's laughing so hard now she can't even talk.

“I wouldn't start laughing about science if I were you, Scarlett,” Crissa says. “Since you should be worried enough about your math grade.”

And she's right. I get a sixty-nine on that day's quiz.

“It doesn't matter,” I say at lunch, dipping my spoon into my strawberry yogurt. “I'm flunking out.”

“It was just one grade,” Amber says, putting her arm around me.

“Yes, one grade TODAY, plus the one grade MONDAY, plus not having ANY IDEA WHAT THE HECK I'M DOING.” I'm so upset that I drop my spoon into my strawberry yogurt and a blob of it flies up and hits me in the cheek. Perfect. I wipe it off with a napkin.

“We'll fix it,” Amber says. “We'll study every night.”

“No,” I say. “It's hopeless.” I don't know how in the world my secret pen pal could have possibly thought I sounded smart talking about math. He's obviously delusional and crazy.

“Look,” Amber says. “It's not hopeless. My dad always says that if you really want something, you put your mind to it, and you do it.” She pulls a wooden beaded bracelet out of her bag. “Look, here. Take this. My dad gave it to me—he wore it on his first tour of duty in Iraq. He would look at it during a really bad day and it would get him through.”

“You don't have to do that,” I say, but she presses it into my hand.

“Just take it. You can borrow it. And tonight we'll study. Meet you in the library at seven.”

“Thanks,” I say, squeezing her hand around the necklace. I feel a little better, but I'm still not hungry. I take a bite of my turkey club sandwich anyway. I have to eat something. Otherwise at practice I'll be all out of sorts. Last time I tried to run around on an empty stomach, I almost fainted and Andrea had to fetch me an orange juice from the vending machine in the gym to get my blood sugar up. Coach Crazy was not pleased. I think she thought I was kind of being a wimp.

“Anyway,” Amber says, “do you want me to ask my pen pal if his name is Louis Masterpole?”

“No time,” I say. “I have to find out if this one is true by tomorrow.”

“Jeez,” Amber says. “He's getting a little demanding, isn't he?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“You're not going to do it, are you?”

“I don't know,” I say, shrugging. “I mean, the only way I'd be able to would be if I could somehow get the pen pal list out of Miss Cardanelli's desk.” The last thing I need is to get caught sneaking around in an empty classroom.

But then the words “you will be revealed” flash across my mind. There's no way my secret pen pal could know my secret. Although he does know my last name, so I suppose it
is
possible. But he started this little game before he knew who I was, so that doesn't make sense. And even if he did know my secret, why would he want to torment me with it? And what would he do with it anyway? Tell everyone at Brookline Academy for Boys? Boo hoo. But if he told someone there, they might tell someone here, and then …

On the other hand, sneaking into an empty classroom isn't the end of the world. I'm sure it would be super easy, and if anyone asked what I was doing there, I could just say that I left something in class this morning. I look at the clock over the lunchroom wall.

“I think I'm going to try it,” I say, throwing my napkin onto the table and pushing my chair back before I can lose my nerve.

“Try what?” Amber asks. Her eyes get wide and she
grabs the sleeve of my blouse. “You're not … you're going to try and find the list?”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm just going to run up to Miss Cardanelli's room really quick.”

“Scarlett, I don't think—”

But I'm out of my seat and running out of the caf before she can stop me, and before our lunch monitor can realize what I'm doing. The cafeteria is on the first floor of McGinty, which is connected to Howser, so I don't have far to go.

The hallways are deserted, since all of the students at Brookline have the same lunch period. Still, I can hear some teachers talking in an empty classroom. I tiptoe to Miss Cardanelli's room and peer in. The door is ajar, and no one's there.

I try to act like I'm really looking for something, and even go so far as to head over to the vicinity of my desk and look around on the floor. All that's there is a gum wrapper and some lint. Actually, this floor is really dirty. Wow. They
really
should—

I hear voices in the hallway, and I hold my breath, but whoever it is passes by pretty quickly. Okay. New plan. Time to speed things up a little bit. I head over to Miss Cardanelli's desk, and slide open her top drawer. I know she keeps the list in her grade book, because I've seen her
checking it off as we hand her letters. This is, presumably, so we don't decide to play a big game and start writing to people who aren't our pen pals. I wonder how she would feel if she knew there were already lots of shenanigans going on with the letters. Probably she wouldn't be pleased.

Jeez, she has a lot of stuff in here. Hair ties, paper clips, stapler, some Tic Tacs (so she's ready to kiss Mr. Lang at any time?). Finally! My fingers close around the grade book. I pull it out, quickly open to the page for first period, and slide my finger down the list, until I get to number fourteen.

Amber Hultenschmidt, and Louis Masterpole. Bingo. And then, just, you know, out of curiosity, my eyes wander down to number seventeen. Scarlett Northon and James McFayden. Hmm. James McFayden. He doesn't sound scary. Scary people have names like Gus Hargrave or Drake Midnight.

Anyway. I slide the grade book back into Miss Cardanelli's drawer, and then start to head out of the room. Easy-peasy.

I'm walking out the door when I bang into her. Miss Cardanelli.

“Scarlett!” she exclaims. She's holding an empty Tupperware container. I guess she was eating her lunch.

“Oh, hi!” I say. My face feels all red, and my heart is
beating super fast. I try to pretend I'm happy to see her.

“What are you doing in here?” A look flashes across her face, like she wants to believe I'm doing something very innocent, but she's not exactly sure.

“I was looking for my cell phone,” I say. “I thought I left it in here, but I guess I didn't.” I hope she doesn't decide to search me. My cell phone is right in the bottom of my bag, which is slung over my shoulder. Worse, I hope it doesn't start ringing. I have it on vibrate, but she could still totally hear it.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, you're not supposed to leave the cafeteria during lunch.”

“Oh,” I say, hoping I sound breezy. “I didn't know.” She frowns for a second, but I rush on. “I'm new, you know?” I shrug and practice looking innocent and confused.

“Well,” she says, her face relaxing into a smile. “If I find your phone, I'll be sure to hold on to it for you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And I'd better get back to lunch!”

Whew. That was a close one.

The bracelet totally helps. The one Amber gave me, I mean. From her dad. Well, it's either that or the fact that I've been sitting in the library for six (okay, two—but it feels like six) hours with Amber, going over and over the same three
math problems. But I think I have the basic idea down, and I just did the last three on my own. AND I GOT THEM RIGHT.

“Yes!” I say, checking my answers against hers.

She gives me a high five.

“Wow,” I say, looking at the clock. “It's almost three o'clock already. I gotta get to practice.” I start stacking up my books.

“I'm gonna stay,” Amber says. “I'm gonna read my supplementals and maybe review for the history quiz.”

“Good plan,” I say. “Hey, do you want to have dinner together? Then maybe we can go to the computer lab later. I want to Google my secret pen pal.”

“Ooooh, you found out his name?” She sighs. “I hope it's something more interesting than Louis Masterpole.” Amber was not impressed when I told her that her pen pal was, indeed, Louis Masterpole. In fact, she crinkled up her nose and said something along the lines of, “How come I never have a romance like in those romance books?”

“Yup,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “James McFayden.”