Seven Ways We Lie

by Riley Redgate

  “Decent.”

  He smiles. “You’re tough to impress. I’m guessing you want to do theater in college? Maybe a conservatory or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  García turns right. “Well, they’ll be lucky to have you.” We accelerate down the widest road in Paloma, which runs through the entire city, top to toe. We pass a strip mall on the left. “I did a drama double-major in school,” García says. “English and drama.”

  “Oh. Did you want to act?”

  “No, I was a stage manager, mostly.” García grimaces. “I got exactly one part in college, and I had two lines, and I messed both of them up opening night. So that went well.”

  I bite my tongue. I can’t imagine college. It feels so far away—not even a distance in time so much as a physical distance. As if I’m trying to cover thousands of miles on foot.

  “Left on Cypress Street,” I say. García slips into the turn lane and rounds onto a narrow street filled with potholes.

  “Out of curiosity,” García says, “do you have a sister? Olivia?”

  “Yeah. We’re twins.”

  “Ah, okay. I was wondering. She’s in my honors class.”

  “Of course,” I say. “She’s the smart one.”

  “Hey, you’re just as smart. A different kind of smart,” García says. “Believe me, Kat, it takes a lot of intelligence to show a character like you do onstage.” He considers for a second. “I guess you can’t put it on a scale, but in my book, it means more than a couple points on the SAT. It’s definitely going to mean something to the audience on opening night.”

  I sneak a glance at him. He looks unconcerned, as if those words weighed nothing at all, but they settle and fasten themselves somewhere deep inside me. I’ve never felt smart beside Olivia. She’s two math classes ahead of me. Even in the subjects I actually like—history and English—schoolwork never feels effortless, not like it seems for my sister.

  These days, my grades are circling the drain. I don’t have motivation anymore, just exhaustion. I don’t care anymore, about anything besides the play, anyway.

  I sink in my seat, resolving not to answer anything else. This shit’s getting too personal.

  Mr. García seems to sense me fortifying my walls. He stays quiet.

  He probably thinks I’m jealous of my sister or that I hate her. I’m sure that’s what Olivia thinks, but it’s not true. I’m not going to braid Olivia’s hair and make daisy chains with her, but God knows I don’t hate her.

  We used to be close in middle school, back before she blossomed out and I shrank in, before high school sent us down different roads. I guess we were close up until the second Mom let the door slam on her way out. That did something to Olivia: she got all bright-eyed and optimistic about Mom coming back, but I knew it would never happen. The first time Olivia talked about calling Mom back up, trying to stay in touch, I walked out of the room. Fucking delusional. Sometimes she still seems to be in denial, as if we’re still some happy family with anything in common besides living under the same roof.

  These past two years, I’ve gotten so exhausted with everyone, including my sister. It’s so much simpler to fall into computer games and solitude, where, sure, nobody offers consolation, but nobody’s going to hurt you, either. And at least the enemies there are clearly labeled.

  I watch the houses outside my window shrink, the yards dwindling to small green-gray rectangles. The houses here on the western outskirts of Paloma are tiny and dilapidated.

  “Left here,” I say as we clunk over the eight hundredth pothole. “I’m on the right. Number 243.”

  “Great.” A minute later, he pulls up our concrete driveway. Our house waits to the right, flat-roofed and beige. The sight of it fills me with resignation.

  “I’ll see you in class,” Mr. García says.

  “Yeah,” I say, getting out. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Sure.”

  I shut his door and head inside, already aching to collapse into bed.

  IT’S 10:00 PM ON A THURSDAY, SO OF COURSE MY PARENTS are yelling at each other down the hall in the kitchen, and I have more homework than I want to admit, so of course I’m dicking around on the Internet. There’s a point where procrastination turns into resignation that you will never do what you need to do, and I hit that point, like, two hours ago, after opening a Word document in a short-lived fit of optimism. At this point, anything I write will seem like one hundred percent bullshit when I read it over tomorrow morning, so is this even worth it? Signs point to no.

  The voices down the hall rise to a cracking point.

  “We never should have left St. Louis!” my mom yells. “I would have stayed with my family, stayed near my parents, but no, you wanted to—”

  “Oh, I wanted to? Who was it who—”

  Sighing, I get up to block the gap under my door. My clothes, strewn across the floor like storm debris, tend to come in handy at this time of night. I kick a couple of hoodies against the crack as a makeshift silencer, glancing back at my bed. Russell lies asleep between the sheets, his thumb lodged deep in his mouth. If he wakes up, I’m going to kill my parents. They’re not even trying to keep it down these days.

  I sit back down, put my headphones on, and open Spotify, twisting the volume up. Avril Lavigne belts out some inhuman high note over my dad’s muffled voice. I will guard my Spotify page into the afterlife, because if anyone saw it, I would probably resurrect from shame. I have this thing for whiny pop-rock, lots of Nickelback and Avril and latter-day Weezer, and it’s morbidly embarrassing, but it can’t be cured, not by my mom’s classic rock or Burke’s hipster Bon Iver shit. Besides, nothing’s better for drowning out an argument than Avril Lavigne yell-singing about how much of a crazy bitch she is, which, like, I guess if that’s how you want to describe yourself, go for it.

