16 Things I Thought were True Part 1

16 Things I Thought Were True.

Janet Gurtler.

For Jean Vallestros Because I told you I would. So I did.

chapter one.

1. Working in an amus.e.m.e.nt park should be amusing.

#thingsIthoughtweretrue A fter pausing for a deep breath, I force myself to walk into the room with my head held high and my shoulders pulled back.

I can totally do this, show people who I really am- not the girl they saw dancing on the video.

I'm focusing so hard on keeping my cool that I trip over a chair and it clatters to the ground. Everyone in the staff break room stops talking and stares. They're all wearing the same Tinkerpark T- s.h.i.+rts but in different colors. Red, blue, yellow, or green, we're all dressed as brightly as a package of Skittles.

"Awwwk-ward," someone mumbles. I see a girl waving and, relieved, I wave back but realize she's not even waving at me, but at a guy standing behind me. An idiot blush heats my cheeks, even though a blink later the tension evaporates and people go back to whatever they were doing.

I hold my tray high and hurry past a table lined with girls from the dance show that runs several times a day. They have big hair, lots of stage makeup, and sequins everywhere. I quickly claim an sixteenthings.indd 1 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r empty spot at a nearby table and turn my phone on to check for messages. This is my life now, and deep down I wonder if maybe, just maybe, they're right. Maybe I really am an attention wh.o.r.e who deserves to serve time in social purgatory for appearing in my underwear online.

At any rate, it serves me right for taking my brother's bet and hoping that today could be different, that today people would see past the rumors that float over me like rainclouds. At least Jake owes me ten bucks.

I stop chewing a French fry midbite when I get a feeling that people are staring and notice that one of the boys at my table is singing "s.e.xy and I Know It." Slowly I look up. People are gig- gling. Whispering. And pointing. At me. I drop my gaze back to my phone, but my eyes sting. Crying in public is not an option, so I need to get out fast. I push away from the table, abandon my fries and soda, and ignore a wiggle of guilt for leaving stuff on the table for someone else to clean up.

"You're a jerk," someone from the show- girl table calls to the boys as I zip by. That surprises me a little, but I don't look back.

Screw this. Why did I think I needed them anyway? I already have friends and I know where to find them, in a place where no one will bother me- an old restroom forgotten after renovations to the park.

I hurry to the bathroom, slip into a stall, and plop onto a toilet seat. Hunching down over my phone, my body finally relaxes. I'm finally free to check my Twitter feed without interruption. I breathe out relief and smile when I see my friends. And when I check my followers, see I'm up to 4,041.

2.

sixteenthings.indd 2 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e OMG, almost at 5,000 followers. Help me reach 5,000. Please RT for new followers!

A whoosh of air swirls at my feet as the main door opens right when I send my tweet. The stall beside me is suddenly occupied, and quiet sniffles invade my s.p.a.ce. I try to focus back on my phone, but the sniffling turns into gulping. I study the purple Converse sneakers under the stall door beside mine. They're clean; they look new.

The gulps from their owner are tears that don't want to be held in.

I know that kind. Whoever is in that stall is messed up.

I reach into my pocket for a tube of cherry ChapStick. "Um? You okay?" My voice bounces around the tiny s.p.a.ce and comes back at me in a slight echo. I swipe some ChapStick across my lips.

The girl starts crying even harder, but helpful posts in 140 char- acters or less don't appear. Life should be more like Twitter.

"Are you all right?" I call.

There's no response, but then there's a clank and the stall door opens and huge glistening brown eyes stare out at me. I recognize the girl from the snack shop that's next to the gift shop where I work.

"You're Morgan McLean," she says. It's a statement, but her voice goes up at the end, as if it's a question. She's short and skinny with surprisingly chubby cheeks. She looks fourteen but she's wearing a blue Tinkerpark s.h.i.+rt like mine, blue for concessions. There's rank and prestige attached to different jobs as well as different colors.

Red is for the games people, yellow for rides. Blue s.h.i.+rts are the lowest on the employee totem pole, and she swims in hers.

"Um. Yes," I answer.

3.

sixteenthings.indd 3 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r She walks over and stands beside me at the sink, and then turns a k.n.o.b to run water over her hands. "Ouch," she squeaks. "Hot," she says, turning the water off and shaking off her hands. "I'm sorry. I ruined your break."

