Four Truths and a Lie by Lauren Barnholdt Page B

maybe I’m just wired from the thrill of getting all my work done. “Thanks for coming to the library with me. And thank you so much for helping me with that.”
    â€œNo problem,” she says.
    â€œI wish there was a way I could pay you back.” And then I have an idea. “Hey, Amber,” I say. “Do you know what Kiehl’s are?”

“
Yes, Mom,” I say the next morning, resisting
the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m getting enough sleep.” This, of course, is not true. Amber and I were up until two in the morning, down in the bathroom, doing makeovers! And the thing is, Amber actually
liked
getting made over! We did facials, and then I straightened and curled Amber’s hair, and put lipstick on her. Then she did the same to me (she had some idea in her head that makeovers mean you do them to each other, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that usually you leave the making over to the person who’s an expert.) She wasn’t too good with the eyeliner. She kept poking me in the eye, but whatev. Also the makeup she used kind of made me look like a clown, but it didn’t matter sinceit was so late. I just washed it off and went to sleep. Amber decided not to, and kept hers on. I tried to tell her it was a horrible idea, not washing off the makeup, since she was going to wake up all broken out, but she didn’t listen. She said she’d never looked that good in her life, and she was going to keep it going as long as possible. For a second I was afraid she was going to have me snap a picture of her with my digital camera (“My dad loves getting pictures of me in the packages I send to him!”), but she didn’t.
    â€œWhat time did you go to bed last night?” my mom presses. I push the phone to my ear and study my reflection in the full-length mirror on our wall.
    â€œUm, eleven o’clock?” I try.
    â€œScarlett!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know you need at least nine hours of sleep to function.”
    This is true. But since I took a nap yesterday, I suppose it all adds up. “I’ll do better,” I promise.
    â€œOkay,” she says. “What else is going on?”
    I wonder if I should mention my trouble in math and the weirdness with my roommate to my mom. I don’t want her to worry. I know it’s normal for most moms to worry, but my mom is the worst. She worries about
everything,
even more sosince all the stuff happened with my dad. “Not much,” I say. I glance in the mirror and adjust the headband on my head. I actually woke up early today, even though I was up so late. Crissa was nowhere to be found when I got up. Probably getting a jump start on studying. Or making up new soccer cheers to annoy me with.
    â€œHow were your classes?”
    â€œFine.” It’s not really a lie. I’m sure they will be fine once I get used to the pace. That’s what it says in all the brochures anyway.
“Although the transition to Brookline academics may be difficult for some, most girls will eventually adjust to the pace.”
“Look,” I say. “I have to go, or I’m going to be late for class.” If my mom stays on the phone too long, she’s going to start asking me a bunch of questions about my dad. I think of that e-mail sitting in my in-box, the one I deleted without answering, and I push it out of my head.
    â€œOkay,” my mom says. “I love you.”
    â€œLove you, too.”
    I grab my bag and head for Howser, the academic building where all my classes are held. I skipped breakfast this morning, so I’d have more time to get ready, and so I wouldn’t have to deal with any potential “who do I sit with?” weirdness. I know Amber and I hung out last night, but that doesn’t mean we’re friends and I can go traipsing over toher breakfast table. Does it? I’m not sure. How many times
do
you have to hang with someone