Liar

by Justine Larbalestier

  “What a way to die,” he says, shuddering. “I can’t even imagine.”

  I can. I know exactly what it would be like. I’ve torn creatures apart. I’ve watched them die. It’s mostly quick.

  “My uncle told me if they can prove it was the old man’s dogs, they’ll put them down and press charges against him.”

  “What charges?” I ask. “Murder?”

  Tayshawn shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. My uncle didn’t say.”

  “Didn’t they use to do that in the old days?” I say. “Set dogs on people? Could the old man have done that?”

  “But Zach’s white,” Tayshawn says.

  “Hispanic,” I says.

  “White Hispanic. He didn’t even speak Spanish. Plus it’s now.”

  Not to mention that dogs had nothing to do with Zach’s death. I sip at the no-longer-hot coffee. Lukewarm it’s not so good.

  There have been so many rumors. I’m not sure how I feel now that we have the official truth and dealing with Zach’s murderer has become my responsibility.

  AFTER

  The week after the funeral seems unending.

  Erin Moncaster brings a tiny bit of distraction from thinking about Zach and the white boy, about Tayshawn and Sarah. Erin’s certainly occupying everyone else’s thoughts. I think it’s because the idea of Zach being killed by dogs is too weird, too horrible for them to dwell on. So instead we hear about how Erin wept when her boyfriend was arrested, how she insisted that they were married and that they couldn’t take him away from her.

  They could, though. She’s only fourteen and her parents didn’t give permission, so the marriage isn’t real.

  Next I hear she’s pregnant. Then that she’s diseased. Or both.

  Everyone is talking about her. No one’s talking about me and Sarah and Tayshawn. No one knows that happened.

  When Zach’s name is mentioned, it’s followed by silence and then a change of subject. No one’s wondering who killed him because now we know. Except we don’t.

  I’m the only one who really knows. I’m the one who has to do something about it.

  I haven’t seen the white boy since after the funeral. I’m nervous, but not as nervous as if I’d seen him. Either way is bad. Friday after school I’m going upstate. I’m hoping the Greats will have answers for me. Instructions.

  I need someone to tell me what to do.

  Sarah, Tayshawn, and me don’t talk about what happened between us. I still want to kiss them, they show no signs of feeling the same way. I wonder if maybe they’re getting together when I’m not there. I work hard to keep that thought out of my head.

  My body is hollow.

  The end of rumors about Zach and his death brings another kind of relief. I was sick of people, like Chantal, who’d hardly known Zach, acting as if they’d been best friends. As if his death was her own personal tragedy. Now she’s forgotten all about Zach and is all gossip about Erin all the time. She’s newly best friends with Kayla so she can stay up on juicy Erin gossip. She shakes her head and tsks as she passes along each new scrap.

  Chantal’s a hypocrite and every bit as big a liar as I am.

  It makes me want to tear out her throat. How can anyone forget about Zach so easily?

  But at least he’s more mine now. Mine and Sarah’s and Tayshawn’s.

  Though it’s me who has to avenge him.

  LIE NUMBER FIVE

  I don’t have a brother. I made Jordan up.

  What did you think? That after having me, the wolf girl, my parents would risk a second child? A second freak? Two cages in the already overcrowded apartment? Even if the kid wasn’t wolfish how would you keep it from blabbing about its monster for a sister?

  Not likely, is it?

  Good-bye, Jordan. Imaginary or not, he sucked. Vile, sticky-fingered, foulmouthed, nasty, smelly brother.

  But you want to know why, don’t you?

  Why did I lie about having a brother?

  I wanted to see if I could do it: invent a person. Make them believable. Real. Whole. I wanted to see if you would buy it. And you did.

  You buy everything, don’t you?

  You make it too easy.

  BEFORE

  I found Zach high up a tree in the North Woods in Central Park, not near any of the paths. The tree had wide, thick branches and plenty of leaf cover. He did a good job of keeping still. I couldn’t hear or see him, but his scent gave him away. It was everywhere.

