Liar, Liar k-1

by Gary Paulsen

  I couldn’t read her face and I felt nervous because of the way she wasn’t looking at me. So I started talking again to fill in the silence. Besides, the sound of my own voice always calms me down.

  “But I feel really bad about it. I know there are only a few days left before we have to hand in our project and make our presentation. What should I get started on, boss?” Sucking up is always a good plan when your back’s against the wall.

  “Now? Nothing.”

  “What?”

  That was not how this scene had played out in my head as I walked to school—she was supposed to be happy I’d confessed and secretly pleased that she could rely on me in the last few tense days of finishing up. Not to mention relieved that I wasn’t sick. Then we’d share a good laugh over what a rascally sense of humor I had and would bond over the experience. She wasn’t getting the big picture here. She was totally ruining my great plan.

  “Everything’s done—the research, the final draft, everything; all that’s left to do is hand in the paper and make the report to the class.” She still wouldn’t look at me.

  “Well, yeah, but there’s got to be something I can do. What about fact-checking? I could go over the PowerPoint and maybe jazz it up. Maybe I can handle the oral presentation? You know, take that burden off your shoulders? I’m great in front of an audience.”

  She shook her head. “I told you: everything is done. You can’t put your name on the project if you didn’t do any of it and you’re not really sick. And I’ll get in trouble for cheating if Crosby finds out about our deal. I’m going to hand in this project as mine alone.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ll have to do your own.”

  “But it’s due next Friday! Everyone else had an extra week and a partner.”

  “Then you’ll have to make really good use of your time. And”—she did look at me here, and her glance made my blood run cold—“it’s your own fault that you don’t have enough time and a partner.”

  “I know you’re probably mad at me—”

  “You used me.”

  “No, that’s not—well, yeah, I guess I did, but—”

  “I should have known that disease was phony. I’m embarrassed that I was stupid enough to believe you.”

  “I’m very believable,” I said, trying to comfort her.

  She didn’t look comforted.

  “It was kind of a joke.” I tried to explain. “See, my best friend is always weirding out about health things and I kind of had improbable illnesses on my mind because it’s all he ever talks about, so I—”

  “Whatever.”

  “Katie, please … you can’t be serious.”

  “You should be glad I’m not turning you in to Crosby. I’m doing you a favor, letting you dig yourself out of this mess.”

  She looked at me. Her eyes might have been a little sad, but her mouth was a tight, straight line.

  “You’re on your own.”

  Then she walked away from me.

  Right past JonPaul.

  Who had been waiting to walk to our lockers with me like he does every morning. He’d heard. Everything.

  “What was that about?” He looked away from me as he carefully peeled the magnetic sticky patches that detoxified his cells off his wrists and slid them into a pocket. He unclipped the mini-sanitizer from the zipper of his backpack, too.

  “It was a … misunderstanding.”

  “Katie doesn’t seem like the kind of person who makes mistakes.”

  “Uh … yeah … well … see, the thing is—”

  “Unless you say, ‘The thing is I jerked everyone around this week because I’m selfish and stuck-up and I think I’m so much better than anyone else that I can make fun of them,’ I don’t want to hear it.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  What do you say when your best friend has lost his mojo because you tried to reduce him to a paranoid bundle of nerves terrified of going into anaphylactic shock? Even if it was for his own good.

  “How do I make this right?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not Katie or Mr. Crosby. And I have no clue what you were doing at the student government meeting the other day. I don’t know why you’ve skipped Spanish and art and gym and math all week. But I guess it has something to do with all these crazy stories I’ve been hearing all over school the past couple of days about you writing for the newspaper and joining the theater crew and becoming part of the wrestling squad and that you and Connie Shaw are going on community-access cable TV next week to debate the mayor. I thought it was another Kevin or maybe another four Kevins, but it’s just the one. It’s you, all right.”

  “I mean about you. How do I make things okay with you?”

  JonPaul, without saying a word, turned away from me like I was something a fully suited hazmat team would avoid, and walked down the hall.

  I remembered part of a coded message that the English used on the radio during World War II to alert the French Resistance to rise up against the German occupation: “… wound my heart with a monotonous languor.”

  I knew just what that felt like. The wounding part.

  And I remembered, too, that the definition of surrender isn’t to give up, but to go over to the winning side.

  If they’d take me.

  11. A GOOD LIE REQUIRES A GREAT APOLOGY

  FUBAR.

  It’s one of the all-time great military acronyms, and it stands for Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.

  I. Could. Relate.

  But I wasn’t going to panic just because things looked bad so bad so very very bad. Like the good general I knew I could be, I would take bold action, I would show no fear, I would stride, godlike, straight into the jaws of adversity. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do yet, but I knew how I’d do it.

  Katie had said so and JonPaul had proved her right—I was on my own. I’d gotten myself into this mess, and I had no one to turn to for help to get out of it.

  So I went where I always go when I don’t know what to do—I headed for the library to organize my thoughts and hammer out a battle plan.

  I grabbed a computer station near the back and started making notes listing how I’d messed up. When I was finished, I sat back and reread my efforts.

  Wow.

  People who say today’s generation has no work ethic would take that back if they saw how busy I’d been in one short week.

