Lie for Me (5 page)

“Is it a panic attack, dear?” Mrs. Lowe's face is now inches from Wick's. “Do you need a paper bag?”

Wick's mouth moves, but nothing comes out. She's still frighteningly pale, and yet there's something about the way her eyes begin to snap into focus—

“Yes, ma'am,” Wick says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. It's so pitiful, and at the same time, her hands have closed into fists. She puts one against her breastbone, rubbing in a tight circle like she's struggling to breathe.

“Yes, I am.” Wick leans ever so slightly away from Lowe. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Do you want to go to the nurse?” our teacher asks.

Wick shoots to her feet, wobbles, and I close my hand around her elbow. The sharp point fits my palm and all I can feel is her heat.

“I'll go with you,” I say.

Wick's light eyes swing to mine and it feels like a punch. This isn't the girl from the parking lot, the girl I've had class with for the past three years. This is something—
someone
else.

She jerks her elbow away. “I'm fine.”

“You look like you're about to faint.”

“I'm fine,” Wick repeats, lifting her chin and glaring at me like she's thinking about setting me on fire. “I just need to go to the nurse's office. She'll know what to do.”

What a liar. I have to stuff down my laugh. Wick was definitely upset earlier, but she's smoothed under the panic. She's playing Lowe now. Why?

Too late to ask. Wick's halfway to the door now, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.

“Will you be joining us for homeroom, Mr. Griffin?” I drag my attention from Wick, realize our teacher is smirking at me.

“Uh, no.”

“Then I would suggest you get going. You don't want to be late for roll call.”

“Right.” I grab my things, cram the pad and pencils into my book bag, and shoot into the hallway, nearly running straight over some freshman.

“Sorry, man—” I extend one hand to pull him off the lockers and realize it isn't a freshman at all. It's Ian Bay, another junior.

“It was my fault,” Ian says. “I wasn't watching.”

I start to remind him that
I
was the one who came charging out of Mrs. Lowe's class, but it's pointless to argue with Ian. He'll just apologize for apologizing.

“I should be more careful. See you around?” I nod at him and realize immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Ian's face goes hopeful, his whole body tensing like a puppy's before you throw the ball. It's kind of fitting since he's one of those kids who're always looking for a friend. Any friend.

“Yeah!” Ian says. “I'll definitely see you around!”

There's a pause like he's waiting for me to say something else, and I don't know, maybe I should. I'm kind of being an ass for looking straight through him. The hallway stinks of sweat and bleach and body spray and I can't stop looking for Wick. She's disappeared into the crowd and I can't see her anywhere.

Too bad I can feel her. My palm remembers the press of her skin.

Screw this. I'm acting like I've never touched another girl, and I have—there's been plenty more than touching too. Of course, there's something about touching
this
girl. There always has been for me.

I turn in the opposite direction of the nurse's office and Ian follows me, bouncing. “Didn't I see you on my street last week?”

“Probably. I mow yards for a bunch of people.”

“That's cool!”

It's not cool, but I don't bother pointing it out.

“I just noticed because I never really see you around anymore,” Ian continues, his smile overreaching his face. “What's up with that?”

“What's
up
” is that a social life kind of interferes with working. I got around a bit last year before things got really bad, but I could never bring anyone back to my place. I never knew what state my mom would be in. Not that I feel like sharing any of this with Ian.

“Lauren Cross is having a party later this week,” he says. “You should come. Let everyone see you again.”

“Can't. I gotta go.” I speed up, leaving Ian behind a cluster of girls. It's a crappy move, but I need space. No, I need to get out of here. It's this freaking school and town and I'm done. I'm getting out of here, and if that means bringing down Wick in the process? Too bad.

6

I get home from school and realize my mom's gone. The bed's not made, but the closet's open and her room smells like hair spray. This is serious progress, and for the second time today, I'm so surprised I stand around gawking.

Did she go to work? Did she
—
wait
. I shoot into the living room, check her closet. Suitcase is still there. I cross to the mustard-yellow bathroom we share. Toothbrush hasn't moved. My stomach goes tight, cold. Then that means . . .

I run back through the kitchen, out the door, hitting the gravel below our steps at a dead run. I swing around the trailer's corner and skid to a stop. No point in going any farther. I can already see the churned-up dirt from here.

Well, at least she hasn't ditched me.

As soon as I think it, I realize how pathetically stupid I sound. She robbed me . . . I mean I think . . . technically. I shuffle to the hole, toe the pile of dirt with my sneaker. It was my money, but both of us know it's not like I'm going to turn her in, and yeah, obviously it would be smarter to keep the money in the bank, but I've been there, done that. She cleaned me out. Until I'm eighteen, Mom has to cosign. Hiding the money usually works better.

Usually.

“Hi, Griff!”

I turn, realize my neighbor Emily is standing on her back porch, watching me. “Oh, hey, Em.”

She smiles. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”
It's effing peachy
. I rub one hand through my hair and Emily's smile goes wider.

“Stressed?” she asks, bracing both forearms on the porch railing and leaning forward so I get an excellent view of her equally excellent cleavage. “I could help with that.”

I drop my hand. Emily and I help each other a lot with “stress.” We've gotten really good at it too. Except I'm too pissed to be in the mood.

“Nah. I'm good. Maybe later?”

Emily rolls her eyes and saunters to a lawn chair, taking her time bending over. Emily's two years older than I am, goes to cosmetology school, and taught me the expression “Don't shit where you eat.” I was confused until I realized it meant she would sleep with me because my life couldn't possibly intersect with hers. Yeah, we're neighbors, but we don't have the same friends and don't do the same parties. It was a bit insulting at the time, but I got over it. Way over it actually.

