Seven Ways We Lie (5 page)

Lucas bounces by, pushing his curly hair back, a smile the size of California plastered across his face as usual. “Hi, Burke! Hey, Matt! How's it going, guys?”

I nod in response, wondering if his cheeks ever get tired. If you turned a six-week-old puppy into a human being, you'd get Lucas. Dude's so cheerful all the time, I keep getting this creeping suspicion that he thinks we're friends because he sells me weed. But that wouldn't make sense—he deals to half the school, providing the teeming masses with an ass-load of pot and cheap beer. Maybe Lucas is just chronically overjoyed to be alive.

He jogs off with the rest of the swim team, leaving Burke and me alone.

“Dude, I don't know what Claire's talking about,” I say, looking at Burke. “I didn't sign up for anything.”

A second passes, and the corner of Burke's mouth twitches.

“You shithead,” I say, realizing. “You did this. You put me on some list for this.” And Burke cracks up, and he's like, “Who, me? 'Course not. But I can't wait to see your campaign promises.”

I punch him. “I'm gonna kill you.”

“Come on, it'll be fun.”

I blow my hair out of my eyes, giving him the dirtiest look I can muster, but I can never stay mad long—I don't have the dedication for grudges. Good thing for Burke, too, 'cause he's always doing this, dragging me to after-school clubs or putting my email address on information dis-lists. It's the most random stuff. Last week he signed me up for some national newsletter about clock making. God knows what he's getting out of it.

I lean back on the roof. Dusk hunches over the sky, and the twisted end of our joint blisters on the asphalt beside the car, the bittersweet smell of it floating and fading.

“So, who do you think it is?” Burke says, and I'm like, “Who do
you think what is?” and he's like, “Didn't you go to the assembly?” and I laugh so hard, it turns into a coughing fit. “Is that a serious question?” I sputter, and he's like, “Some teacher's sleeping with a student. They don't know who yet.”

I give him a confused look and ask, “Am I supposed to care about this?” and he's like, “I mean, it's sort of crazy, huh?” and I'm like, “Not that crazy. It happens everywhere,” and he sighs and says, “What's it gotta take for you to be interested in anything, huh, dude?” and I'm sort of affronted. “Hey, get off my case, would you?” I say. “We can't all be, like, conscientious citizens and read
The
fucking
Gay Science
for fun.”

Burke shrugs, adjusting his kilt. “It's got nothing to do with reading, man,” he says. “I'm talking about, literally, anything. I miss when we used to do shit that wasn't smoking, you know?” and I want to retort, but for the second time in ten minutes, I can't find justification.

The silence stresses me out. What does he want, an apology?

At a loss for what else to do, I pull out my phone. A missed call pops up. It's Mom. “I gotta get home,” I say, and Burke's like, “Yeah, it's getting cold,” which I guess is sort of true, but I'd stick out even freezing temperatures to remain in the lazy, forgiving environment of late-afternoon Paloma High, because staying here means I don't have to go home. Also, it's nice being around Burke, because he's always thinking something or reading something or making something, and maybe it's pathetic to live vicariously through my best friend, but my hobbies of sleeping, eating, and avoiding responsibilities seem lackluster by comparison. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

My phone rings. I pick up. “Hello?”

“
¿Dónde estás?”
comes the sharp question.

I sigh and look up at the sky. “I'll be right there, Mamá. Calm down, would you?”

She hangs up on me. Nice.

“God, she's the worst,” I say, and Burke says calmly, “I'm sure there's been worse,” and I give him a glare, because when he gets all reasonable like this, he makes me feel guilty about being unhappy, and that's unhelpful at the best of times. “Later, man,” he says, rolling off my car. He buttons his peacoat, loops his scarf twice around his beefy neck, and takes off for his Jeep.

I climb off my car. By the time I slide in, Burke's already gone. Sitting in the driver's seat, I consider rolling another joint to calm myself down, but then I'm distracted by a glimpse of Juniper Kipling hurrying to her Mercedes, the only car left in the junior lot besides mine.

She slips in, takes a second, and starts bawling her eyes out, which baffles me, because what problems could
her
perfect life ever have? And couldn't she go home to do the whole crying thing?

As I shift into drive, I feel like a douchebag for thinking that, because, to be fair, this place is basically empty, and it's not her fault if she's going through something personal. But hey, maybe I'm just bitter because people like Juniper have these roads set up, these highways to success. She's going to go to Yale or Harvard or whatever, partially because she's a music prodigy and smart as all hell, and partially because her parents are filthy rich. And me? Even if I go to college, my parents sure aren't paying for it. Once I move out, college or not, God knows if they'll even stay
together. Last night, they argued so late, I had to go in there and ask them to cut it out for Russell's sake. Who's going to stick up for my kid brother when I'm not around anymore?

I stare out my sunroof at the dusk. I hate getting angry or sad or upset. About my parents. About anything. It always seems angsty and undeserved.
What are you, every teenager ever?
says a voice in the back of my head.
Be a little original, asshole
.

I take my time driving home.

Finally,

I am the last car here.

I am an island.

