Even When You Lie to Me (15 page)

When I went downstairs for breakfast on Christmas, my parents were kissing.

“Ahem,” I said. “Good morning.”

They pulled apart reluctantly. “Merry Christmas, kid,” my dad said.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “I’ll thank you not to give me a Christmas kiss like that.”

“How about a Christmas noogie?” He squeezed my mother, and then he came over and ruffled my hair until I squealed and ducked away from him.

My mother watched us from the kitchen, smiling vaguely. “You in the mood for pancakes, Charlie?” she asked.

“When am I not in the mood for pancakes is a better question,” I said. “And the answer is never.”

“Well,” she said, “your dad’s making them, so he should probably get that griddle fired up.”

My dad raised his eyebrows at me and I raised mine back.

“Sounds like you’ve got your orders,” I said. “I take pure maple syrup. None of that Mrs. Butterworth’s shit.”

“I’ll allow you that profanity because it’s Christmas,” he said. “But don’t you dare insult Mrs. Butterworth like that again.”

My mother slapped him on the butt as he walked past her into the kitchen; then she grinned at me like she’d done something delightfully outrageous. I rolled my eyes, but I laughed.

“You know,” she said, “agave’s good on pancakes. You can barely taste the difference.”

I squinted at her. “Just this once.”

We sat by the tree in our pajamas to open presents. My mother had put Christmas music on and my dad had made a fire, something he attempted only once a year. My favorite Christmas memories involved watching him swear at great length and with increasingly florid creativity as he tried to get the logs to stay lit for long, squatting minutes.

“Last presents,” my dad said. “Charlie, I believe yours is at the back there.”

I splayed out under the tree to grab it; it had slid down near the wall, amid a carpet of browning needles. It was a large, heavy package in silver paper and the contents shifted slightly when I shook it.

“It’s from your mom,” he said. She looked at him and smiled and then said to me, “It’s not something from your list. I just thought…well, you’ll see.”

She looked nervous. I readied my face so I could smile when I opened it, whatever it was. I ripped open the paper and saw the humped backs of a line of hardcover books. “Books!” I said in surprise.

“If you don’t like them, we can exchange them,” she said.

“Okay…,” I said. I ripped the paper off the rest of the way. It was a boxed set of all Jane Austen’s books. The box itself had embossed lettering and a leather cover that gave a little when you pressed it. I slid the books out; they seemed to sigh a little as I released them, like their seal had popped. They were heavy, their covers smooth, the pages stiff, the paper heavy and creamy and expensive-looking. I turned them around to see the flat lips of their covers; the pages sandwiched between them were ragged at the edges.

“Wow,” I said. “These are beautiful.”

“I thought, you know, since you were enjoying
Pride and Prejudice,
” she said. “And I know your teacher liked Jane Austen, right? Mr. Drummond?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I did,” she said. She allowed herself a small smile. “So you like them?”

“I do,” I said. I ran my hands down their spines. “Thank you.” I glanced up and smiled back. “These are really—thank you. They’re perfect.”

Her smile grew wider. She put her hand on my dad’s thigh, and he fastened his hand on hers. “So there’s something else that goes with them….It’s in the bottom there.”

I reached down into the slipcase and pulled out a thick white envelope. “What’s this?”

“It’s a—it’s a certificate for a salon I like. I want to treat you to a spa day. We can both get dolled up and have a girly day out.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that…What does that have to do with the books?”

“You know,” she said, “like the way the girls do, getting ready for their suitors before a ball.”

“That’s not really the…the point of them.”

“I know that, Charlotte,” she said. “I just thought it might make you more enthusiastic.”

I pushed my tongue against my teeth and sucked in air. “And you…that’s why you gave me the books? They were a bribe?”

“No!” she said. “No. But I thought it couldn’t hurt. One present for you and one for me. Right?”

“Right,” I said.

“I know it’s not your favorite thing,” she said, “but I think it would be fun for both of us. Maybe you can see it as a gift to me?”

