Seven Ways We Lie (34 page)

“Matt?” I say. “Thanks for this.”

“For what?” His voice lightens. “Whining about my family? I could do this shit all day.”

I laugh. “Okay. I expect a five-page whine by Friday.”

“No problem.”

“Single-spaced,” I add. “None of that making-the-periods-size-14-font shit, either. I can tell.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Someone's going to be a hard-ass teacher.”

“Believe it.”

The silence turns thick. Its back sags under what we're not saying.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

“Look, I don't want to mess things up, because I think this is a good . . . you know?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, “it's a good.”

I smile. “And I need a good right now, you know? With everything.”

“Me too.” After a long pause, he says, “I don't want to mess this up, either. This—thing.”

“Yeah. I know. It's just, um,” I say, my palms itching with sudden heat. I turn off my brain and blurt it out: “I really like you, I think, and I—yeah.”

“I like you, too,” Matt says cautiously, as if he's expecting me to go,
Fooled you! I take it all back!

“Ah,” I say, breathless. “Okay.”

“Yeah.”

I clear my throat. “Can I maybe see you tomorrow?”

“I—sure. After school? I can catch up with you in the new wing.”

“Perfect. So I . . . yeah. Bye?”

“Bye, Olivia.”

But neither of us hangs up, and for a while, neither of us says a word.

Finally, he says, “Raining pretty hard.”

My gaze goes to the window. The thin rivulets of water shatter the outside world into an Impressionist's painting. A breeze flows through the thin opening, stirring the air. “I love the rain,” I say. “Smells like waking up.”

I delayed as long as I could.

The sun has drowned in evening rain.

I unlock the door, my fingers choking the knob.

What will they say?

They'll want to make the call . . .

(
it's over uncovered my love discovered
)

Will I grovel, my voice rough as gravel

will I plead, my eyes dripping need

will I put myself to shame?

Will they forgive him? forgive me?

will he forgive me for coming clean?

(please—forgive me)

(
forgive me
)

We perch uneasily in the living room.

An hour unfolds.

Every detail I didn't detail; every problem they didn't probe—I lay it all bare.

They tick silently like time bombs.

So there it is
.

And they burst together.

Juniper Bridget Kipling—

Juniper!

Five months—

You've been lying right to our faces—?

I ice over. My words detach and drift, skiffs on a calm lake.

The lying didn't take much. I've realized it would take me setting off fireworks in the house for you to even threaten me with consequences
.

That is just untrue
.

Do you realize how worrying—

Disbelief swims up. Yanks at my oars.
Worry? You've just been watching as I turn into a train wreck. If you've been worried at all about how I've been acting, it's been impossible to tell
.

My mother's fists are clenched.

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze out the fear.

Squeeze us back to normal.

Dad's on his feet.
Has he hurt you? I swear, if he's hurt you—if he's forced you to . . . to do anything you didn't—

Of course not
. I'm on my feet, too.
I told you, we didn't sleep together, I told you, Dad
.

His face is stained violet and red. A watercolor terror.
I can't believe this. I am calling the school right now
.

No. You can't—

Oh, yes I can. I can and I will
.

He goes for the phone. I dive for it, smack his arm away—

He yells something—

Mom's yelling, too—

(it's everything I thought it would be)

and the doorbell freezes us all with a crystal note.

We shut down. The color slides from our cheeks like cheap dye.

Mom hurries down the hallway, answers with a dazed smile.

It curdles on her lips.

Horror drips cold down my back.

David?

These couches are as stiff as court benches,

a guilty verdict clutched in our fists.

So
, says the voice that sounds more like a judge's than my father's.
So, you're him
.

David García. Hi. I would say it's good to meet you, but under the circumstances I'm guessing you feel differently
.

You're right. You think you can prey on my daughter and—

Dad. He didn't
prey
on anybody
.

I'm not finished. Young man, you have a responsibility. You're a government employee, for God's sake. You have a responsibility to the children of this country—

I'm not a child
, I point out, childishly.

My mother barrels over me.
I agree one hundred percent. You should be ashamed to call yourself a teacher
.

I know
. Something's quiet in David's eyes.
Which is why I turned myself in
.

somebody has taken a hammer to my voice box

a broken sound collapses out of me.

teaching was his first love,

his greatest love.

(david? you—

you shouldn't have—

should you have?)

i'm wordless.

my parents sit wordless, too.

So, with that in mind
, he says,
I don't know where we go from here. I understand your anger, of course. And I'll be shouldering the consequences. I'll do everything I can to keep Juniper's name out of this. I'm sure the police will be investigating, and they'll want to interview her, but that's not . . . since we never . . . it shouldn't be a legal . . 
.

whispery sounds slip from my lips.
yeah, um, i told them that part
.

