Little Black Lies (19 page)

At the doorway, more teachers have gathered and are herding the students down the hall. I slip past them into the laboratory. Once inside, I hear Mr. Oosterhouse whisper to a small redheaded teacher to call 911. He says Dad needs medical care. The teacher nods and shoots out of the room, slamming the door shut, her sturdy pumps making threatening
rat-a-tat-tat
machine-gun sounds as she retreats to the relative normalcy of the hallway.

The thought of paramedics racing in here and shooting Dad up with tranquilizers like some gorilla that's escaped from the zoo, only to strap him to a stretcher and whisk him off for observation at Massachusetts General, is more than I can take.

Mr. Oosterhouse, the only person besides Mrs. Pelletier who knows I exist, looks at me. “Are you his daughter?”

“I'm Sara.”

The kids are gone, along with many of the teachers. I pluck the bottle of bleach solution, Charlie's liquid solace, his pacifier, from the cleaning bucket and push past Mr. Oosterhouse.

Knowing full well it's like giving the alcoholic a beer, I hand the bleach to my father. “Try this.”

His wild eyes focus on me but he says nothing. Just removes the cap, douses his cloth in fluid, and wipes the sink with it. He stands back and watches the sink go from shiny and silver with wetness back to mottled and dusty-looking silver. The sound of the microbes screaming, dying, is nearly audible, and right away I see his jaw slacken and relax. It's the sanitary equivalent of having dug the perfect hole.

The paramedics' walkie-talkies buzz and hum in the hallway like a swarm of killer bees. Mr. Oosterhouse heads to the door to wave them in. As Dad bends over to pack up his things, I check the area for students, then, assured we have a split second to ourselves, I say, “Are you all right?”

He nods.

I want to kiss his bearded cheek more than anything. Smother it with kisses like Mom did to bring him out of the rain. But all I say is, “I'll see you at home, Dad. Okay?”

“Don't worry, Sara. I'm fine.”

Paramedics rush in as I slip out. Dad's calm now. They won't have reason to do anything but ask a few questions and recommend he make an appointment with his dead doctor.

My heart races when I see Leo waiting in the hall. I'd forgotten all about him. It's just like Mandy said, right away I have my answer. His eyes soften when he sees me and a sweet smile spreads across his face. And, I don't know if it's my imagination or just the excitement, but it looks like he might be blushing. He stares at me and mouths the word
Hey
.

I whisper, “Hey.”

I clutch the paper bag behind my back. There's no returning the yoga pants now. Not with the current state of my dad's mental health. His daughter confessing to theft, getting suspended, maybe even expelled, could make him really lose it. All I can do now is lie low. And pray.

Behind Leo are Griff and Willa. Griff asks, “How did you get a backstage pass, London?”

“I just slipped inside to help.”

“But why?” asks Willa.

“Yeah,” says Griff, pulling up his drooping pants. “Is Crazy Charlie your father or something?”

I shoot him a look meant to shut him up. To show him he's the one who's crazy.

This isn't like last time, when Dad's OCD plowed my social life deep into the flower bed on Norma Jean Drive, not to be unearthed and dewormed for a full two years. At least I still had a real family. I still had a real friend. Mandy was willing to stick by me even if it meant eating lunch every day with the kids who made shadow puppets against the radiators.

But nothing is real anymore. My mother is gone. My dad moved me far, far away from my rock, Mandy. And the friends I've replaced her with are cheap imitations. There's not a single, solitary student at Ant who would stand by me if Charlie's OCD showered me in muddy droplets right now. I would be completely alone.

“Well,” giggles Willa. “Is he your dad or what?”

I thought they'd keep Charlie longer. The paramedics. I thought they'd look into his eyes and listen to his pulse and slide a stethoscope under his crisply ironed shirt to hear his heartbeat. I thought they'd ask him to breathe in and breathe out. Make him answer endless questions about his medical past. I thought Dad would say something about vintage ambulances being superior to modern ones and ask them if they've ever considered retrofitting an old vehicle with modern-day lifesaving equipment.

