The Rules for Lying

by L. A. Kelley

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Accomplishments

  The Rules for Lying

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A word from the author...

  The bedroom light flicked off. The pitch black in the yard lasted a few seconds before a yellow beam danced eerily across the door.

  My throat near closed in terror. That was no flashlight.

  The ray from Pike’s eyes narrowed and focused pencil-thin. The smell of burning wood drifted across the lawn. Transfixed in horror, I watched a smoldering hieroglyphic of a flame etch into the middle of the door. The trail of glowing embers flared and then snuffed out. Pike jumped off the stoop and sprinted down the alley.

  Heart thumping, I darted to the door. My fingers stroked the spot where the little flame had erupted. The wood was still warm.

  I snatched back my hand. The wood was now hot, more scorching by the second. The glowing outline of the flame reappeared. A spark shot out, soared overhead, and landed near the chimney.

  Patches of shingles exploded in flames.

  The Rules for Lying won the Florida Writers Association Royal Palm Literary Award for Best Young Adult Manuscript

  The Rules for Lying

  by

  L. A. Kelley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Rules for Lying

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by L. A. Kelley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by RJMorris

  Published by Wildflowers Books, a division of The Wild Rose Press®, Inc.

  Publishing History

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-863-1 978-1-62830-863-1

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-862-4

  Published in the United States of America

  For John

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wising up to the Rules

  I can always spot a lie. No boast, flat truth.

  The gift came early. Even during my rechristening on the hospital steps, I bawled up a storm. You have to reckon when a baby can sense something fishy, the talent must be inborn.

  My rightful name disappeared among the dead in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. The illness began in the army camps and then raced like an Oklahoma cyclone across the rest of the country. Millions perished before the virus finally burned out, including a nameless woman who collapsed on the steps of Saint Peter’s Hospital in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Clutching me tight, she breathed her last without uttering a word. The doctor figured I was a goner, too, but to his surprise I coughed out a whistling squeak. Needing something to write on the patient chart, he scribbled the first name to pop into his head.

  Hollering at the barefaced lie did no good. I became Peter Whistler on the spot and forever after. All in all, the doctor could have done worse. Most folks back then were not given to coddle an orphan’s feelings. Had I been dubbed Squeaky MacFlu instead no one would have clucked about the damage to my self-esteem. Orphans weren’t supposed to have any.

  Male unclaimed baggage was turned over to Mrs. Lucinda Hart, owner of the Little Angels Home for Orphan Boys. I spent the next fifteen years at Little Angels. Although I stayed small for my age, the angel part eluded me. I never knew Mr. Hart. By the time I arrived at Little Angels he had departed from her life, whether by death or two legs I didn’t know. He was a forbidden topic of discussion in the house.

  Mrs. Hart received a modest sum from each couple upon an adoption. Her other income was a small monthly stipend from the county to feed, clothe, and house each orphan. By necessity she became an expert in the bottom line as babies came and went through the doors of Little Angels.

  Except for me.

  Couples were partial to cute gurgling infants with gummy smiles. I was never much for looks. Mrs. Murphy, the neighbor next door, believed her civic duty included constant mention of my flaws in case I hadn’t noticed them myself. “His face is simply all wrong,” she once tsked to Mrs. Hart right in front of me. “The nose is too sharp, the ears too long, and the placement of the eyes better suited for an aquatic reptile. No wonder you can’t get rid of him.”

  Her judgment cut sharp. I hurled the worst insult my seven year-old brain could fashion. “Stinky fatty fat-fat.” Mrs. Hart immediately ordered an apology.

  “Sorry,” I muttered and then spit out under my breath, “Fat old bat stinks worse than a dead rat.”

  “He has a disagreeable personality, too,” Mrs. Murphy screeched, stomping home.

  “Peter,” Mrs. Hart admonished, “that’s no way to speak to your elders.”

  “She said I was ugly.” I wallowed in a good solid pout, but Mrs. Hart didn’t tolerate self-pity.

  “You shouldn’t care what Mrs. Murphy thinks. She’s a foolish woman who will never be more than she is today. You have a brain, Peter, but lack self-control. Only with both is success possible.”

  I kicked at the carpet. “Brains don’t get you adopted.”

  “You won’t be here forever.”

  An undefined emotion swept across her face. Was it pain? Sorrow? Exasperation with my bad manners? I quit pondering and returned to pouting. Then Mrs. Hart explained I’d receive five hundred dollars at age eighteen to start my adult life.

  I brightened immediately, knowing she told the truth. In hindsight I should have asked more questions. Nobody ever gave an orphan anything, including friendship. Even kids at school shied away as if I had the cootie touch. Five hundred dollars was a fortune, though, so I no longer cared Mrs. Hart couldn’t lie me into a good home.

  Lying was her foolproof system to place other orphans. Sharp at reading people, she’d ask potential parents a few innocent questions, and then zero in on likes and dislikes. The deal always closed. Once Mrs. Hart swore to a preacher and his wife their potential son had been found floating down the Hudson River in a basket. They didn’t doubt her straight-face for a second and weren’t about to reject their own personal Moses. So, I figured I was an especially hard sell. Even one of her stories couldn’t make up for my total lack of looks and unpleasant nature.

