let out a whoop and the girls nearest them giggle. Seriously, there should be more guys in here. These two donât look to be very promising romantic counterparts, with their graphic T-shirts and bright-colored sneakers.
Mrs. Morales reviews some of the highlights from last year, then outlines whatâs to come this semester, as well as what sheâs considering. She even mentions
Barefoot in the Park
and I squeal inside, wondering if I had anything to do with that idea until she winks at me. Now I adjust to sit a little taller too.
âSo letâs play an icebreaker game with the few minutes left of class, shall we?â she says. âAny suggestions?â
A couple game titles are tossed around halfheartedly before Mrs. Morales thankfully skips over âTruth or Dareâ in favor of âTwo Truths and a Lie.â
âSarah,â she says to the stocky girl with light brown hair on her left. âWould you start us off?â
âUm . . . I spent the summer in San Francisco.â She clears her throat. âIâm on the tennis team. Iâm allergic to strawberries.â
âOkay, everyone,â Mrs. Morales says, crossing her feet at the ankles. âWhich is the lie?â
A few of the girls shoot up their hands, but the one I know as Anita speaks first. âYou spent the summer in your own room,â she says like a zinger. âGrounded.â No, thatâs the zingy part. âEveryone knows you already play tennis, and who can forget what happened with the strawââ
âHow about you go next then, Rica?â Mrs. Morales jumps in. âSince youâre so keen on sharing.â
I keep my outward reaction to a minimumâclearly any weakness is fair game for exploitation in hereâbut I inwardly wince and Iâm forced to look at Rica with a different lens. Sarah may not have a good handle on how to play, but I feel terrible she got slammed on the first day. Sheâs gripping the seat of her chair like it might try to run away. Or maybe to keep herself from running.
Rica combs her fingers through her clearly dyed ink-black hair, which rests just above her shoulders, the silver charm bracelet jingling on her wrist. She leans forward, making eye contact with everyone in the circle as if sheâs about to divulge a state secret. âI went to New York City over the summer. I have a verbal offer from an art school there. My grandparents are buying me a brand-new BMW convertible for my birthday.â
Crickets. The gears are turning. Nearly everyone in this room is no doubt used to what this girl dishes out, and theyâre all lip-zipped like she owns them. Are they afraid to guess wrong? This oneâs so easy even I know the answer.
Come on. What would Lauren Bacall do?
I give a little flick of my hair to show Iâm in the game, and say, âTheyâre all truths.â My voice echoes unexpectedly through the theatre. It sounds
good
out there. Iâm filled with the power to continue my conclusion. âYou probably spent a week in New York touring schools, rubbing elbows, eating cheese, and pretending to drink wine. You even got significant interest from a school because you actually do have some talent, but itâs a school so far down your list you wonât tell us which. Youâll wait to see if all your other choices fall through before you claim that was the one you really wanted to attend all your life. And considering the jewelry and the legit Kate Spade purse youâre rockinâ on the first day of school, Iâd say you even got to pick out the color of your shiny new beamer.â
All eyes shift from me to Rica. Her jaw is slack and sheâs doing a marvelous job testing her ability to blush. I think she got the message: this class is no longer hers.
One of the boys stands on his chair and stretches a hand out toward me. â âO Captain! my Captain!â â
The guy next