Lie for Me (3 page)

“Well, she doesn't need to,” Mom snaps, her eyes going flat. “She doesn't even know what's going on unless
you
told her. Did you? Because people get
tired
, Griff. It happens especially when you work the kind of hours I do.”

I sigh. I shouldn't because it only cranks her higher, but I can't help it. “No, I didn't tell her anything about you.”

“Then how would she know?”

“Because you haven't shown up to work? She helped you get that job. You didn't think someone would call her when they fired you?”

“I'm not
fired
!” Mom's fist smacks into the Formica counter, making the dirty dishes rattle. “I'll explain everything when I'm well enough to go in. It'll be okay. I'm just tired. I'll make them understand.”

This time, I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut. We glare at each other until she sags, bottom lip poking low.

“You're supposed to be my bright spot in the day,” Mom says. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I'm not looking at you like anything.”

“Yes, you are. Christ, you're so like
him
, you know that? You and your damn father. You're just alike. You want that smiling mommy, don't you? That's the mommy you love not . . . not . . .”

Not the one I have
. I focus on my sneakers, but it doesn't stop me from hearing how she's banging dishes around now, sniffling. She's wrong . . . and she's right.

I can't take her when she's like this. I used to be better, but then again, she used to be better too. Her episodes were further apart. Now that Dad's left . . .

She wheels on me. “You know what? If you're so worried about work maybe you should get a job.”

“I have a couple of jobs. You know that.”

“I mean a real job, not that part-time crap.”

“I'm not dropping out of school.”

“Then find some other way to pull your weight, because we're behind again. They're going to shut off the power.”

How—I shake my head. I don't want to know what she did with the money, because I already know how I'll fix it: Ben's job. Forget the prepping. Forget the research. I'll just force my way through.

Mom's sniffling climbs into sobbing and I push away from the table, taking the cordless phone with me. Outside, I dial Ben's cell and when he answers, I swallow hard, closing my eyes against the sound of glass shattering.

“Yeah?” my cousin answers.

“It's me.” I put my back to the trailer door and watch the guy across my street settle into his lawn chair, twelve-pack next to him. He'll be swinging at anyone who moves in two hours. The cops will be called in three.

I rub my temples, but the dull ache won't go away. “Pick me up tomorrow. Let's get this done.”

3

I spend lunch the next day sitting on someone's truck tailgate, sketching how my Spanish teacher's hand looked as she passed us homework assignments. Generally, I hate almost everything I draw, but this isn't too bad. The shading's pretty spot-on and the dips and bumps of her bones are my best yet. It might be worth keeping for my portfolio. I'm just about to start Mrs. Ramirez's sleeve when I hear a scuff against the pavement.

I jerk, sliding off the tailgate, ready to run. If it's Principal Matthews, I'm hosed. We're not supposed to be out here between classes, and this will make the third time I've been caught. It'll be in-school suspension for sure.

Four rows over, a head of sky-blue hair flashes between the cars.

I go still. It's not Matthews. It's Wick.

I'm not so lame that she slows down my world. This isn't a shampoo commercial where Wick's hair blows in the breeze and I trip over myself, but yeah, I'm totally straining for another look at her.

Where's she going?
I toss my pad and pencil into my bag. Now would be the time to hoof it inside the school but my feet are pasted to the pavement, which is, honestly, a bit of a habit when it comes to that girl.

That makes me sound pathetic and creepy, but I'm not a total loser. Wick and I have talked before. It was mostly about our classes, but I keep trying anyway. Now probably isn't the best time to ask her about the weather though. Wick seems deep in thought. Her head swivels from side to side . . . she pauses . . . and then makes a hard right, heading straight for Matthew Bradford's red Mustang.

Well, this is going to be interesting.

I lean against someone's puke-green minivan, watching Wick through the tinted windows. She stands next to the Mustang for a few seconds and then, suddenly, drops out of sight.

