Even When You Lie to Me (4 page)

He wasn’t flirting back, but he didn’t look put off either. “Luckily for you, Lila, that’s what I wanted to talk about today. But let’s ascertain what everyone else’s choices are first.” He turned to me. “Chuck?”

The class laughed again, and again I wasn’t sure whether they were laughing at me or with him. The knot on my head throbbed. “Um…can you skip me?” I said. “I need a minute to think.”

He nodded and turned to Asha.

Lila passed me a note.
Asshole but I kind of like him,
she’d scrawled in large looping letters.

I scowled at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. More kids gave him their favorites:
Harry Potter, 1984, Superfudge, The Shining, A Scanner Darkly, The Da Vinci Code,
and three votes for
The Catcher in the Rye.
I hated
The Catcher in the Rye.

Finally it was back to me. Mr. Drummond nodded again.

I still couldn’t think of anything. “Um…
The Brothers Karamazov
?” I blurted it out. I’d never read it. I knew it was famous, and I’d always had a hazy idea it was about acrobats in turn-of-the-century Russia. I’d only ever seen it on my parents’ bookshelf, its spine cracked like the bark of an old tree, looking foreign and imposing.

“Really?” Mr. Drummond said. He looked unconvinced. “That’s a tough one.”

“Mm,” I said vaguely.

“Did you read it for class or for…pleasure?”

“Uh, over the summer. I thought we might cover it in class, so I wanted to be prepared.”

“I admire your initiative.” He paused and I prayed he would move on. Instead he crossed his arms and tilted his head at me. “Which part was your favorite?”

I cleared my throat. “The part in…Russia.”

He tried not to laugh; he brought his fist to his mouth and pretended to cough, but he was smiling underneath his fingers. I’d embarrassed myself already. If he hadn’t thought I was dumb before, he certainly did now. I looked down at my notebook.

“I can’t argue with that,” he said finally. “Okay, guys, I guess at this point I have to reveal my favorite book. It’s the one we’re going to be reading first this year. I realize that’s not very democratic of me, but it’s one of the only benefits of being a teacher besides the incredible pay: I can force you to read stuff I like.”

He held up the book—
Catch-22.
The class was quiet. “No takers?” he said. “Silence. All right. Well, let me tell you why this is my favorite book and why I’ve forced you to admit that you’ve never read anything better than
The Cat in the Hat
—or maybe just that your reading skills haven’t improved since you did.”

Lila’s mouth dropped open and she slapped her hands on the table in indignation. I winced; this was exactly the kind of attention she wanted. Mr. Drummond glanced at her sideways as the class started to vibrate with shocked laughter, but fortunately he continued before she could say anything.

“I first read this book when I was a senior in high school like you guys, back when people marked time by pointing at the sun and grunting. Before that I’d enjoyed books, but I’d never felt understood the way I did when I read this one. It was like someone I’d never met knew me and was saying something about the world I thought only I had noticed. I hope you connect with it too, but if you don’t, don’t worry, because I also want you each to choose one of the books that someone else mentioned as a favorite. Yes, including
Superfudge
”—he frowned at Frank—“and
The Brothers Karamazov
”—he shook his head at me—“and even, God help me,
The Da Vinci Code.
” He looked at Sean, who shrugged.

“Two books at once?” Katie said incredulously.

“You can read someone else’s favorite book at any point during the semester. I hope that’ll encourage you to read some of the longer books, but if you all want to read
The Cat in the Hat
and write an excellent ten-page paper on it”—he waited a beat as we groaned—“then I won’t stop you.”

He put the book down on his desk and folded his arms. “Every book is an argument. What I’m asking you guys to do is to respond to that argument. Liking a book or disliking it is a good starting point, but it’s not enough. I want you to learn how to make your own arguments. I want to hear your voice. I want you to tell your own stories.” He looked at me. “So good luck with Dostoyevsky, everyone.”

“His name’s Tom,” Lila said when I answered my phone that night.

I paused. “Who is this?”

“Charlie! That joke does not get funnier on the thirtieth outing.”

