Seven Ways We Lie

Home > Other > Seven Ways We Lie > Page 25
Seven Ways We Lie Page 25

by Riley Redgate


  ON THURSDAY, I WAKE UP WITH MY THOUGHTS KNOTTED and tangled. I hardly slept an hour.

  I roll out of bed and smack my hair into place, wishing the impact would dislodge some of the clutter from my mind. I eye myself in the mirror. Have you ever felt as if your face isn’t your own, but an elaborate forgery, a parody, maybe? The eyes staring out from the mirror don’t look like mine. I’ve been disconnected from my reflection, unhooked, unmoored.

  I don’t line those eyes. I don’t glue anything or brush anything or draw anything onto that girl. I walk downstairs barefaced for the first time in God knows how long.

  “Claire bear, you okay?” Grace asks, stirring her oatmeal. She doesn’t have class today, because apparently that’s a thing in college, having no class for a whole day. “You look tired.”

  I tilt my head. My sister’s sea green eyes shine. “Have you ever messed something up?” I ask, my voice gravelly with morning raspiness. “Like, so badly, it feels like you’ll never fix it?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was it?”

  “That time junior year.” Grace twines a lock of her sandy hair between her fingers. “I was driving home and hit Mr. Fausett’s dog.”

  “But that was an accident.”

  “Still,” she says, her voice shrinking by the word. “He had this look on his face . . . just, God, you know?”

  “What did you do after?”

  “Everything I could,” she says. “Just everything I could, you know?”

  The drive to school is a stupor. Pressure clutches my shoulders.

  I consider turning back. Hiding in my bed. Hiding in the dark. Unwilling to face myself.

  IN FIRST PERIOD, PRINCIPAL TURNER’S VOICE RINGS over the intercom. “May I please have your attention for the morning announcements?”

  I look up at the black speaker, imagining her talking to Dr. Norman. Imagining him going home, thinking about what he might do if he lost his job. Is he married? Does he have a family? Has he had to tell them about this? And Lucas . . . I imagine myself yelling, Lucas McCallum is now out of the closet over that intercom, which is essentially what I did.

  “Students and staff,” Turner says, her voice heavy, “we have reached closure on the issue we spoke about during our assembly two weeks ago.”

  I freeze in my chair. They couldn’t have found Dr. Norman guilty based on my twenty-second-long, cowardly impulse—that’s impossible. There’s no evidence.

  Voices rise around me. Eager muttering. Norman. Lucas. Norman.

  Turner goes on: “Our junior honors English teacher, Mr. David García, has come forward and confessed to having a romantic relationship with a student.”

  Everything goes quiet. We all stare at the intercom, smacked into silence.

  It’s a testament to how much everyone liked Mr. García that people hardly joked about the idea of it being him.

  “Disciplinary action has been taken,” Turner says, “and Mr. García is under investigation by the police. We ask patience from all his classes while we locate a permanent substitute. A news station plans to arrive after school to ask questions of the student body. We ask that you remain respectful and truthful, and most importantly, that you disregard previous allegations, as they have no foundation in truth. Thank you for your attention.”

  When she goes quiet, part of me wants to cry with relief—and with remorse. Dr. Norman’s job isn’t on the line anymore. Maybe people will leave Lucas alone. Maybe this has undone some of the damage I did.

  TEN MINUTES BEFORE SECOND PERIOD, THE HALLS are quiet. People have finally seemed to realize that this is a big deal. A teacher they liked is gone for good—is that what it takes?—but I still hear them murmuring about who the student could be. I don’t hear Lucas’s name once.

  With every step I take toward the classroom where he sits, my insides twist tighter. My sneakers squeak on the freshly waxed floor, its chips of mica glaring at me like fireflies.

  I knock into somebody and mutter a halfhearted apology without looking up. Then a hand is on my shoulder. I look up, and there’s Juni, folding her arms.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I don’t bother trying to tell her it’s nothing. With a pained look on her face, she steers me past the stairwell and out the side entrance.

  “I have something to tell you, too,” she says. “You want to go first?”

