A/N: Hey, y'all! I'm back with Chapter Two!

Disclaimer: Don't own Truth About Forever or any other Sarah Dessen books. The song featured in this chapter is A Lack of Color by Death Cab for Cutie.

Rating: T

This is fact, not fiction,

For the first time in years...

-A Lack of Color Here, by Death Cab for Cutie

TWO

TYPICALLY, I LIVED a conformed life.

I set parameters for myself: what I must do, and what I must not do. In a life as hectic, chaotic, and terrible as mine could be, there were a million different shades of gray in between the black and white. And so, in an effort to preserve the little that I knew as right and wrong, I set strict rules for myself.

It was another way that Meghan and I differed. We both cracked under the pressure of living in Julie's house, and having to mutually take care of Greg. Both of us were morphed and molded out of our difficult past, shaped by the nights of silent sobbing and hiding in beat-up diners just off the Maine interstate. The differences between us were many, but the biggest difference was how we cracked.

While Meghan got herself drunk on cheap whiskey out at the sole local bar and pub in town, I went the opposite way. By this time, I was nine, and I had seen the destruction that alcohol could do in Julie, and I was watching it happen again with Meghan. And so, call it an act of rebellion, or an over-correction, I went the opposite way. I became a responsible child.

It wasn't that I hadn't been responsible before. I had always been the most responsible out of the three of us, regardless of the day and age. But when Meghan left for the first time, I dug my heels in, and I went to my desk and made a list.

I still had that list. It was crumpled and messy, with shriveled bits where my tears had plopped onto the old yellow legal pad paper and dried. The ink was smeared and stained. And yet, it was still legible. In my straight block letters, I could still read what I had written so very long ago: a list of rules.

1, I had written. Don't stay out late. 2: Don't drink alcohol. 3: Don't do drugs. 4: Get good grades. 5: Work hard.

It was this list that had evolved into our Common Sense Rules in our household. Though, truthfully, I had made lists like this before. I was something of a list fanatic, though I had good reasons. On paper, written in my black ballpoint pen, the obstacles I needed to overcome seemed much smaller.

Perhaps this was what made it work. To this very day, I had never drank alcohol. I had never taken a hit from a joint or a drag from a Marlboro. I had straight As all the way down my report card, and worked hard to achieve them. Lists were my own personal Bible. There, on my little yellow legal pad, with a pros and cons T-chart, my goals were achievable. Just out of reach.

But that day that I looked in the folder, everything changed.

I was no longer a girl confined to her boundaries and what was black and white or right and wrong or good or bad. The day that I went down to my social worker's office was arguably one of the worst in my life. It was the day that my life changed forever, though it didn't seem like it at the time. Then, it had just been a flicker, a brief instant, in what would become my life.

It was the day that Meghan had run away again, in sophomore year, when I was twelve. This time, it didn't seem like she was going to come back. She had been gone almost four hours, her all-time record, and she was likely still in the state. It hurt that she had left.

It would have been bad enough if Pat Jenson hadn't hung my underwear from the flagpole the day that Meghan ran. That was a burning shame that I'd never forget. They were plain white cotton briefs, made granny-style. People pointed and laughed. I didn't even think they knew why they were laughing. The prank wasn't that funny, after all.

The sheer size of the prank was what made it funny, though really, there was nothing to laugh about at all.

I had hitched a bus down to Portland, where I stormed into my social worker's office without another thought. She wasn't available, of course. She never was. This was what saved me, in the end; her lack of caring or love. In the office, all by myself, my anger began to simmer down, and I was left with nothing but an aching emptiness inside of me. I cried. For a long time.

There was nothing more pathetic than a scrawny, malnutritioned girl sobbing her eyes out on a fake-leather couch in a dilapidated apartment building in Portland. I just cried into the pillows smelling of stale cigarette smoke and body odor, not caring that the peculiar smell made my eyes water. I was, after all, already crying.

After my eyes dried, I had gotten up and walked around the room. Feeling reckless and sad, I felt a boiling urge to do something bad. It was the way I was, really: part of me was goody-goody, kind, quiet, and neat, while the other part of me was spontaneous and dark, just waiting to spring. The two parts of me were always warring. Typically, the goody-goody side won. That day, the rebellious side won.