“Sure,” I said. “Okay. No, that’s great. Thank you, it’s really…really generous.” I glanced at my dad. I needed to exchange looks with him, to reassure myself that he still knew me, but he kept watching her. I should have known the books were just a stealth gift. She couldn’t let it go, even on Christmas. I suddenly felt like I was going to cry, and I swallowed hard and said, “So is that it? Anything else?”

“Yes, now that you mention it,” my dad said. “This last one is from Santa.” He slid an envelope from a pocket in his frayed robe and handed it to my mother.

“What’s this?” she said. She didn’t take the envelope from him, and it hung in the air between them, trembling slightly.

“It’s from Santa, like I said.” He wiggled it in front of her as if it were bait. “Come on, you’ll ruin his Christmas if you don’t open it.”

She raised her eyebrows at him and took it tentatively. She looked at me. “Were you in on this?” she asked.

I shook my head.

She slid her lacquered nail under the flap and gently freed it. She watched my dad the whole time. Then she pulled out what was inside—two neatly folded sheets of paper. She unfolded them and read, then looked up at my dad.

“Paul, you can’t afford this,” she said. She didn’t sound angry, just surprised.

“Santa paid for it,” he said.

Her eyebrows sloped together like poised knitting needles.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “My last commission went better than I’d hoped.”

“It didn’t go
that
well.”

“You haven’t had a vacation in years,” he said. “Don’t protest.”

“So, uh, what’s going on?” I asked.

My dad smiled at me, looking pleased with himself. “Your mom and I are flying to Hawaii the week after you go to Oberlin.”

“Oh,” I said.

He turned back to my mother. “I thought we could both use the break. And there’s no better occasion.”

“To celebrate getting rid of me?” I said.

“Charlie,” he said sharply.

“What?” I said. I felt stung; he never spoke to me harshly.

He frowned at me. “It’s quite the opposite,” he said.

“This is wonderful,” my mother said. “Thank you, honey.”

“It sounds great,” I said. “I wish I could be there but I’m just so busy.”

“Jesus, Charlie,” my dad said. “Could you not make this about you for once?”

I stared at him, too shocked to say anything. Then I picked up the books and stomped upstairs.

That night I stood outside in the snow and called Lila.

“How was it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. My eyes started to burn with tears.

“My day was fantastic,” she said. “My dad got me sweatpants with ‘Juicy’ written across the butt for Hanukkah. For Hanukkah, Charlie.”

I laughed and swiped at my eyes. “I didn’t even know they still made those.”

“I know, right?” she said. “He couldn’t find some Ed Hardy or something? So was it bad?”

I kicked at a snowbank. “It was just…She tried, I guess. I know I was a brat about it. She just thinks I’m…” My throat felt thick and I tried to clear it. I couldn’t say it, even to Lila. “I had to leave. It’s freezing outside, by the way.”

“I ask this without judgment: are you in your pajamas?”

“I have a coat on too.” I sighed. “I miss school.”

“I’m not even going to tell you how weird that is.”

“Thank you,” I said, “for not saying that.”

“You miss Drummond.”

“Not just that.”

“No, it’s that.”

I shrugged farther into my coat. “What do you think he’s doing?”

“Like right now? Sitting in front of a fire with a pipe, rereading one of your essays and shaking his head in wonder at your brilliance.”

I laughed. “I bet he’s trying to get a call through to the
New Yorker
about it.”

“Definitely,” she said. “ ‘Publish this young woman’s essay about how
The Cat in the Hat
is a metaphor for communism or risk complete cultural irrelevance.’ ”

“He probably has a lot of sway with them,” I said.

“Well, he does teach advanced placement classes, so…”

I looked at the sky. “What do you really think he’s doing?”

“Dunno,” she said. “Wanking?”

“Good night,” I said.

“Love you,” she said.

By the time I hung up, it had started to snow again. The chill had gone out of the air and everything was silent. It was the kind of silence that made it seem like the snow had stuffed itself into every crevice and gap, buried the landscape under layers of padding, and now there was just this neighborhood, just this street, just me, and no matter how far I tried to run, nothing would ever look different.

