Little Black Lies (16 page)

People at the other end of the station race to the mouth of the tunnel, waving their arms, coats, briefcases, anything to get the driver's attention. The horn blares again and the brakes screech so hard I think my ears will split. Everyone, everywhere is screaming. It's all for nothing. The driver is doing everything he can, but a high-speed train needs a certain distance to stop and Carling isn't twenty feet from the mouth of the tunnel.

In one motion, Leo yanks me up to the platform and jumps off the ledge. I fall hard and roll over to see him down on the tracks, where he barrels into Carling with his shoulder, stands, and heads for the ladder. He races up the rungs and dives up and onto the platform. They both hit the ground seconds before the face of the train bursts into the station.

We all drop to our knees around Carling, who is only mildly shaken by what happened. The train inches into position and the doors open. Strangers pour out of the back end of the train and step around us. Train employees crowd our little heap, looking down at us, reprimanding. The conductor arrives and shouts something I'll never remember. Everything has become too blurry to be real.

Leo crawls over to me; his face is smeared with soot and he looks angry. “What were you thinking?”

Wait—he's mad at me? I'm shivering now and wrap my arms around myself, hunched over my knees. “She was going to be killed!”

He squeezes his lips together and stands up, pulling me to my feet. I guess that's it. I'm back on his naughty list.

The stationmaster arrives and now we're being led to an office under threats of police arrest. As we trudge along, still in our own personal bubbles of shock, Carling flirts with him, explaining she lost her balance and just tipped over the edge. Whoopsie. She looks back at us and giggles. “You should have seen your faces, guys. You were, like, so freaked.”

No one answers. Sloane catches my eye. Her expression is flat. Worn out. As if she might be feeling, as I am, that Carling's friendship just isn't worth it. Then Carling turns to Leo, who by some miracle is holding my dirty sweater. “Leo, you saved me. You totally rock as a boyfriend.”

“Save it,” he says, his face flushed. “You and I were done the moment you stepped off the platform.”

Carling grins, sticks out her tongue at him, snatches up my sweater, and follows the stationmaster into an inner office where two policemen are waiting. I have absolutely no worries about either her freedom or her relationship.

(What Carling Burnack Gets = What Carling Burnack Wants)
²

Other than the crowd outside the Central Square warehouse—a dirty, low brick building with boarded-up windows wedged between enormous buildings with signs that could be a hundred years old—you'd never guess there was a massive party going on inside. The place is packed with teenagers, probably from every part of Boston, maybe even beyond. But even with all these people, I spot tons of kids from Ant: the Benadryl girls, the kid from pre-law who has the neck of a giraffe, some of the girls who'd been in line behind me the day I didn't pay for my yoga pants.

The fun was over for me before we arrived. The flashing strobe lights, the throbbing bodies on the dance floor, the stench of alcohol and puke—they have no magic for me. All I want is to go home and make sure Dad put more lotion on his hands.

As expected, Carling sweet-talked her way out of trouble with the police. Smiled, flirted, swayed her slender hips, and convinced them her tumble was the fault of her new Italian shoes, the towering heels of which seemed a bit wobbly. Before she left the office, she practically had the cops ready to fly to Milan and apprehend the designer himself.

I can't say as much for her relationship with Leo. He disappeared the moment we arrived at Crush and I haven't seen him since. Griff's fictitious disease didn't fool anyone at the door, but a few of the guys from school snuck him up the fire escape and through some upstairs window. He won't last long in here. Even if he's kept in dark corners, it's a matter of minutes before either his puniness or his obnoxiousness gives him away. As it is now, he's surrounded by a half dozen model-type girls, who must have been dazzled enough by his celebrity disease and his fake California address to bump and grind with him from north, south, east, and west on the dance floor.

As soon as we got here, Carling, Izz, and Sloane met up with Willa and a few others from school and headed upstairs to some really dark room they call the Cave. The entire floor is built up to about waist level—making the ceiling so low you can only crawl inside—and covered in scratchy industrial carpet. The only light in the room comes from the hall or the plasma TV at the far end that no one is watching. Kids lie strewn about, propped up against pillows and walls.

Willa leads the way inside, climbing up onto the platform and slithering on hands and knees to a clearing in the back corner. The other girls follow.

“I think I'm going to have my room built up like this,” says Isabella as I approach. “Who needs furniture?”

Sloane points to a blond guy posing against the opposite wall. He's wearing a tuxedo, with the tie and shirt collar undone, and from the way his head is bobbing, he looks hammered. “He's cute in a rich-boy-just-gambled-away-his-fortune kind of way.”

Carling nods and pulls a small bottle of vodka from her purse. She takes a long gulp from the bottle and squeezes her eyes shut with disgust before passing the bottle to Izz. “I agree. Go talk to him.”

