Seven Ways We Lie (22 page)

Matt sits on one of the bar stools. “I just—I made a mistake yesterday. I shouldn't have told you about Lucas.” My heart sinks—of course it's about that. He goes on, looking lost: “I only found out by mistake that he's, you know, and I was supposed to shut up about it, and he's worried about . . . you didn't tell Claire, did you?”

A lump rises in my throat. “I'm sorry. I told her it's a secret, but . . . yeah, I couldn't keep it from her.”

“Shit.” Matt closes his eyes. “She'd better not tell anyone.”

“I don't know who she'd tell. Claire kind of considers herself above the gossip thing.”

Matt's hands fold, unfold, and fold again. He paces down the
stairs toward a weird art print on the wall. “Man, I just—I'm an idiot.”

“It was a mistake.”
And I went and made it worse, telling Claire
, says a merciless voice in my head. I perch on the banister and slide down to the lower level. The wood squeaks. “You talked to him, though?”

“Yeah. He wasn't mad. He just looked . . . I don't know. Like he dreaded having to deal with it. Which makes sense, but if it were me, I would've beaten me up.” Matt sinks into an armchair by the banister, stretching out his legs. A line of bare stomach above his jeans glares out, conspicuous in my peripheral vision. “Well, I guess there's not much I can do about it now.”

“I can text Claire and be like, don't tell a soul or I'll poison your dog,” I offer. “Not that I would poison her dog. She doesn't have a dog. So poisoning it would be hard.”

I spy a hint of a smile before Matt goes back to chewing on his lip. His face has this almost-strangled look, as if he's itching to say something.

“What're you thinking?” he asks.

I reach for my usual honesty.
Can you pull your shirt down? It's sort of distracting. Sorry, that's blunt. But you did ask
.

All that comes out of my mouth is, “Uh, nothing.”

“I doubt that.”

“How dare you doubt my totally trustworthy self?” I say. He gives me a real smile, and my mind goes blank.

With a horrible jolt, I realize I have a crush on him.

No. This cannot be happening. Crushes ruin lives and destroy souls. Crushes either lead to the inconvenience of unrequited feelings or the batshit-insane idea of having a relationship.

I work my jaw loose. “We should, um,” I say. “We should probably get out of Juni's parents' room.”

“Right,” he says, standing.

For a moment, I don't move. He's so close—three feet? Four?—and the proximity doesn't make him any more readable than usual, but it sure makes everything vivid. The point of his nose. The dark tan of his skin. The flecks of stubble on the tip of his chin. For a second, I wonder what his hair would feel like between my fingers.

He meets my eyes, probably waiting for me to say something or act like a normal person in general. This, unfortunately, is beyond my current abilities. I can only look at him, frozen in our eye contact. It's terrifying, eye contact: the knowledge that somebody is regarding you with their whole and undivided attention, that for a moment, you're the one thing in this world that demands their focus.

I could see if he's interested. It'd be easy enough to say:
So, hey, how do you feel about kissing me?
It'd be less awkward than letting this silence stretch on longer, that's for sure. But my voice is on lockdown, which is bizarre, given that locking down my voice is usually about as doable as locking down a rampaging rhinoceros.

I don't want to say anything that might make him go.

Why am I invested? This is a horrible idea. Whoever invented emotions is hopefully frozen in the ninth circle of hell. They deserve it.

“Right, yep, let's go downstairs,” I say in a rush, heading for the door. I hold it open, and as he passes, I catch a whiff of the air that sweeps after him. Tonight, he doesn't smell like the usual
eau
de ganja
. Tonight he smells like something aged and a bit sweet. Well-worn leather and honey. He walks with his hands deep in his frayed pockets, and I wonder what the tips of his index fingers feel like, and if the flats of his palms are rough or smooth, and if I were to take his hand, what he would say.

THIS IS THE FIRST SATURDAY NIGHT IN NEARLY A YEAR
that I've had plans. Last time, I watched a partial lunar eclipse with my father and a local astronomy group comprised of a bunch of sixty-year-old hobbyists. I don't expect tonight to be anywhere near as fun.

Juniper said her party starts at nine, and the Internet suggests it therefore would be weird if I got there before ten. I don't see why they don't just start it at ten, but who am I to make edits to social norms?

After dinner, I bury myself in a new book, one I stole from my father's study. By the time 10:00
PM
rolls around, I'm so invested in the book, I don't want to leave. I dawdle for fifteen more minutes, but eventually, I mumble myself into it, grab the spare keys, and head for the door.

A voice stops me, calling from the recliner in front of the TV. “Going out, kiddo?”

My father seemed to stop adjusting to my changing age when I was ten or so and now only refers to me as “kid,” “kiddo,” and “sport.” Maybe for Christmas I'll buy him a parenting manual that was published after 1960.

“Clearly,” I say.

Dad's gray-brown hair sticks up as he shifts his head against his ergonomic pillow, looking up at me. “Whereabouts?” he asks, a hopeful smile propping up his round cheeks. It's almost sad, watching him trying to connect to me in whatever small way.

“A party. I need to talk to a girl from my grade.”