I opened the file cabinet, seeing that it had been left unlocked. The files were dusty, as if they hadn't been edited in some time. I rifled through the papers, and eventually found one. My entire body stilled, and for one moment, I couldn't breathe. There, printed with a typewriter font on a manila folder, were three words.

Iphigenia Hermione Baker

My last name wasn't Baker. It was Norton- or so Julie had said. Truthfully, Meghan, Greg, and I had all known that we had other last names. Later, Meghan would find out that hers was O'Malley when she applied to NYU. Greg's was Jerome, as it turned out. And mine, I found out right there. Baker.

There weren't many people with a name like mine. Iphigenia Hermione. It had been the gift of a nurse in the hospital, a notorious Trojan War nerd who had passed away years ago. When I was little, and staying in the hospital because of the surgery, I remembered the nurse talking to me. It was my earliest memory, and fuzzy at that.

"Iphegenia," my nurse said, "is the name of Queen Clytemnestra of Mycenae's daughter. A lovely girl, really." She hummed, braiding my hair. I didn't remember where we were, or what our conversation had been about. Just this piece. "Of course, she was later sacrificed so that the great god Poseidon would allow the Greeks to sail across the se and wage war on Troy. But don't worry, my dear. Artemis, goddess of the hunt, saved her. Now Iphigenia looks over the deer. And as for Hermione..." The nurse paused. "Well, that's easy. No question why I chose that. She's the daughter of Queen Helen of Sparta, and later, Troy. Helen and Hermione are both the most beautiful women in the world." She traced my cheekbone. "And I can tell that you'll be a pretty one."

The nurse had no way to know that I wasn't pretty. Or beautiful, even. I was striking. There was always a difference: Meghan was beautiful. Me, with my hair so dark that it was almost black, hanging to my knees, almost always put up in some elaborate hairstyle, and the cheekbones that were as high and sloping as Angelina Jolie's, bright blue eyes, startling and intense, and tan skin, I wasn't beautiful. It was the sort of way that you looked at a particularly large spider, or a slithering snake: they were interesting to look at, but not enjoyable to look at.

But, anyway, my name wasn't common. I knew that there was only one Iphigenia Hermione, and that Baker was likely my last name. It struck me for a moment. Baker. It was the last name of my father, and of my uncle, if I had one, of my grandfather, if I had one, of cousins, perhaps, or even estranged second relations.

Quickly, hands trembling, I opened that folder. There was only one paper I got to before the door creaked open and my social worker stormed over to me, whipping it out of my hands. That one was enough. It was just three sentences- not even, really. But it was enough.

Birth father: Wesley J. Baker

Address: 707 Emery Lane, Atlanta, Georgia

Relations to mother: highschool relationship

Relationship status: terminated

And that was the moment that my life changed forever.

THE BUS DRIVER looked at me skeptically.

"Honey," she said, drawling her vowels lazily in her Southern accent. "You don't look like eighteen years old to me." The bus driver arched an eyebrow, giving me a once-over. She was a grizzled old woman with a beehive, frosted hairstyle that emanated an air of hairspray. Her fingers and teeth were stained black from tobacco, and she wore large sunglasses and denim. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted up from her.

I smiled brightly, flashing my teeth. "Of course I am, ma'am," I said, giving her the fake ID that I had picked up from Meghan's friend Joel a few weeks ago. "I'm just small for my age, that's all."

The last part was true: I was small for my age at barely fifteen. I looked like I was still in middle school. I didn't know how I managed to pull this off, but Meghan's friend Joel made a good fake ID -he had gotten Meghan into plenty of bars, anyway- and it looked authentic. And I also had the ability to pay my way out of any situation.

"Mm-hm," the bus driver said, nonplussed. She sighed, smacking the ID down on her dashboard. "License and registration, please."

I was ready. Pulling out my wallet, I made an effort to slow down my actions, careful to make me not seem so anxious. While my heart was hammering in my chest, I concentrated on breathing. Finally, after what seemed like forever, I pulled out a driver's license- forged- and a social security card- also forged.

The bus driver inspected them both. She gave me a dubious look. "Honey, these ain't real. How're you expectin' to make me drive you down the eastern seaboard?"

Again, I was ready. I pulled twenty-five dollars out of my back pocket, slapping ten into her palm. "Ten for your silence," I said, "and fifteen for letting me board. And an extra five for claiming ignorance." I pulled out another five on impulse.

