Here We Lie

by Paula Treick DeBoard

  My cheeks felt hot. “Maybe.” I hadn’t fully answered the question for myself yet, but I’d romanticized the profession, admiring my professors in their tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, their shoebox-sized offices filled with stacks of student papers and books with yellow sticky notes curling over the edges.

  “It’s a noble profession,” Senator Mabrey said, silencing Michael. “Without teachers, where would any of us be?”

  I smiled, although it seemed like a soundbite, a line from a speech delivered to the teachers’ union. It was hard to imagine a world where the Mabreys wouldn’t be successful, education or not.

  “Katherine taught for a few years,” Mrs. Mabrey said, and the pendulum swung to her end of the table. “It was at one of the best preschools in the area. Mothers were registering their babies before they were even born.”

  Peter said, “Lizzie’s going there next fall, when she’s three.”

  There was some talk about teacher-student ratios and rising tuition, and I had the distinct feeling that we weren’t talking about the same kind of teaching, at all. Under the table, Lauren kicked me, and I kicked her back.

  “Hey,” Michael said, indignant. “Are you playing footsie with me?”

  “No—I’m sorry.”

  Lauren stifled a laugh. “Watch yourself, Megs.”

  At the other end of the table, there was a distinct squawk from the baby monitor, and a brief argument between Katherine and Peter about whether to let Lizzie cry it out or go check on her. Eventually, Katherine excused herself and disappeared. A minute later we heard her voice on the monitor, cooing, “What’s wrong with my baby girl now? What’s wrong, hmm? What’s wrong with little Liz—” Peter turned the volume dial again, and her question disappeared.

  “Yeah, Megs,” Michael said. “Watch yourself.”

  * * *

  The days before Christmas were a blur of errands that needed to be run, cards opened and cataloged. Every time the Mabreys’ doorbell rang, it was a harried-looking delivery person with a cellophane-wrapped gift basket from one constituent or another. In between trips to town, Lauren and I escaped to The Dungeon, watching cheesy holiday movies on the big-screen TV and helping ourselves to the liquor cabinet.

  “See, this isn’t so different from Mazeros holidays,” I said, gesturing to our shot glasses of Bombay Sapphire. “Except our liquor of choice is Bud or Coors.”

  Lauren grimaced. “I’ve never understood the allure myself. I mostly fake drank at Reardon.”

  “The allure is that it’s cheap, and you can get hammered pretty easily,” I explained.

  “Well, yeah. That part I get.”

  I wandered over to the bookshelf lined with board games and pulled down a puzzle. The picture on the front of the box was of a quaint little cottage, surrounded by snow, lit by a few cheery lamps. It was the sort of thing I would have found romantic and idyllic before visiting the Mabreys. Now I wondered if the people in the cottage were poor, and if the gas lamps were a sign that they couldn’t pay their electricity bill. I held up the box for Lauren. “What do you think? Feel like a puzzle?”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said.

  At some point in the afternoon, Michael would join us, fresh from a kickboxing session at the gym or lunch in town with his dad—a “schmooze session,” he called it.

  “Who are you schmoozing?” I asked, imagining men in an oak-paneled room, smoking cigars and drinking from brandy snifters.

  He grinned. “Anyone with money and an interest in politics.”

  “What kind of law are you studying?” I asked him one afternoon, when the puzzle was about half-completed. I’d spent half an hour trying to find a missing edge piece before turning my attention to a clump of fir trees.

  “Criminal,” he said, opening a bottle of Corona. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. Lauren said, “Sure, hit me.”

  I was trying one odd-shaped piece in a dozen different places. “So you’d be what? A prosecutor or a defense attorney?”

  Michael snorted, passing an open bottle to Lauren.

  “Oh, please,” she said. “He’s trying to follow in Dad’s footsteps. The law degree is just a stepping stone.”

  “You mean politics?”

  Michael forced a lime down the neck of his beer and watched the resulting fizz. “It’s the family business, after all.”

  “Check your soul at the door,” Lauren said. She took a slug of beer and set the bottle by her foot, where it balanced unevenly on the shag carpet.

