Trust Me, I'm Lying

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

  “Is that for me?” I ask, eyeing the tray with, I’ll admit, a little drool at the corner of my mouth. I may or may not have licked my lips.

  Tyler doesn’t answer right away, so I start to worry it isn’t for me, but when I tear my gaze away from the tray to confirm with him, he’s staring at me.

  “What?”

  Then I remember that I’m practically naked and I backpedal into the bathroom for the robe. When I come out of the bathroom the second time, we both apologize at the same time, and then laugh uneasily.

  “Better?”

  “Much,” I say, and dig into the food.

  He watches me scarf down cheese and biscotti, getting crumbs all over the fluffy white robe lapels. I feel bad brushing them to the carpet, so I ignore them. I’ll wait till he leaves.

  When I’ve polished off all the food and tea, he takes my hand and pulls me to the bed. “Time to sleep,” he says. “It’s a school night.”

  “Oh, man. It’s Monday again, isn’t it? Dang it, Monday—why you got to be all up in my grill?” My snark is somewhat checked by my enormous yawn. With Tyler here, my loneliness is at an all-time low. If only I could shrink him and carry him around in my pocket.

  I lie down, robe and all, on top of the comforter. Tyler covers me with a throw he pulls from the chaise and then stretches out next to me, facing me, a respectful foot or so between us.

  “How are you feeling?” he says, and he doesn’t mean the bed or the food. He means everything else, and he knows I know it.

  “Awful,” I say honestly.

  “What can I do?”

  “You’ve already done so much.”

  “Ask me.”

  I know what he wants to hear, what I want to say. If I’m brave enough.

  “Please stay with me,” I whisper past the fear in my throat.

  “Okay,” he says, taking my hand and holding it to his chest.

  I fall asleep minutes later to the beat of his heart.

  When I wake up, the birds are chirping, sunlight is streaming through the curtains, and Tyler is gone.

  I sit up, still covered in the blanket, feeling a Tyler-shaped emptiness that refuses to be ignored.

  He left. After that big speech about depending on others—on him, in fact—he up and leaves at first light. Or earlier; maybe he only waited long enough for me to fall asleep. Though even that is a kindness, and I shouldn’t begrudge him wanting to sleep in his own bed.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Well, swing is generous. More like painfully inch my sore muscles over the edge as I stretch to get the kink out of my neck. I hear a pop and some tension releases. After what I put my legs through last night, I can hardly blame them for being sore.

  I’m about to stand when I hear someone tromping up the stairs.

  “I don’t care what meeting he’s in—give him the message,” Tyler says as he opens the door and smiles at me, a cup of something cappuccino-ish in one hand and his phone in the other. “Thank you,” he says, and hangs up. He passes me the coffee and swings my book bag to the floor.

  “It’s official,” I say as I take a sip. “You’re my hero.”

  “If you like that, you’ll love what else I brought,” he says, unlatching the bag and pulling out my school uniform.

  “How’d you get this?” I ask.

  “You didn’t lock your place when we left last night,” he says. “I woke up early and went to get it. I figured you wouldn’t want to go to school looking like you’d survived a fire.”

  I could kiss him, I’m so happy. He even brought my toothbrush.

  “I thought you left,” I say.

  “I did,” he says, as if pointing out the obvious. “And then I came back.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Thank me by believing that I’ll come back,” he says, sitting down next to me on the bed.

  I lean into him and, finally, the last remaining resistance gives way. I believe him. He’s real. And I can feel myself attaching to him like a barnacle to the bottom of a barge.

  He leans into me, too, and before I know what is happening, his lips are on mine, stealing my breath.

  The kiss starts soft and sweet, tentative, asking for a leap of faith. I have little experience with kissing, which only adds to the strange liquid heat in my arteries. I imagine myself glowing with the radiation as he deepens the kiss, folding his arms around me and drawing me closer. I’m barely conscious of anything but all the places where his body touches mine. All the places my skin is on fire.

  Countless minutes later, he pulls back, a satisfied smirk on his face. I try not to look as flustered as I feel. But the kiss was nice. I liked it. A lot. So I lean closer to him, tangling my fingers in his hair, and kiss him this time, taking control.

  Even more minutes later, I pull back, breaking the kiss abruptly.

  “What time is it?”

  He’s still smiling as he checks his watch. “Twenty till eight.”

  “Crap! If I’m late again, the dean will have me drawn and quartered.”

  “Need me to run interference?”

  “No, I just need to get my butt to school.”

  I snatch up my bag and race to the bathroom. But before shutting the door, I change tack and pounce on Tyler again. One more kiss for the road.

  As I race to get ready, the sun is shining through the stained-glass window of the bathroom with the promise of a new day. I’m almost a new person. Yesterday was rough; I’m not going to lie. And I’m still desperately worried about my dad, Mike, Ralph, and even my stalker, oddly enough.

  But with the day already off to an amazing start, I can’t help but take a sunnier view on my circumstances. For example, the more I think about it, the more possible it seems that my dad is still alive. He’d never get himself into a situation he didn’t have eight contingency plans for. As for Mike and Ralph, the doctor said Mike would be fine, and I’ll find Ralph. I feel like I can do anything today.

