Seven Ways We Lie (2 page)

I fold my arms, glancing around. The expressions in the sea of faces vary: shock, nervousness, and excitement. Normally I might wonder why anyone would get excited about a teacher-student sex scandal, but hey, even rumors of regular sex get our delightful peer group stirred up.

Turner brushes sweat off her forehead—apparently, even she isn't impervious to the heat—and glances back down at her notes. “Unsubstantiated allegations like these are worrisome, but they serve as an important reminder that the student body's safety is
our first priority. We've called this assembly to reiterate our code of conduct and ensure a safe learning environment. I've asked Mr. García to prepare a brief presentation on how to handle unwanted sexual advances.”

Turner nods toward the wings. Our English teacher, Mr. García, wheels out an overhead projector and slides a transparency sheet onto it, a nice little throwback to the mid-1990s. García's whole vintage obsession turns from quirky to exasperating whenever technology's involved. Seriously, who gets nostalgic for overhead projectors?

As Turner exits the stage, García launches into a lecture. The longer he talks, the less sense any of it makes. I've seen shit like this on the news, but it always seems to be a crazy gym teacher and a pregnant fifteen-year-old. The idea of our gym teachers impregnating anyone makes me want to throw up—they're both, like, sixty-five. It makes even less sense to look at it from the kid's perspective. What person my age would get themselves into this? Wouldn't they realize how life-ruining it would be if their name got out?

There are a few teachers young enough for a hookup not to be
that
gross. I always catch guys drooling over the econ teacher, Dr. Meyers, who's short and curvy and in her mid-twenties. The calculus teacher, Mr. Andrews, is handsome in a super pale, vampire sort of way. And Mr. García's definitely hot. Not my type, though. With the way he gets all swoony when he talks about Mercutio, I'm ninety percent sure he's gay.

God, though, I can't imagine any of them hitting on a student. Sometimes girls make eyes at Andrews or García, but if the teachers
notice, they don't let on. As for Dr. Meyers, she sent some kid to the office last year for saying she looked “real sexy today, Doc.” Points for her.

Half an hour later, the Powers That Be release us from the brick oven of the auditorium into the November afternoon. The chill air tastes crisp. As the sun's harsh glare assaults my eyes, part of me feels as if the assembly weren't real. A heat hallucination, maybe. Juniper and I head down the hill toward the junior lot. She seems just as dazed.

A voice jolts us out of our stupor. “Hey, guys!”

We stop at the edge of the parking lot, a few paces from Juniper's Mercedes. Claire jogs up to us, her frizzy red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail for tennis practice. She elbows me. “Missed you at the assembly, lady.”

“I looked for you—promise,” I say. “Couldn't see you. There were, like, you know, a thousand people in there.”

“True.” She clears her throat. “Where are you guys going?”

Shit
. That expectant tone means I've forgotten something. “Um,” I say, shooting Juniper a frantic look. “To, uh . . .”

“Nowhere,” Juniper says. “Dropping off our stuff before the meeting.”

Right—student government. Juniper and I both promised Claire we'd run for junior class president, so she had at least two people guaranteed to be on the ballot.

I have a million problems with this, none of which I've voiced, since Claire's so rabid about the whole thing. But Juniper and me running against each other is a hilarious farce of an idea. Juni could ask the whole school to jump off a bridge, and they'd be like, “Brilliant! Why didn't we think of it sooner?”

Juni unlocks her car, and we sling our bags into the backseat. The three of us head across the green. Ahead, at the end of the long stretch of grass, Paloma High School's main building looms above us like an architectural Frankenstein. They renovated the east wing two years ago. It's three stories of glimmering plate glass and steel beams now. The west wing—brick, weathered, sixty years old—hangs off the new section like an unfortunate growth.

We cross the entire green before anyone speaks. “So, that assembly,” I say, opening the door to the east wing.

“Yeah,” Claire says. “Girl, dat shit be cray.”

I wince. “Yeesh, please don't—you are whiter than Moby-Dick.”

