I wasn’t convincing her, though. I could tell she felt awful, and I wished that I’d just wallowed earlier.
“I should send him an apology e-mail,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m the one who wrote the stupid thing. I’ll e-mail the apology.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.” I would hate every second of it, but I’d do it for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m tired, too. Practically falling asleep as we speak.”
It wasn’t the last lie I’d tell that night.
I pretended to sleep until Amy started snoring. It really was astonishing that someone so adorable could make such a horrific noise. It was about ten times louder than her speaking voice, and it came from deep in her throat. Amy wasn’t usually a mouth-breather, but at night? Jesus.
It used to keep me up when we were little. We’d have sleepovers, and I’d stay up all night, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I got so used to the demon that possessed Amy’s body at night that it became a sort of rhythmic, guttural lullaby.
Not tonight, though. Tonight I was wide-awake.
Slowly, I crawled across the huge bed and climbed over Amy. She kept snoring. Once she started, there was no stopping her until someone shook her awake the next morning. She took being a heavy sleeper to a whole new level.
Even so, I found myself tiptoeing across the carpet toward her desk. I picked up her laptop and slipped out the door and down the hall.
The Rushes’ house was ridiculous. Three floors, giant bathrooms, ginormous walk-in closets — Wesley’s room even had a freaking balcony. But my favorite, favorite room in the Rush house was the recreation room. It was just down the hall from Amy’s room, and it was every teenager’s dream. There was a pool table; huge, comfy couches; and, as of Amy’s seventeenth birthday, an old-fashioned pinball machine. But the best part was, hardly anyone knew it was here.
I’d been to a few parties at the Rush house — usually thrown by Wesley when he was home from college — and no one ever seemed to find this room. With the door shut, it was easy to mistake it for just another bedroom. Which made it the perfect little hideaway when you wanted a break from the rowdy youths. Or, you know, when you wanted to make out.
The only time I’d ever found the rec room occupied during a party was this year, on the Fourth of July, when I caught Casey Blythe, a former Hamilton High cheerleader, sucking face with her boyfriend, this nerdy kid named Toby Tucker. But Casey was best friends with Wesley’s girlfriend, so she had inside intel on where all the best places to fool around in the Rush house were.
Other than that little incident, no one ever seemed to come into the rec room besides me and Amy. We hung out in here sometimes, when we didn’t have homework to do. I’d play a game of pool against myself while Amy utterly destroyed on the pinball machine.
Tonight, though, it was just me. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo game of pool, so instead I got cozy on one of the couches and propped open Amy’s laptop. I had a paper due in English, and I figured I might as well get started on it while the productivity booster known as insomnia stuck around.
I’d just opened a new Word document when I heard a small ping and frowned. Then there was a second ping. The same sound, but somehow more insistent.
I hadn’t realized an Internet window was even open, but when I clicked around for a second, I discovered I had an instant message on my e-mail server.
From Ryder Cross.
RYDER: I know I’m not the most well-liked guy right now, but that e-mail really wasn’t necessary.
RYDER: I was putting myself out there, and I don’t appreciate you and your friend (I know you didn’t work alone) mocking me.
I shrank back into the cushions, shame writhing in my gut. I didn’t give a shit if I was a jerk to Ryder, but I hated that he thought Amy had been part of it. I mean, she had, but not willingly. Neither of us had actually wanted to send that e-mail.
I sighed and, since I promised Amy I’d apologize to him, started to write back.
ME: I know. I’m sorry. We got carried away. It’s not an excuse, but I had a shitty day and I took it out on you. We really never meant to hit send. I’m sorry.
A second later, he responded.
RYDER: I accept and appreciate your apology.
RYDER: I’m sorry about your bad day.
ME: Thanks.
I opened my Word doc again, thinking that was the end of it, but barely two minutes later, there was another ping and I groaned.
“Damn it, Ryder. I already apologized. What more do you want from me?”
But when I saw his instant message, I couldn’t help but smile a little.
RYDER: I know this is random, particularly since we’re not in the same class, but you have Mrs. Perkins for English, right? Have you written the paper on Julius Caesar yet?
ME: Funny. I was literally about to start on that. I know. I’ve procrastinated.
And then, because I couldn’t help myself:
ME: I bet the kids back at your school in DC weren’t so irresponsible.
RYDER: Ha-ha. I know. I bring up my old school too much. Is it that annoying?
ME: Yes.
ME: Incredibly.
RYDER: Sorry.
RYDER: But, if it helps, whether the kids in my old school procrastinate or not, I do. At least with English.
RYDER: Especially with Shakespeare.
ME: Not a fan of the bard?
RYDER: I wouldn’t say I’m not a fan. But I am not the best with iambic pentameter. Every word of dialogue goes right over my head.
ME: Alert the press! Ryder Cross just admitted he’s not perfect at something. Quick, has hell frozen over?
RYDER: Never mind. Forget I said anything.
ME: I suck with Shakespeare, too.
RYDER: Yeah?
ME: Yeah.
