Even When You Lie to Me (28 page)

There was a knock at the door. I opened it reluctantly. It was my dad.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said. “Where have you been?”

I pursed my lips. “Lots of places. Are you mad at me?”

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his beard. “You took your mom’s car. And you missed…” He leaned in closer to me. “Have you been drinking?”

I blushed. “A little.”

“And you drove home?”

I blushed more. “Yes.”

He massaged his forehead as if I were physically hurting him. “You realize you’re lucky you didn’t kill someone.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Or get yourself killed.”

I sat down on the toilet lid. “I know,” I said again.

“Or wreck your mom’s car.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“And you won’t do it again,” he said. “Ever.”

“I won’t,” I said. I felt like I was about to cry again. “Am I in trouble?”

“You’re eighteen now, Charlie,” he said. He sounded tired. “I’m not going to punish you.”

“You’re not going to punish me?” I said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He tilted his head to one side. “Do you
want
me to punish you?”

I paused, and then I heaved a breath that hitched into a sob, and then I was crying again. I was sick of crying. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said.

“Oh, kiddo,” he said. He knelt down in front of me and put his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry about this morning. That had to be traumatic.”

I half laughed, half sobbed. “You have no idea.”

“I’ll pay for the therapy if you want,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “I might take you up on that.”

He pulled the end of the toilet paper so it spooled out, more and more of it until it mounded in my lap like whipped cream, until I laughed, and then he delicately dabbed it at my eyes. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you some cake.”

He did show up the next day. I didn’t look at him, so I couldn’t tell whether he was avoiding me too. I’d considered not coming in—it was the day after my birthday and I was entitled to a hangover—but I’d decided to prove how little he and Lila had affected me.

“Uh, right,” he said after the bell rang. “Where did we leave off the day before yesterday?”

“Deciding whether
Persuasion
is crap next to
Pride and Prejudice,
” Asha said.

“Oh, yes, okay,” he said. “I did have a passage I wanted to read out loud to see if I could—pardon the
wordplay—persuade
you, Asha.” He glanced back at his desk. “But I don’t seem to have my copy. Where is…?” He got up—his chair squealed—and started rummaging through his brown leather bag. “Nowhere,” he muttered. I thought of the pile of books on his couch, the ones he’d scattered everywhere so I could sit next to him. Had that been one of them? He ran his hand through his hair. “Can I borrow someone’s copy for a minute?”

I looked down at the book I had, the one my mother had given me. I wished I could hide it, but it was too late now; it stuck out, large and regal, among the tattered used copies everyone else had.

I looked up again. He was watching me, his eyebrows raised, his expression tentative. I nodded slightly.

He moved toward me like he was afraid I’d run if he came over too quickly. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said softly as I held it out by the edge, to make sure our fingers wouldn’t touch.

“Okay,” he said as he walked back to his chair. “I know a lot of you think Austen is just a social comedian, but I think she was more self-aware than you’re giving her credit for. You remember when Anne is arguing with Captain Harville about the nature of men and women?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“All right.” He gently eased open my book and then turned it over, admiring it. “Nice edition,” he said. He flipped to the section he wanted, letting his fingers slide over the pages. “Here it is. Captain Harville is being a blowhard, as usual, and he says, ‘I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps, you will say, these were all written by men.’ ”

A couple of people booed, and Drummond smiled a little without raising his head. “Yes, sure,” he said. “Okay, but listen to Anne’s response. ‘Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.’ ”

The same kids laughed. Everyone was in a good mood that day; it was nearly the weekend and no one could sit still. Drummond glanced at me, and for a second I felt so punishingly lonely that I couldn’t look back.

“Asha,” he said, “what do you think?”

“I think Austen’s talking about her own book,” Asha said. “She wrote her own story.
Persuasion
refutes his argument.”

“I think you have a point,” he said. He paused, still staring down at the book. He flipped through the pages and then put his palm against the cover with his fingers spread out. “All right,” he said eventually, “enough talk. Who wants to watch the movie?” Everyone cheered this time. “Frank, can you set it up?”

The class started chattering as Frank got up. After a minute, I could feel Drummond come over. He slid the book back to me, but he didn’t say anything. I put my hand on the cover where his fingers had been. When I raised my head, he was watching me again. We looked at each other for a long time, and I looked down at the book, and I knew he wasn’t coming back.

The next day, Dr. Crowley announced that he’d had a family emergency and wouldn’t be returning for the rest of the school year.

One weekend I found my mother in her study. I didn’t know what I wanted from her, but I couldn’t stand being alone in my room crying anymore.

“Charlie,” she said when she saw me. “What are you doing in here?”

I sat down on the sofa. “I can’t visit my loving mother just because I want to?” I said.

“You generally don’t, no.” She took off her reading glasses and folded them carefully. “What’s going on?”

I inhaled shakily. “You think I’m pretty, right?”

She got up and sat down next to me. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart. What is this about?”

“I don’t—” My voice cracked. “Do you really think so or are you just saying that because you have to?”

“Because I think so,” she said. “I think if you’d just let me—”

I shook my head. “No, no
qualifications.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You are beautiful. No
qualifications.”

I looked away. I didn’t believe her. She was beautiful herself and had the luxury of bestowing compliments on others, knowing they would be returned. I had to jealously guard every compliment I got and worry it until it was gone.

“What happened?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“So you’re asking me these questions for no particular reason?”

“Yes.”

She put her hand on mine. “I’m not going to pry, but I want you to know I love you no matter what.”

“Even if I did something really bad?”

“Even then.”

“Even if I totaled Dad’s car?”

“You wh—” She stopped when she saw I was smiling. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Sorry,” I said. I got up and wandered around the room, running my fingers over her books. “Did you have a boyfriend in high school?”

“Yes,” she said. “It wasn’t serious, but we dated for a while.”

“Did you have sex with him?”

She looked startled. “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

“Yes, then?”

She smiled a little. “None of your business.”

“We’re a little bit past you pretending that you’ve never had sex.”

I could see her reddening. “Yes, I had sex with my boyfriend,” she said. “Where’s this going? Are you having sex with someone?”

“No,” I said automatically, though my mind flashed back to that night with him, the warm, solid feeling of knowing how much he wanted me. I’d been alone for so long it was hard to think of myself as anything other than chaste.

“Are you pregnant?”

“No! This isn’t…Sorry, I think I need to go to bed.”

“Charlie,” she said. “Please talk to me.”

I sat down. “I just wish…” I had to force the words out. “I just wish I were beautiful.”

I waited for her to try to argue me out of it, but she didn’t.

Finally she said, “It’s not fair.”

Suddenly I was crying. It felt better for her to acknowledge it than it would have for her to reassure me.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s not— They’re good tears,” I said. “Thank you for being honest with me. And for not telling me it’s just as hard being pretty.”

She was silent as I cried. Then she said, “I wish I understood you better.”

I wanted to tell her she did, but we both knew that wasn’t true.

“Thank you for trying,” I said.