Seven Ways We Lie (9 page)

Matt Jackson slouches into our English class a full ten minutes late, a new record, looking unapologetic. “Sorry,” he mumbles, the cherry tips of his hair dipping into his eyes. “Got in a car accident.”

“Everyone okay?” Mr. García asks. Matt shrugs and heads past my desk to the back of the room, ignoring everyone who looks at him.

Mr. García sighs, looking weary. Somehow, I've never seen him give Matt a late slip, although he's been on time all of twice this year. “All right,” García says, picking up a piece of chalk. “So, saying good-bye to
The Good Earth
unit. Next up: we're supposed to cover some European books as part of international literature. But for the most part, this list is so standard, I'm sure you've already read some of them. So I've decided to change this unit.”

García passes out a stack of sheets, which we hand back, seat to seat. “I've split the eighteen of you into pairs,” he says, “and each pair gets a book. Up until Christmas, we'll have presentations
on these nine works. Until the first presentation, we'll be reading excerpts in class, so you'll have a homework break for a bit.”

Appreciative murmurs rise around the room. García leans against his desk, waiting for the rustling to stop. As he folds his arms, it occurs to me that if it weren't for the jacket and tie, he could pass for a senior. There are actual seniors who look older than he does. I can't help wondering . . .

No
, I scold myself. The idea of García creeping on a student is ridiculous. He doesn't seem to care about anything besides English. Most teachers at least mention something about their lives outside class, but not García. With him, it's
the text, the text, the text
.

Still. Glancing around the room, I see seventeen blank faces, and I bet all of them have wondered the same thing over the last few days.

The guy in front of me lets the paper stack flop onto my desk, and I take a sheet, scanning it. García has paired me with Matt Jackson. I stifle a sigh, remembering Juniper's diagnosis of their so-called “joint” biology project. Our book?
Inferno
by Dante Alighieri. At least we didn't get stuck with
Les Misérables
—I could spend three hours a day reading that thing and still not be done by July. Despite my love for reading, it takes me ages to digest each sentence. Mom read to me until I was old enough to want to keep it a secret, for my dignity's sake.

Matt and I have the first presentation date, due to go next Thursday. There goes the next week of my life, sacrificed to the flames of hell.

“All right,” García says. “We're going to take ten minutes to
meet in pairs and figure out which type of presentation you want to do. The options are at the bottom—you can pick a skit, a game, or a PowerPoint. Though if you're going to do a PowerPoint, you can't just read the Wiki article off some slides and call it a day.”

People laugh as we stand and shift around, rearranging ourselves into our pairs. I head to the back and slide into the desk in front of Matt. He's slouched so far down in his seat, his chest brushes the edge of his desk.

“Hey,” I say.

Up close, Matt has a weird face. Almost feral, with narrow eyes and a sharp, asymmetrical mouth tilted in a perpetual smirk. He glances at me before going back to the sheet.

I turn my desk to face him. “So, what do you think you want to do?”

He shrugs.

“. . . right,” I say, clicking my pen. “I'd rather die than do a skit about
Inferno
, so there's that.”

“You know it?” he asks.

“What?”

“Like, have you read it?” Matt has a quiet, husky voice. He rushes through words as if he's not allowed to be talking.

“Just excerpts, but I know the plot,” I say. “Basically, Virgil gives Dante this guided tour of the nine circles of hell, and Dante wanders around judging people and fainting a ton. Which is kind of like, it seems sorta dangerous to drop unconscious in hell of all places, but I guess my experience there is limited, so.”

The corner of Matt's mouth twitches. For a moment I think I might coax a chuckle out of him, but he stays quiet.

I wait for him to offer some sort of opinion. Nothing happens. “Okay,” I say. “What if we did, like, a game, where people have to sort themselves into the nine rings?”

Not the tiniest change in expression. Is the dude going to talk at all, or am I going to have to monologue until this project gets done?

I raise my eyebrows and ask, “What do you think, Matt?”

He bobs his narrow shoulders in the laziest shrug I've ever seen. “I mean, suggesting that everyone in our class is going to hell is a good start, I guess.”

Taken aback, I laugh. He looks almost embarrassed.

“Cool,” I say. “So let's have a presentation poster, and a station for every circle, and we can have sheets outlining which sins are in which place.”

He lets out a mumbling noise that sounds somewhat affirmative.

“I'll message you later so we can figure out details,” I say. “Are we friends on Facebook?”

He shakes his head.

I take out my phone under the desk, open the Facebook app, and friend him. “Fixed.” I squint closer at his profile picture. “Who's the kid in your picture?”

“My little brother,” he says, straightening up a bit. “Russell. He's three.”

“Cute.”

Something like a smile pulls at Matt's mouth again, though it fades fast.

I glance at the clock. We still have a few minutes, and this guy
has the type of silence that presses and pushes, begging conversation. “So,” I say. “You ready for the election?”

He closes his eyes. “Oh God, I forgot about that.”

“Why are you, uh, running, then?”

“A mistake is why.”

“Huh,” I say. “It'd be hard to get Claire to change the ballot, but I could talk to her for you, if you want to withdraw.”

“Why?” he says. “Need something to pad your college apps?”

I blink rapidly. Was that a joke, or does he have a problem with me? “Hey, excuse you.”

“I mean, it's true,” Matt says. “I'm pretty sure the only reason student gov's starting back up is so people can put ‘Sophomore Class Co-Secretary' or whatever on the Common App. I thought I was going to quit, but I don't know. I might as well run, too.”

“You sure people are doing it for college apps?” I say. “Maybe some people want to make this school a tiny bit less awful.”

“So that's why you're running?” he asks.

“Dude. First off, I don't need the sass, and second, that could a hundred percent be why.”

