Seven Ways We Lie (17 page)

“Valentine Simmons.”

“Quite the name.” He grins, and I feel disgusted, looking at his smile. It's stupidly photogenic, the type of Hollywood-handsome that verges on absurd. This kid is going to go through life and get everything handed to him on a silver platter because he looks like some sort of minor Greek god. I hate him a bit already, and it baffles me that he seems so desperate for validation. Hasn't he, like
every other attractive person, been trained to expect the world to fall into his lap with no effort whatsoever?

“So,” he says, “what up, Valentine Simmons?”

“Not much. Lunch awaits.” I turn on my heel and take all of one step before he says, “Not in the cafeteria?”

Over my shoulder, I give him my most contemptuous look. Some people say there are no stupid questions, but here's a perfect counterexample if I ever heard one. “The cafeteria is filled with people I have absolutely no use for,” I say coldly.

He lets out a generous, tumbling laugh, as if I've cracked the funniest joke all day. I round on him, not bothering to mask my glare. “What?”

“It was funny,” he says. “Was that not a joke?”

“I mean. No.”

“Oh. Okay.” He forces a serious expression. “So, what, you eat off-campus?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

“Why?” I ask.

“Just a question. Doesn't need any analysis or anything.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Okay. Well. Analysis is sort of my modus operandi.”

He's smiling again, for no reason. The unforgiving hallway lights illuminate the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. He glows with inner contentment, and I don't know where he gets it, but it must be nice. He's probably from some other planet, where the sun always shines and everybody is unconditionally nice to one another and puppies frolic around the streets.

“Outside,” I say. “By the trailers.”

“Isn't that cold?”

“Better being cold than having to deal with what's in there.” I nod to the cafeteria. “Shallow conversation and popularity contests—ugh.”

A line appears between Lucas's eyebrows. What is that? Surprise? Confusion? Irritation? “Other people aren't as cut-and-dry as you think,” he says. “Everyone's got stuff they hide.”

“Right.” I roll my eyes. “I'm sure
you
have so many dark secrets under the surface.”

He doesn't laugh. For a minute I think,
Well, then, he must be a serial killer
. Really, though, what secrets could this kid have? Nobody so grotesquely happy is ever interesting.

I shoehorn my hands into my pockets. “Whatever. Regardless of what people show or hide, they annoy me, and I'm weird, and no one likes me, either. It's mutual.”

Lucas cocks his head. “Hey. I'm sorry.”

“What? Don't be. Who cares? It doesn't matter.” I give my head a sharp shake. Why am I still talking to this kid? Not bothering with a good-bye, I stride down the hall.

But before I get too far, I could swear I hear him say something like, “ 'Course it matters.”

THEY CALL ME IN FOR MY STUDENT INTERVIEW AT THE
start of sixth period. The brief exemption from class is a blessing. Our AP Latin teacher has contracted a nasty cold, and those of us in the front row keep getting subjected to her sneezes. I'm determined to dawdle all the way to the guidance center and back. Aimless wandering is a definite improvement on the phlegm war zone.

On the way there, I peruse the student-government campaign posters adorning walls and lockers, some taped to the banisters in the stairwell. Most are for the overzealous freshman presidential candidates, of which there are eight. The juniors only have three, one of whom is Juniper. I wonder how she can focus on extracurriculars, but if posters indicate anything, she's set to win: her advertisements are the only ones that look vaguely official. Olivia's blare out from the cinder blocks, so brightly colored that my eyes cry out in protest. And Matt Jackson's, God help us, have the sentence
YOUR VOTE
MATT
ERS
! written in Comic Sans.

I push through a set of double doors, crossing from the new wing to the old wing. No more plate glass and constant brightness. Here, high windows cast narrow, dramatic shafts of light onto dark, pitted floors. I knock my plastic hall pass against the padlocks on the lockers, making them swing. Getting assigned a locker on this side of the school is a bad draw—they're so spacious that people get stuffed into them, à la every high school movie made before 2000. For somebody my size, it wouldn't even be uncomfortable. I could set up a nice little table in there and finally have a peaceful spot to read.

I trot down to the first floor and enter the guidance center's tiny cluster of offices. My mother, the head of the office, sits at the front desk beneath a poster of a motivational kitten.
HANG IN THERE
! it says. The kitten dangles from a tree branch, looking as if its life is in peril.

“Hi, dear,” Mom says. “Time for your interview?”

“Yeah.” I peer around the corner at the closed doors. “Are you really doing this for twelve hundred students?”

“With the eight of us, it goes faster than you'd think.” My mom
hands me a slip of paper with my name at the top. “Give this to Ms. Conrad when she calls you in, would you?”

I perch on a padded bench between two other kids, trying not to fidget, counting squares of carpet to relax myself. Maybe I should talk. Juniper will take the fall for her poor decision-making, and the sense of irresolution will clear from my head. My part will be done.

“Valentine Simmons,” calls a voice from the depths of the guidance center. I head for the last door on the left, passing the most recent interviewee, a small, nervous-looking girl. I close the door gently and sit across from Ms. Conrad, a tubby woman with dreadlocks thicker than my fingers.

She smiles as I hand her the slip. “Thanks, Valentine. You're Sarah's son, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good genes,” she says, smoothing out the slip. She clicks a pink pen. “So, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and if you'll answer them to the best of your ability, that'd be great. First: have you heard any theories who the participants in the rumored illicit teacher-student relationship might be?”

I frown. “You're asking me to tell you rumors? You realize how unreliable the high school rumor mill is, right?”

Ms. Conrad sighs. “Work with me here, kid.”

“Well,” I say, “I heard something about Dr. Meyers, but I don't at all believe it.”