  I was wrong, but the real reason didn’t come out until much later.

  By age ten I accepted my whole childhood would be spent at Little Angels, which was why the last thing I expected that day was an adoption. Mrs. Hart called me into the parlor. On the surface she sat cool as an autumn breeze, but I knew her too well. Something gummed the works.

  A chubby man and pinch-faced woman perched stiff-backed on the settee. Nico and Carlotta Grimaldi owned the local general store. A couple of high-hatters with plenty of scratch, they donated heavily to Police Chief Percival Edwards’ election campaigns. In return, he encouraged the public to spend money at Grimaldi’s Market and hinted those who didn’t would find the police slow to respond in emergencies. Not surprisingly, their business flourished
.

  As smarmy social climbers, the Grimaldi’s sucked up to the rich and boondoggled everyone else. Chief Edwards’ son, Chauncey, bragged how they would slip him chocolate bars and then pad other customers’ bills for the cost. On principle, I swiped penny candy from the counter display every time Mrs. Hart sent me to Grimaldi’s Market.

  The couple eyed me with the same expression a person gets when lifting a shoe and finding an unexpected spot of dog crap on the sole. Mrs. Grimaldi curled her lip. “He’s very plain. I doubt he’ll grow into those ears.”

  “We don’t need him for looks, Carlotta.” Mr. Grimaldi poked me in the chest as if testing for ripeness. “The boy is strong enough—though puny.”

  Mrs. Hart narrowed her eyes. “Exactly why do you need Peter?”

  “To adopt, of course.” Mrs. Grimaldi bristled. “I hardly think a reason is necessary. You should be relieved we’re willing to take him off your hands, considering your economic circumstances.” She sniffed at the shabby surroundings. “This place is hardly a money-maker.”

  “Oh, I am delighted,” Mrs. Hart murmured in an offhanded way. “He’s a constant drain on my resources.” The double lie pricked against my ears. “By the way,” she continued, “I hear business is good. Will you hire additional help?”

  Mr. Grimaldi shot his wife a sly glance. “Help is expensive—cuts into the bottom line.” True.

  “Quite right,” Mrs. Hart agreed. “Naturally, as a member of the family, Peter would be expected to work.”

  “No free rides in this life.” He regarded her with suspicion. “Do you imply we merely seek free labor?”

  True.

  “Ridiculous,” huffed Mrs. Grimaldi. “Our one thought is to give the poor dear child a good home.”

  I seethed at the big, fat, whopper of a lie. I had the score now. The law held no protection for orphans. Once brought into a family, no one checked on a kid. Adoption was the last legal means to obtain slave labor.

  Mrs. Hart’s voice tightened. “Peter would not be a proper fit in your household—”

  “The law is on our side,” Mrs. Grimaldi snapped. “If you refuse a qualified couple, your license to operate Little Angels is in jeopardy. I’m sure Percival Edwards would see things our way.” Mrs. Hart sat in stone-faced silence, hands clenched tight.

  I glowered at the sour-looking couple. No way would I live in their attic, chained to a bedpost at night. Hawking a loogie, I spit into a potted plant. The Grimaldi’s recoiled in disgust.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hart murmured lightly. “Peter is not usually like this. He’s really a delightful child.”

  Mr. Grimaldi poked me sharply again. “We’ll have no more of that, young man.”

  Delightful Child chomped on his finger hard enough to draw blood. Mr. Grimaldi erupted off the settee, yowling like a wounded cat. With a bellowed curse, he dragged his wife forcibly to her feet. As the front door slammed, I got the jumps. The Grimaldi’s would blab to everyone about my behavior. I ruined Mrs. Hart’s last chance to toss me.

  “What a shameful way to treat guests, Peter,” she admonished. “As punishment you will weed the rose garden every day after school for a week. Go to your room until I call you for supper.”

  Not a bad punishment, after all. As I shut the parlor door, I swore Mrs. Hart chuckled. Pure baloney, of course. She had no reason to be happy since I was now stuck with her for good.

  Life continued swell enough at Little Angels. I had three square meals a day and a roof over my head. My time was my own once the chores finished. I explored every street and back alley of New Brunswick and could draw a mental map to every place in the city with my eyes closed.

  My favorite pastime was to perch on the knoll above the train station, watch boxcars streak by, and daydream about the five hundred bucks. In all those years I never once asked where the dough would come from, assuming a government program funded in the hope orphans would use the money to scram from New Jersey and leave decent residents alone. Mrs. Hart always encouraged me to further my education, but instead I planned to buy a ticket on the first train from New Brunswick and never return. My future would be the freedom of the open road and no responsibilities for anyone but myself.

  ****

  Serious study in the art of lying began at age twelve. One rainy day I piled up empty crates, commandeered an old mattress, and built a secret hiding place in the basement. I hunkered down happily to read comic books swiped from Grimaldi’s Market, but mysterious voices overhead brought my attention to the ceiling. Every syllable from the conversation in the upstairs parlor rang clear through the duct from the heating grate.

