CHAPTER NINE
Truman lives in the nicest part of the nice part of town, where the super-wealthy Altonites live, not to be confused with the merely well-off Altonites, like my family used to be. Eli lives there too, which concerns me as I drive through the neighborhood. I promised him Truman and I were over, so how would it look if he saw me driving to Truman’s house? I sink down into the seat and drive as fast as I can without speeding.
Truman waits in front of a huge house at the end of a cul de sac. Impeccable lawn, terrace with super-tasteful furniture, gleamingly clean windows—the house is perfectly manicured and stiff, just like him.
“Skyler,” he says as I come up the walk. “What’s going on?”
“The hearing is next week,” I tell him. The humiliation from yesterday’s argument has nowhere near worn off, and the last thing I want to do is bring up the reunion site. If Truman knew what was motivating me right now, he’d probably abandon me right here on his front doorstep. “We don’t have anything done.”
“I know.”
“So shouldn’t we get moving? We’ve wasted a lot of time.”
Why and how that time got wasted hangs between us. For a moment, I think he might actually acknowledge what happened yesterday in my kitchen. Part of me wants to talk it out, clear the air, come to some kind of agreement about what we are to each other now. The other part wants to never speak about it again.
“I personally don’t care,” I say, which is so obviously a lie that I cover up by adding, “But Jordan is freaking out about it. Also, I thought you needed this for your college applications. So shouldn’t we get going?”
Appealing to his drive for success works. He leads me across the porch and motions for me to sit in a wicker chair, while he sits in a matching one on the opposite side of a round glass table, as far away from me as possible. This is a pride-smarting turn, Truman Alexander avoiding me instead of the other way around. But I can’t get pulled into another fight.
Maybe I’m crazy for thinking it, but Truman and I working together just might be a matter of life and death.
“So you’re the public-speaking expert. Do we just get up to the podium and launch in? What’s our opening statement?”
“Whoa.” He rears backward, throwing up his hands. “Before we think about where to stand and who says what, we need to do research. You can’t just barge in and start talking.”
“I’m not going to barge. I’m going to speak from the heart. You have to capture people’s emotions.”
“You also have to be able to back up what you say with facts and evidence. We need more in our arsenal than puppy dog eyes and a line about how gardens are pretty and people like them.”
Classic pompous Truman is in full effect, I see. It takes everything inside me not to rip into him, because I need Truman on my side. If that means doing things his way, then so be it.
“Fine. Let’s discuss our arsenal.”
“Wait here.” He goes inside and comes back with his black notebook. He starts taking down notes.
“I’ll research how many jobs are projected to be created by building where the mansion sits now and whether that gets affected if they chose another location. Everest is saying they need that spot because it’s close to the highway. We need to look at other areas that are within the same three-to-five-mile radius to show that this site isn’t essential to their plans.”
I interrupt with an exaggerated slow gag. “That’s going to be gripping. Where are the feels? They need to understand exactly how much this place means to people.”
“So how do you respond when they ask about tax revenue? Taxes don’t pull anybody’s heartstrings but they pay for things like firefighters, which matter just as much—probably even more—to people than a garden.”
I let my shoulders drop, feeling the full weight of how ill-prepared we are. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m five.”
A woman’s face appears from behind the big front door, moon-shaped like Truman’s but slightly pinched. This woman would be beautiful if she didn’t look so much like the headmistress of a very old-fashioned school.
“Truman, it’s almost time for dinner.”
I jump to my feet. “Hi, Mrs. Alexander. I’m Skyler Finch. I’m in English class with Truman.” She studies me with disapproval, and I’m suddenly ultraconscious of the hoodie I threw on as I rushed out the door, my messy ponytail, and my old running shoes. I get the distinct impression I should have worn something nicer.
“We won’t be very long,” I say. “We’re just figuring out something for a project we’re working on together, and we’re really behind on it, otherwise I wouldn’t be here when you’re trying to have dinner. We just really, really need to get this done.”
I glance over at Truman, who is on his feet now. “Skyler and I are just finishing up,” he says.