Matt looks up at the ceiling and lets out a chortle. The sudden urge to punch him in the larynx overwhelms me.
Not caring about things doesn't make you cool
, I want to yell. Instead, I force patience into my voice. “So if you're not taking it seriously, and you're not taking yourself off the ballot, what are you going to do if you win?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh! Great. Because this isn't important to anyone or anything.”

“Uh, apparently it is to one person.”

“Yeah, my friend Claire.” My fists curl up. “Whatever. You look like you've been hot-boxing for three days, so I bet anyone could get you off the ballot if they wanted.”

He frowns. “Wait, is that a threat?”

“It could be.”

“Well,” he says, folding his arms, “no offense, but you and Juniper Kipling aren't model citizens, either.”

“Excuse me?”

“Alcohol.” He shrugs. “It doesn't make sense getting self-righteous about weed if you go out drinking every weekend, right?”

I could point out that I don't drink, but frankly, I don't feel obliged to defend myself against that slew of verbal diarrhea. As if this guy knows anything about my life on the weekends. For a second I sit there, my lip curling. “Wow,” I say, finally. “I . . . wow.”

García calls out, “All right, back to your seats, everyone.”

I head back to my desk and fume until the bell rings.

I'm the first one out the door, and I seethe all the way through the halls into the old wing. I smack into Juniper in front of our sixth period, French.

“What's up?” she asks as we head to our row. “You look like someone insulted
Return of the Jedi
.”

“No, I just—I talked to Matt Jackson for the first time. García gave us this project, and we're paired up for it.”

Juniper pats my shoulder. “My deepest sympathies.”

“Sympathies accepted. He is so . . .” I make a clenching motion with both hands. “Oh my God, infuriating, is what.”

Juni laughs. “What'd he say?”

“He was normal until we were talking about the election, and
then he got all bitchy and just, holy shit.” I crack my knuckles. “One of us has to win, Juni. He's not allowed to win. Okay? Deal?”

“Deal, I suppose. Although I thought you wanted to drop out.”

“I did until, like, forty-five minutes ago.” I flick my hair out of my eyes. “Now I want to win out of sheer spite.”

“Naturally.” Juniper strokes an imaginary goatee, looking sagely into the distance. “You know what they say. ‘Three things last forever: faith, hope, and spite. And the greatest of these is spite.'”

I laugh so hard I have to put my head down on my desk.

BETWEEN SIXTH AND SEVENTH PERIOD, I PASS BY ONE
of the student-government lists I taped between rows of lockers. A flash of red catches my eye, and I glance up at it. Somebody has taken a pen to Olivia's name. Now it reads:
OLIVIA SCOTT
SUCKS DICKKKK!!

I roll my eyes and keep walking.

Halfway down the hall, I realize I should have taken that list down, or at least scratched out the graffiti. Why didn't it occur to me to do that? God, I'm the worst friend.

I stop at my locker, loosing a sigh. The way Olivia bounces from guy to guy these days, I can't get away from references to her sex life. It's wearing on me—the graffiti, all the talk in the halls, the muttered conversations I overhear in class.

This stuff doesn't happen in a vacuum—if you sleep around, people think about you differently. Maybe it's shitty, but that's the way things work, and Olivia knows it as well as I do. I've never spoken up. It's not like I condone her sleeping around, and insults have always seemed to roll off her back, so why should I bother interfering?

Still, I have a sneaking feeling that it makes me a terrible
person not to stick up for her. A lot of the time, I worry that I am a terrible person and just haven't had it confirmed yet. After all, how are you supposed to know for sure? Who's going to tell you? Who's going to be the one to break the news?

I scoop up my Young Environmentalists brochures and continue down the hall. Why are all my friends going off the rails lately? Juniper has the alcohol tolerance of a five-year-old, but last Saturday she shotgunned three beers in a row for no apparent reason and ended up wasted. Olivia guessed it was because Thomas Fallon kept hitting on her and she was getting annoyed, but I think if Juni wanted some guy to leave her alone, she'd tell him.

She'd tell
us
if something was wrong, right?

Maybe it's good that she's loosening up, making mistakes. That's how you learn, isn't it, through mistakes? Maybe Juni's tired of doing everything right.

Heading back down the hall, I pass Andrea Silverstein. A couple of guys beside me wait until she's gone and then start snickering about the streak of green dye at the front of her hair.

As always, I feel like I should tell them to stop. But—as always—the idea of speaking up paralyzes me, like, if I say a word, their laughter might turn on me. One time, back in sixth grade, I got caught texting in class, and Ms. Rollins read it aloud.
Zomg Eddie is so cute
, I'd texted to Olivia.
I want us to exchange numbers and it'll be super romantic and perfect XD

People lost their minds laughing. I thought I was going to pop from shame, but Juniper stood up for me. I remember that day like quartz, hard and clear: November, five years ago now. “Grow up,” Juniper had said to the other kids. “Would you want her to laugh at you?”

I'd never spoken to Juniper in my life, but she found me after class and asked me to sit with her and Olivia at lunch. I was hideously grateful, feeling so lucky to be with the two of them. They weren't just smart—they were pretty, too, with their straight, perfect hair, their clear skin. I was the kid with headgear for my braces and medication for my acne. I remember how surprised I was that they laughed at my jokes, that they would even look at me, let alone talk to me. I remember adopting their mannerisms, terrified that they'd let me go as quickly as they'd picked me up. I remember easing in, finding my niche with them, sleepovers and movie nights.

I picture a twelve-year-old Juniper swinging a tennis racket around in figure eights one summer afternoon, her hair whirling out in a blond pinwheel. She lost her grip, and the racket spun over our heads and into the lake with a miserable splash. We laughed until our stomachs ached. It was easy back then.