drive. Don’t think. Just go.
I’m home, I say,
more a defense than an announcement—
because this place is not home anymore.
The only voice to whisper back is the cuckoo clock,
click, tock, cuckoo, crazy.
Crazy, because I hear notes in the silence,
gentle baritone notes,
and no matter how fast I play,
how far my fingers stretch,
how purely the vibrato resonates,
I cannot overwhelm the remembered sound.
The bow trembles in my right hand,
and under my left, my pizzicato slips.
Start again. Again. Over again.
Those two, trying so hard, they cannot know.
Those two, they will never guess.
Every day I have sat like stone at a slab of polished pine,
back-straight/legs-crossed/elbows-in/eyes-down,
dodging questions and hiding from warm voices.
It’s been months since I could speak truthfully to those two—
months since I could speak at all without fear tightening my tongue,
and still they call our house a home.
I am displaced. A watery weight, shifting,
my cup dribbling over.
How have I measured these seven days alone?—in breaths, blinks, heartbeats?
With numbers, with questions?
No:
with tweezers, I think,
plucking time out from sensitive skin.
Second after stinging second.
I devour my meal in silence.
Last Saturday, I devoured noise and light and the motion of agitated bodies.
I drank with purpose, drank violently,
drank myself to the floorboards.
Last Saturday, I forgot how to feel alone. How to feel.
I forgot clumsy fingers and maple necks,
heartstrings and gut strings,
warm sheets and crisp papers.
I forgot the beginning and the end. Da Capo al Fine.
(Hold on until the weekend, Juniper—
you can forget it all again.)
FROM WHERE I’M SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM, I CAN hear the rattle of keys. Finally. That’s got to be Kat.
I flip my textbook shut and walk into the kitchen, hitting the light switch. A chipped lamp sitting on the counter flickers to life, illuminating our wooden table. Our bare fridge is framed by a square gray rug. This house sort of looks as if it took interior-design tips from the little-known “prisons” section of Better Homes and Gardens. I ache for drooping pumpkins and trios of pinecones, the decorations our Novembers used to wear when Mom was around. Not even three years ago, but it feels like a different lifetime.
“Hey, where were you?” I ask as Kat shuts the door. “I called you, like, three times.”
“I know.” She kicks off her shoes beside the fridge.
“Dude, you’ve been out of rehearsal for nearly an hour.”
“I know,” she repeats. “Thanks for the update, helicopter sister.”
The unwanted nickname hits me right in the pet peeve. I try to muster patience. “Dad’s working until eleven, so he said not to be loud when he comes home. He needs a good night’s sleep, so . . . I don’t know. Use headphones, if you’re gonna game.”
Kat trudges toward the staircase. I talk faster, calling after her. “And I made dinner. And also, there were two new messages about you skipping class, so can we talk abo—”
She starts up the stairs.
“Jesus Christ, Kat,” I say. “Could you—”
She turns. “What?”
When I get a good look at her face, my angry thoughts stop swirling. My sister looks exhausted. Her neck-length blond hair is bedraggled and tangled. It’s brittle from too many home-brewed bleach treatments, but her roots have started to grow out dark. The circles under her eyes glare like wine stains on white cloth. Her lips are thin and bitten.
“Are you okay?” is all I say. It comes out timid.
She half smiles. It looks an awful lot like a sneer. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “And how was your day, honey?”
Hurt bursts in me like a bitter grape. She strides upstairs.
What is her problem? Doesn’t she see how hard I’m trying?
Nothing works with her anymore. For hours, Kat locks herself in her room with her best friends: BioShock, Mass Effect, and Half-Life 2. I hear shooting through the walls. Amazing, how loud her laptop gets.
It’s not my job to drag her out kicking and screaming, but some days, I wish I had the guts to. Our house has started to feel like solitary confinement.
My phone buzzes with a text. I yank it out—it’s Dan Silverstein. Hey you, how are things?
