She's the Liar

by Alison Cherry

  Maybe I could’ve beaten Syd in that debate in history class last year too.

  I’m getting ready for bed, basking in my win and remembering the crowd of girls that swarmed around me at dinner, asking me to advocate for them, when my phone chimes. I grab it off my bed to find a text from my sister.

  You know you don’t have to petition for other people just because they ask you to, right?

  I want to, I reply.

  The “someone’s typing” dots pop up, then disappear, then pop up again, then disappear again. It makes me smile; my sister is clearly struggling to think of a reason why I should stop acting as a proxy, but she’s having trouble finding a convincing one. It’s not like she can come right out and say, I hate that you did such a good job of presenting your case that you made me approve petitions I wanted to reject.

  Finally another message pops up on the screen: It’s not going to make them be friends with you, you know. They don’t want to hang out with you. They’re just using you because you’re my sister.

  Rage floods through me. I am so sick of Sydney trying to cut me down and make me feel like nothing good can ever happen to me. I’m sick of her wanting to be the only one who’s successful, the only one who has managed to surround herself with new friends. The people I petitioned for today do like me; Bridget invited me to sit with her at dinner, and she even brought me frozen yogurt with Cocoa Krispies on top when she got some for herself. (Totally genius, by the way.) You don’t randomly bring someone dessert if you don’t want to be friends with her.

  Why can’t Sydney accept that things are finally going well for me?

  I pick up my pillow and throw it across the room, then immediately feel ridiculous and pick it up before Christina returns from the shower. I force myself to take a few deep breaths before I text Sydney back. One of us has to be the mature sister, and clearly it’s going to have to be me.

  You can think whatever you want, but you can’t control what I do.

  I wait for a response, but it never comes. Instead, five minutes later, a campus-wide email appears in my inbox. It’s from the Committee, stating that each student can only present one petition per Petition Day. Of course Sydney would find another way to have the last word, to remind me that she has more power than I do.

  I wait for my anger to flare up again, but this time it doesn’t come. Honestly it’s kind of amazing to know that the most powerful student at Brookside has made a new school-wide policy specifically because of me. At King Elementary, I’m pretty sure nobody would’ve noticed if I’d evaporated into the air and disappeared. Here I’m already influencing things in a major way, and it’s only been six days.

  If Sydney wants to play this game, fine. It only makes me want to work harder to prove that I’m a worthy opponent. I sit down at my computer, make a proxy sign-up sheet for the next month, print it out, and post it on my door.

  By the next evening, the sheet is completely full. Looking at it makes me tired, but I refuse to let myself think about that. Being an important, influential person on campus takes effort, and I’m more than up to the task.

  Abbi Carrington, voice of the people. It has a nice ring to it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been desperate for a weekend to be over before, but our first play rehearsal is on Monday, and it can’t come soon enough. We’re going to do a full read-through of the play, which means I’ll get to find out which ensemble lines are mine, and when we get to the songs, those of us who know them will sing while Ms. Solomon plays the piano so everyone can get familiar with the music. I know every word of every song already—I downloaded the original cast album and listened to it over and over as soon as I decided to audition—and I know Lydia and Grace do too. I can’t wait to sing with them and the rest of my cast, our voices blending and mixing until you can’t tell one from another.

  The moment the last bell rings, I head across the quad to the auditorium; my feet feel so light and floaty that it’s hard to keep myself from skipping. Grace and Kiara and a few other girls are already clustered outside the door when I arrive, and I jog up the steps to meet them. “Hi,” I chirp in my friendliest Abbi voice.

  Grace turns around and says hello, but she has a weird look on her face, and then I notice the handwritten sign taped to the auditorium door: THIS BUILDING IS OFF-LIMITS. DO NOT ENTER. There’s a strip of caution tape looped through the handles of the double doors, tying them together.

  “I texted Ms. Gutierrez and Ms. Solomon,” Grace says. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

  “What do you think happened?” one of the girls asks. “Do you think the theater’s flooded or something?”

  “I totally want to see that,” says another girl.