If I thought for one second Dad would be finished with them, walking out of the science lab, and passing behind me—fake friends or no friends—I wouldn't have said it.

“No.” I shake my head as if Griff is the one who has lost his mind. “Charlie is
not
my father.”

My eyes meet Dad's the moment the words have tumbled off the tip of my forked tongue. His face crumples like he's been shot.

When too many things spin out beyond your reach, the human body takes notice. Only, instead of pumping evenly timed doses of soothing serotonin, warmed up like a baby's bottle, through your veins to modulate your mood and leave you clear-headed enough to battle your way out of your problems, your body declares mutiny by hammering on your nerves and making your breath reedy and shallow. This has the cumulative effect of leaving you with a sick stomach, tingling fingertips, and a perpetual feeling of faintness.

It's a case of life imitating art. Rascal killed the old pawnbroker to make the world a better place. But her innocent, underappreciated cleaning-lady sister walked in and he offed her in the process. What I've done is no different. I thought I was killing off the OCD. Saving myself from a lonely existence. Making the world—okay,
my
world—a better place. But I axed my father's soul in the process.

I don't know how to make it up to him. How do you bring someone you've murdered back to life? Once you've stepped on an ant, just because you could, there's no going back. You've done what you've done and you simply have to live with it. No amount of apologizing will erase it.

I've told Charlie I'm sorry. I've told him I love him. I know it sounded tinny and false when I said I was proud of him, but I am. He's handling our broken situation as best he can. He's doing the best he knows how. And in some screwed-up way, his worsening OCD is part of that. He's been trying to scrub our lives clean.

His reaction?
I love you, Sara. I understand, Sara. Now don't stay up too late, Sara
.

If he'd yelled at me, if he'd grounded me—if he'd disowned me, even—it would have been easier to take. But this. This absolute acceptance. It's making me sadder than sad.

The school handled it amazingly well. Mr. Oosterhouse met with him in private. Asked Dad about his stress levels. Suggested Dad consider a leave of absence to give himself time to unwind; after all, he's had the big move and the change in schools. The principal doesn't even know about the biggest stressor of all: Mom. Mr. Oosterhouse even went so far as to give him the card of a board-approved doctor, an actual
live
doctor, to help him.

The Antmasters, they aren't so bad. Think about it—they could have fired him after an episode like that. For all they know, he could get violent. But Charlie is Charlie. To know him is to want to protect him, and Mr. Oosterhouse wants to help.

The thing is, aside from this whoopsie, Dad's been good for the school. People always say the place has never looked so good. Mr. Oosterhouse knows it. Plus the staff has grown to like Dad. And what's not to like? He's a good man.

If he takes the leave of absence, he'll still be paid. Union rules. But while spending his days at home relaxing might be good for my father in terms of resting and coming to terms with his new life, it would probably end in another unnecessary cleaning frenzy in the apartment. So when Dad refused the paid leave, I didn't argue. He did, however, put the doctor's card in his pocket and, later, tack it to our bulletin board in the kitchen. Whether he plans to call or just took it out of politeness, I don't know.

I didn't sleep Monday night because there was a terrible storm, heavy wind that tore huge branches from trees and set off more than a few car alarms. So by the time Dad calls out that it's time to go, I'm still pulling on my uniform and I tell him to leave without me.

With cleanup crews gathering fallen tree limbs all over the city, traffic is terrible. Once the bus pulls up to my stop, an elderly couple, clearly from out of town, begin arguing with the driver because he can't change a twenty, blocking my path down to the front stairwell. There doesn't appear to be an immediate solution beyond the old man stuffing twenty dollars into the fare box, so I dig through my pockets and slide three dollars into the box for them. They seem shocked and touched that a young person mustered up a little generosity and selflessness, and the woman touches my shoulder as I pass, saying, “What a sweet girl.”

If only she knew.