I sigh. This Dan thing has been so well publicized, I don’t want to reply. But it’s not fair to take it out on him because other people are giving me shit.
Things are solidly average, I reply. How about you?
As I wait for his response, I take the pasta off the stove and spoon myself a bowl, then put the rest back to stay warm for Kat. I always hope she’ll join me for dinner, but she never does; this might be for the best. Last time we ate together was maybe a month ago. We spoke six sentences to each other. Two of them were “Hey” and “Hey.”
I can’t help remembering dinners from eighth grade. Better-cooked, for one thing, because my mother—unlike me—was an expert at putting food items into heating implements without causing fires. More than that, though, dinners tasted better with the family around the table. Mom’s absence is always glaring, and tonight, Dad’s chair is empty, too. He’s been working later and later these days. This is the third day in a row he’s out until eleven.
I wolf down my pasta so fast, it burns. I flinch, rolling bits of skin off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.
My phone buzzes. I’m doing pretty good, Dan says. I had a nice time Saturday
Me too, I reply. Not too much of a lie. The guy’s no Han to my Leia, but he was cute and nice and seemed pretty harmless. A surprisingly rare combination.
So what’s up? he asks.
Just having dinner. Pasta yay!
Oh sorry didn’t mean to interrupt
No, I mean, I just finished, it’s okay, I reply, standing to wash my plate. What’s up with you?
Not much, is all he says. I wait for a follow-up, but nothing comes. I can’t help but laugh. Why did he text me if he’s going to say that “not much” is up? How do male brains work?
Then a picture of his dick pops up on my phone screen.
I let out a splutter and drop my phone. “What? Why?” I say loudly at the phone, sort of hoping Siri will shed light on the situation. There must be a mistake. Did I say something that made him think I wanted a picture of that?
I snatch my phone up and scroll back through my texts. I definitely didn’t say anything inviting, unless he has a weird attraction to pasta that I don’t want to know about.
It’s not even the appropriate time for a dick pic! It’s 6:10 PM! Although there really isn’t an appropriate time for dick pics you didn’t ask for.
I text back, Dude.
His reply: Dude what
I tap in what I think is a well-measured response. Though it’s a little tough to get past the panicked mental loop of Penis! Penis! Penis!
What do you expect me to do with that?? I say.
Idk? Enjoy? he replies.
“Enjoy,” I say to the phone. “Enjoy?” I can’t help picturing an ad for Italian food. Enjoy!
A laugh spills out, a high, nervous giggle that hardly sounds like my voice. I set down the phone and hunch over the kitchen table. God, if Kat is hearing this, she must think I’ve had a psychotic break.
An ellipsis bubble pops up as he types again. The next gem of a text: So I don’t get anything back? ;)
I sigh. Should have seen that coming. “Nope,” I say to my phone.
A sound comes from behind me
. I whip around. Kat stands in the threshold.
“Hey,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket.
She nods and heads for the stove. With one careless motion, she dumps the rest of the spaghetti onto a plate. Quiet hangs between us as she slumps into a chair, spinning a fork between her fingers.
I ease myself into the chair opposite her. She gives me a look, her blue eyes narrowed. Those blue eyes—Mom’s blue eyes—are the only quality we share. Otherwise, we’re anti-identical twins. Kat barely stands five foot two, and she’s so pale, I used to make jokes about her trailing ectoplasm, back in eighth grade when we did things like make jokes with each other.
“Rehearsal go okay?” I ask.
She shrugs and keeps eating. A long minute passes.
I clear my throat, eyeing Kat warily. “So. About going to things.”
“Yeah, relax. I took care of the class skips. Got Dad to sign notes saying I was sick.”
“I—but you weren’t.”
“But he signed them.” She shrugs. “Problem solved.”
I lean an elbow on the table. I need to talk to Dad, apparently. I understand wanting to give us some leeway when his work schedule is this crazy, but he can’t let the reins go completely like this.