  “Maybe there’s a gas leak.”

  “Or maybe there are bees inside. Like, tons and tons of bees.”

  “Hi, girls!” says a voice behind us, and Grace’s face relaxes as Ms. Gutierrez strides purposefully up the stairs. Our director frowns as she looks at the sign and the caution tape. “It’s weird that I didn’t get an email about the building being off-limits—my office is in there.” She tries to pull the doors open enough to peer inside, and we all stand on our toes to look, but the caution tape is tied too tightly, and it holds the handles shut. “Hang on, I’m going to make a quick call,” she says.

  She pulls out her phone and dials what I assume is the administration office, and we all go quiet so she can hear. But nobody answers, and she sighs and hangs up. “Well, I can’t get your scripts for the read-through if we’re not allowed inside. I’ve got one in my bag, but there’s no way twenty of us can share.”

  “Hey,” Ms. Solomon says as she joins us. “The auditorium’s closed?”

  “Apparently,” Ms. Gutierrez says. “I tried calling Cynthia, but nobody picked up.”

  “I have my score,” Ms. Solomon says. “Is there another piano somewhere that we can use? At least we can do a sing-through.”

  “The choir room?” Kiara suggests.

  Ms. Solomon shakes her head. “Today’s the first choir rehearsal. And the jazz ensemble is in the band room.”

  “There are a few pianos in the practice rooms in the basement of Rose, but you can barely fit two people in one of those,” says Grace.

  “I think there’s a piano in the common room of Kaufman,” says a girl I don’t know. “Do you want me to go over and check?”

  “Thanks, Riley, that would be really helpful,” says Ms. Gutierrez, and the girl runs off.

  The rest of the cast arrives in twos and threes as the teachers try to figure out what to do, and after a few minutes, Lydia slips in beside me. When I explain what’s happening, her face falls. “Man, I was really looking forward to this.”

  “I know, me too,” I say.

  Riley comes running back, breathing hard. “The piano in Kaufman is being tuned,” she says. “I asked the guy if he could come back later, but he said he drove an hour to get here and that this was his only available slot.”

  Ms. Gutierrez shakes her head. “This rehearsal is cursed,” she says. “Did one of you say the name of the Scottish play in the theater during auditions?”

  “What’s the Scottish play?” asks someone.

  “It’s an old theater superstition,” Ms. Gutierrez explains. “You aren’t allowed to say the word ‘Macbeth’ inside a theater or it’s bad luck for the production. If you accidentally say it, you have to go outside, turn around three times, spit, swear, knock on the door, and ask to be let back in.” Kiara nods like she’s familiar with this procedure.

  “Whoa,” says the girl. “Have you ever had to do that?”

  “Of course,” says Ms. Gutierrez. “Anyone who works in theater has. Anyway, here’s what we’re going to do. We can’t very well have a read-through with no room, no piano, and no scripts. But it’s a beautiful day, so let’s find some space on the quad, and we can play theater games and get to know each other. We’ll reschedule the read-through for Wednesday. We have the theater booked that da
y, right, Grace?”

  Grace nods. “It’s all taken care of.”

  I raise my hand. “I have the cast album on my phone, if we want to sing through some of it after we play games,” I suggest.

  Ms. Gutierrez smiles at me and says, “Thank you, Abbi, that’s a great idea,” and it makes a bloom of warmth unfurl in the center of my chest.

  We follow our director across the quad like twenty baby ducks. It is a gorgeous day, warm and hazy, and the stripes of sun between the buildings make the grass glow a bright emerald green. We find a spot under a giant tree, its branches reaching out like it wants to protect us, and Ms. Gutierrez tells us to form a circle. We go around and say our names, what part we’re going to play, and what we would wish for if we had a fairy godmother. I used to get so nervous to speak in front of groups even when it was just for a few seconds like this—my guts would twist like snarled yarn until it was my turn, and my fingertips would tingle with adrenaline for minutes afterward. But this time, to my surprise and relief, I’m able to breathe and stay calm. When it’s my turn, I want to say that I’d wish to always feel this connected to a group, this much a part of something bigger than myself. But that seems too personal, so I say I’d wish for a teleporter.

