Where the Truth Lies by Jessica Warman Page A

has the nerve to just ask him. Not even me.
    “Del,” I say. Then, trying to be … I don’t know, aloof, maybe even a little rude, I ask, “What’s that short for? Delbert?”
    He winces, almost imperceptibly, for just a split second, before the coolness returns to his expression. “No. It’s just Del.”
    “Your mom gave you that name?”
    “I told you, I’m adopted.” It’s not exactly an answer.
    It’s still unbelievably warm, so I’m walking back from breakfast in Stonybrook Academy athletic shorts (borrowed from Grace) and a T-shirt I bought in town that reads: STONYBROOK! 500 RICH PEOPLE CAN’T BE WRONG! My dad rolls his eyes every time I wear it, and has begged me to get rid of it more than once. He’s real touchy about the perception of elitism at Stonybrook—even though it’s so blatantly elitist.
    Del’s gaze lingers at my chest, longer than it takes to read the writing. Then he looks me in the eye. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Emily?”
    Say my name again . In that moment, I realize it’s all I want in the world.
    I shake my head. “No. Do you?”
    He nods. “I have a sister. She’s older, but we’re less than a year apart. Her name is Melody.”
    “Oh? And where’s Melody?”
    We’re almost to his dorm. “I don’t know,” he says. “I got adopted. I’m not certain, but I think she’s still in a foster home somewhere. She’ll be there until she’s eighteen, and then … who knows if I’ll ever find her again?” His tone is bitter. He licks his lips, which appear soft and full and please say my name again . Just once .
    “Do you want to go for a walk or something?” he asks.
    “What? You mean right now?”
    “Why not right now?”
    “Um … lots of reasons. Where would we go? We can’t leave campus.”
    “I don’t know. We can just talk. Take a little walk around. There are places.”
    I consider. It isn’t like I have a boyfriend or anything. And it isn’t like he and Stephanie are dating. Maybe he wants to talk about her. Or maybe he just wants to talk. It’s only a walk, I think. That’s harmless enough. “Okay,” I say. “But not right now.”
    “What’s the matter? You have somewhere else to be?”
    We stop at his dorm. We’re standing in front of one of the windows to the common room. Looking inside, I can see that Ethan has his drums set up. Max Franklin, who plays guitar, is with him. When Ethan notices me looking at them, he raises his hand in a “come here” gesture.
    “What does he want?” Del asks.
    I’m suddenly embarrassed. Just the thought of singing for them, of being the center of attention, is enough to make me feel mortified. “Nothing,” I say. “He’s goofing around.”
    Ethan tosses a drumstick at the window. I flinch as it hits the glass.
    I stare at the sidewalk. Last year, they replaced a few squares of concrete in front of Winchester. While the cement was still wet, almost everybody who walked by took the opportunity to write their initials in it. There’s an “E.P.” for Ethan Prince, “S.M.” for Sam Marshall, “W.H.” for Winston Howard, and—in a corner by itself—“M.F. LOVES H.S.” for “Max Franklin loves Hillary Swisher.” There’s an “A.S.” (Amanda Stream), “S.P.” (Stephanie Prince), and “M.M.P.” (Madeline Moon-Park). There are a bunch of other initials, too, from kids in different grades.
    Del follows my gaze. “Where are yours?” he asks.
    “They’re not there.”
    “Oh yeah? Why not?”
    Ethan throws his other drumstick in our direction. “Emily!” he calls. “Get in here and sing!”
    “I didn’t want to get in trouble,” I say to Del.
    “You thought you’d get into trouble for writing your initials?”
    “Emily!” Ethan shouts again. “Get in here and sing!”
    “Yes.” I can feel blood rushing to my face.
    “It doesn’t look like anyone else was afraid.”
    “Well, I was.”
    “ …”
    “ …”
    Then he says, “It seems like they really want you to go