“Well, that’s one way to make him stop worshipping you,” I said once we were standing in front of the row of sinks. “Talking about your bodily functions.”
“He keeps asking me out,” she said. “And he’s just going to ask again if I tell him I’m busy this weekend.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ve gotta come up with another way to … Wait.”
“What?”
“I have an idea. Avoiding him isn’t going to work, right? You’re too nice and he just keeps trying. So maybe when you do have to talk to him, you could do things like what you just did.”
“Talk about my bodily functions?”
“Among other things,” I said. “Be weird. Be all the things he can’t stand.”
“I don’t know what he can’t stand,” she said.
“Well … I know he doesn’t like people who are flaky. Or people who are late for things. He hates when people are irresponsible and he’s kind of a snob, so pop culture references get on his nerves.”
“So … I should act like you?” she offered.
“Hey now.”
“I’m kidding.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “But … I don’t know. I don’t want to be rude.”
“Yes,” I said. “You do. For once in your life you do.”
“Sonny …”
“It won’t kill you,” I assured her. “Come on. Please. Just be a little weird. And not cute, adorkable weird. He’d probably be into that.”
“I don’t —”
“No time,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I dragged her back out of the bathroom. As expected, Ryder was still waiting right where we’d left him. He smiled at Amy.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Oh, ye —” She stopped, glanced at me, and then cleared her throat. “No. I’m a little bloated, so …”
Ryder raised an eyebrow. “Okay … anyway. So about that date?”
“Can’t,” Amy said. “I, uh … There’s a Real Housewives marathon on this weekend. I have to watch it.”
“You watch reality TV?” As expected, he appeared to be disgusted by this revelation.
“She’s obsessed,” I said, chiming in. “Deeply obsessed. She’s seen every season of The Real World, too. Even the old ones that came on back in the nineties.”
Amy nodded. “Yep. So I’ll be busy this weekend.”
“Can’t you record it?” Ryder asked. “The marathon?”
“I … um … No. I can’t. I have to, uh, live-tweet it.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe another time. Next Saturday —”
“Amy, don’t you need to get to class?” I asked. “The bell’s about to ring. You’ll be late. Again.”
“Huh? Oh.” She nodded. “Right. Late. I’m always late. Late Amy. That’s what my teachers call me, so … Okay. Bye.”
She took off down the hallway. Ryder frowned after her, then he turned to me. “That was … different. Is she okay?”
“What? No. She’s always like that,” I lied.
“She is?” Ryder looked skeptical. “That didn’t seem like the Amy I know.”
“You don’t know her as well as you think.”
“Hmm.”
“Come on,” I said, eager to change the subject. “We should get to class, too.”
Ryder nodded and he fell into step with me as we headed for Mr. Buckley’s classroom. Despite my failed attempt before, I tried to start a conversation with him again. I skipped the small talk, though, and went straight for the big guns.
“So how’s your dad’s campaign going?”
Ryder shrugged. “No idea. Why?”
“I’m just curious. Tuesday is election day, and I know he’s running for reelection.” But since Senator Cross didn’t represent our region, I realized that might have been a wee bit strange, so I added, “Amy told me.”
“My dad and I aren’t exactly speaking right now. And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I know his campaign is kind of a big deal. I just thought you might be going to DC to help him with it.”
“I’m sure you and everyone else in this school would love that,” he said as we entered the classroom and took our seats.
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I was just wondering.”
“Well, to answer your question, no. I don’t particularly want him to win, so …”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I said, surprised. I knew what his dad had done, but I’d also done some research on Senator Cross. He was, without question, a shitty husband, but by all accounts, he was a good politician. He’d been the champion of several progressive bills over the past few years, and he seemed to be doing a lot to help the poor and middle class in Maryland.
Hot supermodel mistress aside, I would’ve voted for the guy.
“Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” Ryder said.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, not when I technically wasn’t supposed to know the details of the falling-out with his dad. I was saved the trouble, however, when the bell rang and class was underway.
An hour and a half later, I caught up with Amy as she left her first block class.
“If it isn’t Late Amy,” I teased. “You still bloated? Also, wow, that sounds like a pregnancy joke.”
“Ugh.” She groaned. “I didn’t know what to say. That was so awful.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I told her. We were weaving our way through the crowded hallway. For a school that barely had four hundred students, Hamilton High could get surprisingly congested. “Actually, you were perfect. Just do that every time you see Ryder, and he’ll be over you in no time.”
“But I don’t want to do that,” Amy said. “It was so awkward.”
“It was supposed to be.” I looped my arm through hers. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Just a few more encounters with weird, flaky Amy and this thing will all be done.”
Amy looked like she was about to protest, but then I realized something.
“Crap. I left my toothbrush in your bathroom this morning. You don’t think your parents will go in there, right? And notice?”
“Notice your toothbrush?” Amy shook her head. “I doubt it. They have no reason to go in there. They have their own bathroom.”