Juniper laughs, and Claire flushes, flicking a curl out of her eyes. We head down a long hallway filled with afternoon sun. Light glances off the lockers, making them more of an eyesore than usual: red on top, green on the bottom. Our school colors. Also Christmas colors. Every year around the Christmas season, someone tags a red Rudolph graffiti nose onto the Lions logo out front.

“Seriously,” Claire says, pushing open the door to the stairwell, “when they figure out who's sleeping with a teacher . . .”

“I know.” I jog up the steps after her. “We won't hear the end of it for, like, twelve years.”

Claire aims a smirk at me over her shoulder. “It's not you, is it?”

That stings—I bet half the school thinks it's me—but I manage a laugh. “Go to hell.”

“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands. “It's actually me. Me . . . and Principal Turner.”

Juniper mock-retches behind us. “Why, Claire?” I moan. “Why do you give us these mental scars?”

We come out on the third floor, dodging the after-school-club traffic. We pass the computer-science room, filled with Programming Club kids on their laptops, and the English room, where Poetry Society meets in a solemn-looking, somewhat cultish circle. We head into the Politics and Government room.

“Good crowd,” I say. The room's empty.

“Three's a crowd,” Claire says, checking her watch. “It's just juniors today. And the girl who's running for secretary emailed me—she can't come. But there's also a boy running for president, so . . .”

My heart sinks. If there's only one other candidate, the odds of me wriggling out of this contest without hurting Claire's feelings are way lower; and what with her hyperactive sense of responsibility, she won't let it go for a while.

“Who's the boy?” Juniper asks, perching in the empty teacher's chair. Mr. Gunnar must be helping with the assembly cleanup. I bet they need a dozen people to mop up the sweat.

Claire unzips her backpack and thumbs through a folder. She draws out a sign-up sheet with one lonely name sitting at the top. “His handwriting's terrible, but I think it says Matt something? Jackson, maybe?”

“I know him.” Juniper raises one thin eyebrow. “We did a group project together in bio, by which I mean I did the entire thing. The guy isn't exactly a paragon of self-discipline.”

“Oh, wait,” I say, recalling the kid who slouches in late to English every day, reeking of weed. “Tall? Never talks? Kind of a pointy face?”

“That's the one,” Juniper says.

“Well,” I say. “This'll be, uh. Great.”

Claire scrutinizes my expression. “Something wrong, Liv?”

“What? No, everything's fine.” I shrug. “It's just . . . not that I don't want to be Paloma, Kansas's new political wunderkind, but I sort of want to drop out.”

Claire makes a dismissive
tsk
sound between her teeth, setting her backpack down. “Oh, come on. Don't pull that.”

“Dude, I'm being honest. I don't know about this Matt kid, but everyone knows there's no contest if it's me and Juniper.”

We both look at Juniper. She stays diplomatically silent, spinning in Mr. Gunnar's chair.

“Well, I guess you do have a lot on your plate,” Claire says knowingly.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe your latest conquest?” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “Dan Silverstein, huh? Ees vairy eenteresting choice.”

I know she's not serious, but it's been a long day of stares. “Hmm, that's funny,” I say. “I don't remember telling you about—”

“I mean, no judgment. But, like, did you even know he existed before last Saturday?”

“Claire, give me a break.” I try to ignore the tug of hurt. “Can you stop doing this every time I hook up with someone? I know everyone else thinks I'm, like, Slutty McGee, Queen Slut from Slut Island, but you're supposed to be on my side.”

“Whoa. First of all, it was a joke, and second, there's not a
side
.” She frowns. “Although I'll admit, I don't get why you sleep with so many guys.”

“It's not like my reasoning needs to be public knowledge,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my voice level.

“Excuse me? So now it's not my business?” Her blue eyes stretch wide. Surrounded by gold eyeliner, they look like gilded windows framing a sunlit sea. “Do I need a reason to care about you and your . . .” She gestures in the vicinity of my ovaries.

“My what? My sex life? What, want to hop on down to CVS and pick up some Plan B with me? Because I've never seen you or anyone else lining up to chat about that side of things.”

“I wasn't going to say your sex life, Olivia.” Claire plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, look. You want me to be honest? You've been doing this more and more, and I'm starting to get worried about your emotional well-being.”