  Ms. Solomon leads us through a series of vocal warm-ups, contorting our faces and repeating silly tongue twisters about yellow leather and knapsacks and unique New York. We all look incredibly goofy, and some of the girls passing on the paths stare at us. But because we’re all doing it together, it doesn’t feel embarrassing, even when people laugh. Ms. Gutierrez teaches us a game called Zip Zap Zop, which tests your speed and concentration, and I focus so hard that I forget to be nervous. Then we pair off and take turns sculpting our partners into living statues, and I laugh so hard I almost fall down when Lydia makes me stand on one foot like a flamingo, one hand planted on my butt and the other sticking a finger in my ear. It turns out drama games are really fun.

  And then Ms. Gutierrez says it’s time to play Freeze.

  “Two people will start a scene,” she explains. “At any point, another person can yell ‘Freeze!’ and both people freeze exactly as they are. The new person takes the place of one of the actors, assumes her position, and starts another completely unrelated scene. A few of you already know how to play—Grace and Kiara, you want to start?”

  “Sure,” says Grace, and they hop up and take their place at the front of the group.

  Without even taking a minute to think, Kiara says, “Doctor, I’m so glad you could see me on such short notice. I have a serious problem.”

  Grace pretends to write on a clipboard. “What seems to be the issue?”

  Kiara holds up her arm. “Well, as you can see, my arm has turned into an octopus tentacle.”

  Everyone laughs, but Grace and Kiara manage to keep straight faces. “So it has,” Grace says, turning the arm over and looking at it from different angles. “Fascinating. Well, the good news is that it’s a lovely shade of blue, and those suckers look extremely healthy.”

  “Yes, it’s a good tentacle, as tentacles go,” Kiara agrees. “I’m not having any issues using it. The problem is that it keeps trying to strangle random people on the street. I don’t have any control over what it—” She twitches. “Oh no. It’s doing it again! Help!” She makes a comically horrified face as she snakes her arm around Grace’s neck, and everyone cracks up. I’m completely in awe of the two of them and also completely sure that I cannot do what they’re doing. How are they thinking so fast and managing to be funny at the same time?

  “Freeze!” shouts a girl named Salima. She tags out Kiara, who’s now lying on the ground, and bellows, “This is it, Harold! The baby’s coming!”

  While everyone’s screaming with laughter, I lean over to Lydia and whisper, “How are they doing this?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s so quick. But I guess that’s the point? I guess you just … say whatever comes into your head?”

  But I can’t say whatever comes into my head. Everything I say and do these days is carefully calculated and practiced. I’ve gotten really good at being Abbi, but it still takes effort, even when I’m having a normal conversation with one person. I’m not ready for an unplanned performance yet.

  A girl named Kendall tags in and starts a scene about a pizza chef, and then Riley starts a scene about flying a plane, and then Kiara hops back in with a scene about a ghost possessing her computer.

  “Let’s let some of the newcomers have a turn,” Ms. Gutierrez says, and she looks over at us.

  I feel Lydia take a deep breath beside me, and as Kiara raises her hand high above her head, Lydia yells, “Freeze!” and hops to her feet. Lydia tags Kiara out, then says in a voice like a very small child, “Mommy, I can’t reach the Frosted Flakes!”

  I’m so impressed with how my friend throws herself into the game even when she doesn’t really know what she’s doing—she doesn’t get tagged out for a while, and she successfully plays a shoe salesperson, a granny, and a movie star on the red carpet. When she finally sits down next to me again, she’s flushed and breathing hard, but she whispers, “It wasn’t that hard! It was fun!”

  I nod and tell her she did great, and then I sit there tense as a bowstring, hands balled into fists in my lap, waiting for an opening. The scenes turn over and over, flip-book quick, but I can’t find a gap I think I can fill.