“A girl, huh?” Dad winks. “Well, then, I won't keep you. Go get her.”

I turn away, restraining an exasperated sigh. “Right. Sure.” That sort of thing is exactly why I speak to my parents as little as possible.

“Curfew's midnight, all right?” My father goes back to the History Channel, and I grumble my assent, heading for the door.

I reach Juniper's neighborhood at 10:30. Called Mossy Grove, the place is composed of a maze of cul-de-sacs. The houses look as if some architect Googled “upper-class suburbia” and modeled his designs after the results. Each house has the same gable over the front door, the same carport set off to the side, the same vaulted black roof with a chimney poised near its edge. I get lost not once but twice, thanks to the genius who decided that both “Mossy Grove Place” and “Mossy Grove Court” needed to exist.

I slow down, triple-checking the address. Juniper lives near the back of the neighborhood with the other houses that veer into “mansion” territory. Her house sits on a dark, sweeping lawn, perched far back and high up like a king surveying his realm. Halfway up the yard, a pebbled path littered with flagstones circumnavigates a two-tiered fountain, and tall conifers sway at the edges of the lawn, making the house's driveway seem even longer
than it is. The golden light pouring through the magnificent windows, as well as the distant thud of bass, suggest a huge gathering.

My throat tightens. I can't believe I'm breaking my precious sixty-three hours and twenty minutes of weekend solitude for crowds and noise. I haven't even knocked on the door yet, and I already feel on the brink of panic. Yet here I am, cruising past the stream of cars that eats up the curb on Juniper's street.

Part of me doesn't want to find out which teacher it is or learn the whole story. Knowing would make me even more responsible than I already am. I didn't ask to get involved.

Despite my every instinct urging me toward the contrary, I shove the car into park, steel myself, and start the trek up.

The skinny metal neck of the sink clouds

up, up with my breath

how did i get down here? slumped down here, i'm

blackout drunk and it's only 11:00.

pathetic.

the roof of my mouth tastes like vomit.

i can't
get away from me

(i need you, my one piece of sanity—

you know i do.)

no. what i need is some goddamn self-control.

stand. wipe. breathe. exit.

the smile on my lips tastes like blood and dry lipstick.

where the hell did the blood come from? stomach? throat? heart?

the solution to drunkenness, obviously, is
drink more
!

god, help, it burns.

all i know is this: it has felt like a dark age, an ice age

since you left me.

when you said good-bye, i heard good luck.

i've found no good in anything since.

· · · · · · ·

now—minutes, hours, god knows—it's all the same.

stumbling around . . . where am i? hard to tell from the floorboards
(juniper, don't embarrass yourself, stay on your feet)

(make bubbling greetings; share a laugh with girls you'd recognize were you the slightest bit sober but)

the door opens.

valentine?
—word's out before it's a conscious decision.

two years i've known him and never seen him outside a school building.

you'd think he was grown there,

cultivated in a test tube, carefully, carefully cultured,

and now there he stands, as unnatural as anything.

he says,
may we please talk? i tried to find you all week, but i never caught you after school, and lunch got . . . complicated, so may we speak? in private?

me:
why

him:
it's a sensitive topic

my throat chokes on itself. (i'm still swaying, world's still swaying)

i stagger.

my palm slaps the wall—

my stomach twirls inside my torso—

my brain's got its grip on its favorite subject again.

my fingers slip in slick sweat on the phone in my pocket . . .

would it be weak to text? to ask?

(are you okay without me
,

don't miss me

i don't want you to hurt like i do)

or would it be cruel?

· · · · · · ·

get your hand out of your pocket, juniper
.

he can handle himself
.

valentine:
are you feeling okay?

me:
what yeah fine
,
i think . . . gonna get another drink

finding the ground under my feet, toe by toe

valentine:
water. water is what you need
.

water, the prospect tempts me. i reel back

valentine:
good god, let me help
.

his hand brushing my back, we totter past clumps of bodies

we stop by the kitchen counter

and the bottle starts pouring itself.

valentine, quietly:
stop
.

i stop.

but the clear crystal liquid looks so beautiful.

i am so thirsty for it—

i am ravenous—

my thoughts a hundred thousand devouring mouths.

me:
what did you want to talk about?

him:
may we go somewhere, um, private?

me, smiling:
hmm, what type of conversation is this? should i trust your motives?

(am i flirting with valentine simmons?

the idea is so funny, i'm about to cry,

i'm about to)

him:
. . . trust my motives?

me:
i do trust you, it was a joke, don't worry don't worry

him:
you do? why?

me:
what, why do i trust you? i mean . . . i trust anyone reasonable. and nice
.

his laugh is strange, plucks of a guitar string, light tenor.
you think i'm nice
.

me:
you seemed nice when we talked
.

him:
of course
.

me:
so, what you wanted to ask . . 
.

he fidgets, shifts, his lips part.
okay
, he says,
this is . . 
. and he half laughs, but it dies fast, he takes up a glass, fills it with sprite, smashes it back, and his eyes lose their light and grow soft and the stubborn line of his mouth loosens, and i make him a brief in-depth study.