It was true. I was the most miserable translator to have ever touched the work of Sir William. Last year, when we were studying Macbeth, I got so lost trying to understand it that at one point I threw my book across Amy’s bedroom and swore I’d never go to school again. “Who needs English?” I’d asked her. “I’ll be a mime. I’ll join the circus. Screw my education!”
Lucky for me, Amy is excellent at deciphering Shakespeare’s long monologues, and she taught me a trick — it all starts making sense if you hear it. Seeing the words on the page is too much, too difficult to find the rhythm, but if you hear it, it becomes clearer. And lucky for me, Amy, who would make a brilliant thespian if she weren’t so painfully shy, was willing to read to me.
I’d gotten an A on my Macbeth paper because of her, and now I was about to have an encore performance with my Julius Caesar paper. Amy had read me the play two nights ago, and she hadn’t had to do nearly as much explaining this time.
ME: It helps to hear it.
RYDER: What?
ME: If you can get someone to read it to you — someone who understands it — it starts making a lot more sense.
RYDER: Oh. I don’t really have anyone who could read it to me.
RYDER: My mom could, but I’m not asking her.
ME: What about a study buddy? Someone else from English class?
RYDER: Again, I’m not the most well-liked guy at school right now. Even the teachers can’t stand me.
I didn’t know why, but somehow his honesty about this surprised me. Not that it was a secret. No one really tried too hard to hide their disdain for Ryder, but he was so arrogant, so conceited, that I just assumed he thought the world was as fond of him as he was of himself.
But just then, he didn’t seem too conceited. Actually, he was almost tolerable.
RYDER: Which, if you ask me, is entirely unprofessional. Not that I’m surprised. Most of these people are hardly qualified to call themselves educators.
Scratch that part about tolerable.
ME: I’m going to ignore that
.
ME: Maybe you could watch a staged play? I bet you could find a video online. Or at the library?
RYDER: That’s not a bad idea, actually.
When he didn’t type anything else, I assumed the conversation was over. I went back to my paper, but after writing, deleting, rewriting, and deleting the first paragraph, I realized there was no way I could focus right now. Something Ryder said had lingered in my head, and perhaps I am nosy, but I just had to ask.
ME: Why won’t you ask your mom for help?
RYDER: It’s … complicated.
A minute later:
RYDER: Do you really want to know?
ME: Sure. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.
RYDER: What about your paper?
ME: I already told you I’m a procrastinator. I’m sure your parental drama is far more interesting than Brutus’s betrayal of Caesar.
ME: Though hopefully less bloody?
RYDER: LOL. Yes, less bloody.
ME: My, my, Ryder Cross. I never took you for the chat-speak type. LOL indeed.
RYDER: That’s my dirty little secret. I sometimes write like an actual teenager. Don’t tell anyone.
ME: Too late. I now have dirt on you. Mission accomplished.
He wrote back with an emoticon of a face sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed.
ME: More dirt! This is my lucky night!
RYDER: Damn it. I’m playing right into your hands, aren’t I?
ME: That you are, sir. That you are.
Whoa, wait. Was I bantering with Ryder Cross? My archnemesis? The Lex Luthor to my Superman? The Loki to my Thor? The peanut butter to my jelly? Okay, I know most of the world thinks those last two go together, but I personally find the combination rather abhorrent and just ew.
But I totally was. Ryder Cross and I were teasing each other in a surprisingly nonhostile way. I suppose this was the power of the Internet.
ME: So … your mom?
It took Ryder a little while to type out his response.
RYDER: My mom left my dad. But instead of just divorcing him and moving to a new house and letting me continue at the school I’ve been attending since I was five, she insisted on packing up everything, moving hundreds of miles away, and dragging me with her. It’s like she didn’t care what I wanted. I had friends in DC. I had a girlfriend. I was at one of the top schools in the country. But that didn’t matter. She had gotten a new job and I had to come with her to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I freaking hate it here.
RYDER: Sorry. I know my saying that is why everyone here hates me. I guess to be fair, it’s not so much the town as the situation. I don’t want to be here.
ME: No … I get it, actually.
And I did. I knew Ryder didn’t like Hamilton — everyone knew that — but I’d never really thought about it from his perspective. Being pulled out of a place where you were happy, where you had friends, couldn’t be easy. I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d be if I’d been forced to move somewhere hundreds of miles from Hamilton. From Amy.
I’d probably be kind of an asshole, too.
RYDER: So, yes. That’s why I’m not asking my mom for help. I’ve barely spoken to her since we got here in August. Petty, I know.
ME: You’re seventeen. I think you’re allowed to be petty. Especially about something like this.
ME: But why can’t you go back? Live with your dad?
Again, Ryder took a while to write his answer.
RYDER: I asked. Before we left, I asked to stay. But my mom wouldn’t let me.
ME: Why?
RYDER: I have no idea. Because she’s selfish? Because she wants to punish my dad by keeping me away? Not that she has any right to punish him. She’s the one who left. She’s the one who asked for the divorce. Dad doesn’t want it. He still hasn’t signed the papers.
ME: Do you think they might get back together?
RYDER: That would be difficult with her being a few states away and all.
