Tim Lockette - Tell It True

Cover

TELL IT TRUE

Tim Lockette

Seven Stories Press / Triangle Square Books for Young Readers

New York Oakland London

A TRIANGLE SQUARE BOOK FOR YOUNG READERS
PUBLISHED BY SEVEN STORIES PRESS

Copyright 2021 by Tim Lockette

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, including mechanical, electronic,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of the publisher

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lockette, Tim, author.
Title: Tell it true / Tim Lockette.
Description: New York, NY : Seven Stories Press, [2021] | Audience: Ages
10-14. | Summary: A high school outcast finds herself in charge of the
school newspaper and as she navigates the dilemmas, challenges and
unintended consequences of journalism, she finds her life--and her
convictions--changing in ways she could not have imagined.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021016598 (print) | LCCN 2021016599 (ebook) | ISBN
9781644210826 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781644210833 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Student newspapers and periodicals--Fiction. |
Journalism--Fiction. | High schools--Fiction. | Schools--Fiction. |
LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.L6233 Te 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.L6233 (ebook)
| DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016598
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016599

for Jerry Chandler

Junkie

We live in a big house, which is good.

I mean, its not a mansion or anything. Its pretty typical for a house by the lake. Most of the walls have real wood siding, so its like youre in a cabin. The staircase to the second floor is narrow and so dark it used to scare me when I was little. The only thing that feels big is the living room, with the picture window that looks out on the lake. Its quiet and cozy. But its big enough that I can almostalmostget away from the sound of Mom and Dad fighting.

I try to get up early on the weekends, when Dads home, so I can slip through the living room to the kitchen and eat some Cheerios in peace before the muffled voices start from Mom and Dads bedroom. Its always Mom first. Shes louder. Dad starts out quiet, almost impossible to hear, but then he gets louder and louder.

I dont know what they fight about in the bedroom. In the living room and the car, its always stuff that needs to be done, stuff that Dad hasnt done because hes away so often.

The car needs an oil change, Mom might say. Dont think youre going to sit around all day when that needs doing.

Ill get to it later, hell say. I have yard work to do. And I have some work I brought home that takes priority.

Your family takes priority, Mom will say. Your wife takes priority. If you were home more often, you could get all these things done.

I dont understand why you cant do it, hell say. You just have to drive to town and get it changed.

Why cant you change it? shell say. Youre an engineer and you cant even change the oil in a car. My dad could change oil.

For the last time, I know how to change the oil. Nobody does that for themselves anymore. Its not 1976. You dont just empty your oil pan and dump it into the lake, hell say.

And on and on, with the volume going up and up, even though the debates about some tiny thing. Moms always the one who turns up the volume. Shes always on the attack, and hes always on the defense. If you didnt know them the way I know them, youd think he was a reasonable person married to a bully.

But I dont mind her acting like a bully so much, because theres more to Dad than meets the eye. He has secrets. Im pretty sure hes building nuclear bombs or the rockets to put them in. When I was little, he would call from Huntsville every weeknight and read me a bedtime story or make one up. Now that Im older, he calls around 10:00 p.m., a final item on his checklist before he goes to bed.

And then theres Denise, the name he cant utter in the house. Sometimes he talks about something a coworker said or says something about his staff. But I know he has only one staffer.

There was a time, maybe for more than a year, when Denise would call on weekends, early in the morning. Duh-neeze , she pronounces it. Shes American, but she spent part of her childhood in France or Montreal or somewhere, so she pronounces some words with soft French consonants, as if she had a dip of Copenhagen in her lip.

Hi, its Denize, your dads assistant, she always says, as if weve never spoken before. I can see that hes not there. Sorry to bodder you.

Youre not bothering. I can get him, I usually say.

No, please, dont worry, she says. Ill just text him.

Weird, right? Shes in such a hurry to get off the phone.

Shes the only person who calls on our landline. Yes, we still have one, on the wall in the kitchen. With a loud ring. It always scares me, because Im usually close to it. The kitchen is my early-morning place. Mom thinks Im crazy not to spend more time in our living room, where theres a big TV and shelves full of books and a great view of the lake. I cant stand it in there, at least not when the sun is down. Its like a stage where somebody passing in the dark could just look right in and see everything Im doing. When we watch movies in there, I slump down on the couch so I cant be seen. When I get up in the morning and see that Mom left the light on in the living room, I have to go back upstairs and put my pants on before I can walk through to the kitchen. Sometimes I walk through with the lights out and see fishermen on the lake.

Get over yourself, Mom says. Nobodys looking at you. Do you really think youre so attractive that everyones going to come around and sneak a peek?

Thats my mom. She wont say it outright, but shes always getting little digs in about how Im not attractive. Being attractive is important to her. When I was eight, she put me in a spring beauty pageant for little girls, where I wore a frilly dress and sang God Bless America in front of a crowd of old people. It was easy to do, a lot easier than youd expect, because I was sure I was going to win. Dad told me over and over that I was the most beautiful girl in the pageant, and I believed him. But when the pageant was over, I didnt win anything. There were eight girls in the pageant, with one winner and three runners-up. There was a Miss Congeniality award and a Most Talented award. Only two girls, me and a girl whod gotten poison oak three days earlier, didnt get anything. I was crushed. I wasnt beautiful, which is a tough thing to learn when youre eight.

Dad bought me a plastic tiara and crowned me as Daddys princess, which just made it worse. I dont think Mom ever really forgave me. Shes convinced, against all evidence to the contrary, that being good looking is an accomplishment you achieve through hard work.

Beauty is a skill set, she said to me once. Your dad thinks the pageant thing is a bunch of sexist nonsense, but he doesnt understand. Hes not a Southerner. Southern women conquer beauty early so they can move on to other things.