  I’d be lying (and I’m not going to do that anymore) if I said that the thought of just waiting for everything to clear up naturally and hoping for the best hadn’t crossed my mind. That would have been the path of least resistance. And it looked appealing.

  But lying low would show a weak character, and that was not how I wanted everyone to think of me.

  There was only one solution.

  I was going to have to admit to everyone what I’d done, take responsibility for my actions, express regret for the pain I’d caused, accept the consequences of my behavior, make sure they knew I was serious about making it up to them and then never act like that again. The perfect apology.

  The only downside was that a one-size-fits-all letter wasn’t going to cut it. I was going to have to write specific letters to everyone.

  I grabbed a thesaurus off the shelf, because there were only so many ways I knew to say “I’m sorry” without help.

  Luckily, I’ve always been a very articulate and persuasive guy. I’d never needed either quality as much as I would now, though.

  I apologized my miserable butt off. I confessed. Acknowledged. Asked for forgiveness. And promised to change my ways. I pretty much groveled.

  I don’t know why the popular phrase is truth or consequences, when it’s really more like lies and repercussions.

  While I was working on my letters, my cell started buzzing like crazy. We’re not supposed to use cell phones in school, but I’d broken so many rules this week, what was one more?

  I slipped my phone out of my pocket and snuck a peek at the screen. Auntie
Buzz.

  She sent seven rapid-fire texts, because Buzz required 917 characters to make her point, with lots of ALL CAPS and tons of exclamation points!!!!!!!

  Buzz was in a communicative mood for someone who was SO MAD AT ME SHE COULDN’T SPEAK!!

  The bank had called to ask her to sign some paperwork authorizing the direct-withdrawal program I’d set up with the tax lady. At first Auntie Buzz didn’t know what they were talking about, but now she did and, “Mister, am I FURIOUS!! WHO do U think U R 2 MEDDLE w/ my financial affairs + VIOLATE my PRIVACY that way and does UR MOTHER kno she’s raised such a SNEAKY person?!”

  I texted Auntie Buzz a message that took fifteen screens because I needed 1,974 characters to explain what I’d done, that I was only trying to help and that I’d fixed everything for her. I apologized for the MENTAL AGONY (her words) that I’d put her through and expressed my remorse that she was BESIDE HERSELF.

  I was three letters into my other apologies before Buzz got back to me.

  “U R out of a part-time job 4EVER. And I don’t want 2 C U 4 15 years. Or until Sunday dinner. But don’t expect me 2 sit next 2 U or pass U the rolls. EVER!!! Maybe UR only fired 4 a week. I’ll have 2 THINK about THAT!!!!”

  I felt bad, but there was a little part of me that smiled, because I could tell she was getting a real kick out of this.

  I hoped everyone else would find the same kind of satisfaction in yelling at me and then everything could eventually go back to normal. I was realistic enough to accept that everyone was going to be angry at me for a while, though, no matter how amazingly I apologized.

  I sat there writing letters all morning, and I was exhausted by lunchtime. The simple truth is far from simple.

  But I was starting to feel better than I had all week.

  12. A GOOD LIE DEMANDS SUBSTANTIAL AMENDS

  After the longest morning of my life, I printed out all the letters I’d written, signed them and started delivering them face to face, like a man, like a soldier.

  Katie took the letter from me in the hall as if she would have preferred I’d handed her a steaming pile of fresh horse manure. But she dropped it into her backpack, not the trash, and I took that as a positive sign. I could only hope she’d read it during her 12.5 minutes a day of downtime, even if she couldn’t resist editing it before returning it to me for corrections and a clean second draft.

  Mr. Crosby was at his desk. He looked surprised to see me. He read my note, glanced up and said one word. One letter. “F.”

  I nodded and left. For the first time I could think of, more talking wouldn’t help.

  I have to admit that I was relieved that Señora Lucia, Mrs. Steck, Coach Gifford and Mr. Meyers weren’t around when I went looking for them.

  But at least I tried to find them. I didn’t have time to search all over school; I had to keep plugging along on the Kevin Spencer Apology Tour. And although I wanted to be brave and manly and all those good soldierly things, I was happy to slip their notes into their mailboxes; I didn’t particularly want to face another four failing grades on a Friday. Monday would be soon enough. Only a fool rushes bad news.

  I had a plan B. Win back respect and trust. But now was not the time for it. Plan A, A-for-Apologies, this week. Plan B next week.

  JonPaul took my letter when I found him near his locker, but as I turned to walk away, he said quietly, “I gave your concert ticket to Greggie.”

  I’d expected as much. But inside I screamed: Nooooooooooo!

  I stood outside the girls’ restroom and waited for Connie to come out. I handed her my note and said, “As you read this, just remember that I am great at oral presentations.” I walked away fast.

  I’d heard once that the best apologies don’t make a bad situation worse by further hurting the person you’re apologizing to, so I hadn’t admitted to Connie that I’d used her to try to get to know Tina; that would be cold. I wrote that I’d been trying to get out of classes and had maybe fudged a little on how genuinely excited I was about student government, but she could totally count on me for the debate, and the left is my good side on camera. Maybe a joke could lighten the mood.

