Liar Liar (5 page)

And then I heard a boy answer.

“But I saw him!” the boy said. “Really. I saw him.”

I let out a low gasp. I gripped the banister to keep from falling.

The boy …

The boy … had MY voice!

“I'm not making it up,” the boy said—in my voice. “I saw him, and he saw me.”

“It's late. We should be asleep,” Mom said. “Come on. Turn off the lights.”

“Why don't you believe me?” the boy demanded shrilly.

Gripping the banister, I realized my whole body was trembling.

How can he have my voice? Who is he? Why is Mom talking to him in the middle of the night?

I had to see what was going on. I took a step—and stumbled.

My bare foot slid over the wooden stair, and I started to fall, tumbling down step by step.

A painful thud with each step.

I landed hard on my elbows and knees. My heart pounding, I waited for the pain to stop. And listened for approaching footsteps, for cries of surprise from the kitchen.

Mom must have heard me thumping and bumping down the stairs.

Why didn't she come running to see who had fallen?

Silence in the kitchen now.

I picked myself up and straightened my pajamas. One knee throbbed with pain. I rubbed it carefully as I limped toward the kitchen.

“Who's down here?” I called. “Mom? Is that you?”

No reply.

The kitchen was dark. No lights on. Silvery moonlight poured in from the windows. No color in the room, only shades of gray.

I suddenly felt as if I were in a black-and-white movie.

“Mom? I heard you talking!” I called.

I made my way across the kitchen, running my hand along the counter. “Anyone in here?”

No.

I peered out at the backyard. Under the bright moonlight, the swimming pool shimmered, and the grass glowed like silver.

Unreal.

I turned away—and the kitchen lights flashed on. Blinking from the shock of the light, I saw Mom in the doorway.

“Ross? What are you doing down here?” she asked, holding a hand over her mouth and yawning loudly.

“I—I heard you talking,” I said.

She tightened the belt of her robe. “Me? It wasn't me. I was asleep.”

“No,” I said. “I heard voices. You were here in the kitchen, talking to a boy.”

Mom rubbed her eyes with both hands. “No. Really, Ross. Why are you down here?”

“I told you,” I said, clenching my fists. I banged one fist on the Formica counter. “Why don't you believe me?”

“Because I wasn't in here talking to anyone,” Mom said. “I was in my bed, sound asleep. Until I heard you wandering around.”

She yawned. “You must have been having a nightmare. Sometimes nightmares can seem very real.”

“I didn't dream it,” I insisted. “I know the difference between a nightmare and what's really happening.”

I could see she wasn't going to believe me. So I shrugged and followed her out of the kitchen, clicking off the lights as I left.

I didn't get back to sleep that night.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Listening for the voices downstairs. Waiting … listening for Mom and the boy with my voice.

I didn't know I would see the boy in a few hours.

I didn't know how dangerous he was.

I didn't know the terrifying trouble I was in.

Cindy stopped me after school Monday afternoon. I was kneeling down in front of my hall locker, lacing my new tennis sneakers. She stepped in front of me and stomped down hard on one of them.

“Hey!” I snapped angrily. “Why'd you do that?”

She shrugged. “Just felt like it.”

I tied the laces quickly, then spit on my fingers and tried to rub off the scuff mark she'd made. “If you're still angry at me about Max's party …”

“I've decided to be nice to you again,” she said.

“Nice? By stomping on my foot?”

She laughed. “That was just to be funny.” She raked her fingers through her straight black bangs. “Why did you leave the party so early Friday night? Afraid Sharma and I would toss you in the pool again?”

“You almost drowned me!” I grumbled.

“You deserved it,” Cindy replied. “So why did you leave in such a hurry, Ross?”

“Oh, I was worried about my little brother,” I said. “I don't like to leave him alone for long.”

Cindy stared hard at me. “Is that the truth?”

I slammed my locker shut. “Of course,” I said.

Cindy shifted her backpack on her shoulders. “Maybe you could come over to my house now. We could study for the government test together.”

I waved to some guys down the hall. “I can't,” I told Cindy. “I have tennis team practice.”

I glanced at the clock above the principal's office. “I'm already late.”

Cindy frowned at me. “Where's your tennis racket?”

I started jogging to the back doors. “Steve Franklin said he'd bring an extra one for me. I left mine at home this morning.”

“Where are you really going?” Cindy called after me. “Why don't you tell me the truth?”

“It's true!” I shouted. I trotted out of the school building and hurried across the playground to the tennis courts.

I heard the
thock thock thock
of rackets hitting tennis balls. Guys on the team were already warming up.

I searched the long row of courts for Steve Franklin. He had a bucket of balls and was hitting one after another, practicing his serve.

