Little Black Lies (13 page)

I have a test in pre-law coming up. It's mid-October now; I've been at Ant long enough to see this class is going to be my toughest. Law is nebulous, floaty, and gray, completely unlike the dependable sturdiness of math or science. There is a solid certainty to polynomials—they simply are what they are and always will be. But a law is never just a law. If you're in a fistfight and happen to knock over your opponent to the ground and he hits his head on a parking meter, you may or may not be charged with assault, depending upon how angry the guy rubbing his cranium might be. And if that person happens to have an eggshell for a skull and dies after the exact same scuffle, suddenly you're facing a manslaughter charge even though you could never have known the man was born to a chicken. It's called the Thin Skull rule.

All of which means tonight will be a caffeine-and-chocolate-fueled, flashlight-under-the-covers, pray-Dad-doesn't-wake-up, all-night cram session.

We've been studying
Vosburg v. Putney
, a case where an eleven-year-old kicked a fourteen-year-old in the shin at school. The older kid was recovering from a previous injury and, as a result of his miniature assailant's anger, lost the use of his leg permanently. No one could have predicted such a thing would happen, but the little boy was still held liable. The Thin Skull rule in action and good reason to keep your feet to yourself.

Speaking of keeping body parts to oneself, Carling, Sloane, Isabella, and I all have a spare second period, and my plans to study are torpedoed by Carling dragging me back to the groper-infested tides of the Petting Pool. At least, without the encumbrance of my lunch bag, I'll have both hands available to block the flesh-eaters.

As I follow them into the stairwell, my cell phone vibrates from the bottom of my backpack. I dig it out to see a jumble of numbers I don't recognize. Since the only two people in the world who know this phone number are Dad and Mandy, I figure Mandy must have a new phone. “Hey,” I say, shielding the phone from any teachers that might walk by.

“Sara? Sweetheart, it's Mom.”

I say nothing, just stop dead and reach for the handrail to steady myself. I haven't heard her say my name in months. I'd forgotten how smooth it sounds. How comforting. I think about hanging up.

“I've been desperate to talk to you,” she says. “Are you at school?”

“Yeah.”

“Darling, I miss you
so
much. How do you like it there? Have you made any friends?”

Carling and the girls have stopped at the landing and are waving me to hurry up. “Sort of.”

“That's wonderful. Sweetie, I love you so much. You know that, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to fly out here and visit.”

“I don't know. School's pretty tough.”

“I've been a little worried about your dad. Is he managing okay?”

No. He's a total mess and so am I. You need to come back right this minute and erase what you've done,
I don't say.
It might take away his need to pour bleach on the whole world. Might stop his downward spiral.
But somehow I can't give her the satisfaction of knowing she hurt us so badly we don't recognize ourselves anymore. “Yeah.”

“No return of his problem? No signs of scrubbing or checking things over and over?”

“Nope. Dad's fine.”

“Oh. I'm so relieved. I was going to ask Aunt Jodie to fly in from Chicago to check on you. Just to be sure you're not struggling—”

“Mom? I've got to go now. Talk to you later.”

“Wait, honey. What about—?”

I snap the phone shut. Then, when I'm certain the connection has been severed, I open the phone up, press a few buttons, and hit Block Caller.

The sofa is already layered with bodies, in some spots two students deep. Carling and Sloane are happy to fling themselves on top of the heap, and I settle myself on the leather arm beside Griff and Leo. I'm shaking after my mother's call and not sure it's a good idea to be within verbal striking range of Leo Reiser—you never know what will come out of his mouth—but I'm not willing to plunk myself down on a pile of squirming half strangers in the name of sexual enlightenment.

“That was brutal,” says Griff as we sit. “Curtis is such an A-hole with his pop quizzes.”

“Agreed,” says Sloane, kicking off her worn shoes and closing her eyes. “I totally bombed that one.”

Isabella looks at Carling and says, with a voice so thin and glassy it could shatter, “I think I did exceptionally well. How about you, Carling?”

Carling lets herself fall backward across Leo and Griff's laps. Then she grins at me. “Fantastic. Maybe even perfect.”

“I hope so,” says Sloane, picking her teeth. “Or Brice and Gracie will implode.”

Carling's skirt is hiked up high enough for me to see today's panties are yellow. I won't be able to tell unless she rolls over, but I'm guessing these are Saturday's. “True. It's Harvard med school or death for me.”

I can't stand this anymore. Carling loves law, she's the darling of our class. We did a mock trial the other day and not only did she win for our team, she made her points with such passion and humor. What judge, male or female, could resist her? This electricity that surrounds her isn't always channeled into crazy, I can see that now. When Carling Burnack feels good about herself, she's the most charming girl in the school. “I don't get it,” I say. “Why don't you tell your parents you want to be a lawyer?”