  “Are you kidding? It’s called making a difference in people’s lives.” He announced the words like they were a newspaper headline, or the title of a research paper.

  Lauren rolled her eyes at me. “My brother, the humanitarian.”

  “Well, it’s true. The economy, national security, balancing the budget...” Michael reached down for a piece of the puzzle, tried it unsuccessfully in two different places and abandoned it on the edge of the table.

  “I suppose it has nothing to do with fame and fortune,” Lauren said.

  Somehow Michael had drained half the beer already, and he sat back, as relaxed as a guy vacationing on a beach. “Those are the fringe benefits.”

  I shifted positions on the carpet, my knees protesting.

  Michael nudged me with his foot. “What are you—Republican or Democrat?”

  “Independent,” I said automatically—which was true. I’d gone so far as to register before losing interest in the process, and I hadn’t voted before leaving Woodstock. As far as I knew, sample ballots had been arriving at Gerry Tallant’s house in my name, and my mother had been throwing them away.

  Michael scoffed. “Being independent is a waste of time. This country will never go for a three-party system. We’re too ingrained in our beliefs.”

  “Eighteen months of law school, and he’s already a cynic,” Lauren commented. A commercial came on television and she reached for the remote, flipping between channels, settling on something just long enough for me to register what we were watching before flipping onward.

  “Hey,” Michael said, nudging me again, the ball of his foot rolling over my thigh. “I’m in charge of the summer internship program at my dad’s office. You should apply. We have at least a dozen spots to fill. We’ll even take an Independent.”

  I looked up. “In Washington, DC?”

  Michael laughed. “That’s where his office is, so yeah.”

  “What does an intern do?”

  “Grunt work,” Lauren said, at the same time Michael said, “You get to learn how the whole political process works, see some legislation in action, show student groups around Capitol Hill, that kind of thing.”

  “It sounds interesting,” I said.

  Lauren laughed. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Michael’s foot was still on my leg. I shifted to another position, and his foot dropped to the floor. “I’ll send you a link to the application, then.”

  “What about you?” I asked Lauren. “We could apply together.”

  “I’d rather eat glass,” Lauren said, getting to her feet. She’d forgotten about the beer, which toppled onto its side, liquid spilling in a golden stream. She swore, hurrying to the bar for a roll of paper towels.

  “It’s settled, then,” Michael said. He reached over my head as if he were a giant and I were a child, and somehow, he spotted the missing edge piece that had eluded me.

  * * *

  Christmas came and went—big dinners that left us gorged and listless, followed by mindless hours of watching TV and playing Chinese checkers in the basement, our limbs draped over the ends of the plaid couches. I watched Lizzie when Kat and Peter were busy, taking her outside to make snow angels on a crisp afternoon and playing hide-and-seek with her in the living room, behind the white couches where no one ever sat. On Christmas morning, I j
oined the Mabreys when they opened their presents, smiling as embarrassing mounds of gift wrap and tissue paper were discarded and missing my Christmases with Dad and Mom, our ritual of hot chocolate and cinnamon bread. I’d always felt spoiled by them, the only child of loving parents. Now, watching the Mabreys open gift after gift, an impressive stack of sweaters and scarfs and boots and electronics piling up next to each of them, I realized that “spoiled” was relative. Lauren’s big gift was a laptop, which she immediately freed from its packaging with a tool from Michael’s keychain.

  “Megan,” Mrs. Mabrey said, passing a wrapped box over Lizzie’s head.

  “Really? For me?” I slid a finger carefully beneath the ribbon, working it around the edge of the box, then under the tape.

  “Open it already!” Michael called, and I remembered how my mom had always exclaimed over the waste of using wrapping paper only once. She would save the tissue, flattening it out and refolding it, then tucking it away in a giant Tupperware container in the garage. I worked the tie free and opened the box.

  It was a raspberry-colored sweater, the wool soft between my fingers. I draped it over my body like the clothes for a paper doll. “Thank you—this is so generous. Everything has been so wonderful, and this—”

  “You’re very welcome,” Senator Mabrey said, at the same time Mrs. Mabrey said, “It’s nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing to me. It was probably the most expensive thing I’d ever owned, including my old Celica.