  A red notification pops up at the top of my Facebook page, announcing a message from Olivia. My stomach does acrobatics, and my brain aches as if someone’s slammed a block of wood against my forehead. Jesus, crushes are so humiliating.

  Hey, Matt,

  Following up for the project thing. We should probably meet over the weekend to practice the actual presentation, sort out who’s going to say what. I can get supplies for a poster or something. Go ahead and call me at 476-880-1323—we’ll sort it out faster that way.

  Also, here’s a link to read Inferno online—www.bartleby.com/20/101.html

  Olivia

  Without thinking, I take a joint from my drawer. My fingers move like rubber, thick and clumsy, as I open my window and light up. The first hit mellows in my lungs for a moment before I exhale into the night wind, leaning out to keep the smoke away from Russ. It’s not long before I feel it: the world engulfing me in its arms. Guitar chords ring deep in my headphones, every note dissipating out into its own rich, vibrating melody.

  When I’m sufficiently stoned, I grab my phone, tap in Olivia’s number, and hit call. As it rings, I pause the music, sinking onto my desk chair, and the quiet presses in. Voices rise and fall outside my door, lapping against my awareness in gentle waves. My eyes fix on the trail of smoke twining from the joint out through the window, and Olivia’s phone rings and rings, and it occurs to me that maybe 10:00 PM is a little late to call somebody I don’t know—should I have waited, talked to her tomorrow in class?

  The line connects. “Hey, it’s Olivia,” she says, her bright, quick voice as awake as if it’s early morning. I say, “Hey, Matt here.”

  “Yeah, I guessed,” she says. “So, when are you free to work on this thing?”

  I want to say Slow down; I want to wait; I want to savor the sound of her voice. I reply so slowly, the words barely feel like words at all, just lazy, meaningless streams of syllables. “I’m free all the time. Whatever works.”

  “Let’s get it out of the way this weekend,” she says, and I’m like, “Yeah, how ’bout Saturday?” and she says, “Okay. I’m not going to have a car, though, so.”

  “We
could meet at your place,” I say, trying not to sound too into the idea, and she’s like, “Not advisable,” and I’m like, “Why not?” and she’s like, “Kat’s going to be home. My sister.”

  “I won’t be loud or anything,” I say, and she says, “That’s not what I mean.” And I say, “Then what do you mean? Don’t want to embarrass yourself by letting me in your house?” and the second it comes out, my eyes fall shut, and my mind goes, Shut up, Matt. Shut up.

  Olivia lets out a disbelieving-sounding laugh. “Know what? Maybe you should meet Kat. I bet you guys would get along great,” and I’m like, “What’s that mean?” and she’s like, “It’s clear you both have lots to figure out before you can act like civilized human beings,” and a defensive instinct surges up, and I say, “Shit-talking your own sister. Classy.” And she snaps, “Well, she’s been nothing but awful since our mom left, not that my family is any of your goddamn business.”

  I go quiet.

  “Shit. I didn’t mean that,” she says. “It’s . . . she’s weird these days, but it’s not . . .”

  I rub my forehead. “No, don’t worry about—”

  “All I meant was, if you don’t know her, she gets tough to deal with.”

  “Right,” I manage, suddenly hyperaware that although I’ve gone to school with Kat Scott for years, I’ve never talked to her, and I guess it’s because she’s so quiet. I don’t know, there’s this romantic idea about quiet people in movies and books, like, Oh, they’re so mysterious, whereas in my experience it’s not like that at all. It’s more like, Okay, you don’t want to talk? Fine, I’ll let you do your own thing, since you obviously don’t want to associate with me.

  “Listen,” I say, “I’m sorry, okay? I keep . . . things just won’t come out right when . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. My thoughts are snarling up like yarn inside my head. Jesus, what is it about this girl that wrecks my ability to goddamn talk?

  After a second, she rescues me: “Well, I sort of snapped, too, so . . .”

  I search for words, but the knowledge about her family is a roadblock, detouring my attention. Their mom walked out. She and her sister have been fighting ever since. I’ve had this thing for Olivia for years, feeling like I knew all about her because . . . I don’t know why. Because I’ve had a couple of classes with her. Because, like everyone else, I know the guys she hooks up with. Now, though, I picture her blue eyes and try to imagine the miles of thoughts hiding behind them, the years of history concealed back there, and I wonder why it took me this long to think of her as someone with a hundred thousand dimensions, of which I know maybe one. It was too easy to see her as a cutout doll of the perfect girl.

  Then a shout bursts into my attention, ringing through my door: “—be quiet!” and I wince and smother my phone, but Olivia’s already asking, “Everything all right over there?” and I’m like, “It’s my parents,” because it’s easier than a lie.

  “That’s rough. It’s pretty late,” she says, and I sigh. I don’t want her to pity me, but I do want her to know that I get what it’s like, coming home to a house you can’t deal with, so I shrug and say, “They’ve been like this since I was, like, ten. On and off. So I get . . . I hope your sister gets better. I hope you guys work it out. Because this shit drives you insane. You know?”