I scratched the spot between Frida’s eyes that she loved the most. “You do know comedy,” I said. “Is it just Weird Al’s greatest hits that you’ve paid actual money for, or his complete works?”

“ ‘Eat It’ is a classic—you know what, I’m not even going into this with you again. So I found out. Drummond’s first name is Tom. Or Thomas, I guess, but the secretary called him
Tom.
” She said this in a way that implied the secretary had a crush on him.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Well, it’s good his name isn’t Marvin or something, I guess.”

“Marv,” Lila said. “Or Ralph.”

“So why were you so interested in this information that you sought it from the administrative staff?”

“You’re
not
interested?” she said.

I waited to see if she’d elaborate, but she didn’t. “Not particularly. I mean, I wasn’t wondering.”

“Even though he was flirting with you in class?”

“He was not! He was making fun of me.”

“No, he wasn’t,
Chuck.
He liked you.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. What was he implying with that nickname?”

“He was implying that he thought you were funny, you dork.”

“He thought
you
were funny. If he likes anyone, it’s you.”

“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t know why but I do kind of like him. It’s not like he’s hot, plus he clearly thinks he’s the cool teacher. And he’s kind of a jerk. I couldn’t believe he called me out like that.”

“You wanted him to! You were asking for it.”

“I was not! I just wanted to see what he was going to be like as a teacher.”

I sighed; arguing with her was pointless. “Okay, so you have a disgusting and shameful crush on a teacher. Why do you think
I
do?”

“When have you
not
crushed on a teacher? I thought he’d be right up your alley. He talked for like twenty minutes about how much he loves
Catch-22.
I thought you’d have a book boner for him, at least.”

She was right, as much as I hated to admit it. I’d had crushes on teachers since the sixth grade. And English teachers were the worst—they liked books as much as I did, and I always got As in their classes. But the crushes were fleeting things, moments of gratefulness for the kindness and attention they showed me.

“Well, I don’t,” I said. “He was mean to me from the minute we walked in.”

“Will you listen to me? He was teasing you because he liked you!”

“Great, so he’s a perv.” I knew my joke was more about the idea of a grown man lusting after a teenager. I didn’t have to worry about teachers getting ideas; it wouldn’t cross their minds to consider me.

“I’m not saying he’s a perv. But he did nearly crack up when you lied about reading
The Brothers Karamazov.
Bold choice, by the way.”

“God, I don’t know why I did that. I panicked. It was the only book I could remember. Like literally out of all books.”

Lila snorted. “I picked
The Cat in the Hat.
At least yours had chapters.”

“I wouldn’t call it your proudest moment,” I said.

“The worst part is that I can’t read it, since I picked it. Maybe I’ll go for
Superfudge.
” She sighed. “Oh, I forgot to tell you about PE. You didn’t have it today, did you?”

“Nope.” We only had it three days a week, and I’d gotten a study hall on the other two days.

“Well,” she said, “bring a pillow.”

If there was a class I hated more than math, it was gym. It baffled me that people actually chased after the ball as if they wanted to catch it instead of nonchalantly stepping back when play got too close, or, if pressed, loping after it halfheartedly until someone else got to it first.

Our gym teacher, Mrs. Deloit, surveyed us with the tired, watery eyes of a woman who had supervised far too many sessions of listless square dancing. “We’ve got a new activity this year, girls,” she said. “This semester you’ll be able to take yoga. There are only twenty places, but the boys won’t be joining us.”

The other activities were basketball and soccer. I knew yoga was probably what Lila had been warning me about, but I couldn’t pass up an activity that didn’t involve either boys or sweating. Once we’d all chosen, Mrs. Deloit said, “All right, lap first, and then the girls who are taking yoga can come with me.”

We headed outside, where the boys were already trudging around the far end of the track. I started jogging with the others, moving somewhat faster than usual so the guys who finished first wouldn’t be standing there watching my breasts parabola as I ran. As I neared the end of the track, I noticed with a jolt that Mike from the pool was standing near the back of the group of boys. He saw me looking at him. He hesitated for a minute, and then he started to move toward me. I froze, but a boy clapped his shoulder and he turned away, distracted.