  I shrug and think distractedly, God, I need a thicker jacket. It’s so cold out today.

  “Okay,” she says. “Explain.”

  “No, I . . .” I stare down at my shoes.

  “Tell me what’s up, Claire. Please. Look at me.”

  It’s hard to look up, and when I do, she has that sternness in her eyes. She cares fiercely, Juni. I feel as if she knows already. I hate her for it. I love her for it.

  A plane hums overhead, leaving whiskers of white exhaust behind. The breeze sighs in my ear. “I did something bad,” I say. “You know how Lucas . . . you know how people thought he was the one who . . .?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was me. I turned in a form saying it was him.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  Words keep rushing out of my mouth. “I wasn’t thinking, I—I got angry, and I couldn’t talk with anyone, and I—”

  “You could’ve talked to me. I know we fought, but you still could have—”

  “No, I couldn’t have,” I burst out. Her mouth closes, and I rush on. “I’m so tired, Juni. Don’t you get it? I lost it with you two last week because I’m sick to death of you guys being so much better than me, Olivia drowning in attention, you being so fucking perfect!”

  My words spiral out into the sky. Huge and irretrievable.

  I breathe hard. White mist uncoils before me in the cold.

  She’s about to say we’re done—I know it. Between this and my not calling her when she got out of the hospital—she’s going to friend-dump me, and I’ll be alone, and I’ll deserve it, won’t I? Won’t I deserve it?

  “I thought you knew me better than that,” she says quietly.

  I try to swallow. My tongue is harsh and dry. “That’s why I didn’t call on Sunday. When I heard you landed in the hospital, I . . . God, it’s horrible. But part of me was like finally, you know? She finally does something that doesn’t make the rest of us feel inadequate. Make me feel inadequate.”

  Her eyes crease with—is that sympathy? I can’t look long.

  “And it’s not just that you’re so smart, and that everybody’s in love with you, and that you’re amazing at everything you do. I mean, that’d sure as hell be enough, but it’s—it’s the way you act.” I look down at my sneakers. “When you sleep over, when it’s the three of us . . . even in private, you’re never mean. You’re never insecure or angry or . . . how do you do it? How are you real, you know? Years of us being friends, and I still feel like it’s not fair, that somebody can be so—”

  “Claire,” Juniper says, “it was me.”

  “What was you?”

  “Mr. García. He was with me.”

  Something ruptures in my chest. I stare. Her gray eyes are calm and serious.

  The knots in my mind come loose, unleashing the force of a million memories.

  Strangely, the first thing that comes to mind is the mess of frizzy hair I had in fourth grade; I remember wanting miles of flowing blond hair, Cinderella’s or Rapunzel’s or Juniper Kipling’s, because even back then she was the golden girl.

  I remember starting to detest my eyes in the mirror, their color, their shape, their short lashes. I remember sixth grade, the stick-thin prepubescent frames of the popular girls, Juniper the most graceful and most beautiful of all. I remember wanting to be like her so viciously, so fiercely, that when we first became friends, I dreamed that I could absorb something of her into myself, relinquish who I was and what I’d been given.

  I remember last May, the end of sophomore year. One day Juniper was joking that Lucas and I would be engaged soon. The next day
, he dumped me. When it ended, the choke-chain of a million clichés constricted around my throat, and I didn’t—couldn’t—speak about it. Heartbreak reduces you to what a million other people have suffered a million times before.

  I remember feeling too much, and then feeling nothing, and when my heart turned back on, it had a blinking red light to warn off anyone who might try to get close. I remember staring at Juniper, wondering how her hair fell just so. How long had she spent on it? I started wondering where Olivia got her allure. Was it something she bought? Something she sacrificed her integrity for? That had to be it, right? Little by little, my makeup turned from self-expression to war paint, and day by day, my jokes turned into fine-tipped barbs.

  And now, staring into Juni’s eyes, it feels like I could summon up every tiny jealousy, every tiny hatred of the last six months. Comparing my grades to Juni’s, my height and weight to Olivia’s, my eyes and skin and face to theirs. As if it were a contest. As if we were placed on two sides of a scale, and I could never measure up.

