CHAPTER TWELVE
Truman doesn’t show up.
Monday morning while I’m eating breakfast, I get an email from city hall saying we’ve been placed on the agenda, which makes me so nervous that I text him to meet me after school.
When I arrive at the building, the first thing I do is go to the counseling office to set up a tutor for trig. I schedule the only free lunch meeting slot, then head off to first bell, noticing that Truman hasn’t returned my breakfast text. I don’t see him during morning passing period, and he isn’t in the cafeteria at lunch. In English, I find myself staring at his empty seat across the aisle. I wait for Ms. Laramie to start her PowerPoint, then text under my desk.
By the fourth unanswered text I’m starting to feel like an idiot as memories of the weekend drench me in skin-crawling regret. Truman’s fingers touching mine. Truman and I almost kissing over the bowling alley’s ball return. The scene with Eli at Javier’s. Of course Truman is being weird. He’s freaking out, just like he did after I showed him the reunion site, terrified I’m going to drag him to Diamond Emporium to pick out rings. He’s worried I’m going to ruin his stellar future, so he’s acting like a scared, stupid guy who is utterly unable to deal.
But he wouldn’t leave me hanging where the council meeting is concerned…would he? When last bell rings, I step into the hallway, hoping to find him waiting. Instead, I’m met by three of his teammates.
“Are you Skyler Finch?” asks a tall guy in an Alton Debate sweatshirt.
“Yes,” I say, though it’s clear they already know who I am. “What do you want?”
The second guy speaks over his friend’s shoulder. “Do you know where Truman is?”
“No. Why would I?”
The girl with them looks me up and down. “Because you seem to be the reason he’s MIA lately. We thought if anybody knew where he was, it’d be you.”
“We’d appreciate it if you’d give him a little space and let him fulfill his obligations,” the guy in the sweatshirt adds.
“Hold on. I don’t have any say in what Truman does or doesn’t do.”
They look at each other, smirking.
“Where is he now?” Sweatshirt Guy presses. “We’ve got practice in ten minutes and no one has seen him all day.”
“Why are we even asking her?” the other guy says. “Ever since Truman started hanging out with her, he’s been in hiding. I wouldn’t trust her to tell us a thing.”
“Did you know we had a mock tournament Saturday?” the girl asks. “It was supposed to be prep for Belleville this weekend.”
Saturday, Truman was with me. So according to these guys, the whole time we were together, he had somewhere else to be. My first reaction to this news is relief. At least up until then, Truman was making our presentation a priority.
But something deeper nags at me. The Truman I know would never skip something as important as debate. If he’d really wanted to, he could have put me down as another line item in his hyperscheduled notebook and made it to his mock tournament. I’m torn between feeling honored he chose me and wondering whether there’s something going on that I’ve missed.
Truman’s teammates continue to glare, clearly expecting me to either provide an explanation or magically produce Truman.
“Look, he and I are presenting together at the city council meeting on Thursday. I have no idea where he is now, but after that he’s all yours.”
“Really?” The girl raises an eyebrow. “Far be it from me to begrudge Truman a relationship with whomever he chooses, but if he’s going to continue to skip out on his commitments, then it affects us all.”
The more this girl talks, the clearer it gets that she has a crush. And it bothers me more than I want it to. The longer I stand here, the more the whole situation bothers me—the fact that Truman is missing in action. The fact that he’s skipping commitments he would never in a million years skip. And the fact that I’m feeling all sorts of bothersome things, not just when I think about other people thinking we’re together but when I think about him together with someone else.
“Truman and I are not in a relationship,” I tell them. “When Thursday is over you can have him back, I promise. Now I have to go.”
They don’t look happy, but at least they let me leave. I start down the stairs to the commons, passing Brynn and Anna Larkin on their way up.
“Don’t forget pre-prom at Bella!” Brynn calls to me.
“Can’t wait!” I reply. But she’s not the one who really has my attention; I can’t stop looking at Anna. This mousy girl following Brynn off into C Hall is so different from the confident entrepreneur she’s destined to become—at least according to the reunion site.
Then it hits me: the notifications have stopped.
I should be grateful I’m not getting tormented every five minutes. I definitely should not be opening that link again—at least not until after the hearing on Thursday.
Who am I kidding? Ducking into the nearest bathroom, I pull up my Instagram. It’s super boring now, just photos of blandly decorated rooms and rainbows with nauseating inspirational quotes superimposed over the top. Future Housewife Me doesn’t even have a dog?
I really miss the dog.