I returned here,

tugged back by some irresistible gravity,

but I hit the ground too hard.

My knees have buckled,

leaving me prostrate.

Stop crying. You're in public
.

Grip the wheel tight and

drive. Don't think. Just go
.

I'm home
, I say,

more a defense than an announcement—

because this place is not home anymore.

The only voice to whisper back is the cuckoo clock,

click, tock,
cuckoo
, crazy.

Crazy, because I hear notes in the silence,

gentle baritone notes,

and no matter how fast I play,

how far my fingers stretch,

how purely the vibrato resonates,

I cannot overwhelm the remembered sound.

The bow trembles in my right hand,

and under my left, my pizzicato slips.

Start again. Again. Over again
.

Those two, trying so hard, they cannot know.

Those two, they will never guess.

Every day I have sat like stone at a slab of polished pine,

back-straight/legs-crossed/elbows-in/eyes-down,

dodging questions and hiding from warm voices.

It's been months since I could speak truthfully to those two—

months since I could speak at all without fear tightening my tongue,

and still they call our house a home.

I am displaced. A watery weight, shifting,

my cup dribbling over.

How have I measured these seven days alone?—in breaths, blinks, heartbeats?

With numbers, with questions?

No:

with tweezers, I think,

plucking time out from sensitive skin.

Second after stinging second.

I devour my meal in silence.

Last Saturday, I devoured noise and light and the motion of agitated bodies.

I drank with purpose, drank violently,

drank myself to the floorboards.

Last Saturday, I forgot how to feel alone. How to feel.

I forgot clumsy fingers and maple necks,

heartstrings and gut strings,

warm sheets and crisp papers.

I forgot the beginning and the end.
Da Capo al Fine
.

(Hold on until the weekend, Juniper—

you can forget it all again.)

FROM WHERE I'M SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM, I CAN
hear the rattle of keys. Finally. That's got to be Kat.

I flip my textbook shut and walk into the kitchen, hitting the light switch. A chipped lamp sitting on the counter flickers to life, illuminating our wooden table. Our bare fridge is framed by a square gray rug. This house sort of looks as if it took interior-design tips from the little-known “prisons” section of
Better Homes and Gardens
. I ache for drooping pumpkins and trios of pinecones, the decorations our Novembers used to wear when Mom was around. Not even three years ago, but it feels like a different lifetime.

“Hey, where were you?” I ask as Kat shuts the door. “I called you, like, three times.”

“I know.” She kicks off her shoes beside the fridge.

“Dude, you've been out of rehearsal for nearly an hour.”

“I know,” she repeats. “Thanks for the update, helicopter sister.”

The unwanted nickname hits me right in the pet peeve. I try to muster patience. “Dad's working until eleven, so he said not to be loud when he comes home. He needs a good night's sleep, so . . . I don't know. Use headphones, if you're gonna game.”

Kat trudges toward the staircase. I talk faster, calling after her. “And I made dinner. And also, there were two new messages about you skipping class, so can we talk abo—”

She starts up the stairs.

“Jesus Christ, Kat,” I say. “Could you—”

She turns. “What?”

When I get a good look at her face, my angry thoughts stop swirling. My sister looks exhausted. Her neck-length blond hair is bedraggled and tangled. It's brittle from too many home-brewed bleach treatments, but her roots have started to grow out dark. The circles under her eyes glare like wine stains on white cloth. Her lips are thin and bitten.

“Are you okay?” is all I say. It comes out timid.

She half smiles. It looks an awful lot like a sneer. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “And how was
your
day, honey?”

Hurt bursts in me like a bitter grape. She strides upstairs.

What is her problem? Doesn't she see how hard I'm trying?

Nothing works with her anymore. For hours, Kat locks herself in her room with her best friends: BioShock, Mass Effect, and Half-Life 2. I hear shooting through the walls. Amazing, how loud her laptop gets.

It's not my job to drag her out kicking and screaming, but some days, I wish I had the guts to. Our house has started to feel like solitary confinement.

My phone buzzes with a text. I yank it out—it's Dan Silverstein.
Hey you, how are things?

I sigh. This Dan thing has been so well publicized, I don't want to reply. But it's not fair to take it out on him because other people are giving me shit.

Things are solidly average
, I reply.
How about you?

As I wait for his response, I take the pasta off the stove and spoon myself a bowl, then put the rest back to stay warm for Kat. I always hope she'll join me for dinner, but she never does; this might be for the best. Last time we ate together was maybe a month ago. We spoke six sentences to each other. Two of them were “Hey” and “Hey.”

I can't help remembering dinners from eighth grade. Better-cooked, for one thing, because my mother—unlike me—was an expert at putting food items into heating implements without causing fires. More than that, though, dinners tasted better with the family around the table. Mom's absence is always glaring, and tonight, Dad's chair is empty, too. He's been working later and later these days. This is the third day in a row he's out until eleven.

I wolf down my pasta so fast, it burns. I flinch, rolling bits of skin off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

My phone buzzes.
I'm doing pretty good
, Dan says.
I had a nice time Saturday