She's still for a moment, then says robotically, “Because law is for hiring. Medicine is for aspiring.”

Mrs. Pelletier heads down the stairs, eyeing the Petting Pool with mock reproof. Anything that might have been going on beneath the surface stops as she pauses on the landing and leans down to adjust Carling's errant skirt. “Are we keeping it clean here today?”

“Just a bunch of honor students swapping biological theories,” says Carling. “It's all very innocent.”

“Hmm,” she says with a sarcastic nod. She starts to walk away. “I rather doubt that. Just remember where you are, people. You wouldn't want to come to school next week and find your favorite sofa has been moved into the teachers' lounge. Because that can be arranged.”

“You're the coolest, Mrs. P,” calls Griff. “If only I were a few years older, I'd give your husband a reason to step up his game.”

She stops and looks back, dumbfounded that this randy suggestion came from Anton's famed wunderkind, then hurries off as if it never happened.

“I adore Mrs. Pelletier,” says Isabella.

“Forget her,” says Sloane. “If something doesn't change, Mr. Curtis is going to screw me for Yale.”

“Don't worry, princess.” Griff pulls a tissue from his pocket and stuffs a corner of it up his nose. “I'll screw you either way.”

Sloane stares at him. “Say it for me, Griff. I'm too tired.”

He pinches up his face.
“Griff, you're such a pig.”

“Got that right,” says Carling.

“Hey, you guys know anyone who might want to buy the Aston?” asks Leo. “I need the down payment to buy something that actually—I don't know—runs.”

Carling pokes him. “A down payment—are you kidding me? You think none of us saw that
Times
article about Reiser Industries last week?”

“Yeah, Reiser,” says Sloane. “You and your brother are inheriting practically the entire Eastern seaboard.”

“What does Reiser Industries do?” I ask.

“Biggest car-parts manufacturer in the country,” says Carling. “And my boyfriend's going to run it one day.” She turns to Leo. “Tell Papa you need an advance on your allowance.”

“Yeah, right,” says Leo. “My dad's old school.”

“Daddy Warbucks wants Leo to learn about life the hard way,” says Griff.

“Since when?” asks Carling. “You're always sufficiently loaded when we go out.”

“Why do you think I work summers at the Manhattan office?” says Leo.

“I don't know,” she says with a dramatic pout. “I figured you were using that as an excuse to meet New York skanks. Which makes me lie in bed and cry.”

Griff boffs Leo in the head. “See? Leo's parents are smart. They're not going to raise him all spoiled and lazy like Carling.”

Carling pinches him. He shoves her off and says, “Seriously, you can't sell the car, Reiser. She's a legend. I plan to lose my virginity in the backseat. Just me, a six-pack of beer, Micheline Farber's dim-witted sister, and a piece of shoestring licorice that will be framed after what she'll do to it with her tongue. I've already stashed a few pieces under the seat.”

Okay, even I can't stand this one. “You're going to feed a girl candy that's been festering on the dirty carpet with the grimy quarters and rotting french fries? You really are porcine, Little Man.”

Griff stares up at me, his mouth hanging open. “I do think our little Brit is settling in.” He slides his hand up my knee. “You're some feisty kind of mystery chick, aren't you, London?”

I swat away his stubby fingers.

What comes next shocks me to my socks. Leo grins wickedly, puts one arm around Griff's neck, and yanks him away from me, grinding his knuckles into Griff's wild hair. He says, “Leave her alone, asshole. She's miles too good for you.”

I have to bite down on my lips to keep my face from splitting into a big, dorky grin. It means nothing, I'm sure of it. He probably meant it as an insult to Griff rather than a compliment to me. Leo Reiser is wholly connected to Carling Burnack. She's lying across his lap playing with his shirt buttons, and all I can think about are the scars on his chest. I wonder if Carling has touched them. Counted them. Kissed them. It's clear these two are solid. It's clear he's hers. So why is my heart beating so fast?

The moment that meant everything to me clearly means nothing to the others, and passes without a blip in the conversation, with Griff pulling away saying, “If you're lucky, you might lose your own virginity in there one day, Reiser.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us can be as classy as you.”

“Come on, don't sell her,” says Griff, smoothing out his hair. “The girls
love
guys in Astons.”

Carling, twirling Leo's tie in her fingers, snorts. “All the more reason to ditch it. No one gets her hands on my guy.” She kisses her fingertips and presses them to Leo's mouth. “No one.”

It sounds like a threat.

The following Thursday morning before school, Mandy finally calls me back. She's sobbing so hard I barely recognize her voice.

