Four Truths and a Lie (18 page)

“Yeah, but … look, if you start asking people that question, you're going to be the one starting the rumor,” Amber says. “And if she didn't do it, people are going to believe that she did. And if she did do it, people are going to know.”

“Well, how am I supposed to figure it out?” I ask. “I can't just ask her.”

“I dunno.” Amber shrugs.

“Would there be a way we could see her school record?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Amber frowns.

“You know, like her school record. They'd have it in her file, could we request a copy of it?”

“I don't think so,” Amber says. “How could we just ask them for it?”

“I dunno,” I say. “Aren't people always getting other people's records? Like on the Web, where you can read all those celebrities' legal documents and stuff.” On
TMZ.com
you can get almost everything. And I know a bunch of my dad's legal documents were on the Web for a while. This super annoying kid named Eddie Newbauer found out exactly how much my dad was accused of stealing, and told everyone at my old school. He kept wandering around the halls going, “Where did that money go?” to anyone who would listen.

“No,” Amber says. “School records are like medical records. You can't just get them. Unless you steal them or something.”

“Steal her school record?”

“Well, I mean, you can't really do that, you could never do that, it would be ridiculous.”

“Where do you think those school records are, anyway?”
I'm trying to sound nonchalant. Because of course I would never steal someone's school record. That would be horrible. Not to mention very dangerous.

“Probably in the office,” she says. “But you could never get in there.”

“You're right,” I say. But the wheels in my head are turning. I
might
be able to get in there, if I snuck in the same way I did to the library. But all I say is, “Well, that's that. I'm going to have to tell James I can't do it. And Crissa will probably tell everyone about my dad.”

“Whatever it is,” Amber says, squeezing my hand, “it will be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say. But later, I take a little walk by the administration building. And there's the exact same window setup over Headmistress O'Neal's office as there is in the library. Only this window's already open.

That night, I don a pair of black sweatpants, a black sweatshirt, and grab a flashlight from the supply closet downstairs. I sneak across campus and climb through the office window and into the headmistress's office.

I already know where our files are kept, over in the corner in a huge cabinet. When I came here over the summer to meet the headmistress, she started a folder for me, and
dropped it in the cabinet. Of course, it was empty at the time. I wonder if now it says I was in trouble for the whole makeover thing.

I run my fingers along the drawers, looking for
W
for Wilcox. When I find it, I slide the drawer open and reach in, pulling out her file. I hear a sound coming from upstairs, and I jump for a second, before I realize it's just a tree scraping against the building.

I open the folder and run my flashlight down the page. Under disciplinary infractions, it says the following: “Student was arrested for shoplifting over the summer, and after careful consideration, it was decided student would be allowed back to Brookline under the following conditions: GPA stays above 3.0, no school or community infractions. Situation will be revisited after the year is over.”

I slide the folder back, shut the cabinet, and then start to panic a little. Maybe I should have worn gloves, so that if anything happens, they won't be able to find my fingerprints. Too late now. The windows in the headmistress's office are lower than the ones in the library, and I'm able to hoist myself out without much trouble. I brush myself off and start running back toward my dorm. No sweat.

But suddenly, when I'm about three hundred feet away from the dorm and freedom, there's a flashlight in my face.

“Good evening, Miss,” the security guard says. I can't really see his face, since I'm blinded by the light, but I can see his Brookline Security uniform. “Can I help you with anything?”

Jasper, the night security guard, was perfectly nice about it—he called Headmistress O'Neal and told her that he'd found me wandering around campus after curfew, and he thought he would alert her to the situation immediately. That was the only part that was kind of mean, I thought. I mean, yes, it was a situation, but getting alerted to it immediately? It kind of sounded like something you'd see in an action movie about terrorists or something. That someone needed to be alerted to a situation
immediately.
But whatever.

So then Headmistress O'Neal said, “Thank you very much, Jasper. Please escort the young lady back to her dorm, and I will deal with this in the morning.”

Which is how I ended up here this morning, in Headmistress O'Neal's office, sitting next to my mom, who does not look pleased at all. Not even one bit. I think she's mad because not only am I in trouble, but she had to miss work to come down here, which isn't really my fault, since why couldn't they just schedule the meeting for later tonight,
when she was out of work? But when I said this, it was met with a glare from my mother, so I dropped it.

“Now,” Headmistress O'Neal says, looking down at a paper in front of her. “Scarlett, do you want to tell us what you were doing wandering around campus after curfew?”

“No, not really,” I mumble, looking down at my shoes. I considered coming up with some lame story, about how I was going for a jog or something, but I realized they probably wouldn't believe it anyway.

“Scarlett, if there was a reason you were out of your room, a good reason, it will influence whatever punishment it is you are to receive.” She looks at me over her glasses, but I look away and at the painting behind her on the wall. “Normally if this were to happen to a student, they'd be suspended immediately, do you understand that?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“But since I know you've been through a lot in the past year, I'm going to write it up and put it in your file. You are on probation effective immediately. If you get in trouble again for anything, one little thing, you'll be suspended. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief.

I can tell my mom wants to say something, but she doesn't. She stays completely quiet as Headmistress O'Neal gives
me a paper to sign acknowledging the fact that I'm now on disciplinary probation. Headmistress O'Neal tucks the paper into the file on her desk and tells us we're free to go.

“Thank you,” my mom says. I'm hoping that once we're out of the office, she'll stay quiet. I'm so not in the mood to get yelled at. But no such luck. Once we're out of the office, she looks at me. “I am very, very disappointed in you,” she says. “And I really hope this doesn't have anything to do with your father.”

