Tru Love by Rian Kelley Page B

drummer, are you?”
                  His voice dares her to lie. She stares at him, wondering where that kind of confidence comes from.
                  “My father has a home game,” she mutters, with no intention of issuing an invitation.
    Truman’s eyes snap with amusement but his voice is firm when he says, “Great. I’d love to come.”
                  “I didn’t invite you.”
                  “But you’re supposed to.”
                  Genny feels her mouth open but no words come out. She isn’t capable of thinking for a moment and then she says something completely moronic,
                  “You can read my mind.”
                  It’s the only answer.
                  Truman laughs like he’s heard nothing funnier but quiets quickly when Mr. Plume raises an eyebrow in their direction.
                  “No,” Truman whispers after Plume is back into his newspaper. “We’ve never been capable of that.”
                  “ We ?”
                  “My family. In Scotland, telekinesis is considered a genetic trait.”
                  “You say that like it’s as common as blue eyes.”
                  “No. Maybe as common as the birth of twins, though, but not as welcome.”
                  “No one wants to know what everyone else is thinking?”
                  “Would you?” he counters. “All the time? You get into a fight with your mom, or your best friend, and you’re slammed with thoughts never meant to be spoken…”
                  She thinks about that. Knowing every thought, good and bad, wouldn’t be a lot of fun. Knowing how people really feel about you, even briefly, would hurt.
                  “It’s a curse,” he says and his voice is sincere.
                  Genny nods and lets it go, “So how do you know about my father’s game?”
                  He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of heavy, shaded paper. Genny recognizes it immediately. It’s company stationary, with the team logo splashed across the top border. Genny accepts the paper and unfolds it so she can read her father’s scrawled writing. A premier pass falls onto her desk.
    ‘In case Genny forgets to invite you,’ her father wrote. ‘Would like to thank you in person for saving my daughter’s life.’
    “When did you get this?”
    “Today. Ms. Winchell called me to her office and let me know that the invite was hand-delivered by a team assistant. Then she spent another forty minutes talking about my “single act of bravery.”
    His smile is big and amused and Genny feels her lips turn down in response.
    “Are they going to put a plaque up for you? Dedicate a bench in your honor?” Genny asks, so careful to keep the bitterness out of her voice that it ends up sounding artificially sweet.
    “Not a plaque,” Truman says, thoughtfully. “Or a bench. But they are thinking about making April fourteenth Truman Lennox Day.”
    Genny’s mouth drops open in disbelief. This can’t be happening. The one mistake she makes, in three years of high school, and it will be forever preserved in infamy.
    Truman reaches over and gently lifts her chin. She nibbles at her bottom lip.
    “I’m kidding, Genny,” he says. His finger slides over her lips. “Stop that.”
    Genny tries to take a breath but is firmly convinced all the air has evaporated from the room.
    “You set me up,” she accuses, her voice thin and wispy.
    “Sorry,” he says. “I thought it would be easier for you if I opened the subject.”
    She grunts and turns back to her book. She checks the print to make sure she’s holding it right-side up, then lets the words blur behind her thoughts. There is nothing easy about Truman Lennox or her feelings for him. She hears him flip a page in his