I sigh and stalk inside, kicking the door closed behind me. Maybe my mom went grocery shopping. God knows we could use it, but that's another stupid thought, one that actually makes me laugh. I gather my dirty laundry and hers; dumping all of it into a basket I can take to the coin Laundromat, and I'm counting quarters I found in the couch when my phone beeps with a text message:

 

You have anything for me?

 

I don't recognize the number, but it isn't hard to figure out who's on the other end: Carson. I have zero idea what to say.

I guess I could tell him how Wick flipped her lid about the Tessa Waye stuff, but it feels like I'm sharing something kind of private, and that's stupid considering I took a job that involved getting into the private details of her life. Besides, if I don't tell him about her wig-out, what am I going to tell him? How I thought Wick's eyes were blue, but they're not?

If my guy card wasn't already on its way to being revoked, that would seal the deal. It's true though. I realize it as soon as I think it. Yeah, her eyes are light-colored, but it's some shade between pale gray and pale blue.

Almost colorless.

If I were to draw them . . . I'm not sure how I'd do it. I scowl, typing a quick reply:

 

nothing to report. she freaked about Tessa Waye's suicide and went to the nurse's office

 

I mash send before I stop myself. This feels weird and it shouldn't. I have never felt bad about any other job before. It's just that: a job. It shouldn't be any different with her.

So why does it feel like it already is?

Another beep. Carson's reply:

 

Get me more

 

I roll my eyes. I would do that
how
exactly? I start to pocket the phone and stop, my thumb curving over the keypad. What if I called her? I have Wick's cell number, got it when we worked on a lab project together. I could text her. Yeah, we're not really friends, but we're more than acquaintances. I could pretend I'm concerned.

It wouldn't really be pretending though, would it?

I dig through my desk until I find the notebook I wrote her number in. Yeah, I keep all my class notebooks. I'd keep all my textbooks if they let me, and yes, I recognize that makes me a loser. There's just something reassuring about being able to run your hands over all the stuff you learned or—in the case of woodworking class—should have learned. It's proof you're moving forward.

I know exactly where Wick's number is: sophomore-year Computer Science. It's at the top of a sheet dated in September. Mrs. Lowe was talking about modeling data. Wick and I had a project together at the time and exchanged numbers.

I copy her cell into my phone, save it. Problem is, the number Wick had for me doesn't match the number to Carson's loaner phone so I have to spend a few minutes on Spoofcard's site, making sure my number will show up right in her Caller ID.

Gives me just enough time to think about what I'm doing and, because part of me feels like I shouldn't do this and because, again, that's hugely stupid, I type:

 

r u ok?

 

And wait.

 

My mom comes
home around nine. She smells like cigarettes and cologne, and even if I hadn't heard Vic's truck in the driveway, I would've known she had been with him.

“Will!” Mom bursts through the door and flings her arms around me. I'm several inches taller than she is now and it's weird to feel her snuggle into my sternum, like nothing fits right anymore.

“I feel so much better,” she says.

“That's good.” I pat her shoulder and tell myself,
Do not ask. Do not ask
.
Do not—
“You were out? With Vic?”

Dammit
.

“Don't be like that.” She stands up straight and glares at me, pushing shaggy hair from her eyes. The strap on her purple sundress has fallen down and she doesn't notice how her bra is hanging out. “You sound like your father.”

No, I don't.
I mean, yeah, I know I shouldn't have asked. I knew it would piss her off, but I didn't sound like Dad. She's just saying that because now she feels guilty, and she should. I might know he's gone for good, but she doesn't and she's drinking with Vic anyway.

Maybe I should have told her the truth . . . no. No way. I can't trust her with it.

I scrub both hands over my face, struggling to wrench myself around. “Mom . . . did you use the emergency money?” She's pacing the kitchen now, moving dirty dishes from one spot on the counter to another. “Mom? Did you use the money to go out with Vic?”

“Sweetheart.” She rounds on me, eyes huge and rolling, and I know. She doesn't even have to answer. I already know what she's going to say. “This
was
an emergency. How else was I supposed to get myself out of bed?”

“We needed that money. I don't have enough to pay the electric bill. We're
behind
. You know that. They're going to cut us off.”

Mom makes a disgusted noise. “So we live by candles for a few days. It'll be romantic.”

“I'm not into romance.”

“
Fine
. I'll make it back in a week. Vic's going to help me find another job.”

I tense. “What kind of job?”

“Waitressing. Better place though.” She takes a cigarette from her crocheted purse, putting it to her lips and pausing as she remembers how much I hate it when she smokes. She stuffs it back in the box. “It'll be so much better than before, Will. I promise. Not like that ridiculous cashier deal—and no Sipkins always staring at me.”

“And mouth-breathing.”

Mom smiles. “I'm going to get my act together. You'll see. It's going to be better. By the time your dad comes home . . .”

She crosses the kitchen, places her palm against my cheek. “I'm so lucky to have you, Will. You make me so much stronger. You're such a good kid.”

It's meant as a compliment. I think I'm supposed to be touched, but mostly I just cringe. We've done this for years. Maybe this was part of the reason he left. I am her Good Son, her “rock,” her “bright spot.” I've been that for so long, I'm not sure who I'd be without it.

What happens if everything you are is what you're pretending to be? What happens if you check underneath the mask you wear for everyone else, you lift it . . . and there's nothing?

She pushes away from me, eyes sticking to the drawings scattered across the table. There are plenty to choose from: Emily and her roommate drinking on their porch . . . the neighbor's Labrador . . . Wolverine from the X-Men . . . but she picks Wick.

“These are beautiful, baby.”

“They're okay.”

She picks up the top sketch and I stiffen, worried she'll recognize the girl, but her attention sweeps to the others. “Remember when we used to paint together, Will? I taught you all your colors.”