  And then there’s Tyler.…

  “You almost done in there?” he asks, knocking on the door as I finish running a brush through my hair.

  I toss the brush on the counter and then open the door and fling myself at him, attacking him with another dizzying, oxygen-depriving kiss. Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

  But then the downstairs clock strikes the hour, and I forcibly detach myself from him.

  “Let’s go,” I say, pulling him by the hand and grabbing my bag on my way out of the room.

  Mrs. Richland is sitting in her morning room, sorting through papers stacked neatly on an antique rolltop desk. I stop long enough to give her my heartfelt thanks. She responds with a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment and an imperious look, but the chagrin I should feel rolls right off me. I’m having a good day.

  When we get to St. Aggie’s, Tyler opens the door for me and offers a hand to help me out of the car. The rest of the students in the parking lot stare at us, mouths literally hanging open. All the better—once word gets back to Bryn, Murphy’s chances of getting a yes will increase exponentially.

  I give Tyler’s hand a squeeze as we separate, each of us going to our respective buildings. As he pulls away, my heart aches a little in a very cliché, very nice sort of way. I really could get used to this. And that should worry me more than it does.

  “Julep!” Sam says, coming up behind me.

  I turn to him and smile, but his expression morphs to horrified when he sees my face.

  “Jesus, Julep, what happened?” he asks as he takes a step closer than he usually would.

  He moves my hair aside to examine a gash on my forehead that’s longer than the others. I pull back, uncomfortable. Just because I’m getting all handsy with Tyler doesn’t mean I don’t require a certain amount of personal space.

  “Molotov cocktail through a shop window,” I say. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Oh my god, are you okay?”

  I take a deep breath, not really wanting to r
elive the whole thing now that I’ve regained a hopeful perspective.

  “I am now,” I say. “Can you keep your voice down?”

  “I will if you tell me what happened.”

  So I give him the brief history of a girl and a fire—leaving out Mike, of course, and the sleeping-next-to-Tyler part.

  “She rescued you?” he asks, sounding as incredulous as I felt at the time.

  “I know. Weird.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Just that she knew my dad and promised him that she’d look after me.”

  “That makes no sense,” he says, pulling some printouts from his bag.

  “I know,” I say. “She said something about the people she works for doing something bad—”

  “No kidding,” Sam says, handing me the paper.

  On top is a mug shot of the enforcer, looking a little younger than she does now and thoroughly sullen. Her tattoo is different from when the mug shot was taken; it covers more of her skin now, and has more detail. The name next to the photo is Danijela “Dani” Ivanov.

  “You did it,” I say, impressed. “I mean, I knew you would eventually. But wow, that was fast. The botched-files idea worked out?”

  “Batch files, and no,” he admits. “But I found another way in. It was hard. And incredibly dangerous.”

  “Right,” I say, scanning every inch of the profile.

  “Look at her known associates,” Sam says, pointing to a spot lower down in the dossier.

  Jackpot.

  “Sam, you’re a miracle worker,” I say, hugging him. “What would I do without you?”

  Sam clears his throat. “Run around in circles like a chicken with its head cut off?”

  I give him a withering look.

  “So what are you going to do now? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  I start to say something pithy about paying her a visit, but then change my mind about telling him.

  “I’m going to go to class,” I say instead. Then I bump his shoulder with mine. “Later, skater.” Printouts in hand, I head to homeroom, skirting an early-morning tai chi class doing forms on the lawn, and push through the double doors.

  “Ms. Dupree,” the dean says, popping out from behind a trophy case.

  I nearly shriek. Okay, maybe I shriek. But only a tiny shriek. I blame the golden glow of Tyler’s kisses and Sam’s discoveries for my not seeing her coming. In any case, the dean has a brown woman in tow. I say “brown” because she is thoroughly brown—brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, brown knit skirt. The only color other than brown on her entire body is her reddish-brown lipstick.

  “I’m glad we caught you,” the dean continues with a self-satisfied smirk. “This is Miriam Fairchild, a social worker.”

  Fan-freaking-tastic. A social worker.

  “So nice to meet you,” I say, playing my part while surreptitiously tucking the printouts into my bag. “Welcome to St. Agatha’s. I’m sure Dean Porter has a lot to show you, so I’ll be off to class.”

  “Oh, she’s here to speak to you, dear,” the dean says. I grit my teeth. I highly doubt the dean has used the word dear to refer to a student even once before in her lifetime.

  “What about?” I ask suspiciously, dropping the act.

  “Let’s go back to my office, so we can talk privately.”

  Somehow they know. Involving the state means that the dean has certain knowledge of my parent-free status. She could have swung by my apartment, I suppose, but it isn’t likely. The only logical explanation is that somebody’s tipped her off.

  “I—”

  “Dean Porter!” Heather says. She’s breathing hard, having had to run to reach us. “I have a message for you!”

  The dean frowns at her. “Can’t it wait?”

  “It’s Ms. Fairchild’s car. Someone’s towing it.”

  “What?” the social worker says. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Heather says. “The tow company wanted me to notify you. I thought it was important enough to—”

  Before she can finish, Ms. Fairchild takes off for the faculty parking lot, her long bohemian skirt flapping in her wake.