  All my preoccupations, all these months, and here Juni’s been, hiding the secret of a lifetime, not sparing so much as a moment to pit herself against me.

  “Oh my God,” I choke, tears burning at the back of my throat.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Claire. Everybody’s got shit they want, shit they can’t have, and shit they’ve got to deal with. You know that.” Juni hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. “I’m no different. Do you understand how often I’ve wished I were you or Olivia since summer? How much simpler things would’ve been?”

  I could sink into the ground. I have been so resolutely blind.

  The tears spill over. “I—I’m so sorry,” I hiccup. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  She hushes me gently. “I miss you,” she says. “I miss us. I don’t want you to be anybody else, and I’m not expecting you to do everything right. I sure don’t do everything right.” A line draws down between her eyebrows. “But what you did to Lucas, that’s wrong. That’s not you, Claire—who is that?”

  “I don’t know.” I sniff. Look up at the sky. It swims. “I would do anything to take it back. G-God, it was twenty seconds and he’s going to deal with that for the rest of high school. The rest of his life. It’ll be one of his coming-out stories, and it’ll be the most horrible one.” I wipe my face. Wipe the tears from beneath my eyes. “Shit, I don’t know what to do.”

  Juniper tilts her head. “You always know more than you give yourself credit for,” she says. “I’m sure you know what to do.”

  Everything I can, says Grace’s voice in the back of my head.

  Looking at Juni, I take a too-deep breath. Tears dry on my cheeks, and pain needles the bottom of my lungs. “I’ll find you later, okay? Can I do that?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Juni says, her voice shot through with relief.

  I smile. It’s weak but genuine. I feel like somebody who hasn’t stood in months, finding her feet under her again. Complete with the rush of blood from my head. “Okay. I will. I’ll see you.”

  Then I head inside. Down the hall, toward the office, gaining speed. I gather my courage, clenching it in my fists, ready to tell them that I’m the one who lied.

  I HURRY UP TO THE ARCHWAY THAT LEADS INTO THE lunchroom. I hate eating here, hate it more than bad traffic and bullies combined, but after three days, I still don’t know what to say to Lucas about Monday. My method of resolute avoidance has worked so far.

  As I approach the arch, a nasal-sounding voice says behind me, “Hey, look who it is.”

  I turn. “Dean.” I step to the side of the arch, allowing the traffic to pass us. The bridge of his nose is thick and red. I say, “I’ll accept your apology anytime.”

  He laughs. “Apology? You think I owe you an apology?”

  “Yes.” I fold my arms. “I said it wasn’t true, what everyone was saying about Lucas. So I was right. So you can apologize anytime.”

  “You are really asking for it.” He moves forward, and I stand my ground, preparing to duck and run the second his curled fists move.

  “Stop,” says a tired voice. Lucas’s voice. I turn toward him.

  As people pass, they avoid his eyes. Most look embarrassed, and rightfully so, given what they’ve been saying since Monday. “Stop, Valentine,” Lucas says. “Don’t.”

  I point at Dean. “But he keeps saying you’re—”

  “He’s right.”

  I flounder. “W-what?”

  “I am?” Dean says.

  “Sort of.” Lucas digs his hands into his pockets. “I’m not gay, but I’m pansexual, which is like—it’s a little like bisexual, but—”

  “I know what it is,” I break in.

  “Great,” Dean says. “So I was right, Simmons. So take this back.” He points at his nose.

  I round on him, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t punch you for saying he was gay, you cretin. I punched you because you were being an asshole about it.”

  “Whatever. I don’t need this.” Dean gives Lucas a scathing look as he stalks toward the archway. “Glad the season’s over.”

  We both look after him for a second; then Lucas moves toward an empty classroom nearby. I follow him inside, and he shuts the door, locking out the sound. We stay quiet for a minute, and then I clear my throat, feeling strange. “You’re . . . and you never told your swimming friends?”

