Little Black Lies

by Tish Cohen

  His voice is husky as he holds out his wrist and says, “If you rub some of that perfume on me, I can tell my Scout leader I boned you.”

  “Little Man Hogan, you are disgusting.” I fill up my backpack and head for the door.

  I’m hit by a rush of wind the moment I step off the bus and onto the sidewalk. Blinking city grime from my eyes, I drop my chin and disappear behind two heavy blankets of hair, marching toward the safety of our building’s front door. The wind is making it difficult, swirling overgrown bangs into my mouth and across my eyes.

  Halfway across the sidewalk, still trying not to swallow my hair, I’m broadsided by a tangle of elbows, wheels, and handlebars and knocked down flat by a bicycle courier. The only thing stopping my skull from being mashed into the concrete is, of all things, my expectations-filled backpack.

  “Jesus Christ, kid, watch where you’re going!” Catlike, the bicycle courier springs to his feet and lifts his vehicle off my chest. His delivery bag has burst open and packages and envelopes lie strewn across the sidewalk as if there’s been an explosion. A few of his lighter deliveries take flight in the breeze and skitter along the sidewalk.

  “Sorry, I …” I wince as I try to sit up. My shoulder feels like it’s skinned, and I check my mother’s sweater for holes. Thankfully, it’s dusty but not shredded.

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed!” he spits.

  Just then, I feel someone lifting me to my feet from behind. He’s male, and from what I can see of him, navy-and-white-striped rugby shirt and gray shorts—plenty short enough to reveal mud smeared across the blond hairs of a well-muscled thigh—it’s pretty clear he goes to Anton High. Mortified, I scramble to get my feet beneath me and force myself to stand. Seriously, who wants to be picked off the ground by some guy from school? Too pathetic to fathom. Yet, some shameful part of me is swooning from the whole damsel-in-distress thing. I don’t know whether it’s that familiar trickle of musky cologne mixed with grass and sweat and mud that’s wafting through the air, or the proximity of that seriously sculpted thigh, but I’m feeling kind of heady.

  The moment I turn around, all swooning ends. This is no make-believe monarch, it’s the senior I felt up in the dressing room last Friday. Stitched on his rugby shirt is Leo. Not sure which one of us is more shocked, I snatch my backpack and hold it against my chest like a shield, mumbling, “Thanks.”

  Leo looks sickened to discover I’m the damsel he peeled off the sidewalk. One big waste of princely valor, he’s thinking, I can read it on his face. “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine.” I turn away. “Seriously.” He’s less than three feet from the entrance to my building. Behind him, through the door, I can see the illiterate NO PET sign. Silently, I beg him to leave so I can be swallowed up by my foyer. There’s no way on earth I can walk into that lobby in front of this guy.

  “My bike’s all messed up,” rants the courier, glaring at me. “Look at the handlebars.”

  Leo scoops up the runaway packages, which the courier doesn’t appear to care about, and stuffs them into a Lightning Courier carrier bag. “Relax,” Leo says. “It was an accident. Anyway, shouldn’t you be riding on the road?”

  The courier snatches his sack and throws a Lycra-covered leg over his bike. He flashes me one final angry look before pedaling away. “Maybe your girlfriend should be on the road. On a leash.”

  I could die right here. Right now. If a lightning bolt would only strike anywhere on this sidewalk, I swear to God I’d wrap my body around it, stick out my tongue, and pray for the end. I wait for Leo to correct him as he pedals away. Shout, “She’s not my girlfriend, dude!” But he doesn’t. He holds up his middle finger and mutters, “Eff off, asshole.”

  Wow. Leo stood up for me. Flipped off the dragon. Maybe I misjudged him. I smile. “That was sweet. Thanks.”

  He reaches for my hand, examining the skinned heel of my palm. My skin tingles right down to my toes. Peering at me from beneath a fallen lock of sandy hair, he says, “You should clean this up. It could get infected.”

  I nod stupidly and he pulls a small zippered case from a bag. “I’m team captain in rugby,” he explains. “Coach Hudson’s favorite player gets to haul the first-aid kit to and from practice.” He squirts disinfectant on his finger and rubs it on my wound, then holds up a Band-Aid as a question. Again, I nod, watching his face as he presses it to my skin.

