Free The Thing About the Truth by Lauren Barnholdt Page A

he’s pissed.
    I sigh and step out of the car.
    “Hey, Dad,” I say cheerfully, “what’s going on?”
    “Where have you been?” he asks. He steps close to me and looks deep into my eyes. He’s checking for redness. My dad is always concerned that I’m going to start taking drugs. Which is crazy. Despite all the trouble I’ve gotten into, I’ve smoked pot maybe three times in my life. Drugs just don’t really interest me.
    “Just been hanging out with my new friend Kelsey.” I turn toward the car, where Kelsey’s still just sitting there in the passenger seat. She’s looking through the window at my dad, and she’s all starry-eyed. Which is how pretty much everyone gets when they see my dad. Even people who don’t like him or don’t agree with his politics. Something about him is just so . . . I would say fake, but it’s really more . . . I don’t know, shiny . Like he stepped out of the pages of a magazine or something. It’s like my dad has airbrushed himself into real life. The thought makes me want to laugh, and I bite my lip to keep from doing it out loud.
    My dad looks over at Kelsey, and his expression instantly softens, back to being Mr. Politician.
    He waves. “Hello, there!” he says loudly, like she’s eight or something.
    “Hi!” Kelsey yells back, acting like she is.
    “I’ll be right back,” I yell to her. “I’m going to grab some of the stuff that we need, and then we’ll go somewhere and work, all right?”
    She nods. If she’s surprised that we’re not going to be working at my house, she doesn’t show it. But there’s no way I could bring her inside. Not with my dad around.
    I start walking up the path toward the front door. My dad follows me. “Kelsey and I are working on a school project together,” I tell him.
    I don’t wait for a response, just push the door open and start making my way down the hall toward my room. Everything in our house is totally immaculate, and that includes my bedroom. My bed is perfectly made with a navy blue and gray comforter. There’s an oak desk in the corner with a bunch of my schoolbooks stacked on one of the shelves (they’re totally for show, since those books are from my old school—don’t need those anymore, haha), along with a wireless printer and my laptop.
    The truth is, I’m a slob. And actually, so are my parents. The neatness is all for show because you never know when someone’s going to be stopping by the house. Reporters, sure, but also just random people. A sports team that’s done well and been invited to our house for dinner. A single mom who won a contest and is going to have a meeting with my dad about social policy. Other members of the senate who would love to find something out of place so they could use it against my dad later.
    So if anyone were to end up wandering into my room, you definitely wouldn’t want them to find a stack of porn DVDs. Or even a candy bar wrapper—God no. Which is why we have a housekeeper who takes care of everything.
    I go over to my desk and start rummaging around, trying to figure out what I can grab that’s going to make Kelsey think I have some idea about what the hell I’m doing.
    Finally I just pick up my laptop case and shove my laptop into it. Maybe I can Google some stuff when we get to wherever we’re going (a coffee shop, maybe?). I’m good at coming up with things on the fly—in fact, I work best under pressure.
    “What kind of project are you working on?” my dad asks. He’s followed me to my room and is now standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. My dad has no respect for anyone else’s privacy. I think it’s because no one’s ever had any respect for his—everything in his life is fair game for his opponents and the press. And that attitude makes him think no one else deserves any either.
    “We’re starting a school club.” I’m deliberately vague, mostly because this is the only kind of power I have over my dad. I can mess