I’d never spoken to Juniper in my life, but she found me after class and asked me to sit with her and Olivia at lunch. I was hideously grateful, feeling so lucky to be with the two of them. They weren’t just smart—they were pretty, too, with their straight, perfect hair, their clear skin. I was the kid with headgear for my braces and medication for my acne. I remember how surprised I was that they laughed at my jokes, that they would even look at me, let alone talk to me. I remember adopting their mannerisms, terrified that they’d let me go as quickly as they’d picked me up. I remember easing in, finding my niche with them, sleepovers and movie nights.
I picture a twelve-year-old Juniper swinging a tennis racket around in figure eights one summer afternoon, her hair whirling out in a blond pinwheel. She lost her grip, and the racket spun over our heads and into the lake with a miserable splash. We laughed until our stomachs ached. It was easy back then.
I hurry into the stairwell and leap up the steps two by two. My mind wanders back to the words scribbled beside Olivia’s name, and I can’t help but think, At least people want to sleep with Liv. I bet nobody would give me the attention she gets even if I hung a neon OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign on my back. Or on other regions.
It’s not like I’m jealous. I went out with the hottest guy at Paloma High for thirteen months. So what if he dumped me and hardly even gave me a reason?
Okay. I am maybe a tad jealous.
He started to tell me why, the day we broke up. He said, “You can’t compare . . .” before cutting himself off, falling back on some empty-sounding apology. I didn’t push it—I was busy crying—but now I wish I’d demanded that he finish the sentence. You can’t compare—you can’t compare—you can’t compare, you can’t, you can’t— Lucas’s words play on a loop in my mind. I can’t compare to what?
There’s only so much you can discuss a topic before everyone hates you a little when you bring it up. For two months, I haven’t said a word, but God, it still hurts to see his face. Tall, burly, impeccably dressed Lucas. I remember the warmth of his bear-hug arms, the mint taste of his kisses—everything, down to the texture of his curly hair. I remember the first time he showed me his most personal possession, the journal filled with lists. To-do lists. Bucket lists. Lists of things he’s grateful for, people he loves, and people he wants to get to know. I wonder if I’m still on any of those pages. I used to have my own page: Reasons Claire Amazes Me.
Now I’m just another face in the halls to check off the Vague Acquaintances list. Lucas could find some rando off the street and be their new best friend within five minutes; he is the people person to end all people persons. He collects people like some people collect coins, indiscriminately and greedily. Now I’m lost deep in his catalog, undeserving of any distinction.
I exit the stairwell on the third floor, my teeth buried in my bottom lip. Some guy calls over my head. His friend, leaning on the lockers, unleashes a braying laugh right in my ear, and I let out a measured breath. Ignoring the boys in this school is impossible. They clumsily hit on my friends every hour of the day, and they’re so loud in class, making dumb jokes everyone laughs at anyway. Also, of course, the football team, which has never done close to as well as the girls’ tennis team, gets everybody’s attention just because. Part of me feels like, hello, of course I’m fixated on a boy. Everything is.
I stride into calculus class. Taking my seat in the front row, I wonder: is it like this for all girls, or am I just pathetic?
I don’t understand. I still need to know why it ended and what it is I can’t compare to.
“ALL RIGHT,” MR. ANDREWS SAYS ONCE THE BELL rings. He sweeps down the aisles, dealing out bright green papers. “Questionnaires. Don’t put your names on them.” He stops back at the front of the room and folds his arms. His eyes glint behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“We’ve been asked to give these to our fifth-period classes. I know they’re anonymous, but take them seriously,” he says. “They’re about the, you know, Monday’s assembly.” He clears his throat, his cheeks coloring.
I can’t help wondering if it’s Andrews. He’s only a couple of years out of college, and single, and way too intense. I bet lots of people think it’s him. Since the assembly, I keep looking at teachers with critical eyes, wondering. Could they be interested in someone our age? Is this one hiding anything? How about that one?