I looked around to see whether I could find anyone to talk to who would make me look a little less desperate. I didn’t want Mike reporting to Austin how vulnerable I was without Lila. I noticed Dev and Asha from my English class talking to each other, but once everyone finished their lap and the boys left, Asha was alone too. I’d only ever said hi to her, though, and the thought of starting a conversation just for it to stall out was enough to keep me away. Why would she want to talk to me anyway?

Once we were back inside, Mrs. Deloit said, “All right, ladies. Everyone go get a mat and then we’ll begin.” She sat down in a plastic chair and started the music. She already looked exhausted.

I could see why Lila had warned me. The recording was some old relaxation guide, probably something Mrs. Deloit had found at a garage sale. There were wobbly panpipes on the sound track, and the instructor was vaguely British. A few girls exchanged smiles, and by the time we were doing a downward dog to the echoes of whale song, some had broken into cautious giggles. When it came time to relax our bodies and the instructor urged us to loosen our groins, a gale of laughter shot out. By that point Mrs. Deloit was half asleep.

I glanced at Asha, who was on the mat next to mine. She gestured at Mrs. Deloit’s drooping eyelids. That small invitation was enough. I nodded and whispered, “She must have really relaxed her groin.”

Asha’s eyes widened. “I hope not too much or this room’s going to smell even worse than it already does.”

I laughed, surprised that she’d made a joke. She hadn’t spoken much in class the day before, and I had assumed she was shy.

The music finished and there was silence for a moment. I realized a couple of girls were breathing heavily. It took another minute for Mrs. Deloit’s head to bob up. Asha and I snickered.

“Okay, girls,” she said, blinking slowly. “That was very relaxing, wasn’t it? I see a few of you were as relaxed as I was. Let’s head back.”

I deliberately avoided walking to the changing rooms with Asha. The sudden pressure of having to talk to her stopped up my thoughts, and it was easier to avoid conversation entirely. But when I started toward Mr. Drummond’s classroom, she appeared out of nowhere in the hallway.

“My mom would not have called that yoga,” she said.

“I don’t think most people would have,” I said. I smiled at her tentatively.

She was silent for a few steps, and then she said, “Mr. Drummond is interesting.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that seems to be the general opinion.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Don’t really know him well enough yet,” I said. “But hopefully he’s a step up from Mr. Mickler.” Mr. Mickler had been known as the English department’s tenure jockey until he’d retired the year before.

“Oh, him,” she said. “Dev heard that last year he made them watch movies while he napped.”

“And you’re sure he won’t come out of retirement?”

Asha laughed. “Not likely.”

Lila gave me a smug look when we walked into our classroom. I quickly waved goodbye to Asha as she headed to her seat. Lila glanced at her suspiciously.

“What now?” I said.

She looked back at me. “I’ve solved your dilemma. I accept Weird Al merchandise.”

I sat down next to her. “What’s your brilliant solution?”

“Drummond’s taking over the newspaper,” she said. “So you’ve got your
extracurricular.”

I glanced at him. This time he really was ignoring us, scribbling something in a notebook. “That involves a substantial amount of interaction with people. You know how I feel about people. All that talking.”

“You can be a columnist. Have strong opinions on things you know nothing about.” She pointed at me. “Don’t say it. I am not a writer.”

“So I have to do it alone?”

“Sorry. I actually would like to, but field hockey is every afternoon.”

I considered it as the class started discussing
Catch-22.
I’d been too overwhelmed on the first day of school to think about spending a minute longer than I had to in the building, so I hadn’t come up with any alternative ideas. Our school paper came out maybe twice a year. I’d never joined because it was mostly a stoner occupation—it was called
Truth Bomb
and it mainly contained rants about how overpriced the vending machines in our school were—but it did sound like the most painless option. I’d always liked writing, and it probably wouldn’t be too much work.

Mr. Drummond confirmed my suspicion at the end of class.

“Before we wrap up, guys,” he said, clapping his hands together as he stood up, “I just want to let you know that I’m reviving the school paper this year.”