When I pull up the reunion site, it’s changed again. Bare-bones design. Much smaller than last time. It’s basically just one album of carelessly dumped photos. I flip through, scanning faces. There’s the Brynn and McKinley squad, looking rich and gorgeous. There’s Eli, looking especially preppy and decidedly single. And there are a few other people whose circles would never normally overlap with Brynn’s, looking like they stumbled into the wrong event. This appears to be a future version of the kind of A-list party that is only fun for hard-core A-listers. No “Where Are They Now?” section for absentees. No “In Memoriam” for those who are no longer with us. Jordan would write this reunion site off as a half-assed disgrace.
Which sparks the next question: Where are all my friends?
I swipe through again and can’t find myself in any of the photos. No Jordan or Truman, either. And no Harper. Clearly, we didn’t attend this reunion, and clearly, no one cared to follow up on what became of us. I scan the backgrounds, and it appears the event is at a bar. There’s also nothing to indicate who organized it, though from the sheer number of Brynn and McKinley photos, it’s probably safe to assume that this is their shindig.
The biggest question is, what happened to make the site change? I was expecting a transformation after the hearing. But maybe that’s the point: In this version of the future, the garden could be gone, and whatever effects that has had simply have not been noted by whoever created this website. Or the garden could still be open and going strong, and the rest of us are celebrating our own separate reunion over there, having a much better time and using a different URL.
It could go any which way, which is exactly how my life feels right now.
By Wednesday I’m a lot less philosophical. Now I’m just really pissed at Truman. I even drove to his house yesterday afternoon, where I sat at the curb debating whether to knock on his door and demand to know why he’s suddenly disappeared. Then I pictured his mother answering, and it was enough to get me to drive off.
But this is getting ridiculous. He asked me for help with the council meeting. He got me to sign up against every one of my better instincts. We are on the agenda, and now he’s disappeared.
So I’m here, staking out his locker before school. It’s harder than I’d thought it would be, just hanging around, trying to look like I’m not on a stakeout. And I don’t even want to think about what would happen if Eli were to walk by. Truman’s locker isn’t on the usual morning route to show choir, so those chances are slim. But still. Things are delicate.
Time ticks away toward first bell, and still no Truman. Then, he’s there, shirt rumpled and shoulders slumping as he makes his way down the hall. I hang back, waiting for him to pass the drinking fountains before making my move.
“Where have you been?”
“Skyler.” He startles when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come on. I’ve been calling and texting for two days. What the hell, Truman? Why would you leave me hanging like this?”
He pulls his backpack off and tucks into it the study guide he’d been carrying, next to his notebook with all the color-coded tabs.
“I’ve been sick,” he says. But Truman is a terrible liar.
“I think the correct answer is that you were avoiding me. And you know how I know that? Because I am the queen of that game.” Admitting this isn’t easy. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was the one faking sickness to avoid seeing Truman.
He lifts his chin, fixing me with that down-the-nose stare.
“I actually was also grounded from my phone. So I never got your texts or calls, which follows that I shouldn’t be accused of quote/unquote ‘leaving you hanging.’ Believe me, I am well aware of my obligations.”
Close up, I can see shadows under his eyes and a dullness in his complexion. The part of me that cares for Truman more than I want to admit is telling me to let up—maybe he really isn’t feeling well. But the freaking-out, desperate-to-not-screw-up-in-front-of-everyone part finds his obvious attempts at having nothing to do with me crazy making.
“Meet me after school to run through what we’re going to say,” I plead. “Please. Just once and I’ll feel better.”
“I have debate. My coach called my parents and told them I’ve been skipping practices. That’s why I was grounded.”
“Why have you been skipping?”
His face goes even more pale as he surveys the hallway. People are staring at us and whispering. I become aware that I’m leaning in a little too close and straighten up, stepping backward.
“I know things are weird. Okay? I get that. All I want is to be prepared.”
“Fine,” he says. “Can you meet me in the morning? I’ll tell my parents I’ve got an early appointment with the college counselor.”
“Yes. Thank you.” But my lighter mood lasts only a moment. Over Truman’s shoulder, I spy the girl from his debate team. She’s coming toward us but stops when she sees me. Truman notices her a split second after I do. For a painful beat, no one moves. We are a Bermuda Triangle of awkwardness.
“All right then, I’m leaving. Wouldn’t want you to be seen with me any more than you absolutely have to.”
“Skyler, that’s not—”
“No, it’s okay. Once Thursday is over we can both get back to our regularly scheduled lives.” I push past the girl, calling over my shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Truman. Be there. No excuses!”