Liar (36 page)

“Huh,” the boy says. “How soon will I be a wolf again?”

“In about a month. Give or take.”

“Why does it take so long?”

“Only happens once a month. They've all just changed back so you missed it.”

“Oh,” he says. I can't tell if he's disappointed. His voice is too flat.

“You have to wait,” I tell him.

“Can I see the horses?”

I lead him to the stables, wondering what to do. He's so young and stupid. So deprived. This is the biggest adventure of his life. He was excited about seeing a cow, and now about seeing horses. He's never been outside the city before. He's never seen or done anything.

My youngest cousin, Lilly, is mucking out one of the stalls with a spade that's almost bigger than she is. She's a wolf, but young. Her first change is a few years off yet. “This is Pete,” I tell her. “Want to introduce him to the horses?”

“Sure,” she says. “You're a wolf, too? I never met a wolf that wasn't a Wilkins before.”

I leave them to it, running back to the house as fast as I can. I'm going to talk the Greats out of killing him.

FAMILY HISTORY

I'd like to tell you I have good memories of Jordan. But it would be a lie. There's not a single one. Everything I told you about him, everything I described? All true.

He was a shit. A selfish, whiny brat. I will never understand why my parents loved him so much.

His death didn't change their love, didn't make them start to love me more.

No, they still celebrated every birthday with an elaborate cake shaped like a dinosaur, because he loved dinosaurs.

Except he didn't. By the time he was six he'd forgotten all about dinosaurs and moved on to pirates. By the time he died it was all about superheroes, especially Batman. If my parents love him so much, why can't they remember that?

One year they had a cake made in the shape of a soccer ball because he'd played soccer. But they'd forgotten that he only played it for half a year and he'd played it badly. Very badly.

There was always cake, whether we could afford it or not. I had to wish my dead brother happy birthday, eat his stupid cake, and pretend to like it.

The anniversary of his death is worse.

They don't wear black. Mom says it would make Jordan too sad. Like Jordan ever noticed what anyone wore. Instead they dress in bright, happy clothing. They make me do the same. Push me into one of Mom's summer dresses, which are too short and too loose on me. We eat his favorite food: hot dogs, which, at least, are cheap. Then we share our memories of beloved Jordan. Talk about how much we miss him. What we miss most.

I don't miss a single thing, so every year I make up something new. They watch me closely to make sure I mean it. But trust me, I don't lie as outrageously as they do. He did not sing like a bird, he could not play piano or speak French. There was nothing precocious or talented about him.

They love him more dead than they've ever loved me, even if I am the living child.

I know they wish it was the other way around.

AFTER

I go in through the back of the house. “Grandmother,” I say as I barge into the living room, “you can't kill him.”

“Can't kill who?” Grandmother says, dragging her gaze from the fireplace to me.

“Where are my parents?” I ask. They're not there. It's just Grandmother, Great-Aunt, and Hilliard curled up in front of the fire.

“Can't kill who?” Grandmother repeats her question.

“The boy. His life is miserable,” I say, standing between them and the fire. I pace as I talk. “He didn't know what he was doing when he killed Zach. He didn't even know he was a wolf. If it wasn't for me he wouldn't have changed. I did it to him when I forgot my pill. He's got no family. So no one's ever told him anything. He's a stupid, ignorant kid. You can keep him on the farm, can't you? Teach how to be a wolf? He won't kill anyone up here.”

“
Lupus non mordet lupum
,” Great-Aunt Dorothy says. She's smiling. She looks like a Hallmark grandmother. White hair in a bun, rosy cheeks. She doesn't have the evil witchy look of Grandmother, but she's just the same.

“I know,” I say. “You won't bite him—you'll put him down. But he's not a danger up here. Truly. He loves it here. I mean, he was excited about seeing horses. If you can believe that.”

“We don't kill other wolves,” Great-Aunt says. “We've never killed other wolves. Not unless they're rabid, or too sick, or the like.”

“Only when there's no other way,” Grandmother says.

“There's another way for the boy,” I say. “Just being up here will change him. He's never had any—”

“Stupid girl,” Grandmother interrupts. “We never said we were going to kill him. Because we're not going to kill him. We need him.”

“Wait,” I say, stopping mid-stride. “What?”

“He's breeding stock,” Great-Aunt says. “A new bloodline. A new
wolf
bloodline. He's gold, Micah. We won't be touching a hair on his head.”