I sigh. Doesn't my mom get it? Everything has to do with my dad these days. But I don't say anything.

She studies me for a long moment and then looks at her watch. “I have to get to work,” she says. And then she leaves without even really saying good-bye.

Amber's waiting for me outside my room. “Scarlett!” she says. “What happened?”

“I snuck into the office to look at Hannah's record. And I got caught,” I say, throwing myself down on my bed. “And put on probation.”

Amber's eyes get as round as saucers. “Holy crap,” she says. “Are you kidding?”

“I wish I was,” I say. “But I'm not.”

“Scarlett, you have to stop this,” she says, sitting down
on the bed next to me. “Whatever it is, whatever's going on with your dad, it can't be that bad. Not bad enough to risk all this.”

“But I'm so close,” I say. “I only have one more thing left, and then I'll be done.” I start taking the books I need for my morning classes off my desk and loading them into my book bag.

“Scarlett, listen to yourself,” Amber says. “You're acting nuts. Sneaking around school, breaking into the office, stealing people's personal records!” And a flicker of uneasiness passes across her face. “Besides …” She trails off.

“What?” I ask. “What's that look for?”

“Nothing, it's just … Scarlett, what if she doesn't stop? What if she keeps making you do things? Or what if she tells everyone anyway? I mean, honestly, is it worth all this?”

“Yes,” I say, shrugging. “It is.”

I write back to James the next day.

Dear James,

So I found out about Hannah Wilcox. She really did get busted for shoplifting. I found
out by a very scandalous method that I cannot talk about here, but let's just say that I'm now on probation. My friend Amber thinks I'm crazy, but I figure I only have one more task left, and then it will all be worth it.

Scarlett

Three days later, he writes me back.

Scarlett,

You got put on probation? You have to stop this NOW. Seriously, this is ridiculous. I'm going to tell Crissa that I'm not doing this anymore. Scarlett, you're going to get in a lot of trouble.

Do you want to meet up at the dance? We can talk about all this.

James

Dear James
,

No, I do not want to meet up at the dance. I do not want anything to do with you. And please, please, please do not tell Crissa to stop. I am so close, and I need to do this.

S

I don't receive anything for the next three days.

And then I get this:

Dear Scarlett,

Look, we have to talk. Can you meet me on Friday night at 6:30 at your school? There's a clearing in the back, right on the edge of the woods. I know you want nothing to do with me, but it's very important that we talk. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I did come and warn you about all of this. I tried to do the right thing. Please, please consider meeting me. I don't want to see you get hurt, and I need to clue you in on what Crissa's up
to next. Sorry for the short notice, but that's the only time I can get a ride.

James

I think about it for a few seconds. I'm seriously mad at him still, and the paper I had to sign acknowledging my probation said I'm not allowed to have visitors. But he
did
come and try to warn me, and as far as I can tell, he hasn't told Crissa about it. And maybe he does have some information that can help me. I take a deep breath. Then I pull out a pink sparkly pen, write “OKAY” on his letter, and send it back to him.

On Thursday night, my mom comes to take me shopping for a dress for the dance. So what if James is going to be there? I'm not going to let him stop me from having a good time. Besides, since I'm only on a level one probation, I'm allowed to attend school functions. So I figure I should take advantage. My mom doesn't mention the fact that the last time I saw her, she pretty much was so mad at me she didn't want to look at me. It's hanging over our heads, though, kind of like this elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about.

“What about this one?” she asks, holding up a strapless, flippy pink dress with hearts all over it.

“Cute,” I say. “But those hearts are a little
too
cute.”

“Right,” she says, putting it back on the rack.

“How about this one?” I ask, holding up a baby blue dress that's filmy with a long skirt.

“Nice,” my mom says. “Add it to the others.” I put it on top of the pile she's holding of stuff I want to try on. It threatens to topple over. “Time to hit the dressing room,” she says.

My mom sits on the little bench outside while I try on my first dress.

“How's it look?” she asks.

“I love it,” I say. It's emerald green, with glitter over the skirt, and short sleeves. Sooo cute. “This is it!” I declare. No one else is going to be wearing emerald green. I glance at the price tag. Yikes. I'm not exactly sure what the deal is with my parents and money, but I'm assuming that since, you know, my dad is about to go to jail for stealing, things might be getting a little tight.

“Is it okay?” I ask, as I fling it over the dressing room door. I hold my breath as my mom checks the price.

“It's fine,” my mom says. “Are you sure you don't want to try on anything else?”

“Nope.” If I find something I love, why waste my time? Plus I know the dress I picked is a little on the expensive side. There's no way I'd feel comfortable asking for something else.
I sigh and remember the days when I'd flounce into a store, pulling things off the rack left and right, not even looking at price tags. I pick my jeans up off the floor and slide one leg in.

“So,” my mom says, and I stop mid pant-putting-on. Something in her tone makes me think something else is coming. And I'm right. “Are we going to talk about why you were wandering around after curfew?” she asks.

“Mom, really, I don't want to say. But just know that I had a very good reason.”

“Scarlett, you and I need to be able to communicate about the things that are going on.” I don't say anything. “Your father was asking about this boy who you're going to the dance with. He wanted to make sure he's good enough.” She sounds amused, like it was a normal situation, and she wasn't talking to him while he waits to see if he's going to jail or not.

“How does he know I'm going to a dance?” I ask, biting my lip. I think of my mom and dad discussing me, talking about me like everything's normal. “Scarlett's going to the dance” or “Scarlett's doing well in math.” It makes my heart hurt.

“I told him.”

“Oh.” I finish pulling on my jeans and reach for my shirt.