  He rolls his shoulders in that easy shrug. “I was scared,” he says, as if it’s nothing, as if admitting you’re scared isn’t gut-wrenchingly personal.

  “Why did you tell Dean the truth, then?” I ask. “He would’ve believed it was a rumor.”

  Lucas’s smile twists. It looks painful. “I wanted it back in my own hands, man. Didn’t want to start lying all over again.” He runs a hand through his hair. “By the way, we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I—I can go; I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

  “What, like I’m going to get all, no homo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

  “Go ahead and homo,” I say dryly. “I couldn’t care less.”

  He lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. After Monday, I thought you were . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know. Not interested.”

  “No,” I say, not quite grasping his expression. Caution, maybe? “You’re still interesting,” I say. “I avoided you because I doubted you’d take kindly to my punching—”

  He leans down and kisses me.

  It feels like I thought it would. Skin on lips, lips on skin. Of all things, the closeness is the strangest: the knowledge that Lucas’s mind is inches from mine, churning with his skipping, jumping thoughts, compiling lists and collections, cataloging everything that’s happening even now. He tilts his head, his nose presses into my cheek, and his hand finds the back of my head. One of his big, sturdy arms circles my back. It is too much sensation, almost, to process.

  I frown as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine. Odd feeling. I wait for something new to happen in my head, something different.

  Eventually, he pulls back, and his hand falls from my hair. “You’re not into it,” he says as I inhale slowly. The taste of him is cold on my lips, tingling mint. Not unpleasant. Not life-changing. Just another experience.

  “Because I’m into you,” he says, his eyes holding mine. They are darker than I’d realized, spokes of dark chocolate on oil. “Really into you, Valentine.”

  I sway. My cheeks burn. “Right. I sort of gathered that from the. Um. Yes.”

  “And you . . .”

  “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”

  “Right. You’re not into guys,” he says, disappointment settling onto his face.

  Frustration mounts in my chest. He’s attractive; that’s obvious. I’ve never connected with a human being the way I have with him. And still—still . . . “I’m not into anyone,” I say desperately. “I don’t know if it’s because I’ve hardly had a friend, or
what, but conceptualizing crushes has always been a problem, and I just—I don’t.” The words stick in my throat. I say them again, a broken record spitting broken words: “I don’t.”

  “But . . . but I want you.” He sounds lost and confused, like a child.

  I hold my ground. “Well, I don’t know what to do with that.”

  “Oh.” Little by little, the disappointment vacates his expression, leaving him sober and unsmiling. I wait for a frustrated explosion, but Lucas just rubs his brow, seeming worlds away. “And it isn’t going to change,” he says.

  “No. As far as I can tell.”

  “Right.” Lucas’s eyes lift to mine, hopeful. “In that case, what do you think about going back to how things were?”

  I frown, taken aback. “You—you want to?”

  “Why would I not?”

  “Because you have feelings for me, and I don’t return them.”

  “If you’re okay with that, I can be, too,” he says. “Might take me a bit, but . . . yeah.” He smiles and extends a hand. “Friends?”

  I look at Lucas, disbelieving. In under a week, he has lost his swim team posse, endured rumors about sleeping with a teacher, been forced out of the closet, and been turned down by me, of all people. And here he is with a smile on his face, one hand tucked into his North Face jacket, his journal sticking out of his backpack. Cool Lucas, handsome Lucas, overeager and optimistic Lucas. Mr. Sunny-Side-Up.

  I take his hand. I want to say, Thank you; I want to say, I’m sorry; I want to say, You are some sort of strange miracle. “Yeah,” is what I say. “Yeah. Friends.”

  THERE’S NEVER BEEN A SLOWER THURSDAY, I THINK, watching the clock. Usually I don’t even sense my afternoon hours slipping by as my lunchtime high wears off, but I haven’t smoked this whole week, and it’s throwing me off timewise.

  There’s especially never been a slower last thirty seconds of seventh period on a Thursday. The second hand creeps sluggishly along its path, millimeter by millimeter, and when it hits 12 and the bell rings, I’m the first one out of my seat, bolting for the door.

 

‹ Prev