She Lies Twisted (2 page)

“
Thank you,” I said, slamming the locker door and throwing up my left hand for emphasis. “At least someone gets me.” We exchanged a pair of lopsided smiles. Boyd and Neil, best friends, self-admitted ailurophiles, and to the wolf pack that was our school's student body, omegas. But ones that liked to fight back. Boyd patted my back reassuringly and escorted me to the door of my first period class.

“
Hasta la vista,” he said with a crooked toothed grin. Only it sounded more like pasta la bistro. Whatever. Boyd was a Deutsch boy, not an hombre.

“
Later,” I said, tucking some blonde hair back into its place inside my gray sweatshirt. No sense in reminding everyone of what they used to call me in junior high. I actually preferred 'Fucked Up Bitch' to 'Dead Barbie.'

I chose a seat in the front and pulled out my book, carefully pushing the plastic bag to the bottom of my backpack before zipping it back up.

“
Hola, Se
ñ
orita Tatum,” Se
ñ
or Rivera chimed as he sashayed down the center aisle and deposited a stack of workbooks on his desk. “Cómo está?” I paused before answering his question, pushing away sun drenched cobwebs and afternoons of swimming in the creek behind Boyd's trailer. Words failed me.

“
Okay, I guess,” I replied, sinking away from his fluttering hand as he tried to push back the hood of my sweatshirt.

“
No, no, no,” he said, ignoring student teacher boundaries and pushing it back anyway. “Espa
ñ
ol, por favor.” I rolled my eyes and slumped casually to the side, trying to appear both bored and unconcerned when really, I was looking for a particular shade of red lipstick. If I let them get me on the first day of my junior year, then I might as well roll over and piss myself. I had to bite back. My eyes scanned the room, mirroring the incoming students in jaded pools of blue. I narrowed them slowly as I caught sight of her.

Margaret Cedar, leaning against the door of the classroom like an honor guard, was wearing a familiar shade of red on her whisker-thin lips. When she caught me looking at her, she flipped me off.

“
Target locked on,” I whispered as she smacked her gum at me and glared. With the dual demons of fear and hatred burning in her swampy eyed gaze, it was certainly hard to believe we used to play Barbies together. Well, she used to play Barbies next to me. I used to cut off their hair and hang them from trees and melt their strange plastic breasts with stolen lighters until they sagged. Anything to make them more real. Anything to take those fake smiles away and make them into real people with worries and fears. I think it was when Mrs. Cedar found one of her daughter's dolls decapitated and half-melted that she stopped inviting me over, stopped pitying the little orphan girl with a lot of money but no parents.

I smiled and she turned away with a sigh and a roll of her eyes.

“
Your time will come,” I chuckled to myself, feeling lame without Boyd by my side. Se
ñ
or Rivera glanced over the tops of his glasses at me. “Ah, tu momento llegará.” He nodded appreciatively then clapped his hands as the bell rang.

The class passed by with little incident and I soon found myself parked in front of a less than appetizing tray of split pea soup and a carton of warm milk.

“
I don't know why you like that stuff so much,” Boyd mumbled as bits of my pastrami and wheat sandwich crumpled to join the Oreo cookie crumbs in his beard. I smiled and scooped a huge spoonful of the green mush into my mouth, hiding my shudders behind a loud, 'delicioso!' I didn't really like it, but I couldn't let Boyd know that or else he'd stop trading lunches with me. Thing was, I had money and Boyd didn't. I was tired of seeing him spend half his days starving and the other half on TV dinners and ramen. He deserved more but was too proud to take it. This was my solution.

“
You are so missing out,” I said as I pointed at the red tray. “For a buck fifty, this shit is awesome.” I opened the milk and chugged. It was the watery, fat free stuff. I almost gagged. “Okay, so I was thinking about what we talked about yesterday,” I sputtered, trying to force the liquid down my throat with words. Boyd raised his shaggy brows but kept on eating. I wiped my hands down the front of my sweatshirt and spun so that I was straddling the bench, facing him. “So basically, I was looking at this stuff online and I'm eligible for some scholarships for like orphans or whatever.” I tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. I hated that that it was so bright and cheerful and straight. I was tempted to dye it black, but it felt so cliché that I ended up just leaving it Barbie blonde.

“
That's sweet,” Boyd mumbled around another bite of sandwich. “But I'm still not taking your money, Neil.” I ground my teeth together.
Stop being so stubborn, you stupid oaf.
I studied my best friend's massive form, hunched over the brown paper bag like a starving wolf, shaved head glinting in the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria. I would've rather gone out for lunch, but our stupid school had decided to install gates last year. And metal detectors. And security guards. It was too screwed up for words.

“
I'm not saying that you
take
my money, per se,” I schmoozed, reverting back to the same tactic I'd used yesterday. The one that hadn't worked. “I'm just saying that with your financial aid and your chess scholarships, I will
finance
the rest of your tuition and living expenses and that when I come and mooch off you and sleep in your bed and force you onto the couch – ” I was babbling. I paused and took a breath. “You can pay me back as soon as you graduate.” He had finished his food and was crumpling up the garbage, slamming one ratty combat boot on the over waxed floor next to him.

“
No.”

“
With interest,” I whined, chasing after him. One of the lunch ladies was yelling at me to clean up my tray. I ignored her. “And then you won't get stuck in this shitty town at a shitty job and – ” He was storming across the cafeteria, students scrambling out of his way in fear. Boyd was scary when he was mad. “Boyd!” I screamed. Faces turned and for a moment, silence reigned over my section of the cafeteria. I threw up my hood and followed him into the hallway.

