The Liars

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “It’s fine back here.” I’m still embarrassed. Plus I know Joaquin is angry and I don’t like it when he’s angry at me. I frown. Any good feeling in my body leftover from J.C. has long since evaporated.

  “So where’d you go anyway?” Joaquin starts, making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. I look away. “And don’t tell me you spent the entire time watching fireworks.”

  I sigh and cross my arms. “We just went back to his apartment for a while to hang out.”

  Joaquin snorts. “I’ll bet,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Just stop. I said I was sorry.”

  “Fine.”

  We continue the rest of the drive in silence until we finally arrive home. I look at our house. The lights are off, and for that I’m grateful. Mami should be passed out at least.

  Joaquin parks the car but he doesn’t turn the engine off. He shifts into park, letting it idle.

  “What?” I ask, bracing myself.

  “I just wanted to know … why didn’t he walk you to the car at least?”

  “Huh?”

  “Cut the crap, Elena. Why didn’t J.C. walk you back to the car tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I reach for the door handle, trying to signal that this conversation is over.

  “Look, it’s fine if you don’t want to answer,” he says, finally cutting the engine and turning around so I can see his full face. “All I’m saying is he should have. That’s all. A guy should walk the girl home. To the door, to the car. Whatever. Just know that, okay? That’s what a guy should do.”

  I fume and roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “It’s not like he didn’t want to. He did, and I told him not to worry about it.” I open the door.

  “Sure, Elena,” he says, his voice withering.

  “Joaquin, can we just go inside now?”

  He glances up at the house. “Lights are off. Hopefully she’s out cold.”

  “Yeah,” I say, grateful for the change in subject.

  “All right, let’s go,” he says, and we make our way out of the car, the sound of the gravel driveway crunching under our tennis shoes. As Joaquin unlocks the front door, it occurs to me I didn’t see a single firework all night. I guess there’s always next year.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MICHELLE HAS TO BE PISSED AT ME ABOUT NOT MEETING her for fireworks. It’s Sunday midmorning after the Fourth of July, and I snuck a call to her house while Mami was napping after Mass, but her stepdad said she couldn’t come to the phone. I don’t think Michelle has ever tried that excuse with me, not even once.

  I think about sneaking a call to J.C., too, but I don’t want to seem too desperate, not since the Fourth of July was just two nights ago.

  I have a babysitting job with the Callahans later because Mr. and Mrs. Callahan are going out to dinner. I have it all set in my mind. I’m going to take the kids to the chintzy boardwalk and we’ll get funnel cakes or soft serve or maybe both. Then I’ll let Matthew and Jennifer play some games at the arcade. Afterward, I’ll tuck them in and read them Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and do all the voices until they laugh so hard that Jennifer has to run to the bathroom before she wets the bed. They love Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle so much. I do, too, to be honest. I used to check those books out on the rare times Mami would take us to the library. The Callahan kids don’t have to check them out—they own the full set.

  I told Mr. Callahan he could pick me up at seven thirty, but I can tell Mami they need me after lunch. That way I can get away early, before my job, so I can go and try to see Michelle before heading back for Mr. Callahan.

  And then I can see J.C., too.

  I hold my breath at the thought and think back to the two of us in his apartment during the fireworks. His hands on my skin. The scent of him. I exhale. J.C. makes me feel hungry. It’s the only word I can think of to describe it.

  No, not hungry—starved.

  Mami exits her bedroom and I hope I’m not blushing. She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wide. Then she sighs, like she’s disappointed. We’ve lived in this crummy house since I was three years old, but I think Mami still believes that one day she’ll wake up and it will be different.

  “Where’s your brother?” she asks, peering around.

  “Work,” I say.

  Mami nods and walks toward the coffee table, straightening up a few coasters and some magazines.

  “This place is a mess,” she mutters.

  “I’ll help,” I offer, and I refold the already-folded quilt that rests on the back of the couch and plump up the thrift-store throw pillows that forever need to be plumped.