“He dumped me,” she says, taking in great hiccupping gulps of air.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. He found ‘real love.'”

“Shit, Mand. Who is it?”

“Some twenty-two-year-old wretch who works with him at the video store. But wait—it gets even better. Kristy Vance heard they're engaged. He gave her a ring!”

“What an asshole.”

“It's a sign that I am brainless. I really did think he'd wait for me.”

“A year and a half. That's a long time for an asshole to wait.”

“And forget my birthday. He was going to take me out to the Terrace for steak and to a hotel room he booked. I bought a teddy with skulls on it.”

I can't help but laugh. “And still, he left?”

“Shut up.” I can hear a tiny smile in her voice.

“I'm kidding. It's just so you.”

“Now I get to lie in bed and bawl my eyes out while he takes
her
to
my
hotel room.”

“You're miles too good for him. Don't you know that? It sucks that this happened, but one day you're going to look back on this and think,
Thank God I escaped
.”

“I won't.”

“You will. You'll see. Now that you're single, every guy in Lundon will be banging on your door.”

“Dude, that just isn't going to happen.”

“You know what? My dad got me this free long-distance thing for my cell.”

“So?”

“We'll spend your birthday together. We'll stay on the phone and watch a movie together. Just like we used to do when you were grounded.”

“Come for the weekend instead.”

“I don't know. Midterms are coming up. We'll do the movie things, though. It'll be fun, I promise.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Perfect. Forget Eddie. I would never have let you marry a guy who looks like an animated baby.”

“He doesn't look like an animated baby.” Mandy blows her nose, then chokes out a laugh. “Okay, maybe he does a little. Geez, now I can never watch cartoons again.” She's quiet for a moment and I can hear her drumming her fingers on her desk.

“Mandy? I'm sorry about what I said before. It's not what I meant.”

“I know. No more battles. I need you in my life.”

“Me too. From this moment forward I'm the model best friend.”

“Honestly? I won't be able to handle anything less.”

Our math quizzes come back to us at school that morning. The results aren't quite as abysmal as the first time, but there's enough slumping and sighing in the room to make it clear that people are beginning to panic about what this class will do to their averages, their Ivy League dreams, and their futures, in that order.

“The class average was disappointing,” says Mr. Curtis. “And I don't mind telling you it would have been lower if not for three students. Mr. Hogan, Miss Burnack, and Miss Black, would you mind standing up?”

Carling is up before the words tumble from his mouth. I stand up next, then Griff, but who can tell if he's standing, really?

“Mr. Hogan, your score was ninety-eight point-eight percent. A solid achievement. You may sit.” Griff sits but not before doing a pixie-sized touchdown dance with his arms in the air and his eyes closed.

“Sara, your test was clean and completely error-free. An accomplishment never achieved on any pop quiz in my class, not in fourteen years at the school. You've restored my faith in your generation. Congratulations, you may sit.”

I drop into my seat and bury my flushed face in my collar.

The displeasure in the room is palpable. Vexation bounces about the room, ricochets off ceiling, blackboard, and walls, pinging me in the flushed cheeks. Isabella looks particularly miffed, as this comes awfully close to confirmation that she's been replaced as top in the class. Here's the thing about gifted kids. They're territorial about their smarts and don't like to be beaten. I've overstepped newbie laws, that much is clear, by having the audacity to come in here and, for the second time, beat their gifted faces off.

“Miss Burnack,” says Mr. Curtis. “Your case is a bit more complicated.”

Carling's eyes widen. She shoots a look of terror my way. She's thinking he knows. That he saw our identical answers, considered her lousy mark from the first quiz, and is about to call her a cheater in front of the entire class. I'm not sure what they do to cheaters in this school, but at Finmory it would mean an automatic zero, a meeting with your parents, and suspension. And from what I now know about Big Bad Brice, a meeting like this would mean serious clawing apart. Even if Carling pulled off straight As for the rest of the term, she could never land an A in the class. Bye-bye, Harvard.

Carling knows exactly what is at stake. I can see from the way the edge of her skirt is shaking.

Mr. Curtis stares her down. “Due to the illegibility of your penmanship, I was unable to make out some of your answers. They may have been one hundred percent correct, but the world will never know. You wound up with a ninety-five out of sheer messiness.”

Sloane and Willa shriek, both jumping up to hug Carling as if she's just been crowned Miss Massachusetts. I'm surprised no one is crying. Once she's been sufficiently embraced, Carling slides down into her seat. She scrawls something on a piece of paper, and when Mr. Curtis turns around to write a long formula on the board, she passes it back to me.

Thx, u saved my sorry ass. Are u going to the party on Saturday?

I look up. Party?