  “Wait!” the dean shouts, running after her.

  I turn to Heather with a raised eyebrow. “Tow company?”

  Heather shrugs. “It’s the fastest thing we could come up with. Sam’s idea, actually, though Tyler made the call.”

  “Her car is actually getting towed?” I say, incredulous. “How did the truck get here so fast?”

  “I don’t know. But Sam had Murphy dig up a couple of traffic cones and some No Parking signs from security to make it seem more legit.”

  “Well, thanks,” I say. “I owe you—all of you.”

  But I feel considerably less relieved than I should. How many people are in on the secret now? Tyler, Mike, Sam? Murphy and Heather might even know. Any one of them could have told the dean.

  “Thank us later,” she says, grabbing my arm and moving in the opposite direction of the dean and the social worker. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Bigger problems?” Oh, god. What now?

  “They’re trying to cancel the dance.”

  We’re halfway down the hall when Murphy catches up to us. “Did you tell her?”

  “I was getting to it,” Heather says.

  “The dance is a bigger problem than a social worker?”

  “It is to us,” Murphy says. “I’m asking Bryn tomorrow. I’m not giving up on that because some stupid pipe burst.”

  I sigh. “All right, back up. Start from the beginning.”

  “The water main beneath the library burst. The lower east hall is a stinky swamp, and the basement of the library is a swimming pool.”

  “But the dance isn’t in the library; it’s in the gym.”

  “President Rasmussen says the foundation is questionable and the whole east building is off-limits, including the gym. The registrar is about to burst a blood vessel because all the student files are in there and we’re supposed to be starting registration for next sem—”

  “Why don’t they move the dance off campus?”

  “The dance is this weekend. We’d never be able to find an empty space big enough that quickly, not this time of year, even if we could convince our parents to help the school foot the bill.”

  “This really isn’t my wheelhouse, guys. I’m not an organizer.”

  “You’re our fixer,” Heather says, as if it were obvious. “You fix things.”

  “I can’t, all right?” I open the door leading to the chapel. “I’ve got too much on my plate as it is.”

  “You’ve got to do something, Julep,” Murphy says, his new specs giving him an air of intelligent authority where his old ones made him look bug-eyed.

  The mere thought of adding “locate a dance venue” to my list is giving me hives. New positive attitude notwithstanding, I’m not Wonder Woman. I can’t do everything. And if I take on yet another responsibility, one of my others will slip. Which ball do I feel comfortable dropping at this point? School? Rent? My dad?

  I start walking with purpose toward the student parking lot I came in from, which is thankfully hidden from view of the faculty parking lot as long as I go the long way, through the chapel. Murphy and Heather have to rush to keep up.

  “I need a count of people attending,” I say. “I’ll get you a building. That’s it. The rest is up to you.”

  Heather squeals and hugs me. “Try to find something that fits the ‘Swing in Space’ theme.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, extricating myself so I can continue to my goal of stealing a car. “Just keep me posted about the social worker.”

  “On it,” Heather says as I start checking wheel wells and bumpers for magnetic key boxes. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting a ride.”

  Murphy hands me his keys. “Just take my car.”

  “Oh.” Duh. “Thanks, Murphy. I’ll try not to total it.”

  “Is there a possibility of
you totaling it?” he asks, turning pale.

  “Of course,” I say, clicking the button to make the car beep. The lights on a Kia Sedona minivan flash off to my left. I cast a disparaging look at Murphy. “Really?”

  “What? It has a good safety rating.”

  I refrain from commenting as I slide into the driver’s seat and dump my backpack and Sam’s printouts on the passenger’s side.

  “Where are you going?”

  I start the car and rev the engine.

  “I’ve got to see a criminal about a fish.”

  THE RACKET

  When I hit 55, I head south.

  Known associates: Nikolai Petrov, suspected leader of Ukrainian organized crime syndicate.

  Last known address: S Madison St.

  I can’t do anything about Petrov without further information, but I know exactly who to shake down for that. I was too distracted by nearly getting blown up to put any real pressure on my rescuer. But even with the right leverage, she’d be a tough nut to crack. Far easier to spy on her to get what I need.

  I take the IL-83 exit and make a left toward the canal. Scrub bushes and warehouses squat along the road. I pull over in front of a likely-looking building—dilapidated enough to avoid too much notice, but without the air of abandonment of potential raver hangouts.

  I do a quick equipment check: minivan, AV gear, book bag full of sooty clothes, and … maybe? I root around in the bag and pull out the wadded-up coveralls. Tyler didn’t take them out.

  Tyler. I probably should have told him where I was going. Not even twenty-four hours and I’m already forgetting my promise to stop excluding him.

  I reach for my phone.

  “Julep, where are you?” Tyler asks after the first ring.

  “The warehouse district along the canal,” I say. “I’m going to … um, do a little reconnaissance.”

  “Without backup,” he says.

  “I keep forgetting about the backup.”

  “The backup is the most important part.”

  “Sorry?” I’m pretty sure that shouldn’t be a question. I try again. “I’m only doing a quick look-see. No confrontation involved.”