Yesterday, the letter Turner promised arrived at my house. My parents were horrified. They even brought up the possibility of withdrawing me from school until they catch whoever it is. As if that were an option. Without me, tennis would collapse. And student government. And Young Environmentalists.
Sighing, I look down the question sheet. Three questions and lots of blank space.
Have you ever been romantically approached or sexually propositioned by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Have you ever experienced sexual harassment or unprofessional behavior (hugs, unwanted shoulder touching, etc.) by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Do you have any information about the identity of any party who may be involved in an illicit relationship?
I scribble no under every question and flip the page over. I bet at least one person at this school will write down some stupid joke as an answer.
When the last bell rings at 3:30, the hall echoes with end-of-day noise. Kids in the halls jostle one another, giving exaggerated hugs and pointedly touching shoulders, laughing about “unprofessional behavior.” I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. It might be a joke to them, but there’s some teacher whose career might get ruined over this, and some kid who’s probably being manipulated. What if the kid needs years of therapy or something? Yeah, hilarious.
I follow the crowd receding down the sun-drenched hall. The light glares off the walls plastered with neon flyers and posters: advertisements for clubs, maybe fifty percent of them mine. I stop off at my locker to stow my chemistry textbook, and as the lock clicks back into place, a cheery voice says, “Claire, hey!”
Sweat springs to my palms. I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
I turn to find him standing selfishly close. Doesn’t he know I can’t breathe in this sort of proximity? His closeness fills my head with sickly sweet yearning.
He looks better than ever these days, his loose, curly hair bouncing over his high forehead, his left ear pierced. The sweater stretching across his square shoulders has some fancy-looking logo, and a white collared shirt peeks up above its neck, framing the inside tips of his prominent collarbones.
Looking up into his eyes, I catch a brief camera flash of memory—the look he used to give me before he kissed me. That look rang with warmth, so filled with contentment that every frantic thought in my head stilled. I could lose every shred of anxious energy in the knowledge that we were each other’s.
Does Lucas remember anything like that? Does he miss anything about me?
“Hi,” I say, with one thought on loop: Act normal. I’ve gotten better at it—I measure my progress against my mental state last summer. Sometimes I think it’s another girl’s memories I’m peeking into, some miserable stranger with wild eyes and a surfeit of tears.
I try a smile as the current shuffles us toward the door. “What’s up?”
“I got in a car accident earlier!” he says with so much enthusiasm, he might as well have said he adopted a kitten.
“What? Are you okay? What happened?”
“It was great. I value life so much more now.”
I laugh, but it sounds weak. I watch his hands as he pushes his hair back from his forehead. I ache to trace the chunky silver ring on his pinky finger. He still wears half the money he makes, trading it in for appearance. He buys leather shoes and designer jeans, rich felt coats and flashy sunglasses, T-shirts that used to feel like tissue between my fingers. At home, his room is littered with treasures, too: the newest MacBook Pro and bulky, noise-canceling headphones. In his small, shabby house, Lu
cas’s acquisitions glare like diamonds.
As we clank through the doors, someone calls, “McCallum!” I flinch back just in time—good to see I still have my bro-dodging reflexes. Lucas’s teammates swoop down on him from the green. One wiry kid jumps onto Lucas’s back, hollering something about weight lifting. Another buries both his hands in Lucas’s hair, ruffling it until it resembles a tumbleweed. I swear, the swim team has the gayest straight boys in the world.
“Whoa, whoa, unprofessional behavior,” says Herman, the one with the long hair. He wrestles off the guy on Lucas’s back. “Careful, or they’re gonna call another assembly.”
“I’ll see you around,” I say to Lucas, but his only response is a hasty wave as he disentangles himself from his friends. The wordless dismissal stings like a nettle, and I hold my head higher as I stalk down the green.
When I reach my car, I stow my backpack and pull out my gym bag, trying to shake off the sight of him. It clings stubbornly. When I blink, I see him printed in the dark.
