The Liars

by Jennifer Mathieu

  I exhale. “I bet you’re right about Mr. Callahan,” I answer, ignoring the part about not trusting men, and I head back to my bedroom and shut the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MICHELLE AND I ARE HEADING TOWARD THE PARTY ON the beach, a six-pack of Budweiser swinging from Michelle’s hand. The gritty sand under our feet is still warm because night has only just fallen, and the stars are starting to peek out and say hello like shy toddlers. I think about my babysitting charges, Matthew and Jennifer. How at the beginning of the summer they’re always a little bashful, and Mrs. Callahan has to coax them out from behind her legs with the promise of Oreos.

  “Oh, you remember Elena, don’t you?” she always says on my first job of the season, her singsong, honey-sweet voice always so understanding. Always so patient. Then again, maybe mothers are just more patient when they have lots of money and time to themselves. I swear Mrs. Callahan gets younger and more in shape each year. She says she has a tennis pro in Houston named Antonio who keeps her honest.

  “First party of the summer,” Michelle says, and she shimmies a bit with anticipation. “Three months of no school. And a six-pack of beer. Yes, please.”

  I smile, but as my eyes take in the large crowd down by the surf, my heart pounds. I don’t get out much during the school year. Michelle spends every weekend all year long at some kegger since her mother doesn’t lose her shit just because she wants to have fun sometimes.

  “Do you see Jimmy Paradise yet?” she asks.

  “God, shut up.”

  “Elena, we’re still, like, a million miles away. He’d never hear me.”

  “Just shut up anyway,” I say, and then I spot him. He’s got on shorts and a Polo and is off to the side with a bunch of other guys kicking a soccer ball around. As Michelle and I get closer, I can hear they’re all swearing at each other, and in the middle of it Jimmy stops to finish his beer, crumple the can, and toss it to some guy in the circle.

  “Catch, asshole,” he says, and then he laughs. The other guy laughs and tosses the beer can back.

  “No, you catch, you dick.”

  None of the boys look at Michelle and me. I try to appear disinterested with the whole scene. Just then we hear a familiar voice.

  “Hey, come sit by us.”

  It’s our friend Tara with a few other girls we know. They’re sitting on a ratty quilt, smoking cigarettes. Tara pats the blanket, and Michelle and I drop down to the sand and kick off our flip-flops and open some beers.

  “Is that really you, Elena, out in the land of the living?” Tara says before taking a deep, slow drag on her Marlboro.

  “Can I bum one?” I ask, dodging the question. Tara tosses me her pack and her lighter, and then Michelle asks for one. Soon we’re sitting back on the quilt, watching the boys kick around the soccer ball and gossiping about the various couples who break off and head down to the surf’s edge, melting into each other like it’s their last night together on earth. It’s a big party—maybe sixty or seventy teenagers from LBJ High—and every time I turn around, some more are walking up to the perimeter, six-packs in hand. Sometimes whole coolers. There’s a boom box playing, turned up to top volume.

  “I hope we don’t get shut down,” Michelle says. “That would suck.”

  “Totally,” says Tara.

  “Yeah,” I add, trying to track Jimmy Paradise as he breaks out from a group of guys and walks up to the surf, his back to me. A beat later some tiny blond girl darts toward him, jumping up to wrap her arms around his shoulders for an impromptu piggyback ride. She jumps sure in the knowledge that she weighs next to nothing. She jumps sure in the knowledge that Jimmy Paradise would want nothing more than to have her appear out of nowhere with her arms around his chest, her legs around his waist, her face buried into his neck. She yelps in excitement as he grabs her legs and spins around, but she’s cute about it, like a newborn puppy or something.

  I can’t tell in the moonlight, but I can guarantee she has shell-pink nail polish put on by a professional, perfect, gleaming white teeth, and sweet green eyes the color of jade. Oh, and her name is Ashleigh or Siobhan or Vanessa, and when she gets home in the evenings her mom is always up waiting for her and the two of them curl up on the living room couch and the mom grins at how much Ashleigh Siobhan Vanessa reminds her of her own girlhood, full of beauty and popularity and everything good.

  Sigh.