“
Truth Bomb
?” Katie said.

“Indeed,” Mr. Drummond said.
“Truth…Bomb.”
He said it slowly, waiting for the laugh that he must have known he would get. “I heard it was defunct, so I found an old issue, which contained an article on whether we should allow cigarette smoking in school bathrooms. It will probably not come as a surprise to any of you that the author of the article was pro.”

“Was there a con article?” Frank asked.

“No,” Mr. Drummond said. “I guess they assumed the smell coming out of the bathrooms was argument enough.”

“So how do you feel about smoking in the toilets?” Dev asked.

“As an educator, I am of course against. As a fellow human being, at least open a window.” He lowered his head almost shyly as we laughed. “So I’m looking for volunteers. Three days a week after school for an hour. This will count toward a college credit, but of course the main benefit will be the fantastic education you will get at the feet of this communications minor.” He pointed at himself. “Who graduated from a school that did not offer a journalism degree. I assure you, though, that I am very pro crossword puzzle. So if you’re interested, let me know, and please also tell your literate or semiliterate friends about it. And if you know anything about newspaper layout software, I will pay you cash money to join.”

I lingered after the bell rang, and Lila nudged me as she left.

“Just get it over with,” she said. “Like a Band-Aid.
Right off.
”

Soon everyone was gone. I’d be late to lunch, but Lila would save me a seat.

Mr. Drummond noticed me after a moment. He put down the papers he’d been looking through. “What can I do for you, Charlie?” he asked.

“I thought I was Chuck now,” I said, and then felt my neck heat up.

“Sorry,” he said, “I just started calling you that without asking you first, didn’t I? Would you rather I called you Charlie? Or Charlotte?”

“No, no, Chuck is fine. Or Charlie. Or whatever.” I realized I did like it. It was the first nickname I’d had in a long time.

“Okay.” He leaned back in his chair slightly, making it creak. “So are you interested in journalism?”

“I’m interested in an
extracurricular,”
I said, and he smiled. “I mean, yes, I am interested in writing.”

“Great,” he said. “I was hoping you’d sign up, actually. Even if it’s only because you need an
extracurricular.
We could use bright kids like you on the paper.”

All I could hear was him saying I was bright. Any compliment from a teacher snagged in my head and looped there for hours. But how did he know? Had he looked at my report cards? It certainly wasn’t because of my performance in class. “I’m not actually— I am actually interested in writing. I don’t know why I said that about needing an
extracurricular.”

He spread his hands. “Doesn’t matter to me why you sign up as long as you sign up. I’m hoping it’ll be fun, though. I’d like to put out an issue every month, which I know sounds like a ridiculously low bar to clear, but when you’re starting from nothing it’s a lot of work just getting everything together.”

“I can imagine. So you have experience running a paper?”

“Yeah, some,” he said. “I was the editor of my college paper for two years. We’re not talking about the
Crimson
or anything, but we did a few good stories. Exposed a financial aid scandal. Traced the origins of the dining hall’s Tater Tots. The Tater Tots thing was actually much more disturbing.”

“If they were anything like the Tater Tots here, I can’t imagine the depths of malfeasance you exposed.”

He laughed. He had a nice laugh—low, almost private, as if he were laughing to himself. “Malfeasance. See? You’re a natural. I’ll put you on word search detail.”

“I’m just good at studying my vocab words,” I said. “So you’re keeping the name?”

“Are you suggesting that
Truth Bomb
is not a worthy name for a school paper?”

I laughed. “I don’t, uh…no?”

The bell rang.

“I should go,” I said. “Lila gives me shit—uh, crap, sorry—if I make her save me a seat at lunch.”

He waved at my apology dismissively. “Swearing is the last thing you have to apologize for in front of me. We’ll start meeting in a week or two, I think, but I’ll let you know more in class when I’ve gotten things organized.”

“Well, I can’t fucking wait,” I said, thinking for a moment that it would be funny. Then I lost my nerve and skittered out of the room, but all the way down the hall I could hear him laughing.