“But you said that you'd kill him. You told me you would.”

“Didn't say that,” Grandmother says.

“Yes, you did!” I can't believe she's lying so brazenly about it. “I asked if you'd kill him and you said
yes
.”

“No, I didn't,” Grandmother says. “I'm craftier than that. I just moved my head a little. Coulda been yes, coulda been no. Never said word one 'bout killing the boy. Said we'd take care of him and that we will.”

“You
lied
to me.” I don't know why I'm surprised. Not like I haven't seen them lie before. But it was a
nod
. I saw it clearly. Just because she didn't open her mouth doesn't make it less of a lie. How could they lie to me? If I'd known all along I wouldn't have gone through hell trying to decide what to do. How could they mess with me like that?

But: they're not going to kill him. The white boy gets to live, gets to be a wolf. I'm so relieved I sink to the floor next to Hilliard. I pat his head. His fur is hot from the fire. He shifts, resting his snout on my knee. I scratch behind his ears.

“Supper soon,” Great-Aunt says. She gets up, heading for the kitchen.

“We said we'd make sure he never killed a human again,” Grandmother tells me. “He won't. Not livestock neither. We'll teach the boy well. Like we taught you and your cousins.”

“Do my parents know?” I ask, before remembering that they'd never known the Greats were going to kill him. I never repeated the Greats' lie. “Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Back to the city.”

I freeze, my hand on Hilliard's head. My parents left without me? They couldn't have. “Why?”

“You'll be living here now,” Grandmother says. “You'll be—”

I dash out the front of the house, down the steps to where the car was parked, but now there's only tire tracks in mud. I run down the road as fast as I can. The car's gone. I run until the house is out of sight behind me, and throw myself down on the ground, landing on mud and the mulch of fallen leaves.

My parents have left me here. They know I didn't kill Zach. I found the white boy. I proved it was him, not me. They still left me here.

This isn't about Zach. This is about Jordan.

My parents have destroyed my entire life. Without saying good-bye.

I howl. I weep and wail and scream. Throw mud and golden leaves in the air.

How could they?

HISTORY OF ME

I think maybe lying to you about Jordan was one lie too many. (Ten lies too many? A thousand?)

But there was a reason for it.

I wanted all that pain to go away. If I made you believe that he'd never existed, then maybe I could believe it, too. Forget about him. Forget how he died.

It would be easy. We never talk about him, you see. Except for his birthday and the anniversary of his death. But other than those two days it's like Jordan never existed.

I wish he never had. I wish I had invented him. I'd rather Pete was my brother than Jordan. Inventing Pete would be easier than inventing Jordan. He makes more sense.

Not that I invented Pete.

You know what I mean.

Making myself believe that Jordan was imaginary didn't work. I don't think I ever stood a chance. Even dead, he's there all the time. In the way my parents look at me. In the way they don't look at me. In the way they don't trust me.

Or love me.

It was an accident.

Why don't they believe that?

Why don't you?

AFTER

I must have fallen asleep. Up all night, and grief wearing me into exhaustion. I wake to the white boy patting my cheek. “Don't cry,” he's telling me. “Why are you crying?”

“Because they fucking left me.” I wipe my cheeks. I have cried in my sleep. I'm crying still. “Because Zach's dead,” I whisper.

“But it's good here.”

The boy's cross-legged in the mud beside me. It's dark but I can't tell if that's the dense tree coverage or because the sun has set. Either way it's late in the day and there's no electricity. Not that I care. My life is over. No city, no college, no future. I'll never see Sarah or Tayshawn again. I might as well be in prison.

If I go home will Mom and Dad take me in?

I don't think so. If I go back to the city I'll have no money, no shelter, no nothing. I'll be a street kid like Pete.

My parents have taken everything away.

“We can be happy here,” the boy says. He's patting the top of my head as if I was a dog.

“We?” I ask the boy, wishing my eyes would quit leaking.

“You and me. This is why I found you and you rescued me. This is the happy part. We belong here.”

He's not just stupid, he's insane. I belong here the way a homeless kid like him belongs at the Ritz-Carlton. Not at all.

“I like it here. I like the horses and the other animals. And your cousins. Even though they poke. But when they knock me down they help me back up. They don't hit as hard as you do. There's lots of food. I picked an apple off a tree. Not just one apple. Lots. Ate them, too.”