  Michelle catches me watching all of this and what happens after, too, which is that Jimmy Paradise and the girl slide down the coastline and into the inky blackness of night, becoming one of those melty couples. I finish my cigarette and dump it into the empty Budweiser can in the middle of the quilt that everyone’s using for ashes and butts. Michelle leans against me and puts her head on my shoulder for a second before she presses a quick kiss on my cheek. She smells like Love’s Baby Soft and cigarette smoke and she’s my very best friend, so she doesn’t need to say a single word.

  “Anyone want another beer?” asks Tara, digging into the cooler.

  “Yeah,” I say, “and I want to go put my feet in the water for a sec, too.”

  “Want company?” asks Michelle.

  “In a little bit.”

  I take the slick wet can from Tara and walk down to the gulf, sinking my feet into the water and letting the small waves rush back and forth until I’m ankle-deep in sand. When Joaquin and I were little and Mami would take us to the beach, I remember I would stand by the edge of the water and wonder how long I would have to stay there before the sand would cover my knees and then my waist and then my face. I take a swallow of Budweiser and wish I liked the taste more. Mami’s Bacardi and off-brand cola would be better, probably. Not that I would know. But at least cola is sweeter.

  “Hey, Elena.”

  I startle and almost drop my beer. It’s Miguel Fuentes, a classmate of mine since forever. He jumps back a bit.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I say and take a swallow. “I didn’t see you come up.”

  “I wasn’t sure it was you,” Miguel says. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You hardly ever come out.” We glance at each other and then switch our focus back to the dark, rippling gulf. I wrinkle my nose at the fishy stink that Mami says she never had to endure on the beaches in Cuba.

  “My mom’s better about me having a social life in the summer,” I say. I check my wristwatch. Nine thirty. I have an hour at least before I have to be home, and I quietly give thanks that Mr. and Mrs. Callahan got back early, just as I’d hoped they would, leaving me more time to hang out.

  “I guess she thinks you can relax a little more since school’s out, right?” Miguel asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  He takes his hands out of his pockets and cracks his knuckles, then shoves them back in his pockets again. I wish he had a cigarette or a beer or something so he would have something to do with his hands.

  Miguel Fuentes likes me. He has since the eighth grade. I mean, he’s never said it, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. My experience with guys is more limited than I want to admit, but I’m pretty sure there are only a few ways for a teenage boy to show you he likes you. Like waiting by your locker to say hi or offering to let you copy his notes when you’ve been home sick or telling you he likes your hair even though it’s brown and boring and nothing special. All of which are things Miguel has done. Why would a guy be nice to you if he wasn’t also hoping that maybe one day he could get in your pants?

  “You ready for junior year?” he asks me, his eyes still trained on the water.

  That’s the other thing that makes me think he likes me. He always asks the most obvious, rehearsed questions.

  “I guess,” I answer, taking another swallow of beer. “What about you?”

  Miguel’s eyebrows pop up, like maybe he wasn’t expecting me to ask the question back.

  “Screw junior year,” he says at last, and I have to laugh.

  “What? Did that am
use you?” He’s pleased with himself, obviously.

  “A little,” I tell him, and Miguel grins and it’s quiet between us, but it’s okay. We stare out at the water, the shrieks of our classmates filling the sticky summer night behind us. Miguel scratches at a mosquito bite on his arm, his fingernails cutting across his skin. He is puro indio, Mami would say, rolling her eyes when Joaquin would then tell her how racist she sounds. Miguel is the kind of brown that people on Mariposa Island think of when they think of Hispanics. Dark skin, dark eyes, Spanish last name. The funny thing is his grandparents were born in Texas, so his family’s been in the United States a lot longer than mine. And I know for a fact he can’t speak Spanish for shit. Who would ever guess fair-skinned Elena Finney knows more of our mother tongue?

  “So,” Miguel starts, his eyes still focused on the water. He swallows. I look away because I know what he’s going to say. I just know it. “If you’re allowed some freedom this summer, maybe you could let me take you out?”

  Sometimes he comes to school with stains on his shirts. His bushy black eyebrows grow too close together into the space above his nose. Once in geometry class I swear he farted during a test.

