The Secret to Lying (29 page)

THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL,
there weren’t any classes or finals or anything. We were supposed to pack our stuff and clean out our dorm rooms. My parents were coming that evening to pick me up. I’d called them a few days before to arrange things, which pretty much stunned my mother speechless. It might have been the only time I’d ever called them first. It’s not like I was looking forward to spending the summer at home, but I’d decided to declare a truce with my mom and try to accept her for who she was with the hope that she might do the same for me. To her credit, she said I sounded good on the phone. Then Dad said he was proud of me for finishing the semester.

I’d packed most of my things that morning, except for my posters, which I wanted to keep up until the last minute since bare walls depressed me. I probably should have spent the afternoon cleaning — the crickets still owned my room, and there were bits of moldy bread and rotting lettuce under the bed — but everyone else was at the square signing yearbooks and I didn’t want to miss out.

I wandered campus, trading my yearbook with people, even people I hadn’t been friends with. The hard part was that every time I asked someone to sign my book, they asked me to sign theirs, and I couldn’t think of what to write.

Some people signed next to their pictures, adding a funny word bubble to candid shots of them at the dance or studying in their dorms. There was only one candid shot of me in the yearbook, though, and I didn’t want to sign next to it. I kind of wished it wasn’t in the book at all.

The picture was of me after the ultimate freak. My head lay cocked to the side, purple hair in a crazy tangle, eyes half shut, and tongue lolling out the side of my mouth. One arm clenched my chest while the other hung limp near Jess’s feet. Ketchup splotches covered my shirt, but since the picture was black and white, it looked more like grease stains than blood.

People kept saying to me, “Nice picture, J.T.” Then they’d nod and smile, or wink or something, like they wanted me to know they were in on the joke.

No matter how many times I looked at the picture, I didn’t recognize it as myself. I mean the T-shirt, ripped jeans, and wild hair — it all looked like me, and I remembered lying there. Except the person I’d been then seemed strange to me now.

The old me would have dissed the whole yearbook-signing thing. Or if I did sign someone’s yearbook, I would have written something ridiculous, like:

or

Now, I took it seriously. A few times, I even snuck off to see what people had written in my book. Mostly it was lame, shallow stuff:

I don’t know what I was looking for in people’s messages. Some sense of who I was, maybe? I even asked Ralph, aka Muppet, to sign my book. He wrote,
I’m glad you didn’t get kicked out. Next year I hope we can be physics partners again.
When I read that, I got so choked up I nearly lost it.

Ellie had come back from the hospital a few days before to finish the semester. I kept an eye out for her as I wandered around campus, but I didn’t see her. No one I spoke with had seen her, either. Eventually, I got a pass to her wing and knocked on her door.

Her roommate had already left, so Ellie was alone, packing her things. The walls were totally blank, and most of her stuff sat in boxes. One of the boxes near the door was filled with textbooks I’d already returned. The teachers probably gave Ellie an extension on finals. I felt bad for her, knowing how hard it was to have work left to do when everyone else was done.

“Hey,” I said, “want to sign my yearbook?”

She gave me a funny look and kept folding her shirts, getting the creases perfect before she set them in her suitcase. “Why? Are you going for a record? Amber Lane already has 102 signatures — some steep competition there.”

“I prefer quality over quantity.” I handed her my yearbook. “Tell you what, I’ll even sign yours. And I’m picky about this sort of thing. Amber Lane would kill for my autograph.”

“Is that so?”

“Okay. So maybe she didn’t ask me. But that only makes me more of a rarity.”

Ellie flipped through my book, looking for a blank spot. “Mine’s on my desk,” she said.

I sat on her desk and opened her yearbook. Every page I turned to was completely blank. I was the first person to sign it.

“You have to promise not to read what I write until you get home,” she said.

“Sure.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

She smiled and went back to writing.

I tried to come up with something heartfelt and witty to put in her book, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Eventually, I scrawled a few lines about how we should write each other old-fashioned letters every day over the summer, and I couldn’t wait to see her next year. Then it hit me why her book was blank. “Are you coming back next year?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Depends how things go over the summer. My mom thinks the cafeteria food is why I don’t eat. I keep telling her that I really like pancake enchiladas, but she doesn’t believe me. She wants me to be closer to home so she can keep an eye on me, which means my dad wants me to be closer to him, so he can prove that he’s the better parent.” She tapped the pen against her lips. “What about you? Are you coming back?”

I gestured to the open book in my lap. “I already signed a dozen yearbooks with ‘see you next year,’ and I’ve got this new policy about always telling the truth.”

“Good luck.”

“No kidding.” I flipped through her book, past the picture of me pretending to be dead. “I’ve told so many stories, it’s hard to know what’s true anymore.”

Ellie shook her head. “I mean good luck being here.”

“Oh.” I set her yearbook down and looked out her window. She had a nice view of the main square where people gathered. “It’s strange,” I said. “I know most people can’t wait for summer, but I wish I could stay here. I’m such a geek.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What am I, then?”

“You, James Turner, are a baby. And I mean that in the very best way.”

“Right. Because guys love to be called babies.”

“The only real friends I’ve ever had were babies,” she said, handing my yearbook back to me. “It means you’re new. You’re discovering things. We both are.” Ellie leaned against the desk where I sat, fitting her legs between mine.

“So I’m your friend?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“A real friend?”

“You feel pretty real to me,” she said, putting her hands on my shoulders. “You’re not a ghost anymore.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist.

For a moment, I thought I’d imagined the brush of her lips on my cheek, because I’d wanted so badly to kiss her. Then Ellie kissed me again, and this time our lips met. It was wonderful and sad — a hello and good-bye and everything else in one gesture. I kept thinking
This . . . this . . . this . . .
because it seemed incredible that I could be myself, and life could be this amazing.

“I’ll write you,” I said, pulling her so close I could feel her heart beating against my chest.

“You better,” she whispered.

Piece of Cake
— that’s what I thought when I finished the first draft of this novel. I’ve since been humbled. It took me four years and over a dozen rewrites to figure these characters out and unearth their secrets. Here’s to the people who believed in this book and kept me going.

I especially want to thank:

My wife, Kerri, for reading this book nearly as much as I did, and being the one I always write for.

Lauren Myracle, Laura Resau, Ellie Echo, Trevor Jackson, my sister, Jill Mitchell, and The Minions (Steve Church, Abe Brennan, Sophie Beck, Jamie Kembrey, Emily Wortman-Wonder, and Oz Spies) for giving this manuscript early reads and excellent suggestions. Alvero, for pointing out that there needed to be a kiss. And David Levithan and Wendy Lamb for giving me expert advice.

Jennifer Yoon, for being a brilliant editor who stuck with me through more drafts than I care to remember. Amy Maffei, for looking up the ingredients in Chunky Monkey ice cream. James Weinberg for excellent design work. Deborah Wayshak, Elizabeth Bicknell, and all the other fine people at Candlewick, for helping a bunch of pages become a book.

Ginger Knowlton, the best agent ever, for believing in me. And Tracy Marchini, for staying in touch.

Heather Standley Hayward, for helping me remember things, and for never forgetting my birthday. Dickie and Heinous, for letting me borrow their nicknames. Ellen Landers, for inspiring me to take the writer’s path. Justin Jesty, for Japanese translation help and ongoing friendship.

Hundreds of students in schools I visited for giving me title advice (I like
Syzygy,
too).