I glance at us in the old mirror above the sink. It's dark and scratched, and our reflections are barely visible, but I see misery in the tightness of her lips and the droop in her eyes.

"No. No you didn't. What's wrong?" I ask her.

"It's Adam," she says and sighs. She reaches for the white, pulley, continual towel to dry her hands. I cringe at the germ count that must be on it.

"What did he do?" I ask.

She leans against the sink and sighs deeply. "He...yelled at me."

I lift my eyebrows. "Welcome to the club. He's the boss. It's pretty much his job to yell. Maybe you shouldn't take it so personally."

Adam is a senior next year, like me, but we never hung out with the same people even when I had people to hang out with. I've avoided him at work since he yelled at me on my second day when I forgot my name tag. He seems like he's trying too hard- probably that's why he's in management.

"But...I mean, I want him to like me," Amy says.

"Why?" Even as I ask the question, the answer is written all over her face. "Oh. You have a crush on him?"

She lifts her shoulder and chews her lip, sneaking a look at me.

"Kind of?"

I can see how he's cute in a smart- nerd way, with black plastic- framed gla.s.ses and wavy hair. Not my type though. That makes me

4.

sixteenthings.indd 4 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e wonder for a fraction of a second if I have a type. "Why'd he yell at you?"

She tugs on the bottom of her T- s.h.i.+rt. "He saw me eating pop- corn from a bag before I served it to a customer."

I imagine her dipping her fingers into someone else's food and then serving it to them. Ew. "Well, you know that's kind of against the rules, right?"

She bats her eyes and lowers her gaze to her purple shoes and shuffles her feet around. "It was a mistake." She sniffles and fresh tears brew in her eyes.

Mistake? How do you accidentally stick your hand in someone's food? "Still. Kind of gross," I tell her.

In the silence that follows, I realize I sound like a pompous jerk who's never done anything wrong. Ha. I am the queen of wrong.

"But yeah. I get mistakes."

"Yeah. I know you do," she says and stares at me. Blinking.

My cheeks heat up.

"I was hungry," she says. "I never ate breakfast and I forgot to bring my lunch."

"Maybe you could have, you know, bought something to eat?"

I glance at my phone. I haven't got much longer left on my break.

My foot taps up and down and I glance at my Twitter feed. "You work in the snack shop, right?" I smile down at a tweet from one of my favorite Twitter friends, @debindallas. Her icon is of her in a flared black dress with red cowboy boots.

Dads are like noses, her tweet says. They're always in your face .

Dads aren't like noses, I tweet back. You're not allowed to pick them.

5.

sixteenthings.indd 5 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r "Yeah. But. Um. I don't have money," Amy says.

I look up. "You get paid to work here. Right?" I return my atten- tion to my screen, wis.h.i.+ng she'd go away.

"I, uh, have to give my paycheck to my parents," she says quickly.

I frown and glance up to study her.

"We, uh, need the money. For groceries and rent and stuff." Her cheeks redden and she looks away.

"Really?" Great. Once again, I feel like a jerk. I turn my phone off and tuck it in my pocket. "You have to give them your paycheck for that stuff?"

She nods. She looks like an underfed dog with jutting ribs, like she needs a steak or something meaty and juicy to bite into. I dig into my front pocket and pull out a wrinkly five. "Here." I put it in her hand. "Go get yourself a hot dog. Don't eat from customer's stuff anymore."

She stares at the money and then slowly makes a fist around it. "Uh. Thanks." She pauses. "Do you think Adam will for- give me?"

"Why don't you explain it to him? Tell him the truth."

"I can't do that."

"Then maybe just avoid him."

"But I don't want to avoid him," she says quietly.

"The crush?" I guess, and she sniffles again and her eyes get brighter.

"At least he noticed me. No one ever notices me. My dad says it's probably because I'm so little." She stops to catch her breath. I ignore the roll of jealousy in my belly at the casual way she men-tions her dad.

6.

sixteenthings.indd 6 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e She sniffles again. "I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it," I say. It's only five bucks, and she obvi- ously needs it more than I do even though almost every cent I make is going to my college fund.