A million mean responses swell at the back of my tongue—Claire isn't exactly the crying-shoulder type—but before I can snap back, Juniper cuts in.

“Guys,” she says, standing in one sharp motion. Her voice is quiet with irritation. “Are you listening to yourselves? I'm not going to tell you to apologize, but this is all objectively dumb.” She folds her arms. “Could you please think for ten seconds?”

I stiffen. Juni's voice of reason tends to be more patient than that.

Claire and I trade a glance, chastened. It's not fair of us, dragging Juni along for every squabble when she's already got so much to deal with. Alongside Juni's unhealthy stack of AP classes, she's a concert violinist with an obscene amount of Paganini to learn for her December recital. Twice a year, Juni's parents drive Claire and me out to Kansas City so we can watch her recitals—she plays in one of the performance halls at U of M. This season's program seems to be stressing her out hard-core.

I look down at my sneakers and count to ten, focusing on the frayed edges of my shoelaces. When I look back up, Claire's accusatory
stare has wilted. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn't mean to escalate.”

I sigh, my anger still simmering. Every time this happens, it gets a little harder to grin and bear it. Claire was never entirely aboard the
Let Olivia make her own sexual decisions!
train, but she's gotten a million times worse since May, when Lucas—her boyfriend of over a year—dumped her in a random and arbitrary fashion. Which was weird, since Lucas ostensibly is a nice person, but . . . well. There are secret assholes in the world. Big shocker.

She's been single for six months now, and her offhand comments about my hookups have about exhausted my patience, which, God knows, is a nonrenewable resource. Opening my mouth takes herculean effort. “I'm sorry, too,” I manage. “I've had a not-excellent day.”

“Same.” After a long second, Claire tugs her bag from the desk. “Okay, I can't wait around for this kid. I'm going to be late for practice. I'll email you guys the info later.” She sneaks a cautious glance at me. “If you . . .”

I sigh, and a grudging compromise falls out with it: “I'll run if you want me to.”

“Thanks.” Avoiding my eyes, she strides out of the classroom in her usual military fashion. We didn't fix things—not even close.

Juniper leans against Mr. Gunnar's desk, looking weary. “You two. What is happening these days?”

“I don't know. Look, I'm sorry—it's not your job to babysit us.”

She shrugs. “No, it's okay. Is something up, though?”

“Not really. It's just . . . I'm used to her worrying. That's how she . . .”

“Of course. Works.”

“Yeah, how she works, yeah. But these days it feels like—I
don't know. She's tightening in, or clamping down, and I'm like, please, will you back the fuck
off
? I swear to God, sometimes she thinks she's my mom.”

The last word fades too slowly from the air.

“That's a lot,” Juniper says, tilting her head. Her blond hair, loose again, sways in two thin curtains, framing her eyes. Those chips of wintry gray are as perceptive as always.

“Well, I mean it.” I cross my arms, feeling mutinous. “I don't need Claire to replace anyone. And it sure as hell feels like she's trying.”

“Have you told her that?”

“Nah. She'd do the whole ‘who,
moi
?' thing, and I don't know. I wouldn't be able to take it seriously.”

“I can talk to her, if you'd like.”

I consider it for a second, but how childish would that be, sending Juniper as my ambassador? “It's fine. We'll figure it out.”

Juniper swings her legs, looking pensive. “Do you mind if I ask something?”

“Go for it.”

“I'm not questioning your judgment, but I'm curious: you could sleep with just one guy, so why go for more than one?”

I shrug. “Because my body belongs to me, and I get to make my own decisions?”

Juniper raises an eyebrow. “I mean beyond Feminist Theory 101, Olivia.”

I give her a sheepish grin. “Well, I'm not looking for anything serious. Somehow I doubt I'm gonna find the love of my life in high school, so . . . might as well have fun, right? Low stress, low
commitment.” It falls off my tongue a little too fast. I give my head a quick shake. “Ready to go?”

Juni doesn't push. She slides off the desk and follows me. She's a reassuring silence at my shoulder as we hurry downstairs, past the lockers, and out the door.