  The branches started a few feet above my head. Zach was using his height against me. He is—he was—over six foot four. I’m not. He could jump and touch the lowest branches. Not me.

  I prowled around the tree, quiet. I couldn’t feel the telltale prickles of someone looking at me. Zach was high up. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. It happened. He trained so hard, worked such long hours keeping up with homework that he was often coasting on two or three hours of sleep a day. I’d seen him fall asleep in classes, at lunch. Sometimes when we ran together he’d be close to falling asleep on his feet. If he’d gone for a ball scholarship he could’ve gotten the sleep he needed, but he wanted a full ride courtesy of his brains.

  Zach wasn’t crazy.

  He’d seen what a sports scholarship can do to you. He’d seen what happened to his brother. Shredded knees and back leaving him too crippled to even walk right. No pro career for him, but his grades were only so-so, and he’d never figured out anything else he wanted to do.

  Zach wanted options.

  The trunk wasn’t that wide. I spread my arms around it and slipped my shoes off, gripping with the soles of my feet. I was going to climb it like a coconut tree.

  It was harder than it looked, but I was strong and didn’t care about cutting up my hands and feet.

  “Hey, there,” Zach said, leaning down from halfway up the tree. I’d reached the first branch. “Want a hand?”

  “Nope.” I grabbed the branch over my head and hauled myself up to straddle it with my legs. Wolves might not be wild about climbing, but I like it fine.

  “Well done, shorty.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped my hands on my pants. “Told you I’d find you.”

  “You did. You are a superhero.” He climbed down to my level. “Strong and brave with magical tracking skills. I’ll never doubt you again.” He was grinning to undermine his words, but he meant them. “How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?” I asked, playing dumb. “Climb the tree?”

  He snorted. “Find me, stupid. The park’s I-don’t-know-how-big. Must be thousands of trees. You can’t have seen me from down there. It’s not possible . . .” He stopped, leaning in, looking at me closely.

  I could see the pores of his skin, tiny hairs, a few blackheads nestled against his nose.

  “You’re not like anyone else. What are you?”

  That could have been the moment. I could have told him. I almost had a few weeks before, but, well . . . we were distracted before I could get the words out.

  “There’s something, isn’t there?” Zach said.

  What would have happened if I’d told him? Would he have laughed?

  I ran my fingers over his cheek, over the light stubble.

  “Tell me, Micah.”

  Instead I leaned forward, kissed the tip of his nose, and then his mouth. We made out, tentative and cautious, because we were up a tree, and gravity isn’t kind.

  When we climbed down it was getting dark.

  “Run home with me?” he said. I did. More than a hundred blocks side by side, backpacks bouncing. We’d done it before. I figured we’d do it again.

  We didn’t.

  Outside his building we stopped. Zach wiped sweat from his forehead, his upper lip. We kissed again.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Will you tell me then?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed.

  It was the last time I ever saw him.

  AFTER

  Brandon ha
sn’t told on me; he avoids me. But he doesn’t avoid Erin. He harasses her whenever he can. Erin, who he never looked at twice and didn’t give a damn about before she ran away. Or after she ran away, for that matter, when we all thought she was dead like Zach.

  It’s only now that she’s back in school and her boyfriend is in jail in Florida that he’s giving her lots of quality Brandon attention. Because now she’s prey. She twitches, looks around, checks all possible exits. She’s always ready to run, to cower, to hide. She exudes the prey scent: fear.

  Brandon thinks because she’s prey, she’s easy. She’s someone he can take. He’s probably right.

  Lucky Erin.

  I want to prove him wrong. I don’t like to think of Brandon and me having anything in common. I’m the predator, not him. I can teach him that. I will teach him that.

  I wish dogs would take Brandon. I think about how I can arrange it. I can make him prey.

  Instead I make it a habit to be in Erin’s vicinity as much as I can. Brandon doesn’t say a word if I’m there. He can’t even look me in the eye.