  “Okay, okay, enough of this,” Lauren said, abandoning her laptop for the moment. “Everyone open their gifts from me at the same time.” I already knew what they were—black-and-white portraits, matted and framed back at Keale. Earlier this week, we’d wrapped them together in the Mabreys’ basement, scraps of wrapping paper and ribbon collecting at our feet.

  Lauren had captured them when they weren’t looking—Katherine out on the boat at their summer house, her parents sitting side by side on a porch swing, Michael leaning against the railing of a gazebo, Peter in the boat, a fishing rod aimed over the side. Only Lizzie had been caught head-on, her mouth open in a goofy smile, her hair a dandelion tuft around her head. There were oohs and aahs and general murmurs of appreciation. Lizzie said, “That’s me!” and ran to each of us, shoving her picture in our faces.

  “There’s one for you, too,” Lauren said, handing me a horribly wrapped package, this one clearly her own handiwork.

  It was a picture of the two of us, taken in our dorm room, the corner of my class schedule visible where I’d taped it on the wall. I remembered that fall afternoon, rain cooping us up indoors. Lauren had held the camera at arm’s length, and we’d alternated poses from serious to smiling to tongues out, as if we were in a photo booth at a carnival. She’d framed one of us smiling, our heads tilted together, one of my curls brushing her cheek. Only now did I notice that we were mismatched—Lauren had the blue eyes that matched my blond hair, and I had the dark eyes that matched hers.

  “Don’t you two see enough of each other already?” Michael said, snatching the frame from my grasp.

  But I leaned over and gave Lauren a one-armed hug. “I love it,” I told her.

  She beamed.

  On New Year’s Eve, we went to a party just down the road at the home of one of Senator Mabrey’s major donors. I borrowed a black dress from the back of Lauren’s closet, one she’d worn to see a play on Broadway. The only fancy dress I’d ever owned was for the winter formal my junior year of high school—teal green and covered with about a million sequins that kept falling off when I danced. Lauren’s dress was more sophisticated than anything I’d ever seen in the Junction City mall, one-shouldered and silky, the hem riding up on my thigh.

  “Do you think it’s too obscene?” I asked, gesturing across my chest, where the fabric stretched tight.

  “Yes,” Lauren laughed. “And it’s perfect.”

  We drank too much champagne and danced together in a gigantic ballroom, twirling and dipping while Lauren’s parents and their friends looked on, amused. Kat and Peter left early, carrying a sleeping Lizzie wrapped in a soft blanket. Michael, Lauren and I left at eleven, claiming we wanted to watch Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. In his car, Michael cranked up the heat and said, “Let the drinking begin.”

  We ended up in The Dungeon, where Michael lined up tequila shots on the bar and we threw them back, laughing and sputtering. On television, musicians I didn’t know danced on a soundstage, and the camera panned over a shrieking, shivering crowd.

  “Dick Clark looks like someone’s dirty old grandpa,” I observed. Maybe because of the tequila, this struck Michael and Lauren as hysterical. We drank to that observation too, and then Lauren collapsed onto one of the plaid couches with a belch.

  Michael took a pool stick off the rack on the wall and rubbed the tip with a cube of chalk. “Anyone up for a game?”

  Lauren groaned. “I can’t even stand up.”

  I kicked off my borrowed heels, the toes stuffed with tissue. “I’m game. I haven’t played pool in forever, though.”

  “Billiards,” Michael and Lauren corrected.

  Lauren flopped onto her side, stretching out her long legs. “The Mabreys don’t play pool, Megan. That’s way too conventional.”

  “Provincial,” Michael agreed, gathering the balls from their netted pockets.

  Lauren yawned. “Cheap.”

  “Please,” I said, rising to the occasion. “I’ll tell you what, Michael. You play billiards and I’ll play pool, and winner gets default bragging rights.”

  “You’re on. But first—” He turned in the direction of the bar and returned a minute later with two long-necked Coronas.