  It was difficult to write the apologies. But the hardest part was going to be waiting to see if they’d be accepted. A person can’t hurry forgiveness.

  The play director, the wrestling coach and the newspaper editor weren’t even aware that I’d screwed them over, but I’d written to them anyway.

  I found the drama teacher, whose name I didn’t know, sitting in the lotus position in the middle of the stage. I set my backpack down in the wings, kicked off my shoes, padded over and sat on the floor next to her. It took me a few minutes to get both my feet on top of the opposite thighs, but I managed.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt when you’re … meditating,” I said quietly and, I hoped, peacefully so that I wouldn’t ruin her calm mood, “but I want to volunteer to work on the musical.”

  She didn’t answer or open her eyes, but she’d stopped humming, so I knew she was listening.

  “I’m going to leave you this letter I wrote.” I set it on one of her open palms as it rested on top of her knee. “I’ll do whatever you need—manage props, work the lights, sweep the stage. My email address is in the letter. Uh, namaste.”

  Next I dashed to the assistant gym teacher’s office. He’s also the wrestling coach.

  “Speak,” Mini-Coach growled at me from his desk, where he was doing paperwork. He didn’t even turn around.

  “Yeah, uh, hi, you don’t know me, but, uh, I’d like to be the student manager of the wrestling team.”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “So I’m just gonna leave this letter I wrote here on the chair. You can get in touch with me when you’re not so busy.”

  “Unh.” He waved a hand.

  “Good talk. You take care now.” I backed out of his office. I don’t know how JonPaul does all those sports if this is how coaches communicate.

  When I got to the newspaper office, a staff meeting was in progress. I slid to the back of the room and pretended I belonged. Not very well, though.

  “You.” I looked up to see the editor pointing at me. “Who are you, what do you want, when did you decide to turn up, where did you come from, and why are you late?”

  “I’d like to work for the newspaper. I’ll write copy or deliver the papers to classes or clean the newsroom or change ink cartridges in the printers. I have some writing samples here for you.” I handed him some of my research papers and short stories, which I’d printed out at the library.

  By the end of the school day on Friday, I was pretty happy that I hadn’t found the ideal moment to speak to Tina all week. One less person to apologize to. And at the rate I’d been going, I’d have messed things up with her and lost the chance to make her see that I was her perfect guy. When the air had cleared from my disaster, I’d focus on making her know all the wonderful things about me.

  While trying to make sure she never heard a single thing about this week, that is.

  13. A GOOD LIE HURTS A LITTLE LESS WHEN IT'S OUT IN THE OPEN

  I finally staggered home from a truly craptastic day. I wanted to crawl under my bed with my old stuffed bunny. Maybe take up thumb-sucking, too, because I was going to need some more coping skills. I knew I’d have to face my family sooner or later, but I was beat and hoped I’d have just one more night of closed doors and silence. I’d talk to them in the morning. I had a flash that Auntie Buzz had been showing some solid thinking when she came up with her “I’ll deal with it first thing on Monday.”

  But Mom and Dad and Sarah and Daniel were waiting for me when I walked through the door. They were standing in the living room, trying to be casual, as if we habitually stand around together in the same room and it’s nothing to be alarmed about.

  Mom looked like she’d been crying and Dad looked like he might have barfed, but at least they were next to each other.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” Mom said right away, and I c
ould tell that they’d been rehearsing because of how quickly and surely she spoke.

  “This was a blessing in disguise,” Dad continued, but from Mom’s glance at him, I saw that he had gone off-script and was improvising. Mom jumped back in.

  “We’re going to start seeing a marriage counselor and probably try some family therapy, too. It’s going to be a little weird for a while, but things will feel normal again pretty soon.”

  Dad took it from there. “I’m going to try to transfer to another division where I won’t travel, and if that doesn’t work out, I’ll look for a job where I’m not gone all the time. But your mother and I believe that everything is going to be fine with us.”

  I felt a flicker of hope. That quickly died with Dad’s next words.

  “Now—Kevin. We got some calls from your school,” he said. “We really need to talk about that. Buzz called too. I couldn’t understand a word because she was talking faster than normal and that’s really saying something, but she’s upset with you. And Daniel and Sarah have an interesting story about how they came to forfeit their car keys. And your mother and I need to remind you that you do not ask one parent permission when the other has already made the decision.”

  If life had a sound track—and sometimes I think that’s a great idea—those dunh dunh gavel sounds from that legal show would have sounded then. And if I’d been starting a band right that very minute and needed to give it a true-to-life name, it would be All Hell Raining Down on Kevin. Buket o’ Puke ’n Snot didn’t do the situation justice.

  “You certainly have been busy,” Mom said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s easier than you think to wreck a family,” I said.

  “You didn’t wreck anything.”

  My eyes stung and my throat closed, tight and burning. I took a few minutes to stare at the floor until I was sure I could speak without squeaking or choking.

  “I am so sorry for everything. I spent the whole day at school writing apologies to everyone, and”—I dropped my bulging backpack on the floor with a thunk—“I’ve got all the work I need to make up from this past week right here.”