Seven Ways We Lie (37 page)

I HURRY UP TO THE ARCHWAY THAT LEADS INTO THE
lunchroom. I hate eating here, hate it more than bad traffic and bullies combined, but after three days, I still don't know what to say to Lucas about Monday. My method of resolute avoidance has worked so far.

As I approach the arch, a nasal-sounding voice says behind me, “Hey, look who it is.”

I turn. “Dean.” I step to the side of the arch, allowing the traffic to pass us. The bridge of his nose is thick and red. I say, “I'll accept your apology anytime.”

He laughs. “Apology? You think I owe you an apology?”

“Yes.” I fold my arms. “I said it wasn't true, what everyone was saying about Lucas. So I was right. So you can apologize anytime.”

“You are really asking for it.” He moves forward, and I stand my ground, preparing to duck and run the second his curled fists move.

“Stop,” says a tired voice. Lucas's voice. I turn toward him.

As people pass, they avoid his eyes. Most look embarrassed, and rightfully so, given what they've been saying since Monday. “Stop, Valentine,” Lucas says. “Don't.”

I point at Dean. “But he keeps saying you're—”

“He's right.”

I flounder. “W-what?”

“I am?” Dean says.

“Sort of.” Lucas digs his hands into his pockets. “I'm not gay, but I'm pansexual, which is like—it's a little like bisexual, but—”

“I know what it is,” I break in.

“Great,” Dean says. “So I was right, Simmons. So take
this
back.” He points at his nose.

I round on him, narrowing my eyes. “I didn't punch you for saying he was gay, you cretin. I punched you because you were being an asshole about it.”

“Whatever. I don't need this.” Dean gives Lucas a scathing look as he stalks toward the archway. “Glad the season's over.”

We both look after him for a second; then Lucas moves toward an empty classroom nearby. I follow him inside, and he shuts the door, locking out the sound. We stay quiet for a minute, and then I clear my throat, feeling strange. “You're . . . and you never told your swimming friends?”

He rolls his shoulders in that easy shrug. “I was scared,” he says, as if it's nothing, as if admitting you're scared isn't gut-wrenchingly personal.

“Why did you tell Dean the truth, then?” I ask. “He would've believed it was a rumor.”

Lucas's smile twists. It looks painful. “I wanted it back in my own hands, man. Didn't want to start lying all over again.” He runs a hand through his hair. “By the way, we don't have to talk if you don't want to. I—I can go; I don't want to make things awkward for you.”

“What, like I'm going to get all,
no homo
?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Yes.”

“Go ahead and homo,” I say dryly. “I couldn't care less.”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. After Monday, I thought you were . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don't know. Not interested.”

“No,” I say, not quite grasping his expression. Caution, maybe? “You're still interesting,” I say. “I avoided you because I doubted you'd take kindly to my punching—”

He leans down and kisses me.

It feels like I thought it would. Skin on lips, lips on skin. Of all things, the closeness is the strangest: the knowledge that Lucas's mind is inches from mine, churning with his skipping, jumping thoughts, compiling lists and collections, cataloging everything that's happening even now. He tilts his head, his nose presses into my cheek, and his hand finds the back of my head. One of his big, sturdy arms circles my back. It is too much sensation, almost, to process.

I frown as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine. Odd feeling. I wait for something new to happen in my head, something different.

Eventually, he pulls back, and his hand falls from my hair. “You're not into it,” he says as I inhale slowly. The taste of him is cold on my lips, tingling mint. Not unpleasant. Not life-changing. Just another experience.

“Because I'm into you,” he says, his eyes holding mine. They are darker than I'd realized, spokes of dark chocolate on oil. “Really into you, Valentine.”

I sway. My cheeks burn. “Right. I sort of gathered that from the. Um. Yes.”

“And you . . .”

“I don't . . . I'm not . . .”

“Right. You're not into guys,” he says, disappointment settling onto his face.

Frustration mounts in my chest. He's attractive; that's obvious. I've never connected with a human being the way I have with him. And still—
still . . 
. “I'm not into anyone,” I say desperately. “I don't know if it's because I've hardly had a friend, or what, but conceptualizing crushes has always been a problem, and I just—I don't.” The words stick in my throat. I say them again, a broken record spitting broken words: “I don't.”

“But . . . but I want you.” He sounds lost and confused, like a child.

I hold my ground. “Well, I don't know what to do with that.”

“Oh.” Little by little, the disappointment vacates his expression, leaving him sober and unsmiling. I wait for a frustrated explosion, but Lucas just rubs his brow, seeming worlds away. “And it isn't going to change,” he says.

“No. As far as I can tell.”

“Right.” Lucas's eyes lift to mine, hopeful. “In that case, what do you think about going back to how things were?”

I frown, taken aback. “You—you want to?”

“Why would I not?”

“Because you have feelings for me, and I don't return them.”

“If you're okay with that, I can be, too,” he says. “Might take me a bit, but . . . yeah.” He smiles and extends a hand. “Friends?”

I look at Lucas, disbelieving. In under a week, he has lost his
swim team posse, endured rumors about sleeping with a teacher, been forced out of the closet, and been turned down by
me
, of all people. And here he is with a smile on his face, one hand tucked into his North Face jacket, his journal sticking out of his backpack. Cool Lucas, handsome Lucas, overeager and optimistic Lucas. Mr. Sunny-Side-Up.

I take his hand. I want to say,
Thank you
; I want to say,
I'm sorry
; I want to say,
You are some sort of strange miracle
. “Yeah,” is what I say. “Yeah. Friends.”