Every couple of weeks, Lucas springs himself on me like this, and for the rest of the day, sometimes longer, he’s all I can think about. When he dumped me, he asked, “Can we still be friends?” and like an idiot, I said, “Sure.” So now I have to grin and bear it every time he treats me with this impersonal brand of friendliness.
As I head back toward the green for the Young Environmentalists meeting, my eyes fix on Juni’s car, which sits in a far corner of the junior lot. Behind the windshield, Olivia props up her feet on the dashboard. Juni’s eyebrows are drawn together. Is she explaining why she blew up at lunch earlier?
I can’t remember seeing Juniper so stressed so often. Usually, nothing fazes her, gets through her seemingly impervious layer of levelheadedness. But I could swear, she looks an inch from tears.
For a moment, I consider veering their way, to figure out what’s wrong once and for all. But then I remember Juni’s voice echoing through the bathroom door—“I need some time.”
Did she need time? Or did she simply want a pair of ears that wasn’t mine?
I force myself not to be curious. If she wanted to, she’d tell me what’s wrong.
I duck my head, my cheeks aflame. I hurry away from the car and down the green.
“I . . . LINE,” EMILY SAYS.
Mr. García calls out her line from the front row. “You are to be married—”
“Married to Faina,” Emily finishes. “She is beautiful, brilliant. What could you . . . oh God, I’m so sorry. Line?”
Watching Emily always stresses me out, this scene more than the others. She has a crush on her scene partner, who plays my husband. Every time they make eye contact, she forgets her lines. The obnoxious thing is that he has a crush on her, too—everybody knows it—but they won’t stop dancing around it and date already.
I retreat into the greenroom. A pair of sophomores sit in the corner, one on each massive leather sofa. I hate that those sofas are in here. It enables all the theater kids who are obsessed with couch piles and being way too physical with each other.
I sink into the chair at the end of the nearest sofa, stick in my earbuds, and take out my laptop. A paused game opens up, ready for me to resume. I hit play and sneak through the ruins, a huge assault rifle in my avatar’s hand.
“I heard some guys saying it was Dr. Meyers,” says Ani, the girl who plays my daughter.
Oh, great. They’re talking about that whole thing. As if we haven’t heard enough about it since Monday. Thank God the week’s nearly over.
I let loose a volley of bullets on some approaching zombies. In my peripheral vision, Elizabeth puts her head on an armrest. Ani sprawls across the other couch.
“They probably just think she’s hot,” Elizabeth says. “Isn’t it usually creepy old men who do this?”
“Not always,” Ani says. “I heard this one time in Montana—”
I purse my lips and shoot some more zombies. Black blood explodes out of their heads as they keel to the side. Double-tapping the up key, I jump onto a crumbling stone wall, duck behind it, and find two packs of ammo. Score.
“—Kat?”
I jolt at my name. I hit pause and take out one of my earbuds. “What?”
Elizabeth says, “What do you think?”
I look from one to the other. “About the teacher-student thing?”
They nod.
“No opinion.”
“Really?” Ani asks.
“Really. Don’t care. I’m trying to focus on the show these days.”
Ani and Elizabeth trade a glance. Their lips twitch.
“What?” I say, not letting my voice rise. The greenroom’s soundproofing leaves something to be desired.
Ani shrugs. “Just, like, there are things that matter outside this play.”
A response jumps to the front of my mouth—Is that why you still can’t remember your fucking blocking?—but I manage to keep it from spilling out. Restraining myself to a frosty glare, I stick my earbud back in and return to my game. The looks they give me glow hot on the side of my face. I get those looks all the time: God, what a bitch. What is her problem?
They can think whatever they want. I don’t need them. I don’t need anybody.
It’s sort of hilarious, though, how so many theater kids like to think they’re social outcasts, talking with people who are obviously their friends about “never fitting in.” They have no idea. If they did, they wouldn’t glamorize it. The reality of isolation is unglamorous and unexciting.
