The Secret to Lying (5 page)

I didn’t pay attention to any of it. All I could think about was Jessica Keen’s warm breath tickling my cheek.

HASSERT KEPT US IN
his office for almost an hour, but Principal Durn, the man in charge of student discipline, was away at a conference, so he eventually had to let us go. “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” Hassert threatened. “This isn’t over.”

For the rest of the night, upperclassmen I’d never spoken to before called my name and slapped my back, while guys from Dingo wing acted out scenes from our performance, redoing parts in slow motion. The few who hadn’t been in the cafeteria kept saying to me, “Man, I can’t believe I missed it,” as if they’d somehow let me down. People looked at me now like they had no doubt that the stories they’d heard were true. My image had been sealed.

After social hour, an instant message blipped onto my screen while I was working on a paper. Outside of checking my calculus answers with a couple other students in my class, I wasn’t much into IMing people, and no one ever IM’d me.

I clicked “accept.”

The ghost logged out.

I SPENT THE NEXT DAY
trying to figure out who ghost44 might be. Jessica Keen was at the top of my list, but that seemed too good to be true. Girls like Jessica had never even looked at me before, not to mention writing me secret IMs. It could have been Sunny — that would explain why she had to keep things a secret, since she was going out with Dickie. Or it might be Sage Fisher. Sage was pretty cute in a busty, back-to-nature way, but I couldn’t figure out why she’d call herself invisible.

When I got back to my dorm room after class, there were two letters slipped under my door. At first I thought they might be from ghost44, but my excitement soon derailed when I saw the official-looking ASMA stationery. One letter was addressed to me, and the other to Dickie.

Beneath the
NOTICE OF A DISCIPLINARY HEARING
heading it said, “Regrettably, the hearing will have to be delayed until after the weekend, due to scheduling.” Only Hassert would start a sentence like that with “Regrettably.” From day one, he’d had it in for me. He had his favorites, and he had the students he despised, and he made no bones about it. “I don’t like your attitude,” he’d say. Or, “I know what you’re up to” (which always made me chuckle, since
I
never knew what I was up to).

A tight knot of dread lodged in my chest when I read the paragraph in the letter that said our parents would be notified. Dickie read his letter at the same time as me, then tacked it to the wall over his desk.

“My first act of civil disobedience,” he said, as if the letter was something to be proud of. He promptly called his parents to explain how ridiculous the charges against him were, given that no one had gotten hurt and no rules were broken. According to Dickie, his most recent “performance art event” had been a resounding success.

I realized, listening to his enthusiastic conversation with his parents, that I wasn’t worried about my parents being angry with me. What bothered me was having to deal with my parents at all. I wanted to keep my life at ASMA completely separate, but if the school called them, my parents might show up for the hearing on Monday.

I pictured my dad thumping the walls of the main building while Moms fussed over my purple hair and chatted with people about how I used to fear cats. Anyone who met my parents would know I wasn’t the person I claimed to be. They were the kryptonite to my Superman. Without even trying, they’d ruin everything.

Our phone rang several times that afternoon, but I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t even listen to my mom’s voice on the machine without feeling ill. Unfortunately, Dickie picked up the phone later before I could stop him. “Certainly, Mrs. Turner, he’s right here,” he said, handing the phone to me.
Good luck,
he mouthed.

The knot of dread rose to my throat. I took the phone and carried it into the bathroom for privacy.

“Hey,” I said.

“Jaaames,” Moms replied. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been calling all day. Didn’t you get our messages? We left a dozen or so on your machine, and then it stopped working.”

She was off and running, laying on the worried-parent act. In truth, there were only two messages on the machine before I unplugged it, but she loved to exaggerate.

“Are you there, James?”

When I spoke, it was in a dull, flat voice. “I’m right here.”

“Then why didn’t you call us back?” Moms asked. “Don’t you check your machine? I think it must be broken.”

“The machine’s fine. I’ve been busy.”

“Are they giving you too much work? It’s not good to work too hard. You have to take breaks. At least it’s Friday and tomorrow you can come home. How does that sound? We’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, then we can go clothes shopping. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“I hate shopping.”

“I think you need sweaters,” Moms continued. “It’ll be cold soon.”

“I don’t need sweaters.”

“Honey, you can’t go around wearing ripped-up clothes. You look like a bum. Tomorrow morning we’ll pick you up and get you something nice. And then we can chat.”

“Chat?”

“About things . . .”

“What things?” I asked, playing dumb.

That stumped her. The phone crackled, then my dad cleared his throat. He must have been on the bedroom phone listening in. My parents always did that — they’d both be on the line, but only Moms would talk. I could picture her pinching the cordless between her head and shoulder, giving my dad a frustrated look while mouthing
Say something.

“James, we got a phone call,” Dad grumbled, breaking his customary silence. “Mr. Hassert explained that you were involved in a disturbing incident.”

“It wasn’t disturbing.”

“Then why did they call us?” pounced Moms, like a professional wrestler tagging in. “I mean really?”

“It’s no big deal,” I said. “Hassert just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“And now there’s this hearing. We should be there.”

“No. Definitely not.”

“But they called us,” she repeated.

I scrambled to change the subject. “Look, about this weekend, I’ve got a lot of work to do. There’s a chemistry study group and I need to get notes.”

“Wouldn’t you rather come home?”

“I can’t.”

Moms paused. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You don’t sound right to me.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?” I asked. “I mean, really, do I sound ‘right’ now?”

“No. You don’t.” She addressed my dad: “Does he sound right to you?”

“How about this, Mother? Is this better? It’s lovely weather out.”

“Honestly, you don’t sound like yourself,” she said.

“Too bad. This is me.”

“Okay, okay,” Moms replied. “So when should we pick you up? Tomorrow night? That doesn’t make much sense. If you come home tomorrow night and leave Sunday afternoon, that’s hardly worth the drive.”

“I can’t miss this study session,” I lied.

“You want us to drive all the way out there and pick you up tomorrow night?”

“No. I have to write a paper on Sunday.”

“But . . .”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I have a ton of work to do. Lots of kids aren’t going home.”

Moms fell silent. After a few seconds, Dad chimed in, giving it one more shot. “What your mom’s trying to say is that we’d like to see you this weekend.”

“That’s right,” Moms exclaimed. “We want you to be with us.”

“I know. I just can’t go home right now.”

“You’re acting very strange,” Moms said, but the wind had gone out of her sails.

“I have to go.”

“I think they work you too hard. You need to take breaks.”

“Bye.”

“James . . .”

I hung up before she could say “wait” or “I love you” or any of that stuff. A low buzzing filled my head. I should have felt guilty for being such a lousy son, yet I didn’t feel anything.

Some guys laughed in the hallway outside my door. Since it was a Friday, we didn’t have to be in our rooms until midnight. Normally, I would have headed out to join them, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with people anymore. Instead, I went to sleep.