“
Just stop it, Tatum,” he said, using my real name. I pursed my lips. “Besides, your grandma has control over that money until you turn eighteen, not you.”

“
My grandma can barely remember her own name, Boyd, let alone that I exist. I'm sure we can figure out a way to get the money.” I wanted Boyd to go to college. Not just for him. I wasn't that selfless but for me, too. He was my other half. My friend. My partner in crime. I loved him more than I loved the bones in my own body. He marched over to the one place that he thought I wouldn't follow, the boy's bathroom.

“
Neil,” he said as he gestured at the dirty urinal. “Please?” I turned away and focused on the mirror over the vanity, digging out some eyeliner and smearing it across my eyelids as the sound of liquid hitting porcelain echoed in the silence. I didn't stop until I looked like a raccoon. Just the way I liked it. At the sound of a zipper being drawn, I turned back to my friend.

“
Why are you doing this to me?” I asked him, knowing that I sounded stupid and selfish and ignorant.

“
Neil,” Boyd said in that soft voice of his, the one where his eyes got all deep and dark and his lips went bloodless. I think he was in love with me, but I never asked; it was kind of this unspoken thing between us. “Don't do this to yourself.”

“
Me?” I asked as he washed his hands as quickly as was humanly possible and pushed past me. “What are you talking about? I'm not the one aspiring to be a dishwasher at Applebee's!” Boyd paused and turned back around to face me, putting one meaty hand on my left shoulder, his short black nails digging into the fabric.

“
Don't torture yourself with dreams that will never happen.” And then he walked away, and I let him go.

That was the biggest mistake of my life.

I
cut the rest of my classes and wedged myself between the blue and green dumpsters in the back of the school, fishing out a box of cigarettes that Boyd had taped underneath the blue one for 'emergencies' on the last day of school last year. I stuffed my earbuds in and blasted I Am Ghost loud enough that my ears rang. They were my favorite Goth-rock band. Boyd called them post-emocore. I disagreed. I smiled as I flipped through my playlist.
You should call him and apologize. More flies with honey and all that.
I tugged the earbud out of my left ear and dialed Boyd's number from heart. I didn't keep contacts in my phone. I just didn't. I'd read some article about people and memory loss because technology remembered everything for us. All of my memories were precious. When reality sucked, memories kept me alive. Just for practice's sake, I tried to pull up an image of my mother's face and frowned when it appeared wavy and fragmented.

“
Damn it,” I cursed as the cigarette tumbled out of my mouth and burned me right through a hole in my patchy jeans. I hit dial as I smacked at my singed flesh with my other hand.

“
Hey Neil, leave a message, love Boyd.” It was his voice mail.

“
You asshole,” I said, trying to project a smile into my voice. I was the only one that ever called him and vice versa. We liked it that way. “Are you in class? Did you ditch? Call me back.” I ended the call and sent him a text that pretty much said the same thing minus the asshole comment. I picked the cigarette up off of the ground and finished it before replacing the box and melding into the mass of students pouring out the doors.

I waited at the edge of the new gate that surrounded the school grounds, back pressed up against a tree and read snippets of
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

I waited for two hours.

When I finally realized that Boyd was absolutely, definitely not going to show, I packed up ship and started the dull and uninspiring walk home. White and yellow and beige colonials cast their shadows over the crumbling sidewalk, their yards wide and green and filled with trees whose lineage could be traced back further than the little, fluffy dogs that the old ladies paraded up and down the drives on their way to bridge practice. I ignored them all and they returned the courtesy. While the students called me That Fucked Up Bitch, the adults had their own name. That Mentally Disturbed Orphan Child Who Will Probably In Some Point In The Future Become An Axe Murderer. Yeah, okay, it was long winded, but when your little dog's name is Sir Wilbert Von Frances, the Third, you don't really care about that kind of thing.

When I reached
her
house (and by her I mean my Grandma Willa), I paused at the end of the walk and tried to pretend the pretentious mansion with the blue walls and the fine china and the gardener didn't bother me a bit. I plastered on a smile, more for the gardener than my grandma since she didn't even really seem to remember my name anymore, and trudged up to the front door.

“
Did you have a good first day?” Anita asked me as she popped up behind a hedge of roses like a zombie. I jumped, my hand reflexively reaching for my back pocket. There was nothing there, but I was training myself in the event of a zombie apocalypse. It was where I'd keep my Glock. Anita flinched. I was pretty sure she was scared of me, so I tried to respond nicely. She'd been working here for nearly three years and had always at least tried to pretend to like me.

“
It was great,” I said sweetly as I batted my eyelashes and wondered if she could tell against the sludge cake of eyeliner I'd spread over my pale skin. She smiled and nodded, satisfied. I had passed some sort of normal test. I wondered what she'd do if she ever saw my room. Or knew I carried dead animals around in my backpack. My smile became more real. Anita smiled back. I went inside.

Grandma Willa was in the parlor, yes dear, the
parlor
, rocking back and forth and reading a worn copy of – you guessed it –
Pride and Prejudice.
At least there was some proof that we were related. I didn't bother to say hi to her. She wouldn't have responded. Grandma Willa wasn't rude or anything. She was just old. Super old. Colossal old. Like old enough to remember the Civil War. Okay, not that old but when my parents had died and left me and my sister to their next of kin, Grandma Willa had already been in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s. It wasn't her fault. I tried to tell myself that. I tried to remember that a trust fund was still a trust fund and that I couldn't get at it until I was twenty-one, whether she was here or not. Really.