The bus driver flicked her gaze. Then, looking the other way, she held out her palm. "I didn't see nothin," she told me, raising her eyes to the ceiling of the bus.

I grinned. "Perfect," I said, slapping the money in her palm. Then, I walked to the back of the bus, sitting down in a plush blue seat. The bus would likely be nearly empty- at the beginning, anyway- as we took off at four o' clock. Julie would just be getting to bed.

For the first time, I saw the home stretch in front of me. Here I was, on a bus to Atlanta, Georgia, with a beat-up iPod shuffle, some earbuds, and a world of possibilities in front of me. Despite the gravity of my situation, I felt a little smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

There was only one other person as Frosted Beehive Hair prepared to take off from the station: an old man reeking of liquor and cigarettes. The Greyhound bus was no kind place, and I had no illusions: this was not a place to fall asleep on. I needed to pay attention to the aisle, Frosted Beehive Hair, the drunkard, and not doze off in the blue plush seats.

"Wait!"

Frosted Beehive Hair stopped, furrowing her eyebrows. I watched, hardly believing my eyes. A boy hardly older than me, around fifteen or sixteen, banged his fist on the door of the bus. He had short hair, and a tall, lanky frame. His eyes were wide as he knocked on the door frantically. "Wait!" he shouted desperately. "Please!"

Frosted Beehive Hair looked at him skeptically, but hit the button to let him in. The boy bounced up the stairs, a clumsy mess of flailing limbs and disembodied parts. Without warning, he flung his arms around the bus driver. "Oh, thank you!" he said, smiling broadly. "You, Madame, are truly one in a million. A lifesaver. A goddess, if you will."

I snickered as the bus driver waved him off, impatient. "Yeah, yeah. You got payment, Skeleton?"

Skeleton put a hand to his heart in mock dismay. "É tú, Brute?" he said. Frosted Beehive Hair looked on, nonplussed. Skeleton sighed. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just go ahead and ignore the arts, will ya?" He shifted a large backpack, and I noticed, with some interest, that a guitar was slung across his back. He gave the bus driver an ID.

"Honey," Frosted Beehive Hair said. "This says that you're a Hector Dustin Jones. You're fifteen in this picture, and your parents-"

"Oh, let's not talk about my parents," Hector Dustin Jones said quickly. He rifled through his back pocket. "Look, lady. Here's fifty bucks. My parents- especially my mom- will track me down anyway, but I've kind of got something to do down in Atlanta. So could you maybe just cut me a break?"

I felt a twinge of sympathy for Hector, and the bus driver pursed her lips. "Back there," she said, jabbing a thumb towards the back of the bus. "Jesus Christ. Already got myself eighty dollars, and it ain't even six in the morning." She whooped. "It's gonna be a good day today!"

Hector gave her a confused look, but shrugged and headed towards the back of the bus. I slouched, compacting my body. It was a tactic that I had performed many times under Julie, and even with Meghan when I was younger. There weren't many pluses to being tiny and curve-less, but this was definitely one of them.

He was even clumsier coming back. His guitar case bounced off of every chair as he went all the way to the back, where I was sitting. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I uncurled myself, watching him with unreserved curiosity.

Hector was tall- almost six and a half feet tall, maybe seven. He had a quick, easy grin that fit his physique; all bones and no skin. Frosted Beehive Hair had christened him Skeleton well. He had a shock of bright blond hair on top of his head, which he habitually ran a hand through. He wore jeans and a t-shirt that read MUSIC: IT'S THE CRACKPOT WAY!

I just stared at him. This was my company. Hector Jones.

Go figure.

"Hey," he said to me, sliding down into the seat across from mine. "You know, if you slouch any further, you'll probably be devoured by that seat. It's already kind of swallowing you up."

I blinked.

He grinned, a small, lopsided thing that had the own corners of my mouth twitching uncontrollably. "So you're the extra thirty bucks that Jersey Shore's got, right?" he said, matter-of-factly.

"Jersey Shore?" I said, words beginning to come back to me.

"What? You never heard that phrase before or something?" Hector gave me A Look. "You know, it means tramp. Hussy. Slut. Trashy. Wh-"

"I know what it means," I snapped. I straightened, looking him dead in the eye. "And yes. I am the person who handed her the extra thirty bucks. And y'know, that wasn't very smart, the way you just handed her the fifty. You have to tell her specifically what it's for. If ya don't, you'll be caught in a heartbeat."

