Seven Ways We Lie (19 page)

“That isn't what I said,” he squeaks, his ears flushing bright
red. “All I ‘detest' is when people are boring, hypocritical, and self-serving. Which seems to be a disproportionately high percent of the population. So—so there.”

I hold the question inside for a long second, but in the end, it trips off my tongue: “Does that include me?”

He stares at his knees for a long minute before mumbling, “We'll see.”

That he doesn't hate me yet is a tiny admission, one that makes me feel weirdly proud. I smile wide, fold my hands behind my head, and lean back on the hill with a contented sigh.

Valentine shoots me a look. His gaze is a laser-sharp ray, aimed down at me. He's as narrow as a reed, and if I had to guess, barely five foot five. But with me lying here, and with the power of his colorless, unreadable eyes, he towers like a Titan.

When he looks away, he's just a kid again. “You know, you're interesting.”

“You say that like it's a surprise.”

“It
is
a surprise. This doesn't really happen, ever, but I am interested by you.” He thinks for a second and then says, “So you can cross that off your to-do list, I suppose.”

I grin, grabbing and throwing my journal at him, and he lets out a startled laugh, snatching the book out of the air. In retort, he throws it at my face. I don't dodge fast enough. It smacks me right in the head, stars burst in my vision, and he yelps, “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

As the world comes back into sight, the mixture of horror and alarm on Valentine's face emerges, and it's the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. I lean back on the grass and howl with laughter.
After a second, he starts laughing, too—nervously at first, then with something like relief. The clear sound fills up the air like light. Our laughter echoes off the brick face of the west wing. Off those rosebushes pruned and shivering in the shade. Off that vast bowl of the Kansas sky.

I ALWAYS HEAR PEOPLE COMPLAINING ABOUT MONDAYS,
but Tuesday is the true evil of the week. You still have the whole week ahead, and you're already exhausted. During the dragging haze of fifth-period English on Tuesday, I'm so worn down, all I can do is write my first-act monologue on my desk, lazily drawing the words.

You tell me, “Don't be ungrateful, Faina. Don't be loud, Faina; don't question, Faina; don't ask for a thing, Faina! Don't say a word, Faina!” Am I not allowed to speak, to ask? To grasp for more? Am I not allowed to yearn, to live, as my life trickles down like a bead of honey from a comb—it will fall soon, Father, don't you see?

“Kat?” says Mr. García.

I flatten my hand over the writing. “Uh, what?” I try not to feel twenty-five pairs of eyes fixing on me.

“Prospero. Any idea what he might symbolize?”

Shit.
The Tempest
. Definitely didn't read it. “Does it matter?” I say instinctively.

“Ha. Interesting question,” García says, resting his yardstick on his shoulder. “Does symbolism matter?”

He pauses for an overlong moment, as if he's legitimately wondering
whether it doesn't matter and his whole job is a lie. Then he says, “Here's the thing. When we look at symbols, we're playing God. Symbolism gives us a bigger picture than just actions and events. That lens organizes stories and gives them resonance; it adds an order we never see in the chaos of the real world. As for
The Tempest
, symbolism matters especially with Prospero, who's often read as . . .” He writes across the chalkboard, his handwriting freakishly close to Times New Roman. “Shakespeare's mirror, guys. A shameless self-insertion, basically.”

He puts down the chalk and carefully brushes white dust off his jacket. “So, let's turn to page thirty-six in the text . . .”

I go back to writing on my desk.

When the bell rings, García says, “Kat, could I see you for a second?”

The rest of the students mutter and snicker to one another. I shove through to the front, ignoring them. “Yeah?” I say, stopping before García's desk as people file out.

“What class do you have next?” he asks, sitting down.

“Nothing. Free period.”

“Great, that's great. Want to sit down?”

“Not . . . particularly?” I glance at the door. The last person out shuts it with a click.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wanted to ask if you're doing okay.”

“Why would I not be okay?”

He shrugs. “There are lots of reasons you could be not okay, from personal issues to a problem with this class, which could explain why you haven't turned in an assignment for three weeks now.”

Ah. So it's about that. He could've just said so.

“So I'm failing, huh?” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, first of all, start coming to class regularly,” he says. I'm surprised he hasn't brought it up before now. García has this militant attendance policy for himself—he says that as long as one student shows up, he owes it to us to be there to teach, no exceptions.

It's actually sort of gross. He was sick for maybe half of September and still didn't miss class. Though, to be fair, he didn't get anyone else sick. Probably because, in true germophobe fashion, he has, like, twelve things of hand sanitizer lined up on his desk.

He opens one of his drawers, thumbs through several binders with color-coded tabs, and unclips a sheet of paper. “I've got a makeup assignment here,” he says, handing me the sheet. “An essay on
The Tempest
. It'll turn your last two zeroes into fifties. Won't exactly get you an A, but it'll help.”

I stuff the page into my backpack, looking at García skeptically. He has to know I haven't read this play. He can't be that idealistic.

He doesn't say anything, so I assume we're done. I half turn, but he says, “Kat, wait.”