Talking about it with Lila had made it worse. The loneliness felt like an infection I couldn’t shake, something hollowing me out from the inside. It wasn’t the longing for him that hurt the most; it was the gnawing feeling that no one wanted me and I had no idea when, or if, that would ever change. I stood and watched the snowflakes come down, more and more of them, until the plows cut swaths through the streets, peeling the snow back like a rind, and I had to go back inside.

In the disappointed sigh of a week between Christmas and New Year’s, Asha came over to watch movies. I’d been worried that she wouldn’t accept after our aborted stakeout, but she said Dev had been busy golfing with their dad and she’d had enough of the rest of her family by the time I texted. Meanwhile, I had finished all my library books and was staring warily at the Austen boxed set.

“This is Frida,” I said as she stepped through the door one dark afternoon, brushing snow from her shoulders. Frida sat down and wagged her tail hopefully.

“She’s gorgeous!” Asha said. “A malamute?” She leaned down to pet her, and Frida stood up and pressed herself in an arc against Asha’s knees.

“She likes you,” I said. “I trust anyone Frida likes.”

Asha looked up at me, her dark hair falling into her eyes. Frida’s tail kept time like a metronome. “Has she ever disliked someone?”

“Not yet.” I moved toward the stairs. “My room’s up this way. We can bring her with us.”

When we got to my room, I said, “So did you bring anything to watch, or—”

“I’ve been there!” Asha interrupted. She was pointing at a poster I had up on my wall—a photograph of a German castle on a cliff, surrounded by a forest, that I’d found back in middle school. I’d hung it up because it was the farthest place I could imagine from where I was then.

“You have?” I said. “I wasn’t sure it actually existed. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

She nodded. “It’s beautiful. Musty, but beautiful.”

“I always thought I’d get married there,” I said.

Asha kept looking at it as if she hadn’t heard me.

“So when were you in Germany?” I asked. “Family trip or something?”

She sat down on my bed. “Kind of. My dad used to be stationed in Berlin. We went to visit him a couple of times.”

“Wow,” I said. “Did you ever live over there?”

“Nah, never out of the country,” she said, “but we moved around a lot before we came here. Ohio before this.”

“Did you mind?”

“You kind of get used to it,” she said. “Which is not the same as liking it, I guess.”

“Would be hard to make friends,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. She paused. “Especially if you and your brothers are the only brown people in the whole school.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I guess…I guess so.”

She smiled, not unkindly. “So then you get disgustingly close to your family. Especially if you aren’t the biggest fan of other people to start with.” She looked back at the poster. “I’m just saying that theoretically. One would. If they were like that.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life and all I have to show for it is Lila, so you’re doing better than I am.”

She laughed. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

I laughed too and then felt guilty for laughing. “I’m sorry she’s been such a bitch to you,” I said, and immediately felt worse. You probably weren’t supposed to say
bitch
to a feminist.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing for her,” she said. “Not everyone needs to be friends.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

She widened her eyes at me playfully. “Stop apologizing! It’s really patronizing!”

“So…,” I said. “I’m— Okay, I will. I just feel like I’m responsible for her somehow. We grew up together and she’s…” I shrugged. “She’s like my embarrassing racist uncle. She’s family.”

“I don’t think she’s a bad person,” Asha said. “She just seems to think that the more you talk, the more interesting you are.”

“God, I know,” I said. “I don’t think she even does it intentionally. And she’s threatened by you, but she’d never admit it.”

Asha frowned. “Threatened by me?”

I blushed. “Just, you know, we’re, um, hanging out, so…”

“Oh, right,” she said. It had gotten darker and it was hard to see her expression. “She’s with that guy Jason, isn’t she?”

“The one who looks like a giant sentient slab of meat?” She laughed, and I relaxed a little. “Yeah, but she refuses to acknowledge that they’re together. Which, fair enough. He’d be my secret shame too.”

She made a face. “She could do better.”