  “Have you cleaned out your closet recently like I told you to?” she asks, crossing the room toward the kitchen to make herself a drink.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Last week. I took the stuff over to the Callahans so they could give it to their cleaning lady for her daughter.” Mami likes giving to charity. Joaquin says it makes her feel superior. The truth is, when we were small there were a few Christmases when some of our toys came from the church. I only knew because Joaquin told me. His friend Billy Goodwin’s family had donated an Erector set and the Hungry Hungry Hippos game just for us, he said. I think Joaquin was embarrassed. At the time, I was too little to care, just mad that we had to play Hungry Hippos on the porch because Mami said it made too much noise.

  Mami sits at the kitchen table and sips her drink, staring out at nothing. I tense, anticipating the worst.

  “So what has your brother said to you about moving to California?” she asks at last. I walk to the kitchen to get the glass cleaner and a rag to start on the living room windows. My heart is in my throat.

  “So what has he said?” she tries again.

  “Well, I think maybe … he mentioned it?” I start, spraying Windex and closing my eyes so the mist doesn’t accidentally burn them. Mami is always doing this—trying to get information from one of us about the other. Joaquin is better at playing dumb. Me, not so much. Mami knows this weakness of mine. She preys on it.

  “What do you mean you think he mentioned it? I overheard you two talking about it the other day.” She pauses to sip her drink. “You think I don’t hear things through that door but I can.” Ice rattles in the glass. Almost time for a refill. I don’t know how she can drink that stuff so quickly.

  “I meant that I think he mentioned it once, like, maybe visiting?”

  “Visiting or moving there?”

  “I’m not sure which one.”

  Long pause.

  “Why would he do that?”

  She knows. She knows and she wants me to say it. Silence looms over us. She’s not going to give up until I answer.

  “I think,” I start, bracing myself, “I think that maybe he wants to track down our father.”

  Silence again. I scrub at the already sparkling window until it squeaks like a mouse.

  “I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to find,” Mami says. “The last address I have for the man is from 1974.” It’s more of an invitation to actual conversation than I’m used to with her.

  “Yeah,” I say, seeing an opening at last and turning to look at her. “I don’t know why he would bother. I mean, I don’t know why he’s so excited to look for the man who abandoned us.”

  Mami offers me a rare smile. The brief moment of pleasing her is a rush, like the first bite of dessert. She gets up for another drink.

  “You’re exactly right,” she says, her back toward me now, her head in the freezer hunting for ice. “It’s why I have my rules, Elena. It’s why I want to protect you. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you that happened to me. To have your life damaged by some man.”

  “I know, but Mami, don’t say I said anything,” I plead, while I have the chance. “I don’t want Joaquin to be mad I told you.”

  “Not a word,” Mami says, enjoying the conspiracy. She fills her drink and comes back to the table, then sits down again and swirls the drink with the tip of her pinkie.

  �
��By the way, I have to leave in a bit for a babysitting job,” I say, taking advantage of her good mood. “Mrs. Callahan wants me to take the kids to the beach before she and Mr. Callahan go out for dinner.”

  “That’s fine,” Mami says, filling me with relief. “How are they?” she asks. “The Callahans?”

  “Well,” I begin, “I think you’re right about Mr. Callahan having an affair.” This isn’t true, of course. But Mami loves the gossip. Especially gossip that tarnishes the Callahans’ charmed existence. And she’s so happy with me right now it might be nice to give her one more reason to stay glad.

  “Really?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” I say. “When I sat for them the last time, Mrs. Callahan came home almost crying, and it seemed like they were in the middle of a fight. And when Mr. Callahan drove me home, he smoked, like, three cigarettes and told me marriage was hard work.”

  Mami scowls. “Smoking is such a filthy habit.”

  “I know,” I say, nodding vigorously.

  “Do you think he smokes around the children?” she asks, concerned.