What the
— There's a low pop and Wick jumps into view again, a soft hissing noise following her. I blink, unable to believe what I'm seeing. Wick just slashed Matthew Bradford's tires.

I can barely cram down the laugh.

She glances around, double-checking that she's still alone, and hightails it back through the parking lot. Not fast enough to look guilty. Not slow enough to get caught. Confident.

I pass one hand over my mouth. Man, there's something about the way that girl shoves up her chin and tosses her hair that just . . . kills me.

I toss on my backpack and make my way slowly down the aisle, not stopping at Bradford's car until Wick's inside the school again.

Sure enough, the tire's ruined. She made a quick puncture and tear. There's no way Fix-A-Flat or whatever is going to plug it. The tire'll have to be replaced.

I smile. Couldn't happen to a nicer person too. Matthew Bradford is an asshole. There's no better way to describe it. He loves Ed Hardy T-shirts, kicking around smaller people . . . and tossing Wick's lunch into the school fountain.

My eyes flick to the double doors Wick disappeared through. I'd heard Bradford did it again this morning. That makes how many times now? I've lost count.

Guess she decided to get even. Interesting. I know a lot of girls, and none of them have ever been into payback. The realization that Wick is . . . well, it makes my chest go all warm.

I walk around the Mustang's side, drop to one knee, and use the X-Acto knife I have for art class on the opposite tire.

There. I stand, examine my work.
Now
Wick and Bradford are even.

 

Ben picks me
up after school. I usually don't go down to the police station to get new work assignments, but my cousin says the guy wants to meet me in person. Technically Ben's off duty, and he explains the drop-in to his coworkers by saying I want to join some community outreach program. It's not a bad excuse until I have to follow Ben through the bull pen, all the officers slapping me on the back like I'm five years old.

If one of them asks me if I want to sit in his police cruiser while he turns on the siren, I'm out of here.

“His office is this way,” Ben says, motioning toward a narrow hallway, dotted with brown filing boxes. We're nearly to the end when my cousin opens one of the doors, leans against the frame.

“Hey, Carson, you have a minute?” he asks.

There's no response, but Ben walks in anyway, so I follow him. The office is almost as small as my bedroom. There's a single filing cabinet, a desk, a computer that looks older than I am, and a thin, brown-haired guy sitting behind it.

“Carson,” Ben says, “this is my cousin Griff. Griff, this is Detective Carson.”

“Nice to meet you.” I push one hand forward and Carson shakes it, gripping harder than necessary. Tool.

“I've heard good things about you,” he says.

“They're all true too.” Ben shuts the door behind us and hovers next to me. “Griff's great with computers and he can talk his way into anything.”

I stiffen. Talk my way into “anything”? That's not exactly a great character reference, but what should Ben say instead? “Here's my cousin and thanks to his mom he really needs the cash”? That's not exactly glowing either. Still, my brain keeps hanging on to Ben's description. The only reason my cousin would bring that up is if the job isn't strictly the “computer thing” like he billed it.

“So what do you need?” I ask.

Carson settles into his desk chair. “Someone to infiltrate a possible credit card scam. We've heard through a couple of sources that the group is looking for an additional hacker. I want you to be that guy, make yourself useful to the leaders, and report everything to me.”

“Who're the leaders?”

“Joe Bender and Michael Tate.”

Everything inside me sinks two inches. They don't need my skills. They need my connections.

Joe Bender and Michael Tate are from my neighborhood. Everyone knows they're thugs. Everyone's afraid of them.

Including me.

I glance at Ben, but he won't meet my eyes. I kind of hate him for it. It's one thing to say you need my skill set. It's another to need my background—especially when he bad-mouths that background whenever he can.

If Bender and Tate are looking for a hacker, there's no way they'd trust an outsider. It makes me a great pick. I'm not here because I'm “good.” I'm here because I live minutes from Bender's place.

“Can you get in with them?” Carson asks.