  He’s scared of me.

  He should be.

  AFTER

  The week after the funeral I eat lunch with Sarah and Tayshawn most every day. We don’t talk about what I want us to talk about. We don’t talk about Zach or what happened to him either. I don’t tell them anything about the white boy or what I have to do.

  On Thursday after school we meet at Sarah’s place. Supposedly to study. I am hoping not.

  Her dad is working late and her mom’s away at some lawyer conference. Turns out Sarah lives a few blocks from my place, but her building is shiny and new. There’s a doorman. He sits behind marble and writes down my name and checks my school ID. I’ve never been in a doorman building before.

  He hands back the ID and tells me that Miss Washington is expecting me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Eighteenth floor,” he tells me, pointing to the bank of elevators.

  “What apartment number?” I ask.

  “Eighteenth floor,” he repeats. “That’s the number.”

  The elevator opens up to Tayshawn. We’re standing in a room that’s bigger than my kitchen. It’s lined with racks for shoes.

  “You have to take your shoes off,” Tayshawn tells me. He points to where his are already resting on a rack. “Pretty weird, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I slip off my sneakers and put them beside his, looking up at him, smiling. I’ve always liked Tayshawn; he’s the only one at the school who’s always been nice to me.

  Tayshawn holds his hand out to help me up. I take it and feel a jolt of intense longing.

  I kiss him lightly, my lips on his. I lean into it, easing onto my toes so our lips stay aligned. My mouth opens a little, so does his. We’re kissing for real.

  The feel of it is strong. I grab hold of him, grip his biceps to keep from falling.

  He pulls away but I don’t want to stop. He pushes me off. The heat is still on me, so intense my legs shake. I have to steel every muscle to keep from throwing myself at him again.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  We’re here at Sarah’s to study together. I’m not sure I can. I thought Tayshawn felt that way, too. He’s not shaking.

  “Wow, girl,” he says, showing me his palms. “Slow down.”

  I look away. There’s sweat on my upper lip. I don’t know what to say. Zach would have responded. Zach would have exploded with me.

  “This way,” Tayshawn says, opening the door, careful not to touch me.

  It’s the biggest apartment I’ve ever seen. We’re standing in a living room that’s as big as an entire floor of my building. Everything is clean and shiny. The couches are made out of real leather. A television takes up a whole wall.

  I walk toward the glass walls that look down on Astor Place. Beyond I can see both the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. To my right, I can see all the way to Brooklyn.

  Tayshawn mock punches me, and even that light touch of knuckles on my bare shoulder is enough . . . I cough. He looks down at his hand, as if he didn’t know what he was doing.

  “You’re staring,” he says at last. “You never seen a rich person’s place before?”

  “Nope,” I say. “I thought Zach’s place was big.”

  Tayshawn laughs.

  He thinks I’m joking.

  “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Here,” she says, from behind us. “Welcome.”

  She sounds like a hostess at a party. Or at least how I imagine one would sound. She looks like one, too, even barefoot. Her pretty black curls spill down her back.

  I knew Sarah was better off than me. I didn’t realize just how much.

  I am looking at her mouth. I am thinking about kissing her.

  “You bring your books?” she asks. I tap my backpack. We’re there to study bio. It’s the only class Sarah isn’t acing.

  She leads the way into her bedroom. The room is huge and has a view of the Woolworth Building. With binoculars you could probably see the Statue of Liberty. There’s a teddy bear and a floppy giraffe on the bed. Compared to the acres of stuffed toys I was expecting it’s not too bad. The room’s painted blue and white, not pink.

  The door to the closet is open. It’s not a closet so much as another room. Outside of a department store it contains more clothes than I’ve ever seen before.

  She leads us into a room on the other side of the closet. Her study, I guess. There’s a desk, a couch, chairs, a stereo, and lots and lots and lots of books. I didn’t realize one person could own so many.