  Mrs. Hart discussed an adoption with a set of potential parents. Her voice shifted to a lie, as expected. For the first time, though, I listened not only to the words, but also the tone. She sounded completely legit. The reason suddenly became clear why no one questioned the sketchy stories on the orphans’ backgrounds. A stammer or sudden shift in pitch is a dead giveaway. Mrs. Hart never faltered.

  Detecting a lie for me had always been a snap, but telling one was tougher. My early success rate was spotty. Some worked, some didn’t. Now, I knew why.

  Lying had rules to follow. I simply had to figure them out.

  So I eavesdropped when Mrs. Hart met with potential parents and wrote my observations on a paper sack. The first two rules came easy.

  Rule One: A lie on the fly will surely die.

  The more important the lie, the more you must practice, practice, and practice some more. A guilty expression was a dead giveaway.

  Rule Two: A lie prevails with few details.

  The best lies were simple. If caught standing over a dead body with a smoking gun, tell the cops, “I didn’t know it was loaded.” Then, keep your mouth shut.

  I itched to test the rules. A chance came with a delivery of twins to Little Angels. Mrs. Hart ran out of condensed milk. Short of funds, she sent me to Grimaldi’s Market with instructions to put three cans on her account. No one had credit cards in those days. Grocers wrote the date and amount of purchase in an account ledger by the cash register—bills settled on the first of the month. Usually, I hated going to the Grimaldi’s. Now I enthusiastically practiced all the way downtown until the lie flowed from my lips like storm water through a gutter pipe.

  Mr. and Mrs. Grimaldi were helping a customer. They paused long enough to shoot me matching glares. Once they turned away I swiped a piece of bubble gum from a jar on the display case and jammed it in my pocket for later.

  Esther Roth perched on a stool behind the front counter. Esther was six years old and a distant cousin of Carlotta. She lost her eyesight to a measles epidemic as a baby, and then recently her folks died in a car accident. As her only living relatives, the Grimaldi’s grudgingly took her in. They boarded Esther at a school for the blind, with rare visits to New Brunswick. I would have felt sorry for Esther, but she was also a real pill. Fortunately, our paths didn’t cross often.

  Esther held a Braille book, running her fingers delicately over the page. I stood dead-still, hoping this time she wouldn’t hear me breathing, but her ears were as sharp as a sack of ten-penny nails. Her hand froze. She cocked her head in my direction. “Who’s there?”

  “Me.”

  “Peter Whistler, what are you doing here?”

  “None of your bees wax.”

  “Is so.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is so.”

  “Is not.”

  “Shut your yaps,” Mr. Grimaldi bellowed, storming to the front. “What do you want, Whistler?”

  Esther’s empty eyes bored into me. I hadn’t planned on an audience, but was too pigheaded to retreat. I calmly requested three cans of condensed milk, and without hesitation or shift in tone added, “…and a chocolate bar. Please put everything on the account.”

  Mr. Grimaldi didn’t buy the lie for a second.

  Rule Three: An iffy reputation never sells a fabrication.

  Appearance counts. Mr. Grimaldi w
as naturally suspicious of kids, especially me. The finger chomping incident hadn’t helped. He knew Mrs. Hart watched every penny, so candy bars were few and far between in our household.

  Mr. Grimaldi immediately telephoned Mrs. Hart to squeal, and then gleefully assured me a severe beating awaited at Little Angels for telling lies. I thought for sure Esther would say something smart, but she kept her mouth shut. Those ghostly eyes even held a hint of sympathy.

  I never feared a beating. Mrs. Hart didn’t believe in corporal punishment. Instead, she assigned another week in the rose garden. Lecturing and scolding weren’t her way, but my actions upset her more than the usual mischief. As she handed over the spade, I squirmed under her piercing gaze.

  “Life is hard, Peter. A nickel isn’t worth much.” Her posture stiffened. “At least, to people like the Grimaldi’s. However, your actions affect this household. Please consider in the future a nickel for a candy bar means a nickel less milk for the babies.”

  I stabbed the spade viciously into the soil, done up tight by her words. The babies weren’t my responsibility. They were all strangers, briefly crossing my path. I wasn’t responsible for a soul. I planned to live the rest of my life the same way as soon as I turned eighteen and got my five hundred bucks.

  With nothing to gain, I decided at that moment not to involve Mrs. Hart in my lies. She was too sharp and already knew everything about me. A lie would be obvious. Besides, even I couldn’t argue her punishments were severe or undeserved. Everybody else, though, was fair game.

  I had failed miserably at the Grimaldi’s, so must have missed rules. I returned to eavesdropping on Mrs. Hart and soon others joined the list.

  Rule Four: Lies from a stranger don’t signal danger.

  The less known about a person, the quicker folks fall for a well-delivered line.

  Rule Five: Hone your tone.

  Keep a steady voice. A bad lie is signaled by mild stammering followed by a slight upturn in pitch.

  Rule Six: Don’t squirm like a worm. Be firm.

  Bad liars fidget as if the truth inside fights to come out, but tell a good story with a straight face, look ’em square in the eye, and folks will fall for anything.