“Seriously,” I said. “I don’t know if she doesn’t know how pretty she is or she just has low standards.”

“You think she’s pretty?” she said as she gazed out the window.

I turned to see what she was looking at. It was just houses swaddled in snow, the lights in their windows like golden eyes in the dark. “You don’t think so?”

“No, she is, I guess.” She sighed. “Ugh.”

“Yeah, I hate it when you can tell people are attractive,” I said.

Asha laughed and bowed her head. “I’m just being catty.”

“Oh,” I said. “No, I didn’t mean— I mean, I feel that way too.”

“It’s not really about her, anyway,” she said. “I just feel like…why do girls like her get all the attention?”

Asha had never brought up her love life, so I’d assumed she was indifferent about it. Some kids I
knew—academically
minded ones, mostly—walled off romance as a topic of conversation, as if it were a distraction from their real future. “Are you interested in someone?” I said.

“No, there’s no one in particular. I just…” She trailed off. “I just feel completely invisible sometimes.”

“Yeah,” I said. It was easier to admit in the gloom, when I didn’t have to look at her. We were silent for a few minutes as the room got darker and darker.

“I got catcalled this one time,” Asha said quietly. “I thought he was insulting me at first.”

I took a moment to think about how to respond: with shock or laughter or commiseration? “Was he?” I said finally.

“He was complimenting me, I think—or what he thought I should take as a compliment, anyway,” she said. “He told me I had a nice ass. And then he tried to grab it.”

“Hot.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But even though I hated it, I felt sort of…relieved that he’d noticed. Which just made me feel worse.”

I wanted to tell her I knew what that felt like, but it was too humiliating to admit it out loud. I sat back on the bed so I couldn’t see her face. “You know those friends Jason has? Mike and Austin?”

“I think so,” Asha said. “Mike’s in our gym class, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He…well, I don’t know what his deal is. But Austin has—he’s said some things. I don’t think he was flirting. I couldn’t tell Lila because she wouldn’t…” I swallowed, tried to say something else, and then stopped when I realized I was perilously close to crying.

Asha didn’t say anything. We were so still that I could see my shirt tremble every time my heart beat.

“I’ve had that happen,” she said finally.

The heat clicked on with a sigh. I thought about how pathetic I was, for not being able to resist telling her and for letting it happen to me at all.

“I wonder sometimes,” Asha said at last. “Why does it matter whether you’re beautiful at all? What does it even get you?”

I stared at her silhouette. I didn’t know how to answer.

“I mean that,” she said. “The way people talk about women’s beauty like it’s a personality trait. It’s just…it’s depressing. Why should we bother?” She glanced at me quickly. “I mean, not that you’re— Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” I said. Suddenly I desperately wanted to hug her, but instead I grabbed a pillow and pulled it to my chest. “Is the feminism what Dev is always teasing you about?”

She laughed. “Among other things.”

“I don’t think he’s serious.”

“No, he’s not. He just likes being a pain in my ass.”

“And his girlfriend’s, probably,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “What girlfriend?”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought he had one.”

“Dev with a girlfriend?” She laughed. “No, he is, uh, definitely single.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I paused. “So there’s no one you’re interested in? Not even Frank?”

Asha glared at me. “No.”

I smiled. “I guess as a feminist you’re a secret man-hating lesbian, right?”

She looked at me quickly to check whether I was joking. “Funny,” she said.

“Yes.” I paused. “But it’d be totally cool if you were. I didn’t mean—”

“I knew what you meant.”

I put my chin on my hands and batted my eyelashes. “So tell me more about feminism.”

She looked at me again thoughtfully. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. It’s mostly about not shaving, right?”

“Mostly.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Reduces the need to shower. And I like when I can feel the wind through the hair on my legs.”

“Are you interested in feminism or an excuse for questionable personal hygiene?”

I laughed. “Both. So tell me.”

“You’re really interested in this?”

“I really am.” I got up and turned on the light. “By the way, do you want to stay for dinner? My dad cooks. He’s very good.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”