“Hmm.” She scribbles Dr. Meyers's last name. “And how about the student?”

Juniper's name trembles at the tip of my tongue. I swallow, look down at my lap, and keep it back. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

I look up at Ms. Conrad. Her brown eyes dig into mine, and I force myself to hold them. “Nothing at all,” I repeat, not even blinking.

BURKE AND I PULL UP AT MY HOUSE ON MONDAY
afternoon as my mom heads out the door for a dental appointment. She flaps a hand at me and says, “Don't let Russell eat any snacks, or he won't eat dinner.
Y cierra la puerta—
it was cracked open yesterday and so cold when I got home.” She gives Burke the usual pained smile she saves for him, because, like everyone at school, she thinks his clothes are ridiculous, and today he's wearing leather pants that show every contour of his leg muscles, as well as something hairy and alpaca-looking draped over his shoulders.

“Have a good appointment, Ms. Flores,” Burke says, polite as always, as we walk inside. I jam my shoulder into the door to make sure it stays closed, and Russ, who sits on the couch, sticks out his lip at me, looking up from a board book about airplanes.

“Hey, Russ,” I say, “remember Burke?” and Russ looks up at Burke, says, “Yes,” and waves furiously. Burke grins, sitting down in the armchair near the couch, and props his combat boots up on the coffee table. “Your brother's the only one who doesn't stare
at my clothes,” he says to me, and I'm like, “Hey, I don't stare,” and he says, “You stare the most, dude,” and I sigh, dumping my backpack onto the floor.

“Matt?” Russ says.

I sit by him on the couch. “Yeah?”

“Where is Olivia?” he asks, and I say, “I don't know,” and he says, “Will she come again?”

“Yo, wait,” Burke says. “Like,
Olivia
Olivia? When was she here?” and I'm like, “Saturday—we have this project thing on
Inferno
for English,” and Burke says, “Well?” and I'm like, “Well, what?” and he says, “I don't know—how'd it go?” and I shrug, slouching down in the sofa, feeling self-conscious. “I don't know, man,” I say. “I can't stop thinking about her.” I feel stupid saying it, but it's a serious problem. I keep remembering her hunched over my kitchen table, her teeth buried in her bottom lip in concentration. I keep seeing the way she twitched her head to get her long hair out of her eyes, and hearing her gut-laughter, which came out at things I said without even thinking they were funny. I keep imagining her fast, clear voice and the wide points of her smile, and I keep wanting to see it all again.

I look down at Russell, who's still staring up at me, wide-eyed, waiting for a verdict. “I don't know, Russ,” I say. “I hope she'll be back,” and he nods so hard, his whole body bounces before going back to his board book.

Burke lowers his voice. I sit forward to hear him, leaning my elbows on my knees. “So,” he says, “did anything happen?” and I'm like, “We talked on the phone last week, and it got kind of serious, so on Saturday it was, like, tense, you know?” I fist one hand in
my hair. “Man, I'm so into her, but the project's done Thursday, and . . . I don't know.”

“So talk to her,” Burke says, as if it's that simple.

I give him a skeptical look. “Right,” I say. “Like she doesn't have a hundred other guys chasing after her already.”

“Never know until you ask.” Burke flicks his nose ring idly. “Come on.” He heads into the hall to the kitchen, and I follow, glancing at Russ to make sure he's still engrossed in finding which plane fits which silhouette.

Burke sits at the kitchen table, and I drop into the seat across from him. “How would I talk to her?” I say, and he's like, “You have her number,” and I'm like, “Well, yeah, but—”

“So text her,” he says, and I'm like, “What? No, that's an awful idea,” and he says, “Why?” and his eyes challenge me to come up with something that doesn't sound like me being a wimp. Though I guess I am a wimp when it comes to this. “I'm fucking terrified, dude,” I say. “I've had, like, three conversations with her, so how the hell am I this . . .
like this
, you know?”

“Like what? Interested?” Burke unzips his backpack, pulling out a stack of books so thick, it's a miracle he fit them inside. “Look,” he says, cracking open his econ textbook, “you've got this English thing, so text her a joke or something about it. Act natural.”

“You want me to text Olivia a joke about Dante,” I say, thinking about the infinite ways this could go wrong. Burke says, “Well, you gotta read the book first.”

I straighten up, indignant. “Hey. I did read it.”

Burke's head pops up from his textbook. “You read
Inferno
?” he says, and I'm like, “Don't sound so surprised,” and he's like, “But I
am
surprised. Like, fucking floored, dude.”

I sigh. “I finished it yesterday. I don't know what I thought—it'd maybe give us something to talk about?”

“Wow,” he says. “So, wait, hold on, you
don't
just want to get in her pants,” and I'm like, “That's what I'm trying to tell you, Burke. Jesus!”

“Hey, chill.” Burke messes up his hair, which is dark purple this week. “So text her and say you finished reading it.”

“But I—”

“No, don't argue. Just do it. Man, do I have to force you into everything? I swear, when you get married, I'm gonna be standing at the altar pinching you between every vow.”

I frown but take out my phone. My fingers move with agonizing slowness, trying to keep the words tied up in my hands, but I make my way through, tap by tap.
Hey so I finished reading inferno
, I type, thinking about all the movies I've seen where guys write girls letters, long, dramatic, eloquent letters confessing their feelings, and as I stare down at this stupid six-word text, I somehow feel that it's totally equivalent, that this is my own end-all-be-all confession that will betray once and for all the fact that I care.

I send the text.

“Congrats,” Burke says.

I toss my phone onto the table, scowling. “You're not allowed to leave until she says something,” I mumble, and his pierced eyebrows rise, like he's trying to look innocent, as if that wasn't the biggest lost cause of all lost causes.