  In South America, army ants are actually used as sutures. Doctors squeeze the gaping wound shut and deposit ants along the gash. In defense, each ant grabs hold of the edges of skin with its mandibles, or jaws, and locks it into place. Doctors then slice off the head, leaving the mandibles in place to secure the cut until healed. I’m not saying I’d lop off this guy’s head, but if his squared-off jaw were to clamp down on my flesh, I’m pretty sure I’d heal in half the time.

  “I’m Leo Reiser. I’m a senior. You’re the new eleventh grader, aren’t you?” he asks. “The one from England?”

  If I stand here in the street and don’t correct him, does that make me a liar? Because what’s the alternative? Saying no, I’m the eleventh grader from L un don, the only town in North America that doesn’t track high-school graduates because the number would be too embarrassingly low?

  For the first time in my life, I thank my dad for never allowing me to have a Web presence. With no Facebook page, no MySpace account, Sara Black from Lundon, Massachusetts, is virtually untraceable. I shrug. “I’m the one.”

  A storm front rolls across his face as he stuffs the medical kit in his bag. “My neighbor’s British. He’s a prick.” Without so much as a backward glance, as if he’d never seen me or my bleeding palm, he spins around and strides away.

  I’m wrecked by his remark and I’m not even British. I trudge up the stairs of our building, trying to think up the perfect comeback that I’ll never use. As usual, I have nothing.

  I trudge up the stairs and see Carling’s dreadlocked chauffeur smoking a cigarette in his doorway, as if he’s chilling on his sleepy suburban veranda, drinking a refreshing iced tea and watching the world go by. As it is, his refreshment of choice is a cigarette, and all he has to look at is me. He acknowledges me by raising his eyebrows as I pass. I wave and continue upstairs.

  When I’m partway up, he calls out, “Hey, does your boyfriend drive that sky blue VW?”

  Is he kidding? I stop and peer down at him. “That’s not my boyfriend, it’s my dad.”

  He half laughs, half coughs. “Sorry. You never know these days. I’m Noah.”

  “Sara.”

  “Just let your dad know I used to have a van just like his and I miss it. If he needs someone to help out, hand him tools and all that, I’d love to have a look at that engine. I’ll knock on your door later and introduce myself to him.”

  I nod.

  Noah flicks ashes onto the landing and I continue up the stairs.

  I hate the sound of human lips sucking on cigarettes—legal or otherwise. My mother smoked incessantly. Like most smokers, she was addicted. I always suspected, given the choice between her own daughter and a pack of smokes, that she’d take the Benson & Hedges. Like most things in life, it was a case of simple mathematical probability that was proven when she boarded that plane at Logan International Airport with only one of us on board.

  She certainly chose other things over me. That night in early June, when the smell of toxic chicken had finally faded away—or annihilated my remaining nasal membranes—I lay in my bed, stomach rumbling, pretending to reread my current favorite book, What Every Girl (Except Me) Knows, about a girl who grows up without a mother—how was I to know what would follow?—under the covers, with a flashlight whose batteries were growing weaker by the page. It was way past midnight, and if Dad caught me, he’d be furious. Getting Dad riled up that late at night could have sent him into a maniacal cleaning fit—one that may or may not have involved me scrubbing right alongside him.

  It’s not that I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t let m
yself. I had my window open wide so I could hear Mom’s car the moment she pulled into the driveway. I thought she’d probably squeal with joy when she heard I was going to prom with Jeremy, and the sound would probably wake up Dad, but it would be worth it. Besides, Mom would stop him from pulling out the bleach and the mop.

  Her cell phone had been off all night, but one more try couldn’t hurt. Peeking out to make sure my door was fully closed—it was—I slid the phone under the covers and dialed her number one last time. Like the last zillion times, it rang. Unlike the last zillion times, she picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom? Why are you whispering?”

  I heard scratchy shuffling sounds. A man’s voice. “I’m at work, Sarie. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I just have amazing news!”

  “Really? What?”