  I cannot get excited about Miguel Fuentes.

  “Um …” but I’ve already crushed him by waiting too long to answer. I can tell by the way he looks away from me and down the shoreline that he’s hoping a beached whale might turn up to end this conversation.

  “Forget it,” he says. “You’re probably busy.”

  I wince a bit. Maybe Miguel isn’t Jimmy Paradise, but he’s still a nice person.

  “No, I mean, it’s just …” I can’t look at him anymore, so I stare at the sea in front of me, like the right words might float in on a raft to save us both.

  “Hey, you hogging my friend here?”

  Okay, so maybe it’s not a raft, but Michelle will do.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding my arm around her shoulders. “There you are.”

  Miguel exhales. I think he’s relieved Michelle has shown up, too. I picture both of us hours later—him in his bedroom and me in mine—only he’ll think of me and cringe and I’ll think about Jimmy Paradise and cringe and we’ll both be depressed because neither one of us got what we wanted.

  Mami is right about one thing. La vida no es justa. Mami always says those words in Spanish, not English. Like maybe that makes them extra true.

  “How’s tricks, Miguel?” Michelle asks. Miguel rubs the back of his neck and sighs.

  “The usual,” he says. “Another Mariposa summer. Tourists overtaking everything, and nobody can find a freaking parking spot by the beach. But at least there’s more money in tips.” Miguel works at El Mirador with Joaquin, but as a busboy, not a waiter. Even I can admit my brother can turn up the charm for a job serving customers directly. Miguel just doesn’t have what it takes in that area.

  “I need to go hunt down a beer,” he says, giving up at last. “See y’all.”

  “Take care, Miguel,” I say, feeling like a real jerk.

  Michelle and I link arms, and she tugs me down the shoreline. The waves lap at my feet. “I could tell he was asking you out,” she says.

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.” I find my eyes searching the night for Jimmy Paradise and that girl, my ears listening for his deep, sure-of-itself voice. Then I glance down at my feet and kick at the sand hard, watching the tiny grains spin up and collapse back down. It feels good to kick it, so I do it again and again.

  “You need another beer,” Michelle suggests, stopping me by tugging me back up the beach toward Tara’s quilt. And for my last hour of freedom this is how I spend the first real night of my summer, drinking cheap beer and smoking even cheaper cigarettes, surrounded by the gossip of girls and the heat of the Texas night as it holds us in its tight and all-too-familiar grip.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PLEASE LET HER BE ASLEEP.

  She isn’t. Of course.

  She’s up, watching the tail end of the local ten o’clock news in the den off the kitchen, curled up on the couch on her side, with her head propped up on a throw pillow and an empty tumbler resting by her breasts. The news anchor on the television blabs on about the annual Miss Crawfish Boil pageant.

  “Look at those girls,” Mami says, stabbing her finger at the air in the general vicinity of the television. “Walking around in their underwear. Fea. ¡Sucia!”

  “Definitely,” I say as I watch girls that look a lot like Jimmy Paradise’s latest fling flouncing around on the boardwalk in string bikinis, not underwear. Not that I correct Mami. Instead, I reach for the glass she’s been drinking from that’s too close to the edge of the couch for my comfort. “Here, let me get that.”

  “Wait,” she says, her hand suddenly on mine, her grasp stronger than I would have imagined it would be by this hour of the night. She sniffs and I freeze. “You stink of cigarettes, Elena.” She lets go of my hand and hauls herself up to a sitting position, inhaling again. “Yes, that’s cigarettes.” Her bleary eyes sharpen. She grimaces.

  “It’s Mr. Callahan, Mami,” I say, walking the glass a few feet to the kitchen sink and taking enormous pains to rinse it out over and over, trying to extend the distance between us so she can’t smell me up close again. “He smoked in the car when he was bringing me home. He’s just … stressed from his work, I think.”

  I put the glass in the dish rack and turn toward my mother, leaning my back against the sink.

  Mami’s eyebrows tug together. “Why is he stressed with work? Or do you think it’s something else?” She tips her head to the side.

