This Much Is True by Katherine Owen Page B

Mindless sex with a stranger isn’t hard to find when you’re an athlete and even less so when you’re on the verge of fame because everybody wants a piece of that action. God knows I used to play into that, too; but the free-sex-no-strings-attached lifestyle catches up to you. As it turns out, everybody wants a piece of you or that action. You can’t really trust anybody to want you for you. They always want more. Now, I abide by strict rules of not getting involved with anyone—at least not often and never permanently—because there’s too much on the line with me and baseball these days. It used to be that saying yes to every invitation offered was a whole lot easier than saying no. Sometimes, it’s still that way. But now? The only thing that matters to me is baseball and keeping my dad happy. And we’re so close. I’m so close, as my dad constantly reminds me.
    So here I am, imbibing in a few beers and trying to appear normal and avoid all the supposed fan-girls, if at all possible; and then, there she is—the girl from Valentine’s Day. I’m just staring at her—the raven-haired girl across the room—remembering Valentine’s Day and the horrible circumstances under which we first met and immediately having trouble remembering all my set rules for not getting involved with anyone. Ever.
    At one point, I catch her green-eyed gaze, and she looks right through me. I actually shiver at the unspoken admission that she doesn’t remember me at all. I find myself suffering with this crushing disappointment as if I’ve been hit squarely in the chest by a baseball. What dumb luck is it that she’s shown up at this party, and that she doesn’t even remember me?
    She surveys the room with a disdainful look and takes one long, slow pull of her drink from a red plastic cup. I watch her slender throat move up and down as she swallows. My body reacts to all of her in a single instant.
    Man, I want her bad. Just like that. At the very least, I want to know her name before I leave here tonight.
    I watch her for so long that I can tell when the vodka-spiked punch actually hits her system. She sways ever so slightly now and leans further up against the far wall as if that alone is the only thing still holding her up.
    My conscience surges with guilt that I should have gone over to her sooner, but still directs me toward her before I actually think about what I’m doing. I’m not sure where this urgent need to protect her comes from. Perhaps I’m spurred on by a few of these guys partying it up right next to her that seem to have taken notice of the swaying, dark-haired girl at about the same time I start to make my way across to her. Still, I’m determined to be the one that saves her again, even if she doesn’t remember me from the first time we met more than three months ago on Valentine’s Day.
    * * * *

CHAPTER SIX
    Tally  ~ It is true, if you want to, you can be someone else
    I T IS TRUE that when a girl wants to look more like twenty than seventeen that her best friend can apply liner and dark shadow to her eyelids and black mascara to her lashes and achieve sophistication, however contrived. It is not true that when a girl wears a miracle bra that she is ever a size C instead of a B, however illusionary. There’s no miracle there. It’s just my secret, but it is mine to keep or share.
    The truth is I look older and decidedly sexy because I’m wearing Holly’s designer clothes and boots and pose like a New York fashion model by the punchbowl. These things bring about the desired effect. I feel older, sophisticated, and sexy.
    The rebel is back. It feels good—different, somehow—but good.
    It is sometimes true that a girl can become someone else with the simplest of changes.
    * * *
    I wouldn’t be here if my twin sister hadn’t died. My mom would have probably grilled me about this party, and I wouldn‘t have been able to come up with a reason so easily as to why I needed to spend the night at