  “You know that guy I’ve been talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to believe it! Today he—”

  “Wait a second, honey.” More shuffling, then, “I’ll be right back.” In the background, I could barely make out the sound of water running.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m here.” The sound of an annoyingly long drag on a cigarette. “Can we talk in the morning, Sara?”

  I lifted the sheet off my face just enough to see the clock. 1:40 a.m. “It is morning.”

  She let out a sigh, as if talking to me was the last thing on earth she felt like doing. “We’re cleaning up from a party here. Believe me, I’d rather be in bed. Can this wait? I’d like to be able to really focus on you.”

  The flashlight faded to black and all I could see was the glow of the streetlamp out front. The light hit the wall above my desk, nowhere else, making the room look totally empty. “Doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”

  Now, sitting at my desk in my new room, still wrapped in my green cardigan, I pull out my mother’s cigarettes and light one, setting it on the windowsill so I can watch the smoke curl up toward the ceiling and disappear. The phone rings. Mandy. “Hey, you,” I say.

  “Ass in chair.”

  “What does sitting have to do with anything? I’ve never gotten that.”

  “Just do it.”

  “Done.”

  “I can’t come this weekend.”

  “No! Don’t do this to me. I’m desperate to see you.”

  “Eddie’s family invited me to dinner. It’s like they’re sizing me up or something.”

  “You’re a junior in high school. They’re not sizing you up.”

  “He’s almost twenty and the Wilcoxes reproduce early and reproduce big. Believe me, that mother of his wants a good look at my childbearing hips.”

  “She better look hard. You have no hips.”

  “I’m sorry. I can come next weekend instead.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I can’t wait to go hang out at a big-city mall.”

  “There isn’t really a mall near me. More like all these little shops.”

  “Then we’ll hang out by the school and tease the smart boys. It’ll make Eddie totally jealous. I just streaked my hair with pink stripes and I’m going to bring my tightest jeans.”

  I seriously doubt the new pink stripes in Mandy’s overly bleached blonde spikes are going to be a hit with the male Ants. “Kids don’t really hang out on street corners like they do in Lundon. It’s different here.”

  “Then what do they do for fun?”

  I don’t know. I haven’t had any yet. The prospect of Mandy coming in a week and a half should thrill me. It really should.

  “Sara?”

  Just then I smell smoke. The cigarette has rolled off the windowsill onto the carpet, and a fiery hole is spreading next to my desk. “Gotta go.” I snatch up the burning cigarette and stomp on the smoking carpet with the sturdy sole of my black shoe.

  Two bedroom fires in a week. I don’t even recognize my life anymore.

  chapter 12

  the crowned princess of calculus

  The following Monday, I plop down behind Carling in math class. Just as I do, she crosses her legs and I can see the edge of her underwear. They definitely aren’t Sunday’s; this pair is blue. And I’d bet my mother’s sweater they aren’t Friday’s, since today is Friday and conforming doesn’t seem to be Carling Burnack’s thing.

  Is it pathetic to admit how badly I want to know what day of the week she’s chosen today? It’s not that I’m pervy. I’m just still baffled by the Sunday-on-Tuesday incident and want to know if she has a system or if her choice is random. Because I would totally have a system.

  As I dig for a pen at the bottom of my backpack, there’s a commotion to my left. A bunch of kids are huddled over Griff, who is holding up his iPhone for all to see. If I lean forward, I can peek past his shoulder to get a glimpse of Poppy’s video for film class, which Griff took the liberty of secretly filming with his phone. I move close enough to see the tiny screen—it’s a long shot of a female Ant from behind. She’s in uniform, walking around the Store to the ominous music from the movie Jaws. Her face is never fully visible, but it’s pretty obvious from the floaty hair and skinny calves that it’s Isabella, and she’s uncharacteristically feeding from a bag of Doritos.

  Isabella stuffs a handful of chips in her mouth and the camera zooms in to catch her chewing. The kids in class roar with laughter when the word Reduce flashes on the screen and fades.

  “Izzers, I’ve never actually seen you eat,” squeals Carling.

  “Give me that!” Pouting, Isabella grabs for the phone but Griff pulls it away, laughing.