  “I really don’t know. He just seemed stressed. He said he had a lot on his plate, and he was so grateful that I was able to help out Mrs. Callahan this summer since he was going to be gone so much.” He really had said that, even if he hadn’t smoked a cigarette. He’s like Mrs. Callahan, sort of a health nut. He plays racquetball, too. And in college at Northwestern he played soccer. Mrs. Callahan always finds a way to mention that to me, like that’s more impressive than him being a big-time oil-and-gas guy or whatever it is he does. I think it’s so cute that his soccer-stud background means more to her than his fat paycheck. I know she must really love him.

  “I’m telling you,” Mami says, thrusting a finger toward me, “he’s stressed because he’s keeping up one family in Point Isabel and another back in Houston.” Her words are slurry. Lazy. She’s had a few for sure. “I hope they know you come from a fine family, where that kind of behavior is frowned upon.”

  “I’m sure they know,” I say, filling a clean glass with water and heading toward Mami’s bedroom off the den. She has the biggest bedroom in our dollhouse-sized house. Joaquin’s bedroom and my bedroom are really one room with a fake wall the landlord put up to charge more money. Once inside Mami’s room, I turn down her sheets, plump up her pillows. I put the water on her nightstand, right by her collection of old romance novels. She keeps them with the covers facedown so we won’t see the bodice-ripping pictures, like we’re still little kids.

  I glance around for her nightgown but can’t find it. Finally, I recover it hidden all the way at the foot of the bed in one wadded-up lump. With a quick flick of my wrists, I air it out and lay it on the bed for her, pearl buttons and lace front-side up. When Mami was a little girl in Cuba, her maid, Juanita, used to put clean sheets on her bed every night and brush her hair and help her bathe and change clothes, even when she was a teenager. Honestly, Mami was a little spoiled when she was younger, so sometimes it’s easy for me to see why she is the way she is. I don’t know why Joaquin can’t understand it. Especially considering that it’s me who helps Mami get into bed most nights anyway.

  I walk back into the den. Mami is curled up on the couch, lightly snoring. I turn the television off and think briefly about leaving her there, but the one time I made the mistake of doing that, she woke up in the middle of the night panicking and not sure where she was. She jumped up in such a rush that she knocked her favorite lamp
off the end table. She loved that lamp, too. It was pale pink with white piping and it cost a whole five dollars at Goodwill. Afterward, I had to give up a lot of my Callahan babysitting money to pay her back for it.

  “Mami?” I say, shaking her shoulders gently. She grunts. Her thick foundation looks cheap this close up, buried into the fine lines around her eyes. “Mami, you should get to bed.”

  Her eyes pop open. She sits up as if she’s been poked by something hot. “Okay!” she says. “Okay, I’m going.” She stumbles off to the bathroom, and I can hear water splashing around and the sounds of her muttering.

  Finally, she heads into her bedroom. “Good night, preciosa,” she calls out from inside her room. Before I can answer, she’s shut her door. I hear loud footfalls and finally the squeaking sigh of her mattress as she collapses onto the bed and falls asleep.

  When Joaquin gets home, I’m fresh out of the shower and towel-drying my wet head, trying to stop the replay in my mind of my awkward conversation with Miguel Fuentes. I pull my nightgown over my arms and peek out of the bathroom to see my brother hanging his keys on the hook by the front door. He glances around the living room and kitchen area for a moment, like maybe he expected it to transform itself into something nicer while he served people cheese quesadillas at El Mirador all night.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice a whisper as I step out to meet him. I hold a finger to my lips.

  “She asleep?”

  I nod.

  “Good mood or bad?”

  I shrug. “The usual, I guess.” Joaquin shrugs back, then rolls his eyes a little bit. I swear, if he keeps waiting for a good mood like the one he wants, he’s going to be waiting for the rest of his life.

  I curl up on the edge of the couch. I had sort of planned to watch the late movie on television, but Joaquin would probably make fun of me for it. I miss the days when we liked the same things—the same Saturday morning cartoons, the same cheap candy bars from the Stop-N-Go down the street. I pull my arms and legs inside my nightgown and hug my knees up to my chin. Joaquin gets a beer from the refrigerator.