Dad’s the assistant store manager at the McDonald’s on Franklin Road. I would’ve thought having the word manager in your title would mean fewer hours, but Dad always does obscene amounts of overtime. Would he really rather deal with drive-through assholes than us? Or are we having money problems he’s keeping quiet?
My phone buzzes. I’ll wait if I have to ;)
“Who is that?” Kat says.
“Just this one dude.”
“The guy you fucked last weekend?”
“Hey,” I say sharply. “Watch it.”
“We have a winner.” She barks out a laugh. “You and the rando from my algebra class. Match made in heaven.”
My cheeks burn. Great. I’m even a walking punch line to my sister now.
Maybe I should go upstairs. Why do I try with her anymore? Why do I do this to myself, sit here and take this?
Because she used to be different, says the voice in my head. But looking at Kat, I can hardly remember her before. The Kat in middle school had long, wispy hair down to the middle of her back. She was always quiet but never a recluse. She used to sit with Juniper, Claire, and me at lunch, occasionally trying to convince us to game with her. The only game we ever played was tennis, though, during the summers, the four of us splitting up for two-on-two. Whichever team had Claire on it always won.
Then we left middle school, and Mom left Paloma, disappearing into the depths of the West Coast. It’s been two and a half years since Kat went quiet.
But when did she start being mean? There’s no neat dividing line. Would she have said something like that this past summer? Last year? How did we get to this point?
“So, what number boy are you on now?” Kat says. “An even dozen?”
“Dude.” I set my phone down hard on the table. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. You’re the one with the problem, obviously.”
“Okay, stop. Why are you being like this? I’m not doing anything to you.”
“You’re still sitting there, aren’t you?”
It hits like a kick to the shin. I stand up. “Okay,” I manage, keeping my voice as unaffected as possible. “Grow up, Kat.”
Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to slam my chair back into place, but I resist. I turn stiffly on my heel and force myself not to stomp up the stairs. The second I’m at the top, out of sight, I lean against the wall, staring at the dark wallpaper. Family photos hang along the hallway, a nostalgic trail.
Mom, what would you say to her? What would you do?
Mom was scatterbrained, nervous, and kind to a fault. She gave herself away in handfuls to everybody she met. I bet she would hug Kat until she melted, refusing to let go until Kat confessed whatever the hell was wrong.
My fingernails dig into my palms. No matter what Mom would do, Kat will hate it on me. “Helicopter sister,” she said—the most infuriating thing I’ve been called in a while, which is saying something. I’m not trying to suffocate her, but what am I supposed to do? Dad’s not going to pull her out of this spiral, and somebody has to. It’s not as if I enjoy chasing her down, trying to get her to go to classes and shit. It shouldn’t be my job.
I trudge down the hall into my room and collapse on my bed, tugging out my phone. Cmon sexy, please? says Dan’s latest.
After a second, I realize that I’m actually considering it. Why? There’s no guarantee it wouldn’t get leaked, and my reputation sure as hell doesn’t need helping along.
As I reread his texts, a weird yearning builds behind my sternum. It’s sort of sad, but beside Andrea’s glare, Claire’s judgment, and my sister’s scorn, this invitation seems welcoming. The persistence is obnoxious, but it at least reminds me that my presence doesn’t repulse everyone the way it apparently does my sister.
I don’t send pictures, I text back, after a long minute. Please don’t send me that sort of thing.
I turn over, exhausted.
TOWELING MY HAIR, I SCAN MY BEDROOM SHELVES again, nurturing the hope that I might have missed something. Of course not, though. I have every book counted: thirty-seven on the shelves by the door, eighteen on the shelf above my mirror, and another sixty-six in the bookcase under my loft bed. As of this afternoon, I’ve read every book twice, except Physics of the Impossible, which I never planned on rereading. Not my cup of tea; it’s clearly targeted at people who like science fiction.
