"I didn't have a choice. It was like the lentil loaf, no other options." He sighed. "I know the entire Woody Guthrie catalog."
"Sing something for me," I said, nudging him with my elbow. "You know you want to."
"No," he said flatly.
"Come on. I bet you have a lovely singing voice."
"I don't."
"Wes," I said, my voice serious.
"Macy," he replied, equally serious. "No."
For a minute we walked in silence. Far, far off in the distance, I saw headlights, but a second later they turned off in another direction, disappearing. Wes exhaled, shaking his head, and I wondered how far we'd walked already.
"Okay, so Truth," he said. "How do you play?"
"Is this because you can't think up another I food?" I asked.
"No," he said indignantly. Then, "Maybe. How do you play?"
"We can't play Truth," I told him, as we crested a small hill, and a fence began on one side of the road.
"Why not?"
"Because," I said, "it can get really ugly."
"How so?"
"It just can. You have to tell the truth, even if you don't want to."
"I can handle that," he said.
"You can't even think of an I food," I said.
"Can you?"
"Ice milk," I said. "Italian sausage."
"Okay, fine. Point proved. Now tell me how to play."
"All right," I said. "But you asked for it."
He just looked at me. Okay, I thought. Here we go.
"In Truth," I said, "there are no rules other than you have to tell the truth."
"How do you win?" he asked.
"That," I said, "is such a boy question."
"What, girls don't like to win?" He snorted. "Please. You're the one who got all rule driven on me claiming Instant Breakfast isn't a food."
"It's not," I told him. "It's a beverage."
He rolled his eyes. I can't believe this, I thought. A week or two ago putting a full sentence together in front of Wes was a challenge. Now we were arguing about liquids.
"Okay," he said, "back to Truth. You were saying?"
I took in a breath. "To win, one person has to refuse to answer a question," I said. "So, for example, let's say I ask you a question and you don't answer it. Then you get to ask me a question, and if I answer it, I win."
"But that's too simple," he said. "What if I ask you something easy?"
"You wouldn't," I told him. "It has to be a really hard question, because you don't want me to win."
"Ahhh," he said, nodding. Then, after mulling it for a second he said, "Man. This is diabolical."
"It's a girl's game," I explained, tilting my head back and looking up at the stars. "Always good for a little drama at the slumber party. I told you, you don't want to play."
"No. I do." He squared his shoulders. "I can handle it."
"You think?"
"Yup. Hit me."
I thought for a second. We were walking down the center yellow line of the road, the moonlight slanting across us. "Okay," I said. "What's your favorite color?"
He looked at me. "Don't coddle," he said. "It's insulting."
"I'm trying to ease you in," I said.
"Don't ease. Ask something real."
I rolled my eyes. "Okay," I said. And then, without even really thinking about it, I said, "Why'd you get sent to Myers School?"
For a second, he was quiet, and I was sure I'd overstepped. But then he said, "I broke into a house. With a couple of guys I used to hang out with. We didn't take anything, just drank a couple of beers, but a neighbor saw us and called the cops. We ran but they caught us."
"Why'd you do that?"
"What, run?"
"No," I said, although I had to admit I was curious about that, too. "Break in."
He shrugged. "I don't know. These guys I was friends with, they'd done it a couple of times, but I never had before. I was there, so I went along." He ran a hand through his hair. "It was my first offense, my only offense, but the county was on this whole thing where they were punishing right off, to scare you out of doing more, so I got sent away. Six months, let out after four."
"My boyfriend," I said, then, feeling the need to correct myself, added, "sort-of boyfriend, he used to tutor there."
"Really."
I nodded. "Yup."
"So what's the deal with that," he asked. "The boyfriend."
"What?"
"I get to ask a question now," he said. "That's how the game goes, correct?"
"Um," I said. "Yes. I guess."
He waved his hand at me in a take-it-away sort of motion. Great, I thought, scanning the horizon for headlights. No such luck.
"I'm waiting," Wes said. "Does this mean you pass?"
"No," I snapped. "I mean, no. I'm answering. I'm just collecting my response."
Another few seconds passed.
"Is there a time limit for this?" he asked. I shot him a look. "Just wondering."
"Fine," I said, taking a breath. "We've been dating for about a year and a half. And he's just, you know, a genius. Really smart, and driven. He went away for the summer, and I was just, you know, being a little too clingy or something I guess, and it sort of freaked him out. He's very independent."
"Define clingy," he said.
"You don't know what clingy is?"