Sloane grabs the bottle and sips, still eyeing the guy. Vodka spills down her throat and soaks the neck of Isabella's blouse. She wipes her collarbone and smiles. “Nah. He's wasted.”

“So are you.” Carling snorts, pointing at Sloane's wet shirt.

“I'm not wasted. I'm clumsy.”

The bottle is pushed into my hand. I sip, swishing the vodka around my mouth as if it can wash away this entire evening, but all it does is burn the inside of my cheeks like Dad's mouthwash.

Carling says to Sloane, “I'll give you ten bucks to crawl over to him and retie his tie. But you have to talk dirty to him while you do it.”

Sloane shrieks with amused disgust. “I'm not talking
dirty
to him!”

“Then just do up his tie.” Izz places a crisp ten on the carpet in front of her feet. “Go.”

“I'll do it for fifty.”

“No way!”

Carling pulls out two twenties. “That's fifty. Now go.”

Sloane grins and crawls across the floor. The guy pushes his shaggy hair out of his eyes and perks up when she settles herself beside him. It's too noisy to hear what they're saying, but Sloane is doing an awful lot of blushing and hair flipping. At one point she touches his dangling tie but doesn't tie it. Carling stomps her foot and waves the little pile of money, but Sloane clearly likes this guy. Without looking away from him, she shoots Carling the finger.

“How dull,” Carling says with a pout. She hands the ten back to Isabella. “Sloaney went and fell in love.”

“I'm glad,” I say. “It shows she has a soul.”

Isabella eyes me. “God, London. You're so predictable.”

I just shrug.

Sloane comes crawling back to us. “Okay, guys. I'm totally into this guy. You know who he is? His mom is Astrid Saatchi, the—”

“The interior designer?” Carling pushes hair off her eyes. “She did my aunt's penthouse in Paris. She's huge.”

“Anyway, his name is Ned.”

“Ned?” Isabella squeals.

“It's nerdy cool,” I say. “I like it.”

“Big surprise,” says Izz.

Sloane slaps my hand. “See? London knows what's what. I have our whole lives planned out. A house on the Cape. Four kids in six years, born in the following order: boy, girl, boy, girl. All of their names will start with
N
. I'm going to pee, so think of some names while I'm gone. And keep an eye on him, girlies. You're sitting across from my future, and I don't want some tramp to come by and snag it.” She crawls away.

Without missing a beat, Carling says, “Watch this. I'm going to go mess with his head. I'm going to tell him Sloaney's a dude.”

I grab her arm. “Don't. Sloane really likes this guy.”

“Oh, please,” she says. “Sloane likes every guy.” She pulls away, slinks across the room, and folds herself up next to Ned, playing with her sunny streaks. They chat for a few moments, then Ned's expression changes. He glances toward the door a few times, then settles in to talk to Carling. Just when I can't believe what a bitch she is, she takes it one step further. She grabs both ends of Ned's tie, pulls him close, and starts making out with him.

I look at Isabella, horrified, but Izz just sips from the bottle and grins. “Go, Carling,” she says, holding the bottle up in a toast.

Of course Isabella would support this, even if it hurt Sloane. Like any good cult member, Isabella is so Carlinginfatuated she'd probably shave her head and drink poison for her leader. I can't take these people anymore. I have to leave the room. Crawling across legs and purses to the door, I bump heads with someone climbing in.

Leo.

From where he is, I'm certain he cannot see Carling deep-tonguing the interior designer's son. He sits back and rubs his forehead, stares at me.

“Told you I was spastic.”

“You weren't kidding.”

“Leo, about the T thing. I didn't thank you—”

“Forget it. We all just reacted.”

“Still. Could've been ugly.”

He laughs a bit. “I'd say we reached ugly the moment she jumped. You having fun in here?”

“Not really.”

“I lost Griff. I think he got carried off by a herd of blind females.” He sits up taller and looks around the room. “Is he in here?”

“No.”

Leo stops. His mouth settles into a hard line. He's seen Carling.

“It's not what it looks like,” I say, tugging on his white shirt. “She's just goofing around, playing a joke on Sloane….”

He turns to face me again, leaning over his knees and releasing a long breath. His hair is growing shaggy, so long in the front it flicks upward in front of his eyes. Up close, his lashes are long and curly. Lashes every girl wishes for but that usually get doled out to boys. Shaking his head, he lets out a sound so tired it makes me sad. “You can't do it, Sara.”

“Do what?”

“Make Carling Burnack a decent person.”

I try to hide my shock, looking down at the carpet and picking at the fibers. “I don't know, she doesn't have it all that easy….”

“You don't have to make excuses for her. She's a big girl who makes big decisions.”

“But she's your girlfriend.”