I don’t know why people find sci-fi so fascinating. Some of it has a glaring lack of common sense. The inescapable trope of a future world where flying cars have replaced all other modes of transportation? Yes, excellent. Have these authors ever given a single thought to acrophobia? Just a thought, of course, but for the millions of people with a paralyzing fear of heights, flying cars might be a tiny bit absolutely terrifying. But no; authors never seem to care about the acrophobics of the world.
“Valentine?” calls my mother. “Are you still in the shower?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be able to hear you,” I reply, hanging up my towel.
“Dinner, smart aleck.”
I pull on a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. My mother places a plate before me, and as she settles at the other end of the table, I brace myself for the usual mindless onslaught of How was your day? Learn anything new? Make any friends? One of the many downsides of having a guidance counselor for a mother: her endless enthusiasm for small talk.
But the only thing she says is, “Your dad’s still at the lab.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” I say blankly. “From his absence.”
She says nothing else. Suspicious, I sip my water and peer at her over the edge of my glass. Her head is bowed, her honey-brown bangs drooping over her eyes. She stares at her fork, stirring the mashed potatoes rather than doing anything productive with them.
I’m not impressed. She’s always telling me to eat my food instead of rearranging it.
“Something’s wrong,” I guess.
She looks up at me and smiles quickly. “No, nothing.”
“Okay . . .”
“Just . . . the assembly.”
“Ah. That.” I take a bite and put down my fork. “What about it?”
“Something like this happening at Paloma.” She shakes her head. “I hope they figure it all out soon. The presentation upset me a bit.”
“Why?”
She leans an elbow on the table, giving me an unusually wry smile. “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
“Not happening,” I mutter, returning to my food. “Anyway, I thought the whole presentation was straightforward. No use being preoccupied over it.”
Hypocritical of me to say, maybe, given that I can’t stop thinking about the assembly. But that’s because my message triggered this wh
ole ordeal.
Two weeks ago, I stayed after school, waiting for a ride home from my mother. At 6:00, long after the halls emptied, I passed the faculty break room in the new wing. A voice seeped through the closed door. I came just close enough to catch it.
“Nobody’s going to find out.” That phrase caught me mid-step. A girl’s unfamiliar voice was speaking, carrying an undercurrent of anxiety. “Please—try not to worry. I’m not in your class, nobody sees us together, and I haven’t told anyone at all. I promise.” A pause. The sound of a kiss. “I love you.”
I backed away from the door. As what I’d heard sunk in, I scurried away, my pulse quickening. I sent the message that evening through the anonymous submission form on the school’s website: Teacher and student in romantic relationship. Overheard in faculty break room after school. Identities unknown.
It’s strange, but now I almost feel as if I shouldn’t have done anything, which is absurd. Wouldn’t that make me an accessory to the crime?
What little appetite I had vanishes. I excuse myself, and for once, my mother doesn’t say a word about my neglected food. I return to my room, but none of it offers any comfort: not the cracked spines of favorite books, not the cool glow of my laptop, not the frame of blackish night through the skylight. I spin the gyroscope I keep on my desk—once, twice—but its hypnotizing whir hardly calms me.
I grab the spare keys to my mother’s car from a hook on the door. Bundling my coat on, I stride through the kitchen, where my mother still sits. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“Out,” I say. I don’t wait for a response.
DRIVING AROUND AT NIGHT ALWAYS HELPS CLEAR MY mind. I’m not sure why. It’s certainly not the view; there isn’t much to see in Paloma, Kansas, population 38,000. I suppose solitude just feels more excusable if you’re in motion.
I pass the series of glorified strip malls that comprise our downtown, local businesses and antiques shops. After they peter out, a lonely-looking McDonald’s stands on the left, the only evidence that corporate America acknowledges our existence. The rest of this small city is a maze of residential neighborhoods. Some are cookie-cutter suburbs with identical mini mansions; some are yuppie projects liberally adorned with round windows and organic gardens; some are tiny forgotten streets with chain-link fences and our meager police force lurking around.
Seven Ways We Lie Page 4