  Sarah’s bedroom is made up of three different rooms. My entire apartment is made up of four.

  “I know,” Sarah says. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

  She sits on the couch and crosses her legs. Her skirt rides up a little so that I can see her knees. They’re smooth, not ashy like mine. She probably bathes in milk or something. She makes me feel gangly, awkward, ugly. But I still want to kiss her. I wonder why either of them wanted to kiss me. If they do anymore.

  I’m pretty sure it’s because of Zach.

  “How rich are your parents?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t.

  “Not that rich,” she says. She shrugs. “I mean, they’re above average.”

  Neither me nor Tayshawn says anything.

  “Okay, a lot above average but I wouldn’t say rich, you know?”

  “Damn,” I say. “What did you think when you saw my place?”

  The walls of our apartment haven’t been repainted since before I was born, the paint flakes and chips off. We don’t have a living or dining room, the pipes clang so loudly in winter sometimes it’s hard to sleep, the hot water shuts off randomly, and water from the upstairs apartment’s bathroom seeps through the ceiling even though the super’s fixed it a hundred times.

  Sarah blushes. “I didn’t think anything. I mean, not that I thought nothing. I . . . your place is lovely. It’s—”

  “Shit,” I finish for her. “You don’t even have to compare it to this place to see that.”

  “It’s not my fault we’re rich,” Sarah says.

  “It’s not our fault we aren’t,” Tayshawn replies, mocking both of us. Though mostly Sarah, I think.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Though I’m not. “I didn’t realize.”

  “I’m still me,” Sarah says. “With or without money.”

  I doubt that, but I don’t tell her so. Her being rich makes understanding her easier. The way she acts, the way she talks, how she’s always dressed right—the dress she wore to the funeral was definitely not borrowed from her mother. She might be scared of some things, and girly and all, but there’s a certainty about her. She knows she’s going to college. She doesn’t need a scholarship or student loans. She doesn’t worry about any of that.

  She’s not a wolf either. She’s not going to wind up living the rest of her life on a crappy farm without electricity or hope. Suddenly I want to hurt her.

  �
�Can I use the bathroom?” I ask.

  She points to a door I hadn’t noticed. I close it behind me.

  Her bathroom is four times the size of my bedroom.

  HISTORY OF ME

  You’re wondering why I lie, aren’t you?

  The shrinks and counselors I’ve seen over the years have had a million theories, but they boil down to just two:

  1) Resentment.

  Of my brother. (Who I made up.)

  Of people with more money than me. (Which is almost everyone. Not just Sarah.)

  Of people with less hair than me. (When I was a hairy little girl. Before the change came.)

  Of people who are smarter than me. (Which doesn’t leave many to resent, does it?)

  2) Anger.

  At all of the above.

  Plus at my parents for loving my imaginary brother more than me. At my father for passing on the family illness. (And various other reasons only shrinks and counselors would come up with.)

  Also at all my teachers and all the students.

  Really, according to the shrinks, I am angry at everyone ever. Especially them.

  I am all anger and resentment all the time.

  Not one of them has ever suggested that maybe I lie because the world is better the way I tell it.

  AFTER

  When I come out of the bathroom Sarah is still sitting on the couch and Tayshawn is in a chair opposite her. As far away as he can manage.

  “Nice bathroom,” I say. I don’t know where to sit. The empty chair is too close to Tayshawn and I can’t sit on the couch next to Sarah. I don’t want them to think that I want us to do what we did after—during—the funeral. Even though that’s exactly what I want. I sit down on the floor. The carpet is soft as fur.

  “You don’t have to sit there,” Sarah says. She pats the couch next to her.

  “That’s okay,” I say. Neither of them is flushed or sweating. They don’t have the same fever I do. Is it because I’m a wolf and they’re human? Humans don’t rut whenever and wherever they want to. But we did before, in the cave in Inwood. What’s different now?

  Tayshawn coughs. “We all miss Zach,” he says.