“Good,” I said, relieved, as we slid into our seats in Mrs. Perkins’s English class. “I’ve been getting sloppy lately. I left my shoes on the mat the other night, and two days ago I forgot to lock the front door on my way out.”
“Well,” Amy said, pulling out her textbook, “they haven’t said anything to me about any of those things.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m just paranoid.”
“If you’re really that worried about it, we could just tell them,” she suggested. “They won’t care that you’re staying, Sonny. I’ve told you. If you just tell them you were kicked out —”
I shook my head. “No. It’ll be too complicated. They’ll want to talk to my mom and … just no. It’s better if we keep things the way they are.”
Amy sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I still don’t see what the problem is, but it’s your choice. A few weeks ago I would’ve said there’s no way we could keep it from my parents for this long, but clearly that’s not the case.”
“I am a magnificent sneak,” I said. “The Russians should hire me as a spy. In fact, for all you know, maybe they already have.”
“You just told me like three things that could’ve given you away,” Amy pointed out.
“But they didn’t!” I declared.
Amy shook her head, giggling.
“I should stop worrying about it, though,” I said as Mrs. Perkins entered the room and began scribbling instructions on the whiteboard. “Your parents figuring things out, I mean. It’s been a few weeks. If they were going to find out I was living with you, they would have by now. I’m probably in the clear.”
“We know Sonny’s been living here.”
<
br /> So maybe I’d spoken too soon.
It was the next day, Saturday, which meant I’d been secretly living in the Rushes’ house for almost a month. I’d really thought I was in the clear, but when Mr. Rush had asked Amy and me to come talk to him and Mrs. Rush in the living room, I knew we were busted.
“What … what are you talking about?” Amy squeaked. Poor thing. The guilt was all over her pretty little face. She had the worst poker face I’d ever seen.
“We’ve known for a while,” Mr. Rush said. “Contrary to popular belief, my wife and I aren’t totally oblivious.”
“You’ve left a few clues,” Mrs. Rush pointed out. “And we’ve heard you sneaking in at night. You’re not exactly the quietest person, Sonny.”
“We also seemed to be running out of food faster than usual,” Mr. Rush added.
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I asked. “If you’ve known …”
“We were hoping you’d come to us with whatever was going on when you were ready,” Mr. Rush said. “But it was becoming clear that might not happen anytime soon.”
I leaned back against the couch cushion¸ pulling my socked feet up and hugging my knees to my chest. I was holding down the wave of panic rising in my stomach.
“So now we have some questions of our own,” Mr. Rush continued.
“Yes,” Mrs. Rush agreed. “Like, Sonny, why have you been living here for the past few weeks? You know you’re always welcome here, but you secretly moving in is something else entirely. We’re concerned and we’d like to know what’s going on under our own roof.”
“I … I …” I swallowed. Come on, Sonny. You got this. You’re good at this. Just lie. Lie, lie, lie. “I don’t know. It’s nothing, really. Home is just boring, so …” Damn it. Not my best work. But my heart was racing and my palms were all sweaty. “I’ll just go home. It’s fine.”
But the idea of going back to my house made the panic even worse.
I started to stand up, but Amy caught my arm.
“No,” she said. “Tell them, Sonny.”
Mr. Rush raised an eyebrow while his wife frowned with confusion. “Tell us what?” she asked.
But I’d lost my words. I could always come up with an answer. I had a lie ready for anything. And I’d lied about this, about my mom, a thousand times over the years. It should’ve been easy. But this lie was a little bigger — it involved more people with more potential to poke holes in whatever I said — and I felt suddenly stuck.
I couldn’t think of a lie to tell. Not one that wouldn’t involve more questions. I needed a second to think.
Luckily, Amy bought me a little time.
“She was kicked out,” she told her parents. “She didn’t want to tell you, but her mom kicked her out. So she’s been staying here.”
“What?” Mr. Rush said. “Why would she kick you out, Sonny?”
I stared at my feet, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. I couldn’t see their faces, and I hoped they couldn’t see mine as I shoved out the only lie I could think of.
“Pot,” I muttered.
“Really?” Amy whispered. “You didn’t tell me that part.”
Amy had been begging, in her indirect sort of way, for details of my ejection from my mother’s home for weeks. I’d always changed the subject or said I didn’t want to talk about it or pretended I hadn’t heard her ask. The less I talked about my mom, the better.
“Marijuana?” Mrs. Rush said. “That … doesn’t sound like you, Sonny.”
“No,” Mr. Rush agreed. “It doesn’t.”
“I … I only used it once,” I managed. “But my mom found out, and …”
“And she kicked you out,” Mr. Rush finished the sentence for me. “Well, I wouldn’t be thrilled if I were her either, but that seems like a bit of an overreaction.”
“That’s why she’s been staying here,” Amy said. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you two sooner. But can she keep staying here? Please?”
“Sonny’s always welcome,” Mrs. Rush said. “But I think we should speak to her mother about —”
“No.” My head shot up. “No, that’s a bad idea.”