"Tell her specifically?"

"Well, duh." I leaned back in the chair, examining my fingernails. "You know, like, if you had fifty bucks, you give her twenty-five for letting you board- and driving you-, ten for silence, and fifteen for claiming ignorance. Now you're screwed."

Hector laughed. "Done this before?"

My cheeks heated up. "I don't see how that's any of your business. Not everyone goes around spitting their life story out at random bus drivers. You are aware of this, correct? We really don't want to know about your monsters under the bed."

"Wow," he said slowly. "You're almost as bad as my mother."

"Excuse me?"

"You," Hector said, "are like my mother. Both gorgeous. Both intelligent. And both rigid hard-asses who don't take shit from anybody." He laughed bitterly. "It just goes to show my luck. I run away from my parents, and I end up on a bus with a replica."

My jaw dropped. "Well, at least I don't go insulting people with the first thing I say!" I shot back. "I understand that we can't all be Sasquatch with a Ripley's Believe it or Not record-breaking height, but you don't have to go pointing it out!"

Hector paused. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"And I- wait, what?" I stared at him in disbelief. "You're 'sorry'? That's it? You're just going to give it up, just like that." Frosted Beehive Hair/Jersey Shore pulled out of the Greyhound parking lot. City lights flicked over his face, bathing it in a warm orange glow.

"Yeah." His lips twitched. "It kind of became essential when dealing with my mother. She liked to pick a fight. About everything. Anything I did, I did wrong. Anything she did, she did right. You have to know how to pick and choose your battles."

"Why do you do that? Just regurgitate your life story?" I snorted. "It's not like you want to know mine."

"Of course I do," Hector said, surprising me. When I gave him an incredulous look, he shrugged. "I'm serious! I don't think that humans should go around carrying all this baggage, you know? I like honesty. Just putting it out in the open. I mean, shit. It's not like our demons aren't there, anyway, right?"

I stared at him.

He leaned back in his seat. "Look. You wanna know my life story? That, I won't tell you. But I will tell you the basics: my mother's an uptight bitch, model-gorgeous businesswoman in New York City. She had a romance with a musician when she was eighteen, and when she was twenty-one, said musician got her pregnant. Making me. My father's a deadbeat. Stuck in rehab." He shrugged. "What about you?"

"What makes you think I would tell you?" I said. "Honestly. I didn't ask for all your crap to be dumped on me." I laughed, leaning my head back and looking at the stars outside the bus window. "And I guarantee you, as rough as you've had it, I've had it worse."

"Really," Hector said quietly. "And what makes you think that?"

I smiled at him, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a bitter, tough smile, hard as nails, brittle as ice. "I think that," I said, "because even if your family sucks, you still have it. And no matter what you try to tell yourself at night, a mother is still better than no mother at all."

And with that, I pulled my iPod shuffle out of my pocket. Hector was silent for a moment, and while I fiddled with my earbuds, he just stared at me. There was something unnerving about his gaze. As I plugged my earbuds in, I listened to the song, rocking myself along to the first few bars of the song.

And when I see you,

I really see you upside down.

But my brain knows better-

It picks you up and turns you around,

Turns you around, turns you around.

I had twenty-one hours on this bus with Hector Jones. But after that, I'd be free in the city, going towards new beginnings. What I said to Hector was true: I never had a mother. Meghan was as close as it got, and she abandoned me every chance she got.

But if I played my cards right, I just might- maybe- get my happy ending after all, complete with mother and all. And so, in the long run, Hector Jones didn't matter. Wouldn't matter.

Not at all.

If you feel discouraged,

That there's a lack of color here,

Please don't worry lover,

It's really bursting at the seams

For absorbing everything-

The spectrum's A to Z.

This is fact, not fiction

For the first time in years

All the girls in every girlie magazine

Can't make me feel any less alone

I'm reaching for the phone...

To call at 7:03 and on your machine I slur a plea for you to come home-

But I know it's too late.

I should have given you a reason to stay

Given you a reason to stay

Given you a reason to stay

This is fact, not fiction

For the first time in years...

A/N: Hope you all liked it! Please, please review!