  Finally Ms. Gutierrez says, “Has everyone had a turn?” She looks around the circle, and for the first moment since I got to Brookside, I try to banish Abbi from my body and fade into the background so her eyes will skate right past me. But some traces of my new self must still be there, because she says, “Abbi and Sasha—you haven’t been in yet, right? Go ahead and take one turn each.”

  A new scene starts and Sasha calls freeze almost immediately, then starts a scene about a waiter who drops an enormous pile of dishes. I will my voice to cooperate, for my hand to shoot into the air, but the scene goes on and on, and I just can’t do it. Finally Ms. Gutierrez catches my eye and nods, and I know she’s not going to let me out of this, so I force my mouth to form the word “Freeze.” It comes out quiet, but Sasha and her scene partner Nevaeh stop, and I slowly get to my feet and brush the grass off my skirt. Lydia touches the back of my calf, but it doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me wonder if she’s noticed the way my legs are trembling.

  Sasha has one hand over her head like she’s swimming the backstroke, so I tag her out. For a second it’s like every word in the English language has fled my brain, leaving a terrifying void behind. I find myself twisting the end of my braid around my finger, and I force myself to stop. “Um,” I say, and forty expectant eyes look up at me. They all saw me sing at the audition, confident and sure, and they must be wondering what’s wrong with me now. It’s too similar to how I used to feel standing in front of a class, and for a second I’m sure my knees are going to buckle.

  Boooo-hooooo, goes the ghost of Evan Hamilton inside my head.

  That’s not going to happen today, responds a stern Abbi voice. Say something. Literally anything is fine.

  “Help, I’m drowning!” I yell, and I can feel the entire group release a collective breath.

  Nevaeh rushes to my side, making motions like she’s treading water. “Here, grab on to this life raft!”

  “No, it’s leaking air!” I say. “It has a hole in it from … um …” From what? I desperately scrabble around in my brain for an idea, but I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, like I have no control over what words are going to come out of my mouth. Finally I hear myself say, “… from where a shark bit it!”

  Nevaeh loops my arm around her shoulders. “Hang on to me, then. Did the shark bite you? Is that why you can’t swim?”

  “No,” I say. “Not yet. But it could happen any second.”

  “Do you see any sharks now?”

  I pretend to scan the horizon. “No, do you?”

  She points. “There’s one! Grab it! We c
an hang on to its back and ride it to safety!”

  “But—”

  “Annnnd scene!” says Ms. Gutierrez, clapping for punctuation. My whole body relaxes—it’s over—and I sag against Nevaeh. She staggers a little, surprised to have to hold me up for real.

  “That was great, girls,” our director says. “One tip for the future, though—improv games like this work best when we say ‘Yes, and …’ instead of ‘No.’ For example, in that last round, Nevaeh provided several ideas—a life raft, a shark bite—but Abbi chose not to move the scene in those directions. Next time, Abbi, try to accept what your scene partner gives you and take it one step further—like, you might say yes, the shark bit off your entire leg and you have to dive down and catch it before it sinks to the bottom. Does that make sense?”

  She says it in the nicest possible way, but it still stings like the snap of a rubber band. It doesn’t seem like the other girls are judging me, but I can feel my face turning bubble-gum pink anyway. It’s my very first day of rehearsal, and I’ve already been singled out as a failure.

  Ms. Gutierrez touches my shoulder gently. “I’m not putting you on the spot,” she says. “That was just the most recent example, since you went last. Okay?”

  I nod, but I don’t say anything. If I open my mouth, I’m afraid I might cry.

  “All right, wonderful,” Ms. Gutierrez says. “Should we move along to our sing-through? Abbi, you said you have the cast album on your phone, right?”

  I nod again, and this time I instantly start to feel better. Maybe I’m not good at making things up on the spot, even in my Abbi form, but I know I can sing these songs—I’ve been practicing. I pull up the album, click play on “The Prince Is Giving a Ball,” and put my phone on the grass, and everyone else forms a tight circle around it. And when the music starts, I’m the first one to start singing, and Ms. Gutierrez smiles at me as she joins in. She has a beautiful voice, as good as the people on the recording.