Mr. Curtis clears his throat and I see he's staring at me. “It's not even nine thirty a.m., and already I've caught more people texting and passing notes than the whole of last term. In the halls, in the office, and now in class. I won't embarrass you girls by confiscating the note and reading it out loud, but in the interest of furthering our collective mathematical educations, I'll give Sara all the information I've gleaned so far about ‘the best party ever.'”

He knows?

He continues with a smirk. “It's called Crush and it's by invitation only. It's held on a Saturday night around Halloween in some undisclosed warehouse in the Central Square area. If there's one sane person anywhere who knows where it is, they've chosen not to tell. It doesn't usually end until the sun comes up Sunday morning. Lindsay Lohan had to be carried out of a bathroom stall last year. It promises to be the social event of your young lives. And, what our social hummingbird, Carling Burnack, is no doubt about to ask you is”—he raises his voice to a girly squeak—“‘Like, are you going?'”

The entire class bursts out laughing. I look from Mr. Curtis to Carling and back again. Then I grin and say, “Like, totally.”

I get to Ms. Solange's class too early. The class before ours ran late and the kids take their time filing out. Poppy doesn't seem to mind; she's sitting on the floor across from the door, filming the students' feet as they leave. The double standard works on her behalf. She's a girl, so no one really cares. She's just being artsy and weird. If she were male, she'd probably be hauled down to the office and accused of inappropriate camera angles.

The class is doubly crowded with clusters of seniors lingering around desks juniors are trying to slip into, so I detour all the way around the back chairs to avoid the whole tangle. It isn't until I'm almost upon it that I realize my desk is still occupied.

By Leo Reiser.

He gathers up his books and looks up, grinning right away. “Hey!”

Thank God for the pile of books I have mashed against my chest. Gives me something to hide behind. I shift my weight onto my back foot and rock side to side. “Leo. Hi.”

“Sorry, our class went a bit long.” He slips his books into an open backpack on the floor. “What class is this—American lit?”

I shake my head. “Nineteenth century.”

“Ah, right. I loved that class. Raskolnikov and his half-baked soul. Great book.”

“We're not that far along yet.” I bump my books against my chin. “Rascal's soul could pretty much go either way at this point.”

He looks surprised. “Wait, you call him Rascal?”

I nod.

“Me too. I mean, I did. Last year. When I was reading the book.” For a moment we stare at each other, smiley and dumb, then he breaks the spell of stupidity by standing up and stepping aside, motioning for me to sit. I slip past him and drop into my chair. It's still warm and I try not to imagine I'm sitting on his lap.

“Will you be at the party Saturday night?”

Before I get the chance to answer, Poppy appears and pokes Leo in the back. “Uh, excuse me? I can't exactly get to my seat.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He backs up against another desk to allow her to pass, and as she does, she looks at me and rolls her eyes as if he's a major annoyance.

Slumping down into her chair, she mumbles, “Get a classroom.”

Leo backs away with his head tilted to one side like a little boy who's hiding a broken teacup behind his back. He raises two fingers in a wave. “Bye, Sara.”

He's forgotten his question about Saturday, and it takes everything I have not to jump out of my seat and tell him I'll be there. Instead, I say, “Bye, Leo.”

Ms. Solange claps her hands. “Clear your desks, ladies and gentlemen. All you need is a pen and one sheet of paper. We're going to do an in-class essay on Raskolnikov's dream about the old mare in part one of the novel. I want you to tell me what you believe is the dream's significance to the story.”

Willa's hand shoots up into the air. “It's to illustrate Raskolnikov actually has a heart before the murder. To show his personality is split. Between this cold-hearted guy who is able to plan out a murder, and the kind of human who feels something for an innocent creature who is being brutalized by a society full of heathens. It shows him to be extraordinary amongst all these lesser people.”

I feel my pulse race. I didn't see that at all. Just read the entire passage as a dream without any analysis whatsoever. And I thought I understood the book; how did I miss such a blatant metaphor? This unnerves me. I do well in lit classes. When my family isn't falling apart, that is.

Willa adds, “Is that the kind of thing you want to see, Ms. Solange?”

Ms. Solange gulps down what's left of her coffee. She's getting used to us. There's no sign of fingers in her hair and no more pacing when she loses her place. These days she just looks at me, and I tell her. It's a good system. She nods in Willa's direction. “Well, it was until you gave everyone your analysis. Now we'll need a different topic.” She looks out the window at the rain slapping against the glass, then back at us. “Okay, how about this? How does Raskolnikov's tiny room, a room described as a cupboard, influence his actions? You have thirty minutes to make your point. Go.”

Raskolnikov is influenced by his room? He should come on over to Brighton. Take a good look at mine. He'd probably take an ax to
himself
.