The twenty gives me a great idea that might just help me feel I've regained some shred of control over my life. As I shuffle toward the school, I reach into my backpack for my plane ticket, wandering closer to the street, where early-morning traffic is whizzing by. The wind hasn't fully died down from last night and if I time it well, I should get a nice tailwind in the wake of the next passing bus.

It's not long before a city bus comes roaring down Charles. I hold the ticket out toward the road and wait until it starts to kick and flap like Carling's twenty-dollar bill in the T. I open my fingers and watch the ticket dart up toward the sky, then cartwheel back to earth over the street, where it gets ripped beyond recognition under the wheels of dozens of passing cars.

I trot up the school steps toward the front doors to find Isabella leaning against the chipped railing, arms folded across her chest. She looks me up and down. “Hey, London.”

“Hey.”

“Are you okay? You look tired.”

“I'm fine.”

“I hope you don't have that flu bug. I hear it can be nasty.”

“What do you want, Isabella?”

She feigns shock. “What a question. Can't a good friend be concerned for your health?”

“Not if she's you.”

“See, now I'm hurt. And all I want to know is why you look so terrible.”

“Long story.” I turn away. “We'd better head inside.”

She steps in front of me, thrusting out one bony hip. “You're full of long stories, aren't you? In fact, I'm pretty certain you've been telling us a whole pack of lies.” She leans closer and lowers her tinkly voice. “Is that true, London?”

“Actually, the bell's about to ring and—” I step back and she pulls me close again.

“That bell can ring and ring and ring. But if I were you, I'd listen.”

I can't breathe. I suck in air but somewhere between my lips and my windpipe, it seems to vanish.

“Your father is not a brain surgeon, is he? Not unless tying the trash bags into seven thousand knots is called surgery. Your dad is the crazy new janitor. I saw you with him in the science lab.”

“Just because I helped another human being doesn't mean—”

“Does ‘I'll see you at home, Dad, okay?' sound familiar to you? I'm surprised you didn't ask for an increase in your allowance.”

“But how did you—?”

“I was at the restroom door across the hall. Did you know it has a perfect view into the science lab? It's like being front-row center at the Old Vic Theatre in London. But then, you wouldn't know that. You're not from London either, are you, Saint Sarah?”

It's as if I've been painted over with cement. Concrete. I can't move a single body part other than my eyelids, which are blinking with panic. Finally I dislodge my mouth, knocking flakes of dried-up concrete to the ground, and whisper, “Please don't say anything, Izz.”

“Now you're asking
me
to lie?”

“No. Yes. Please.”

She narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “There is one thing you can do for me that might convince me to keep quiet.”

“What? I'll do anything, I swear.”

“Does your dad have keys to every room in the school?”

I think back to the huge key ring he stuffed into his pocket the first day of school. “I guess.”

“Take them.”

“What?”

“Take the keys, break into the office, and steal a copy of the calculus test for Carling. I'm going to give it to her to save her grade.”

“I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can. Just wait until no one's around. Sniff around the file cabinets in the principal's office and take it. It'll be
our
little secret. Carling will think I did it for her.”

So that's what this is about. Isabella likes Carling completely dependent on her. It's the only way she feels secure.

I know exactly where the tests are, and they're not in the principal's office. They're in that tall wooden filing cabinet in the storage room—the one I caught my mother's sweater on when I was raiding the Lost and Found with Mrs. Pelletier on my first day of school. The keyholes stand out in my memory. I remember they were so tiny I couldn't imagine a key small enough to fit. “I don't know. What if I get caught?”

Izz starts to walk away. “Never mind, then. I
must
go find Carling and Sloane. And Willa and Griff. Ooh, and the lovely Leo. We all have so much to talk about.”

I grab her sleeve. “No, wait!” I swallow the acid that's bubbling up into my mouth. “I'll do it.”

The door closes behind her and I'm alone outside, just me and what's left of the windstorm, small bits of garbage and crushed leaves swirling around my feet.