“Was.” He glances over to where she's sitting with Ned. They've stopped kissing now, and she's writing something on his hand with a pen. Her number, no doubt. As she writes, Ned massages her shoulder with his free hand.

“I wish he wouldn't do that,” I say, watching.

“Carling can take care of herself.”

“No. That's my sweater. The threading on the beadwork can't take much stress.”

Leo grins. “Want me to go strip it off her?”

The thought of Leo removing any of Carling's clothing makes my stomach juices curdle. I shake my head.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks.

Fighting back a smile, I follow him into the crowded corridor, where we snake through wall-to-wall bodies in the near dark. It isn't easy keeping up, and I lose him before we even reach the dance floor. On my tiptoes, I pause beside enormous speakers and try to peer over the sea of throbbing arms, legs, heads, hips, but it's too crowded. I can't find him.

The room goes pitch-black before a strobe light starts flashing. On. Off. On. Off. It's nausea-inducing and makes me want to leave. Out of the violet shadows, Poppy appears. “Hey!” She's clearly overjoyed to see me and pulls out her camera to zoom in on my face. “I was hoping you'd be here. You look really great.”

“So do you.”

“Who were you looking for?”

I see him now. Leo. He's weaving through a crowd of girls wearing pink wigs, making his way back to me, looking sheepish and mouthing,
I'm sorry.

Poppy repeats herself. “Were you meeting someone? Because it would be cool to hang out. I'm making a mini documentary about underground parties and people are getting all whacked backward when I film them. Even the bouncer threatened to kick me out, which is insane. I could totally tell he didn't like me, because some guy peed on the bathroom door and even
he
didn't get kicked out.”

A trio of Goths pass between us and flip her off when she points her camera at them. It makes me feel sorry for her, actually. She's just doing her thing. Can she help it if that turns off the rest of the world?

Leo is getting close now and I have to make my exit. “Maybe later, Poppy. I have to take care of something right now.”

“Cool,” she says. “I'll look for you.”

There's a little-known bathroom in this place. Leo found it. Probably meant for staff only, it's down a long, drafty passageway, past the locked office. Just outside the men's room, between a time clock and an ancient payphone, sits a padded bench. Leo sits down beside me and we both stretch out our legs at the same time. The music is muffled in here, making it sound as if we're underwater. I don't know if it's Leo, the atmosphere, or Carling's vodka, but my heart is racing and my head feels swimmy. I shiver.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I'd offer to drive you home but I have no wheels.”

“It's all right. I'm meant to be sleeping over at Carling's.”

He grunts. “That would go well. Me dropping you off.”

Yeah. Considering Carling's big plans for him. “She'd implode. Or else Isabella would implode for her.”

He laughs and leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and poking at the ground with his boot. “I've been rotten to you.”

I giggle. “I guess I should lie and say you haven't.”

“No, you shouldn't. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“It had nothing to do with you. It's just that you got a firsthand look at my dirty little secret.” He glances down again. “You can probably tell, I'm not good at talking about this kind of thing.”

“So don't.”

He sits up, surprised.

“You don't owe me an explanation,” I say. “You don't owe
anyone
an explanation. Your past is your past just like my past is mine.” I laugh softly and tuck my hair behind my ears. “I have a few secrets myself.”

Leo is so still he can't possibly be breathing. His eyes travel across my face—from my forehead to my mouth to the stray hairs that are blowing against my cheek. Blinking softly, he moves closer. So close I can smell the soapy shower he had before he left home, the greasy iron rails of the ladder from the train tracks. Then, just when I think I'll pass out from anticipation, Leo Reiser kisses me, and everything else vanishes. His soft lips, his probing tongue, erase my mother's packed suitcases. My father's peeling hands. My faraway best friend. Gone are the never-ending nights studying, my lopsided bedroom, and my mother's Parisian postmarks. All that exists for that moment is me, Leo, and the faintest whisper of Carling Burnack's musky perfume.

Our moment doesn't last. About twenty minutes later, Leo's phone goes crazy with desperate text messages from Griff. Turns out the girls grew tired of his perv-child advances and reported him. Leo doesn't want to send the tot home alone on the T, so he apologizes, kisses me one last time, and heads outside to where Griff waits with a bouncer.

Which leaves me to return to Carling and Company, my eyes swimmy with happiness. And guilt.

Once Leo is gone, Carling sees no point in staying, so we head to the door. Out on the street, in the cold night air, we shiver and pool our money to determine whether we have enough cash to take a cab all the way home or whether we're heading back underground. Carling sends an emergency plea for transport. Ten minutes later, a black car flashes its high beams from down the block. Noah. I keep my head turned the other way as he pulls up, then stand behind the others so he doesn't see me.

Sloane says, “What's he doing here? I thought he was in New York.”