  “Not sure, but the way things are going, maybe.” I feel guilty, actually, throwing Mr. Callahan under the bus like this. He would never smoke a cigarette or tell me his marriage was anything but amazing. I can tell he thinks so from the way the Callahans always come home holding hands or the way he kisses Mrs. Callahan softly on the cheek before he drives me home after a babysitting job. I mean, who kisses his wife before doing some short little errand like taking the babysitter home? But Mr. Callahan does.

  Still, this sort of gossip could give me permission to have this babysitting job for as long as I want. So I offer a silent apology to Mr. Callahan.

  “Well, hopefully they’ll work it out,” Mami says. It’s the right thing for her to say, she knows. But I know she hopes otherwise. For her, other people’s disasters are something delicious. Suddenly, she jumps on a different angle.

  “Do they ever ask about me?” she asks. “I mean, do they know I came from a good family in Cuba? Una buena familia?”

  “Oh, of course,” I say, and I can see Mami puffing up a bit. “I told Mrs. Callahan about your quince once when she mentioned Jennifer having her debut one day at their club in Houston. She said it sounded so glamorous.” This isn’t true, of course. Why would I want to bore the Callahans with stories about my reclusive mother? But I know Mami thinking the Callahans believe she is high-class like them will score points.

  “I can’t imagine any debutante ball in this country could match my quince,” Mami demurs, “but I’m sure they’ll have a lovely party.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, proud of myself for putting her in such a good mood. “But I’ve got to get ready to leave. Mr. Callahan will be picking me up soon.”

  “Fine,” Mami says, draining her glass. “But leave the Windex out. I can see you missed a spot.”

  I take the city bus to Michelle’s house. She’s my best friend, and I should come over here more often. But Mami’s restrictions make that too hard—especially during the school year.

  “Elena, how lovely to see you,” Michelle’s mom says, opening the front door. Her brown curls streaked with gray are pulled back into a banana clip, and she has a baby on her hip—Michelle’s niece Ashley. Ashley sucks at her fingers. She’s covered in something green.

  “We’re trying peas for the first time,” she says, stepping back to let me in. “It’s not proving to be a favorite.”

  I offer up a soft laugh and walk into the entryway, feeling awkward. I catch a glimpse of the kitchen down the hall. The table is covered with newspapers and empty cups. The sink is full of dishes. Mami would spaz out. But Michelle’s mom is relaxed. Mami says Michelle’s mom lets her daughters get away with murder, which is why Michelle’s older sister worked as a dancer and got pregnant with Ashley without being married. The thing is, I know Michelle’s mom wasn’t thrilled with the news. Michelle says their mother cried when her sister announced she was pregnant, before she insisted that Michelle’s sister move back home so they could help her raise the baby.

  I also know that Michelle can tell her mother anything, because Michelle has admitted as much to me, and I know that her mom is always kissing Michelle on the head and telling her what a great kid she is—even though whenever she does Michelle acts annoyed and tells her mom to stop acting weird.

  “She’s upstairs in her bedroom,” Michelle’s mom tells me, so I climb the steps, dodging piles of folded laundry and books and shoes waiting patiently for someone to give in and take them to their proper homes.

  Anxious, I tap at the door covered with a huge poster of Journey. Joaquin once told me Journey was Satan’s soundtrack in hell. But Michelle loves that band.

  “Mom?” comes a muffled voice over music playing.

  “No, it’s Elena.”

  Long pause. I’ve missed Michelle. Even though I have J.C. now, I’d be lost without my oldest friend. The long pause grows longer. What if she doesn’t let me in?

  “Come on, Michelle. Please open up.”

  Finally, the door swings open. Michelle is dressed in a ratty T-shirt and jeans, her summertime tan a thing to envy. She raises an eyebrow at me, but I know the moment she looks at me she can’t stay mad. Relief floods through me.

  “You’re lucky I’m letting you in,” she says, motioning me through the doorway and flopping on her unmade bed. Michelle’s room is a disaster, like the rest of the house. A half-full bowl of cereal sits on her cluttered dresser. Mountains of clothes are heaped onto the back of a ratty pink armchair she found deserted in an alley and talked her mother into letting her keep. The carpeted floor is filled with teetering stacks of cassettes and music magazines and chewing-gum wrappers.