RYDER: I don’t know. And lately, I can never get ahold of my dad. His secretary always says he’s busy, and he doesn’t answer his cell. I know he’s got a lot going on in Washington, but …
RYDER: Okay, I know this isn’t the cool thing to say, but I miss him.
ME: I’m sorry, Ryder.
RYDER: I don’t want you to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry. Except maybe my mom.
I pulled up Google and tried to find a picture of Ryder and his family. I figured it wouldn’t be hard since his dad was in Congress. They probably had plenty of photos from the campaign trail.
Within a minute, I’d found one. In the picture, Ryder was standing between his parents. His dad was older than I expected. Or maybe he just looked old because of stress. I knew politicians supposedly aged quickly. His hair was gray but well kept. He had Ryder’s bright green eyes and a charismatic smile that could definitely win a vote or two. On Ryder’s other side was his mom, a very pretty black woman in a perfectly tailored suit. She was tall — taller than her husband — and while her eyes were darker than Ryder’s, they had the same shape, large and striking.
And in the middle was Ryder, dressed in a suit very similar to his dad’s. His hair was a little longer then, but not too much. What I couldn’t help noticing, though, was his smile. It was huge and genuine and … so happy. I’d never seen the boy from my class smile like that before. I didn’t know he could.
ME: I could help you Parent Trap them if you like?
RYDER: What?
ME: The Parent Trap?
RYDER: Sorry. Still lost.
ME: Oh. My. God.
ME: You’re kidding, right?
ME: THE PARENT TRAP? Twin girls meet for the first time at summer camp and scheme to reunite their parents? The remake starred pre-train-wreck Lindsay Lohan?
ME: YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN THE FREAKING PARENT TRAP????
RYDER: I have not, but does this really warrant cyber-shouting?
ME: YES!!!!!!
RYDER: Okay.
ME: I weep for your childhood.
I spent the next twenty minutes explaining the plot of The Parent Trap to him, complete with YouTube clips from both the original film and the remake. When I was done, Ryder informed me that it didn’t sound like that great of a movie, and I told him to, with all due respect, shove it.
But we kept IMing after that. About other movies (he was totally into indie art-house flicks, the more subtitles the better, which is, frankly, disgusting) and books (we both struggled with Shakespeare and hated Nathaniel Hawthorne with equal passion) and just … random stuff.
ME: Okay, deep dark secret time. I am a wannabe grunge rocker.
RYDER: Seriously?
ME: Seriously. I don’t play any instruments. I can’t sing to save my life. But I guess that didn’t stop Courtney Love. And I have a lot of secret angst.
ME: If I could pull off flannel, I’d wear it every day.
RYDER: I think you’d look cute in flannel.
I blushed, then realized I was blushing and immediately felt disgusted with myself.
RYDER: So what are you secretly angsty about?
RYDER: If I can ask.
ME: Mostly my mom.
RYDER: This seems to be a running theme this evening.
ME: She is … flaky. To say the least. Unreliable. Truthfully, sometimes I think she wishes she never had me. Sometimes I think she pretends she didn’t.
The second I sent that message, I regretted it. It was way more than I’d planned to share. It was too honest. Too much. Too close.
I didn’t talk about my mom. Not in detail. Not even with Amy. I was the queen of glossing over things. Of turning small truths into big lies.
But now Ryder Cross, of all people, knew one of my darkest secrets. Or, at least, a tiny piece of it. I felt uncomfortable, suddenly, and I was eternally grateful that he couldn’t see me. That even though I’d shared too much, I could at least hide behind this computer screen.
RYDER:
Wow. That does sound like inspiration for a grunge album.
RYDER: I won’t push you to talk about it, but obviously I understand complicated family situations, so if you ever want to share, I’m here to listen.
ME: Thank you.
We chatted for a little while longer, mostly about his favorite band — Goats Vote for Melons, which I’d never heard of, despite his fears that they were becoming too “mainstream.”
ME: God, you are such a hipster.
RYDER: Ugh. I’m NOT a hipster.
ME: Exactly what a hipster would say.
He sent me the smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Very mature and all. Then he wrote:
RYDER: I should probably go. It’s late.
RYDER: Whoa — look out your window.
ME: Both creepy and cryptic, but all right.
I glanced up and gasped, startled. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to peek over the trees. I looked at the clock and was stunned to see that it was nearly six in the morning.
I’d been IMing with Ryder all night.
ME: Wow.
RYDER: I know.
ME: I had no idea we were on here this long.
RYDER: Me either.
ME: I should get to bed.
RYDER: Me, too. But I really liked “talking” to you.
ME: I liked “talking” to you, too.
And, weirdly, I had.
ME: Let’s do this again sometime.
RYDER: I’d like that.
ME: Okay, well … good night. Or, good morning?
RYDER: LOL. Good morning, Amy.
I frowned, reading his message again.
Amy?
I was about to write back, to correct him, but he’d already logged off. I figured maybe it was just a typo, a mistake. We were both sleep deprived, after all. But as I was about to log out, a terrible realization hit me.
Amy had never logged out earlier. Why would she? It was her computer, after all.
I’d been instant messaging with Ryder for hours, and this whole time — this whole damn time — he thought I was Amy Rush.
Lying Out Loud Page 3