  “Ah,” I said. “Good idea.”

  “Of course, I’m leaving in the morning, so I’ll have to do all my bragging tonight,” he said, handing me a bottle. I accepted, draining a couple inches in a long slug. I already felt loopy, and I wondered if it would be easier to sleep in The Dungeon tonight or crawl up two flights of stairs in Lauren’s dress.

  “Where’s mine?” Lauren whined from the couch.

  With one hand, Michael untucked his dress shirt from his waistband. “Please. You’re going to be asleep in five minutes.”

  Lauren yawned, not denying it. “Be careful, MK. Megs will go all Kansas on you.”

  We played a warm-up round, taking sloppy shots. I hadn’t played since the summer when I was fourteen, too young to have a job or friends with cars. That summer, Dad’s cousin CJ had been evicted from his rental, and our garage had provided temporary storage for his pool table, golf clubs and hunting rifles. Dad had taken the opportunity to teach me every shot he knew from a lifetime of pickup games in bars. I had loved the satisfying smack! as the cue ball whacked a striped or solid, sending it flying into other balls, other pockets.

  Maybe it was because of the nostalgia that I let my guard down. Or more likely, it was because of the tequila, plus the three Coronas I drank while Michael beat me handily in the first game, and by less of a margin in our second game, when it was clear the alcohol was getting to him, too. He weaved his way unsteadily around the table, leaning against the wood-paneled wall for balance, brushing against me in a way that might have been deliberate or accidental.

  When he beat me the second time, he set down his stick and came up behind me, his breath suddenly on my cheek. “Bragging rights,” he reminded me. I felt his erection bulging against my hip and half turned, glancing over my shoulder at Lauren. She was asleep on the couch, the dark mass of her hair blocking her face. She would have been horrified if she were awake, throwing a cushion at Michael, demanding he keep his hands off me.

  “Hey now,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to sidestep him. Michael’s mouth loomed close, his breath as beery and unwelcome as my own. I braced myself for the kiss before it came, meeting it with pursed lips. My hands on his chest were a preventive measure, a b
arrier to keep him from coming closer. “We’re drunk,” I laughed, scooting out of the way before it could go further. And then, not knowing what else to do, I’d dodged his outstretched arms and headed for the stairs. It was a relief to find myself alone on the main floor, away from the stale, overheated air of The Dungeon. By the time I was in my pajamas and under the covers in Lauren’s room, I was congratulating myself for avoiding a disaster, the kind of bad decision that ended up with the two of us in Michael’s room, whispering drunkenly, my nylons rolled down, Lauren’s silk dress pushed up to my hips. And then what? In the morning, would I have had to do the walk of shame down the long hallway past the closed doors of Lauren’s sleeping family members? Would I have had to sit across the breakfast table from Mrs. Mabrey’s disapproving glance? It was unthinkable.

  If it had been anyone else, any other boy after any other party, I would have told Lauren everything about it, dissecting the kiss, analyzing it from every angle. I was aware—keenly, even in my drunken, spinning-ceiling state—that Michael Mabrey was a good catch. He was attractive in a Kennedy-esque way, with dark hair and a lanky body made for noncontact sports like golf and downhill skiing. Plus, he was smart. If he hadn’t been her brother, Lauren and I would have analyzed that, too, ranking him for sexiness and future prospects.

  But because it was Lauren, and because it was Michael, I never said a word. By the time Lauren and I stumbled downstairs in the early afternoon, searching for coffee, Michael was already gone.

  That spring when I was trying to find a summer job that would keep me away from Woodstock, I thought about contacting Michael, reminding him that he was going to send me an application for the internship position in his father’s office. But I was smart enough to realize that the offer hadn’t been a serious one, the way his drunken kiss hadn’t been serious, either.

  OCTOBER 10, 2016

  Lauren

  Brady came in when I was making dinner, a stir-fry recipe that allowed me to stab furiously at chunks of chicken and broccoli with a wooden spoon. The girls were in the den—Stella texting madly on her pink iPhone, Emma in the tutu from her last Halloween costume, watching Animal Planet.