Going years without talking to anybody—talking about anything that matters—seems hard in theory, but when you give one-word answers to anyone who approaches you, people piss off pretty fast. The last time I had a legitimate conversation was in eighth grade, before Mom decided we weren’t worth her time and energy.
To be fair, it’s not as if she didn’t have a reason to leave. By the time Liv and I hit seventh grade, our parents got into screaming matches every week, about everything from what we ate for dinner to the clothes Olivia and I wore. It always ended with Dad snapping, “Great,” sinking into a capital-M Mood, and not talking for hours. Mom would run off in an anxious frenzy and lock herself in their room. She was a ball of energy, our mom, and she used to electrify our dad. But year after unhappy year, she grew more unreliable, like a knot of wires fraying through.
I could forgive her wanting to leave. What’s unforgivable is the way she did it.
Mom left our last family vacation early, after an all-night fight. By the time the rest of us got back home, she’d disappeared, leaving zero evidence that she’d ever lived there. Fluttery clothing, sketchbooks, tchotchkes that used to line the shelves—gone, gone, gone. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t reply to the texts, calls, and emails we sent for weeks afterward.
What gets me the most is that she didn’t have the decency to say good-bye. I knew Mom had her issues, but I never thought she was a coward.
Eventually, Dad tracked down her new number out west. Clear message there: she needed distance. But did she need 1,500 miles of it? If she wanted to start over, couldn’t she have started over in Kansas City and seen me and Olivia on weekends? She chose the most selfish avenue and sprinted down it, right out of our lives. As far as I’m concerned, she can stay out.
I don’t know what Mom said the one time she talked to Dad, but he never called her again. After that, a part of him packed up and left, too. He’s hardly a shadow of himself now, worked to death, silent when we see him. Part of me still hopes my actual dad might come back, the dad who obsessively tracked weird sports like badminton and Ping-Pong and who started getting hyped for Christmas in August. When we put up the tree, he’d stuff tinsel in his beard and puff out his cheeks—Ho, ho, ho! Merry Tinselmas! Back in the day, it wasn’t hard to tell where Olivia got her horrible sense of humor.
I never catch a glimpse of that man anymore. He’s gotten lost in there somewhere, lost inside his own body. And I hate Mom for doing that to him. She had so much power t
hat she ended up breaking him completely.
Nobody will ever do that to me.
· · · · · · ·
AFTER REHEARSAL ENDS, I HEAD BACK TO THE GREENROOM to collect my things. By the time I get my stuff and come back out into the theater, everybody else is gone.
“Shit.” I needed to ask for a ride. My phone says it’s already gone down to thirty-seven degrees. With today’s wind, I’ll be half frostbitten by the time I get home.
“Kat? Everything okay?” asks Mr. García, wheeling the ghost light toward the stage. Supposedly, ghost lights—left out to illuminate deserted stages—are for safety purposes, but I bet they’re mostly for appeasing superstitious theater people.
I squint in the glare of the exposed bulb. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just realized I have to walk home.”
The ghost light’s sticky wheels squeak forward as García sets it center stage. “But it’s freezing,” he says. “You don’t have a ride?”
“I was going to ask the others. Forgot.”
“Well, I could drop you off.”
“Really?” I stick my hands in my hoodie pockets. “I, uh, that’d be great.”
“Okay, then. This way.” He hops off the side of the stage and heads down the aisle to the faculty lot. I hurry after him, slipping through the door. Outside, the wind grasps at my hair, clutching it. García stops by a tiny white two-door that looks about an inch from collapse. It makes a clunking sound as I slide in. Still, getting out of the wind is an instant relief.
“So, where am I headed?” García asks, reversing out of his spot.
“Left here. And then a right up at the light.” I glance around the car, which smells like Windex. The seats are bare, every inch clean and empty. A long row of CDs, stacked between the driver and passenger seats, are preserved in spotless plastic cases and alphabetized.
“Good rehearsal today, huh?” García says.
Seven Ways We Lie Page 7