I started jogging over to him to get the racket he'd promised to bring. But Coach Melvin blocked my way. “Ross, you're ten minutes late. We really need you here on time. You missed the whole warm-up.”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said. “I … uh … had a really bad nosebleed.”

He squinted at my nose. “You okay now?”

I nodded.

“Well, go warm up. Practice your serves, okay? Take the court next to Steve.”

I took a basket of tennis balls and trotted over to Steve. He stopped serving and tossed me an old racket of his. “What's up, Ross?” he asked.

I swung the racket hard a few times to get the feel of it.

“I'm thinking of quitting the team,” I said. “I might go pro.”

Steve laughed. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Not a bad racket,” I said, twirling it in my palm. “Not a good racket. But not a bad racket.”

“You want to come over and practice some time this weekend?” Steve asked. “My dad built a new court in our backyard. It's clay. Very sweet.”

“Cool,” I said. I dragged the bucket of balls over to the next court and started practicing my serve. The first three flew into the net.

I turned and saw Coach Melvin frowning at me from the next court.

“Just testing the racket,” I called to him.

I served a few more. My arm felt stiff. I hadn't practiced in a while.

Down the long row of courts, guys were volleying back and forth. The afternoon sun suddenly appeared from behind a high cloud. The bright light swept over me.

I shielded my eyes with one hand—and saw him.

Squinting into the sunlight, I saw the boy—me!—my twin. He was six or seven courts down, at the far end.

He was volleying with Jared Harris. He was dressed in the same tennis whites I wore. His dark hair flew up as he ran to the net.

He looked just like me!

The racket fell out of my hand and bounced in front of me.

“Hey!” I shouted. I waved frantically.

He didn't hear me. He returned a serve from Jared, then ran to the corner to return Jared's shot.

“Hey—you!” I cried. “Wait!”

My heart pounded. I squinted hard, trying to block out the bright sunlight. Trying to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

No. It was me.

It was my exact double on that court.

And suddenly he turned—and saw me.

I saw his eyes go wide. I saw his expression change. He recognized me.

For a long moment we stared at each other down the long row of tennis courts.

And then his mouth formed the words … the same words they had formed underwater in Max's pool:
Go away.

Even from so far away, I could see the angry scowl on his face. Cold … his glare was so cold.

“GO AWAY!” he repeated.

“No!” I screamed. “No!”

I started to run, shouting and waving my arms wildly.

I got about two steps and tripped over the racket I had dropped.

The racket slid under my feet. I fell onto my stomach and bounced hard over the asphalt.

“Owww!”

Ignoring the pain, I scrambled to my feet. Lurched a few steps toward the far court—and stopped.

The boy—my twin—was gone. Vanished again.

I stared into the light. Jared had his back turned. He was leaning over, pulling a white headband out of a canvas bag.

He had missed the whole thing!

Finally Jared turned around. “Hey, Ross,” he called. “Are you going to play or not?”

I ran over to him. “Th-that wasn't me,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Excuse me? I thought we were playing a practice game.”

“It wasn't me,” I repeated shakily.

The guys in the next court had stopped playing. They were staring at me now.

I saw Coach Melvin jogging over from the other end of the courts.

“That boy—” I said to Jared. “Did he tell you his name or anything?”

Jared laughed. “I don't get the joke, Ross.”

“It—it wasn't me!” I cried shrilly.

Jared shook his head. “Well, he looked like you, and he talked like you, and he sounded just like you. And he played like you. So …”

“What's the problem, Ross?” Coach Melvin hurried up to us, gazing at me sternly. “What's happening?”

“Uh … nothing,” I said. “Really. Nothing.”

I felt dazed. Kind of dizzy.

The bright sunlight turned white … white … whiter. It flashed in my eyes.

What's going on? I wondered.

Who
is
that kid?

“Sharma—hey!” I saw her on the steps in front of school and ran over to her. “You stayed after?”

She nodded. “I had a makeup test in government. It wasn't too bad.”

“That means you aced it,” I said. Sharma is a total brain, but she doesn't like kids to say it. Her idea of a bad test score is anything below 110!

“Are you walking home?” I asked. “Can I walk with you?”

She nodded again. She pulled a bug or something off my tennis shirt. “How was tennis practice?”

“Totally weird,” I said. As we started to walk, I decided to tell her the whole story. I had to tell someone!

“This kid is my exact twin,” I told her. “But he keeps disappearing before I can talk to him. Today, he was at tennis practice, playing with Jared. But it wasn't the first time I saw him. I saw him in Max's pool Friday night. He was swimming right at me!”

Sharma laughed. “You make up the dumbest stories.”

“No. I'm serious!” I said. “He is my exact twin. In every way. He even wears the same clothes as me.”