She purses her lips as if I’ve done something inexcusable, like belch or fart or announce that my parents vote Democrat. “Skyler, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. We’re sitting down to the table in five minutes.”
One more withering look, then she retreats, leaving me feeling about three feet tall.
“So…” I clear my throat. “That was…”
“My mother. Yes.” Truman flips to a blank page in his notebook. He writes a list, then pulls out the page. He rips the list in half, keeping one piece for himself. “These are the points I’m certain they’ll bring up. Research as many responses as you can. But make sure they’re data-driven. And whatever you do, don’t get flustered.”
“I don’t get flustered.”
He tilts his head like, Really? I force myself to take the paper from him gently. I do not hit him over the head with it.
“So when are we getting back together?” I ask. “I mean, to work on this. Not as in…anything else.”
So much for not getting flustered.
“What about Saturday? Can you get your questions done by then?”
Tomorrow is Friday. I’m supposed to go for dinner and a movie with Eli. We agreed on it as we walked to school from Big Sky this morning, right after I made my big confession and he decided not to break up with me. If Truman and I are meeting Saturday, and if I have to get all this stuff done before, then I’m going to need to work on it tomorrow. Factor in school, and I’ve got just the afternoon before Eli picks me up tomorrow night. I wanted to get dressed up and make it special, not rush to get ready.
But this is for Harper. I have to make it work.
“Saturday’s okay. Do you want me to come back here?”
“I’ll come to your house. Will nine a.m. work?”
Even if my answer had been no, he probably wouldn’t have heard it, because he’s started to usher me off his porch as the front door swings open and his mother reappears to order him inside. I scurry down the walk, back stinging with the knowledge that they are both getting a full view of me in all my hoodie-wearing, messy-ponytailed glory. As I get into my car, it occurs to me that I should probably be a little more concerned about what Truman’s parents think. I’m working with their son to save a garden they’d be more than happy to see razed to the ground.
But instead, I’m worried about someone else.
How am I going to explain this to Eli?
Answer: gingerly, and not very successfully.
I did everything I could to get my work done quickly. When last bell rang I headed straight for the library, where I fired up my laptop and dove into my research. But when I checked the time after what I thought was just an hour, it was already six o’clock—barely enough time to get home, let alone make myself look nice. And if I did go out, even if I got up early tomorrow to start working again, I’d never get it all done before Truman came over.
So that’s how I ended up on my phone in the library bathroom, listening to Eli express his displeasure about my need to cancel.
“Nobody does homework on Friday night,” he says. “You’ve got the whole weekend for that.”
“This isn’t for school. It’s for the city council meeting. The one with Everest on Thursday.”
“What are you doing for that?”
I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead, feeling gross and grimy from the long day.
“I’m one of the speakers.”
“I told you my dad is working with Everest.”
“And I told you we were trying to stop them from getting the garden. I promised my friends I’d help.”
“You promised me we’d go out.”
“We will. Just let me get this done and then I’ll make it up to you. Please. It’s just one night.”
Silence—the same as yesterday at the diner. “I thought we were starting over,” Eli says. “This isn’t a very good start.”
“I know.” It’s past seven now, and the library closes at eight. I need to get moving if I’m going to gather everything I need for what looks like a possible all-nighter. “Just let me figure out how to get through the next few days and then everything will get back to normal. Believe me, after the week I’ve had, normal is all I want.”
He finally agrees and lets me off the phone. I hurry back to my computer, back to cutting, pasting, and downloading as much as I can before the head librarian shoos me out at closing time. At home, I shut myself in my room and dig in again. I try to get excited about traffic patterns and economic development. I draft my own lists in one of Dad’s legal pads, pushing chunks of information around but failing to make them stack up into anything solid. There’s no way I’ll be able to stand in front of all those people and spout this stuff.
I rip the lists out of the pad and swap my wishy-washy pencil for a no-turning-back-now pen. This time I’ll focus not on what I think or know, but on what I feel.
I start to write.