Probably. I pretend to be really fixated on the detective's desk. No family pictures. No stupid figurines or knick-knacks. It's nothing more than papers. Work. I get that.

Can I get in with Bender and Tate isn't the question. The question is . . . do I want to? Yeah, I need the money, but these guys are seriously scary. I don't want to be the kind of person they'd want.

“I think you could do it, Griff.” Ben clears his throat once, twice. His eyes keep cutting to Carson. “Your uncle's been bragging about you.”

Ah, that means Paul. My dad's brother. He followed us here shortly after we moved; set himself up in a trailer two doors down from ours. Paul's not exactly an upstanding citizen. He deals weed for a living and sometimes does jobs with my dad.

“We've heard it through a couple sources,” Ben continues. “He says Bender's interested.”

I study my cousin, spinning his tone around in my mind. Ben's pushing this awfully hard. Is he trying to impress Carson? It feels like it. I know what he's talking about though. I noticed the same thing. Bender showed up at my high school a few weeks ago. I had no idea why he was there. Paul was picking me up at the time, and the two of them started talking.

It's kind of funny actually. Paul's the one who would really want to get closer to Bender and Tate. Since he's a small-time dealer, a connection to them could help my uncle move up in the world. I've stayed away from all that, or at least I have until now.

“What if you asked Bender for some work?” my cousin asks, and again, there's that hopefulness wiggling under his cool.

He needs this.
For a second, I feel pretty good about that. I'm paying him back for all those canned beans and casseroles. Then I remember how I need it too
.
If I want a new life, I need to graduate, go to art school, get a real job, and get my mom out of here.

The gap between what I am and what I want to be seems enormous, but maybe this could be a step to close it.

“Yeah, fine.” I look at Carson. “I'll ask around, but I can't guarantee anything and you'll have to pay me—no matter what Bender says.”

Carson shrugs. “Fair enough.” He swivels his attention to Ben. “So he knows about . . . ?”

My cousin nods once and I stiffen. Carson wants to know if I know about my dad. “Yeah,” I say. “He showed me.”

“Good.” The detective leans sideways to open the filing cabinet. “We can use that. From now on, your occasional presence here will be explained by saying you're answering our questions about your missing dad, got it? It's a good cover.”

Cover. Jesus
. I scrub one hand over my mouth, not sure if I'm hiding a smirk or a grimace. They make it sound like we're in a spy novel. Like what happened with my dad is useful and not . . . my stomach wads up. I drop my hand. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“I can't give you copies of the case files, but you can look through what I have.” Carson pushes a folder across his desk. Some black-and-white photos slide out and I guess I'm expecting some scary-looking dude because, for a few seconds, I stare at the top picture, unable to bend my brain around what I'm seeing. It isn't a guy at all.

It's Wick.

4

I tap my finger against Wick's face. In the picture, she's smiling, attention focused on some younger blond girl as they walk away from the local middle school. I've never seen her look so soft.

“What's Wick got to do with this?” I lift my eyes to Carson, but all I can think about is the girl who jacked up Bradford's front tire, the one who doesn't get mad, she gets even. I'm confused . . . but there's something else under the confusion too . . . something tight, irritated. I just can't seem to name it.

Carson smiles like I am his favorite student. “We suspect she's been aiding her father. There's no way Tate's been able to stay hidden for this long without help. I want to bring down the whole ring, including her.”

My chest pinches. “How do you know she's even involved?”

“Hunch.” The detective's smile goes thin, almost lipless. “How do
you
know her?”

“Same neighborhood. Same school.” Which is a shorthand way of saying I know Wick the same way everyone knows each other around here. Peachtree City's not exactly a big town, but even if I didn't live a few minutes away from her, I'd still know Wick from all the rumors.

First it was because her mother jumped to her death. Then it was because Michael Tate escaped the cops. For a while, it was because she was my neighbor and everyone in our neighborhood knows everyone else, but, when Wick went into foster care, they moved her.