Right. Good
.

david, why did you—you didn't have to—

I did
. his hand flexes. he could slip it into mine

but he knows better.
I had to
.

the fight has fallen out of the air.

my parents look to me. they all look to me.

i stay motionless, mind churning.

he'll be fired. disgraced.

my mother's voice is low.
You will leave this house. And then, when you leave your job, and when you leave this city, you will leave our daughter alone
.

that tone of command once made millions.

he sits tall under it. stoic.

but i—

i flatten a sob beneath a fist. my voice is an explosion, spraying shrapnel carelessly.
no—Mom, don't—please, please . . 
.

She's right, June
, david says.

i stare at him. splintering under the surface in betrayal. even my mother blinks her confusion.

I was wrong
, he says.
I should have been more . . . I should have
made sure from the beginning that we—that this . . . that it wouldn't have to be like this. That was always my responsibility, and I neglected it for five months
.

with every word i fracture a little more, a new hair-fine line in a ceramic surface.

with every word i am more fragile.

with every word, older.

the tears abate.
so this was a mistake?

No, that's not—I made a mistake, June, but
you
weren't a mistake. You are, I swear, the best thing in my life. My not waiting was the mistake
.

my mother stares at david like he is a painting she is beginning to understand.

Juniper doesn't graduate for a year and a half
, she says slowly.
And so help me, if you get in touch before then, I will file a restraining order
.

(Before then?)

The words ring in my ears, making me dizzy with hope.

My father's balding head bobs. He takes over.
If, anytime in the future, she has any interest in contacting you, you'll hear from us. Us first. You understand?

Yes
, David says.

He meets my gaze. Our eyes are lifelines. In his eyes I see myself holding him. In mine he knows I love him.

He stands.

Can I say good-bye?
I ask.

No
, my father says, but my mother rests her hand on his wrist.

They meet eyes, a brief and silent battle.

My mother half lifts him to his feet. They leave us.

· · · · · · ·

Juniper—

I fold myself into his arms, and he holds me so tightly

so tightly

I could merge into him, skin into skin and heart into heart.
It's okay
, he murmurs.
It'll be okay. A clean break is going to hurt less, I promise
.

It's . . 
. I pull back.
I mean, I can't help thinking you'll find someone else in an infinitely larger, more interesting city
.

Yeah, no way
. He brushes my hair back from my forehead.
There's only one of you
.

Well. As far as you know
.

The regret of making him laugh is instant—

I miss the sound already.

He kisses my cheeks, my temples.

I look up at his forgiving eyes and see everything.

I'll see you again
, he says.

I know
.

And with that, he walks into the hall.

It swallows him, foot by foot.

He pauses in the doorway for one moment,

a black-coated silhouette against the gold porch light,

messy hair, strong profile, disappearing eyes.

I lift my hand.

The door shuts,

the
click
of a clean break.

I sway, expecting to dissolve,

but my body holds fast.

My hands don't shake. My head is clear. My eyes are dry.

And I think—

somehow—

I will be all right.

This time, I will.

THE DOORBELL RINGS AT 5:30. “I'LL GET IT,” I CALL
down the hall. Grace thanks me from the depths of her room.

I hop down the steps two at a time, catch sight of who's behind the glass door, and slam to a halt at the bottom of the staircase.

It's Lucas. The second I see his face, I'm sure of it: he knows.

I open the door. The sound of rain crashes in. The fact that he's not smiling terrifies me.

We sit down in the living room, his curly hair fluffing out from the dampness. The wooden mobile hanging in the alcove twirls and bobs in the air current from the heating vent, distracting me.

“Hey. Why are you here?” I ask. It feels strange to ask, given the constant presence he used to be under my family's roof. He'd pull into my driveway to pick me up every morning, and we'd drive back every afternoon talking. I kissed him on the roof, under the branches of our oak tree, in the humidity of a summer nightfall. I remember the roughness of his arms, his palms.

“I don't know,” he says. “I don't know why I'm here.”

What do I say to that?

I clear my throat. “How was, um. How was the meet yesterday?”

“Fine, good,” he says. “I PR'ed in the 500 Free. Two seconds faster than my old best.”

“I . . . congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Seconds trickle by. I've never felt like I'm small-talking with him, not before now. Something is missing from us. Sometimes you can feel the detachment in the way someone looks at you, the way they arrange their body facing yours, the way they blink and sigh and put their hands on the table. Something has been subtracted. I don't know if I lost it, or if he put it away, or if someone else has it, but this isn't the pair we used to be.