  “You’ve got some wicked appetite.” Griff grins wide and I wonder if he has all his adult teeth yet. He wipes his dripping nose with his sleeve. “It’s making me hot.”

  “Shut up, you sicko perv. You’re a miniature freak of nature.”

  Poppy walks into the room, sees what’s going on, and right away her face crumples. “That film’s copyrighted, Hogan! You can’t just air my work.”

  “I’m so gonna be your manager one day,” he says.

  Isabella says, “You aren’t allowed to just film me without my permission, Poppy! That’s not even legal.”

  Someone says, “Like that’s ever stopped her.”

  Poppy drops into the seat beside me, her breath coming in torrid little puffs. “Mr. Curtis is going to confiscate your phone if he sees it.”

  Sloane asks, “What day was this filmed, Izz? And why didn’t you share?”

  Video Isabella continues, picking up textbooks with greasy orange fingers. Everyone groans, deliciously disgusted, when Isabella turns to see if anyone is watching, then wipes her oily digits on the arm of a white shirt hanging on a rack. Seconds later, an unknowing younger girl takes the shirt, holds it up, and admires herself in a mirror. She doesn’t notice the orange streaks on the sleeve. The word Reuse pops up. Fades.

  “That’s Griff’s big sister!” says a guy. “She’s tainted now.”

  “Come on,” says Sloane. “She lives with Griff. You think she’s not tainted already?”

  “Izz, this is so gross!” Carling says, laughing so hard she can barely get the words out.

  “I’m going to get you, Poppy,” says Isabella.

  Poppy squints at her. “Yeah? I have twenty-five witnesses.”

  After stuffing a few more chips in her mouth, video Isabella mashes up the bag and drops it on the floor in front of the dressing rooms. The camera pans down, zooms in on the crumpled bag. The word Recycle flashes for a moment before the screen goes black.

  Kids crumple over their laps, hysterical with laughter, while Isabella pouts. She swats at her friends, jutting out her lower jaw. It’s fairly clear, however, she doesn’t mind being the center of attention.

  Willa, her hair in its usual slick black ponytail, leans over Griff. “Wait, rewind a bit.”

  Griff fiddles with his phone. “What Patel Hotels wants, Patel Hotels gets. Isn’t that your family motto?”

  “Just to where Isa
bella inhales that last fistful,” Willa says with a giggle. “Before she drops the bag.”

  “Ugh, once was enough,” says Carling. “I’ll retch if I see it again.”

  Isabella looks crushed by the rebuff.

  “No, it’s the background,” says Willa. “I saw a flash of something in the dressing rooms behind her.”

  I can no longer see the phone—too many kids have swarmed it—but I hear the Jaws music again. Whatever. I flip open my binder and write today’s date across the top. Then Willa shouts, “There. See? It’s Leo Reiser and …”

  The class goes silent and, to my horror, everyone turns to stare at me, mouths agape. Carling is the worst. She’s so angry she crackles.

  Griff shoves his phone close enough for me to see the frozen image on the small screen. I nearly inhale my tongue. There I am entering a dressing room in the yoga pants. In front of me is Leo’s bare chest, his scars too tiny to register on the phone screen. “So Poppy does porn after all,” Griff says with a whistle.

  “Any particular reason you were in a dressing room with Carling Burnack’s boyfriend, London?” asks Isabella.

  Heart pounding, I stammer, “It—it was an accident. I was half asleep. I stumbled into the wrong room while he was changing.”

  “Yeah, right,” someone mumbles.

  Sloane, to my surprise, says, “Chill, people. It’s obvious nothing happened.”

  “It didn’t, I swear.” After shooting a grateful look at Sloane, I look at Carling. “Didn’t he tell you about the spazz who walked into his chest? The one who got hit by a bicycle courier the next week?”

  Carling looks me over like I’m no better than the crinkled-up Doritos bag left on the floor. She is silent for a moment, then says, smiling, “I guess he didn’t think you were worth mentioning.”

  I guess he didn’t.

  “By the way, those yoga pants looked good on you.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and tilts her head. “Did you buy them?”