I stop. “What?”

“I was serious, you know, asking if you were okay.” He folds his hands. “This isn't just about the class. It's barely November; the course is graded year-long. You can get your grade up by May. I know you can.”

Not the way you grade things
, I want to say. The last essay I got back from the guy looked as if it took a bath in red ink.

“I'm serious,” he says. “We've got a lot of grades between now and then. You stay on top of things, do that makeup work, and you'll be fine. That's not what I'm worried about.”

“So . . .”

“It's that alongside your missing assignments and—today excepted—your lack of class participation, I haven't seen you smile or laugh or even talk to anyone in weeks. Here or at rehearsal.”

The accusation jolts me. “Um, okay, have you been keeping notes or something?” I say, knowing how defensive I sound. “What does it matter to you if I'm smiling? Am I, like, obliged to be happy?”

“No, of course not. But if there's anything I can do to—”

“Can you please stop?” I make an exasperated motion. My backpack slips off my shoulder and smacks the tile. “Why is everyone so obsessed with evaluating me?”

García's heavy eyebrows rise. My head pounds. It's quiet.

It sinks in fast: I just yelled at a teacher. As my voice fades from the air, my instinct is to run, but my feet are iron, soldered to the floor. “I'm sorry,” I say hoarsely. “I shouldn't have—”

García raises his hand, and I fall quiet. He wipes the chalk dust off his palms with a healthy glob of hand sanitizer. “May I say something?”

“Free country,” I mumble.

“You're, what, sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen. Okay.” He nods toward a desk in the front row. “Want to sit?”

I sit, looking down at my hands. They're green-white in the fluorescent light.

He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “So, Kat—and I'm not saying this is the case for you, but the main thing I remember from being your age was feeling trapped. There
was so much I was ready to do. Move out, drive off, live alone.”

What he's saying feels familiar, which is strange, since I hardly ever think about getting out of Paloma. It takes too much energy to want things like that, to think about the future as less than impossibly far away.

“They'll let you go soon,” he says. “It's less than two years before you're through with Paloma High. And in the meantime . . . well, I'm not telling you to keep your chin up and put on a smile. I'm just saying, you've got a million possible futures waiting ahead. Maybe for now, you should focus on imagining what they might look like.”

My lips quiver. Then desperate words elbow their way out. “How am I supposed to focus on years from now? Half the time I barely have enough energy to hold on one more day.”

“So hold on one more day,” he says. “That's all you need, is to wake up and say,
one more
. And once you make it through, you wake up the next morning, and you say it again.
One more
. You hold on for enough one-more-days, they'll turn into months and years, and before you know it, you'll have met so many wonderful people and discovered a million hidden things. All one day at a time.”

Without his glasses, García's eyes are so dark, so compassionate, it hurts to look at him. The conviction in his voice stirs something thick and forgotten in my chest.
How can you promise that?
I want to yell, but I don't allow myself another outburst.

“I just scare people off,” I say quietly.

“Really?” García says. “Hate to break it to you, but the cast thinks you're cool.”

“They what?”

“Emily was telling me after rehearsal the other day that you
inspire her. She's only a freshman, you know—she looks up to you.”

I nearly laugh. Kind, quiet Emily thinks
I'm
something to look up to? How does that make sense? “It's a matter of time,” I say. “Some people might want to try talking to me or whatever, but they'll realize I'm not worth it eventually.”

“Why do you think that?”

I open my mouth to tell him how Olivia and I have grown apart, but I stop. It wasn't that Olivia called it quits—I'm the one who's gotten sick of people. Not her. Ever since Mom left . . .

That's it, I guess. She's the one who didn't think I was worth it. A cold, familiar hand presses down on my chest, just as painful after two and a half years.
You're someone even a mother couldn't love
.

I look up at García. I've been quiet a long time. “I don't know why I think that—I just do.”

“Kat,” he says, his voice soft, “you do not deserve to be lonely.”

I grip the sides of the plastic chair so tightly, it hurts.

García studies me for a second, leans back, and puts his glasses on again. A long minute passes. Eventually, I pry myself from my seat, lift my backpack, and go for the door. In the threshold, I glance over my shoulder.

“I'll see you at rehearsal,” he says.

“Yeah.” I hardly hear the word drip from my lips.

My feet wander. They take me down the hall. I find myself out in the courtyard, dazed, standing in the beating sun and the icy wind.

Standing there, I feel overwhelmingly alive.

AT THE END OF LUNCH ON THURSDAY, I HUSTLE INTO
Mr. García's room ten minutes early to set up for our presentation.

Matt's already moving desks into clusters for stations. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I close the door. “Where's García?”

“He had to go to some staff meeting.” Matt maneuvers the last desk into place, and he sets up a card that reads,
Treachery: Ninth Circle
.

“What for?” I say, thumbtacking our poster above the chalkboard.

“Apparently they're going to start interviewing teachers next, which . . .”

“Doesn't really make sense,” I finish. “What does Turner expect them to do, turn themselves in because they're getting asked a few questions?”