  I push aside some of the clothes and curl up on the armchair. Michelle leans over to lower the volume on the stereo next to her bed.

  “Michelle, I’m sorry,” I say, frowning.

  “That’s a start,” she says, her legs dangling off her twin bed, her face turned toward the ceiling.

  “I got sidetracked.”

  “You mean you got laid,” she snaps.

  I gasp and throw a dirty T-shirt at her. “Michelle, shut up. You know I’m still a virgin.” The atmosphere warms. Michelle sits up, a smirk on her face. We’re going to be okay.

  “Like a virgin, virgin, or just, like, you know … a technical virgin?” Michelle asks, curling up in a ball and raising an eyebrow at me again. It’s her signature move, one I’ve loved since we were kids in elementary school.

  “Whatever,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t be gross.”

  “Look, if you can’t talk about doing it, then don’t do it.”

  “So how is it you talk about doing it, like, all the time, and you’ve never done it!” I shout back, but I’m laughing and so is Michelle.

  “I bet your brother’s done it. With that girl Amy.”

  “Gross!” I shriek, squeezing my eyes shut. “Gross, gross, gross!” I don’t want to think about my brother’s sex life and whether or not it exists.

  Michelle is laughing harder now. Her torturing me is part of the payback she’s earned for me ditching her on Friday. Once we settle down, she throws me a stick of gum from the collection on her nightstand and takes one for herself. After a few chomps in silence, she grows serious.

  “So I guess stuff with J.C. is … intense?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I guess.” Without stopping to think, I say, “I think he sells pot.”

  “Oh, I know he does,” Michelle answers, not skipping a beat.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Lots of the kids down at the beach buy from him.”

  I curl my knees up to my chin. J.C. is risky. And exciting. It’s like the pot stuff should bother me, but I just can’t get myself to care that much.

  “He’s the best kisser ever,” I say, ready to change the topic. “I mean, you wouldn’t believe.”

  Michelle rolls her eyes. “Based on how much expe
rience?”

  “Enough,” I say.

  “Tara Morgan’s cousin during spin the bottle? Not sure that counts.”

  “It wasn’t nothing,” I fire back. “He put his tongue in my mouth.”

  Michelle mocks gagging and falls over. I throw another T-shirt her way, and then we sit in silence again, chewing our gum. I hear the shrieks of the little neighbor kids next door running up and down the alley behind Michelle’s house. “Olly olly oxen free!”

  “So how’d you get out of the fortress anyway?” Michelle asks. “You haven’t been to my house since spring break.”

  “I told Mami I have a babysitting gig.”

  “A babysitting gig.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hey, turn it up. I like this song.”

  Michelle complies, and we lie there, chewing our gum and listening to music over the sounds of the kids outside. When the song is over, Michelle sits up and rewinds the cassette so we can listen to it again. When it’s done, she leans over and ejects the tape.

  “Elena, when it comes to J.C… . you’ll be … careful, right?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. Her voice is soft. Uncertain.

  I stare at the girl who gets why I can never sleep over at her house or go to parties during the school year or talk on the phone whenever I want. At the girl who puts up with me despite all of that and who doesn’t make fun of me. Who still somehow thinks I’m cool and funny. Who still wants to hang out with me. My best and oldest friend.

  “Yes, Michelle,” I answer. “I’ll be careful.” But I’m not sure what she means. Careful not to get my heart broken? Careful because J.C. deals drugs? Careful not to get pregnant? Just the thought of that last question fills me with a strange mix of anxiety and excitement that makes my body remember J.C.’s apartment on the Fourth of July.

  “So do you have time to eat before you have to leave?” Michelle asks, bringing me out of my J.C. daze. “We could heat up a frozen pizza or something.”

  I check my watch. I have time. “Sure,” I say.

  “I could curl your hair all pretty, too,” she offers, smiling. “Before you go.”