“It’s been weeks since she kicked you out,” Mr. Rush said. “Surely she’s realized what an overreaction this is.”
“We should talk to her. Try to convince her …,” Mrs. Rush began.
But I was shaking my head so hard it hurt. “No,” I said again. “I’ve … I’ve tried. She’s really strict about this stuff. She’s not having it.”
“Does she at least know where you are?” Mrs. Rush asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, where else would I be?”
Amy squeezed my hand.
“We should still call her,” Mr. Rush said. “Just so she knows for sure that you’re safe and —”
“I’ll do it,” I said quickly.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Rush asked. “She might want to speak to us about —”
“If she does, I’ll tell you,” I said. “Just let me do it. Please. That is, if you’re going to let me stay here?”
Amy’s parents glanced at each other, then back at me.
“Sonny, of course you can stay here,” Mrs. Rush said. “In fact, you should’ve told us sooner. We wouldn’t have been upset.”
“That said, we don’t condone illegal substances in this house either,” Mr. Rush said. “So if you are going to continue staying here, no pot.”
“No problem,” I said.
Truth be told, I’d never smoked pot in my life. Not for any moral or ethical reason (clearly my morals were all over the place), but I just hadn’t had much of an interest. I liked to be able to think quick on my feet. All the better for lying, my dear. A drug that slowed down the brain, even just for a little bit? No thanks.
“You have the same curfew as Amy, then,” Mrs. Rush said. “All the same rules.”
“And you have to call your mother. Right after we finish up here,” Mr. Rush said. “I know you think she knows where you are, but I’d rather not leave her guessing. She still cares about you. She’ll want to know you’re safe.”
I nodded.
But I wasn’t so sure he was right.
Mrs. Rush got to her feet. “I better go get the guest room set up, then.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind staying in Amy’s room.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Rush asked. “It’s got to be a little crowded in there for the both of you. A slumber party is one thing, but full-time …”
“We don’t mind sharing,” Amy assured her.
“Well, I’m at least going to clear the closet so she can hang her clothes up,” Mrs. Rush said. “Good lord, Sonny. Have you been living out of a duffel bag this whole time?”
I nodded.
She shook her head and gave me a hug, as if this was the saddest thing she’d ever heard. Once she let go, she headed for the stairs. “Amy, honey, why don’t you go put some fresh towels for both of you in the bathroom.”
“Okay.” Amy stood up, gave me a fleeting glance, then followed her mother up the stairs.
Which left only Mr. Rush and me.
There was a long silence at first, and it was so painfully awkward that I had to say something or my brain might explode.
“Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Don’t even mention it,” he said. “You and Amy have been best friends for how long? We might as well make you living here official.” He smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “Sonny, are you sure you don’t want me to call your mother?”
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll tell her where I am.”
He nodded. “But if you do need to talk about something, don’t hesitate to come to Mrs. Rush or me. I know that probably goes without saying, but …”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”
“Good.” He stood up. “I’m going to go get dinner started. Call your mother, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
I still had Amy’s ce
ll phone, and when Mr. Rush left the room, I pulled it out. I stared at the keypad for a long time before dialing the familiar number. One I’d dialed over and over and over again in the past few weeks.
“Sorry, but the number you have dialed is disconnected or is no longer in service.”
I hung up and put the phone away, blinking back tears.
“The closet and the dresser are empty,” Mrs. Rush announced as she made her way back down the stairs. “They’re all yours.”
“Thank you.” I stood up. “I’ll go put my clothes away.”
“Did you call your mother?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. She said she’s not ready for me to come home yet, but she’s glad I’m okay. She says thanks for letting me stay.”
Mrs. Rush smiled and touched my shoulder. “Good,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“I will. Thank you.”
I couldn’t say it enough. Thank you for letting me stay. Thank you for not asking more questions. It was more than I deserved. More than most people would give their daughter’s delinquent best friend.
I wasn’t actually a delinquent, but based on the lies I’d just told, they thought I was. But still, they were letting me live here. That’s just the kind of people the Rushes were.
I went up to Amy’s room and grabbed my bag. I took it to the guest room and started tossing my wrinkled clothes into drawers and putting the nicer things (i.e., my one nice sweater) on hangers.
I was almost done when Amy’s phone buzzed in my back pocket. I looked at the screen and saw that it was a text from Ryder.
My dad knows I know about the model and now he won’t stop calling. I never answer. He won’t take the hint.
I was supposed to respond with something obnoxious or bizarre. Something to make him question why he’d ever like Amy. That was why I had the phone, after all. But just then, with my mother’s silence ringing in my ears, I couldn’t hold back the words I really wanted to say to him.
Answer him. He might be a dick, but at least he wants to talk to you.
It only took Ryder a second to respond.
That wasn’t the reply I expected. Is everything okay?
Not for the first time, I found it was easier to be honest in text form than in real life.
Lying Out Loud Page 7