THERE'S NEVER BEEN A SLOWER THURSDAY, I THINK,
watching the clock. Usually I don't even sense my afternoon hours slipping by as my lunchtime high wears off, but I haven't smoked this whole week, and it's throwing me off timewise.

There's especially never been a slower last thirty seconds of seventh period on a Thursday. The second hand creeps sluggishly along its path, millimeter by millimeter, and when it hits
12
and the bell rings, I'm the first one out of my seat, bolting for the door.

I forge down the hall, against the tide of people surging toward the stairwell, and as I cross the arch where the old wing intersects the new wing, the halls empty little by little, leaving a few people standing at lockers, a few others heading into classrooms for after-school meetings, and one tall girl standing at the plate-glass windows looking out over the green. The light makes her eyes glint like rhinestones. The long rays of afternoon sun wash her profile in sharp relief, casting shadows from her arched eyebrows down over her eyes, and as she looks at me, she smiles, and the sight of it does something awful to the inside of my stomach.

I stop in front of her. She doesn't look anywhere near as nervous as I feel, with that easy smile playing across her lips. Unable to hold her eyes, I glance out the wide window. Paloma High is one of the tallest buildings for miles, and from here, I can see halfway across town. It seems minuscule, roads twining like veins through green little enclosures, each tiny house somebody's unknown world, and if I squint, I swear I could see my own.

“Hey,” Olivia says, and I'm like, “Hi,” wishing we'd picked somewhere we could be alone instead of the middle of the hall. Bit by bit, her attention erases the world around me altogether.

“Is Juniper doing okay?” I ask, once I remember that Olivia's smile isn't the only thing that exists.

“Yeah. She had to deal with the police, but she's got her head on her shoulders.”

“And you're all right?”

“I . . . yeah.” She twists a lock of hair around her finger. “I talked to my sister and my dad last night. Talked-talked,” and I say, “Yeah?” and she says, “We're trying to work things out. I think it's going to happen this time.”

“Your sister's in the play, right?” I say, remembering the lunchtime announcements. Kat's voice drawled out of the intercom, inviting us to
The Hidden Things
, by some Russian guy.

“She's the lead,” Olivia says proudly. “And she found them a new faculty advisor last-minute.” Her smile fades. “How about—how'd your parent talk go?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I told them I was freaked out about Russ. And they were all, yeah, us, too, which . . . I never thought about that, dumb as that sounds, thought about them being worried.
They seem so angry all the time, it sort of drowns out the rest.” I shrug. “I asked if they'd thought about trying again, but it's not happening. I got to the game too late.”

My voice drops. “It's just . . . I thought if I tried, for once, I could fix something, you know?” I glance out the window at the horizon, at the fast-moving clouds that glide like swans across the flat countryside. “I don't know. Change is the worst. With everything happening around you, and you can't slow it down or correct it and you can't even get a hold of it, like, why it's happening, and it all feels like . . . you know, what the hell
can
you do?”

“I don't know,” she says. “But just because you can't fix everything, that doesn't mean you shouldn't give a shit, and it sure doesn't mean you shouldn't try.”

“I know,” I say, counting the inches between us. The world is disappearing again, patch by patch, leaving only her.

“Hey, I want to show you something,” she says. “Come on.” She leads me down the hall. We turn a corner into a side hall, and she opens a door. I peer inside. It's a storage closet filled with old textbooks and stacks of yellowing paper, and I'm like, “What—” and then her hand grabs mine, warm and tight, and she tugs me inside and shuts the door. Darkness drops, and her other hand lands on my chest. She presses me back into the door, her head tilted up, and her lips are half an inch from mine in the dark. I feel her breath. I can hardly see her anymore. Some part of her body brushes my hip, and my body's electrified. Her hand trails over mine—fingers to palm, palm to wrist, up my forearm with torturous slowness—and fastens around my biceps.

“Hey,” she whispers, and the tiny exhalation darts over my lips. “So . . . yeah? Are we . . .”

I lean forward, and the gap between us vanishes.

Her lips are ChapSticked and taste like lemon. She kisses me hungrily, her teeth pulling at my lip and her tongue flicking against mine, and I rest my hands on her waist, containing her, feeling her movement as we twist our way out of our backpacks between kisses. As they fall to the floor, I fit my hand into the small of her back and draw her close, my other hand curling around the nape of her neck, slipping up, tangling in her long hair. She's so tight against me, I feel her every curve. Her chest presses against me as she breathes. My body pulses with heat.

Olivia knows what she's doing to me; it's more obvious every second. As I lift the hem of her T-shirt, thumbing the smooth skin of her hip, her lips move down to my jaw. I tilt my chin, letting her drop kisses on my Adam's apple, letting her nip at every nerve ending I didn't know I had. Her teeth tease the juncture between my jaw and my neck, and I let out a low, frustrated sound that struggles through the silence, and when she kisses me again, I feel her smiling.

I push gently, backing her up against the shelves, and my hand's under her shirt now, sliding up from her hip to the rough lace of her bra, her breast full and heavy in my hand. My mind is a blank roar, filled with sensation. She kisses me harder, her hands wound into the back of my shirt as if she's going to tear through it, and something boils urgently in my stomach, forming clouds of steam in my head, and my heart pounds as if it's trying to kick its way through the front of my chest. The lemony taste of her is mixed with some intoxicating, bittersweet scent coming from the volumes of brown hair that fall over her shoulders. She's holding on to me so tight, painfully tight, the way someone
nervous might hold on to the edge of their seat, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I start catching glimpses of her in shadows and grays, her strongly bridged nose and her wet-kissed lips, and when I close my eyes again and kiss her hard, she makes this high, tiny sound into my mouth that gets me so turned on, I can barely move.