It's Monday morning and on my bed is the smallest key from Dad's key ring. It's been nearly a week since Isabella stopped me on the steps. She's given me the evil eye ever since, but I had to wait for a safe time to go through Dad's key ring. During the week, the keys stayed hidden in the pocket of his Anton jacket, which hung in his closet at night. But on the weekend, he emptied his pockets and left the contents just lying there on the hall table for anyone to see. I went through the key ring during my two a.m. study break Saturday night. Or, rather, Sunday morning. No other key seemed old enough, tarnished enough, or small enough to fit, and I'm praying I've got the right one. All I need now is about five minutes alone in the Lost and Found.

Standing in front of my mirror, rubbing granules of sleep out of my eyes and dressed in the same underpants and neon yellow Dubble Bubble T-shirt I wore to bed, I call out to Charlie to say I can't find my English essay, to go ahead without me. He tells me to have a nice day, then the front door thumps shut.

I pull on my kneesocks, then my plaid skirt, which seems to have shrunk from Dad taking it to the dry cleaner. It's hard to suck in a really good breath when your abdomen is being crushed, and today I need the O
²
. Which is when it hits me. The only real way to be alone in the Lost and Found closet.

Unhooking the waistband, I let my skirt drop to the ground, peel off the socks, and kick my little clump of Ant armor under the bed. Out of sight. My old jeans are hanging on the back of my chair. I pull them on, stuff bare feet into my battered red Docs, slip the key into my pocket, and head out the door.

Stomping through the foyer of the school, I'm nothing but a crumpled piece of neon flotsam being swept along in the wave of woolen vests and tartan skirts and tailored trousers streaming toward their homerooms. From every direction, kids are staring at my T-shirt and boots, nudging their friends, snickering. I couldn't stand out more if I had a strobe light strapped to my forehead.

I couldn't care less.

Just before I'm sucked down by the undertow of the navy-vested workday that exists inside these walls, I fight my way to the edge and slip through the office doors.

“Sara Black,” says Mrs. Pelletier, catching my eye and crossing the room to rest her impressive bosom against the counter. A thin gold cross lies on the pillowy shelf. Leaning forward, she whispers, “How's your father?”

“He's doing better. Thanks.”

“Good.” She smiles and pats the back of my hand, raising an eyebrow at the sight of my outfit. “You have your schedule mixed up, my dear. Grub Day's not for another three weeks.”

“I don't know what I was thinking.”

She glances up at the clock. “You can't go to class that way or you'll be given a demerit point. And if you go home to change, you'll miss first period entirely.”

“Actually, I was kind of hoping I could dig through the Lost and Found real quick. I have Honors Math first period with Mr. Curtis.”

“Ah, Mr. Curtis.” She smiles, nodding her understanding. “Say no more. Your big test is coming up.”

“Exactly.”

She motions for me to come around the counter and follow her in the direction of the storage closet … and Mr. Curtis's exam. I don't know if it's her kind eyes, the cross, or her motherly bosom, but as I follow her into the storage room, I'm suddenly exhausted. I want to drop, wrap my arms around her, and confess to the growing list of lies I've told and crimes I've committed that are now threatening to swallow me whole. She opens the doors to the cupboard and starts going through the row of ties hanging from a small rod. “Now, let's start with the tie. Maybe we can find you one that looks brand-new.”

The way she's so nice to me, the way she thinks I'm a good person, it makes me sad.

I reach for a tie. “It's okay. I can dig through these and find one. I like my ties a certain way—worn out enough that they aren't stiff, but not so soft they're floppy. Pretty weird, huh?”

She turns around and sets her hands on her round hips. “Not really. I'm that picky about gloves. I can't stand when they're brand-new.” Walking toward the door, she says, “Go ahead, dear. But don't take too long or you'll be late for class.”

And, just like that, it's me, a few hundred cartons of message pads and copier paper, a rack of used clothing, and the old wooden filing cabinet. As quietly as I can, I pull out the tiny key and hold my breath as I try to insert it into the lock on the top drawer.

It fits.