  For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then her voice comes back, calm and slow. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “I get done with school and everything and come home to this, like, hovering atmosphere of—I don’t know what I did, you know? I’m going crazy trying to figure out what I did,” and I say, “You probably didn’t do anything,” and she says, “What?” and I say, “I mean, my parents are always angry because they’re miserable.”

  Silence. I feel as if the words should have been hard to say, but they slid out as easily as thin liquid, not an ounce of resistance. I stare at my bedroom wall, and my voice trails on without me, careless, thoughtless. “My mom feels like she’s wasting her fancy degree out here in bumfuck Kansas, and my dad gets all, Why are you so ungrateful? and nothing I do changes that. So, like, your sister? If I had to guess, she’s probably going through something personal, and she needs to figure it out before she’s ready to treat you like . . . I don’t know. A person.”

  Looking over at the windowsill, I realize my blunt has smoldered down on its plate. I stub it out, not even angry about having wasted half a joint, because, what the hell, when did this turn into an actual conversation? I’m perched, tense, on the edge of my chair, waiting for her answer.

  Olivia says, “Where’d your mom go to school?” And I say, “Yale. She’s a biologist.”

  “How do you deal with the fighting?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” I rummage around for a better answer but come up empty-handed. “I don’t deal with it. I’m just here.”

  “You don’t try to stop them?” she asks, and I’m like, “Nah. Last time I tried was freshman year. Now I only speak up when they get Russell involved,” and she’s like, “Your little brother,” and I look over at him, his mouth cracked open in sleep. “Yeah,” I say. “He’s better than the rest of my family combined.” A breeze washes in through the window as I listen to her silence on the other end. I haven’t talked like this in a long time, and something in my heart is waking up, lifting its drooping head.

  “What’s, uh, what’s going on with your sister?” I ask.

  “She’s missing classes, she never comes out of her room, and every time I, like, dare to seem worried, she snaps. It’s like living with a . . . I don’t know, a Venus flytrap. A large, deeply angry Venus flytrap.” Olivia chuckles, and it breaks, and she’s quiet, and I rearrange my fingers on the hot plastic casing of my phone and wish I knew what to say.

  “It’s frustrating,” she goes on, “ ’cause we’re both dealing with the same thing, you know? She’s the only one who would get it, but we’ve never spoken about Mom, not once. I wish she’d talk to me. Jesus, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss middle school.”

  “Makes sense wanting to rewind things, though.”

  Her silent understanding rings through the phone. Me, I’d go all the way back to elementary school, before permanent lines settled between my parents’ eyebrows.

  “But also, fuck middle school,” I add, and she laughs.

  Silence settles carefully, like ashes. “This is weird,” she says after a minute, and I say, “Yeah,” and she says, “I hate to, like, ruin your night—”

  “You’re not—”

  “Let’s just . . .”

  “Yeah,” I say. “So, Saturday? My house? I can pick you up.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll send you my address, and . . . yeah, great.” Her voice is uncertain, tense with the weird anxiety I’m feeling, too, and I get this image of her eyes bleary and her long dark hair draped over her shoulder, and it startles me a little, the reminder that she’s a real, physical person, someone I’ll see in the flesh tomorrow at school. What will it be like, meeting her eyes after saying all this? I’m going to mess it up, won’t I? The easy slide of this conversation will disappear, and I’ll be back to my usual awkward mumbling.

  “I’ll read Inferno,” I blurt out, without knowing why. Somehow, even though I haven’t done any required reading since I was twelve, it doesn’t feel like a straight-up lie.

  She chuckles. “I’m holding you to that. See you tomorrow?” And I say, “Yeah,” and she says, “Bye, Matt.”

  When she hangs up, it feels as if I’m surfacing from a deep dream. I draw a long breath, dazed, and carry Russ upstairs to tuck him in. As I shut myself back in my room, easing myself into bed, I can hardly believe that somewhere across town, Olivia picked up the phone and something happened—I don’t know what the hell it was—over the line.

  A nervous voice creeps into my head, whispering, You should pull back before this inevitably goes sour. After all, twelve hours ago, I barely had the nerve to look her in the eye. But something else bounces around inside my head, loude
r than the creeping worry: the hesitant sound of her saying my name. I want to keep hearing it. I want to keep handing my voice back in reply. I grip my sheets tight at the thought and stare up at my ceiling, my jaw a little stiff and my heart a little fast.

  The sound of her voice pins itself to my eardrum, echoing until I fall asleep.

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, I HURRY THROUGH THE JUNIOR lot, counting cracks in the asphalt as my tightly knotted sneakers hit them. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. I don’t look up for anything. Unexpected eye contact is one of my least favorite things. What do you do if you’re acquainted with the person? Nod? Smile? Stare blankly? Know thyself, said the Greeks, and knowing myself, the blank stare is all I would be able to manage.

  The passing conversations bore me in three-second increments: grades and teachers, sports and scores, pop music and celebrity breakups. As if any of that matters. Why is everyone around me so vapid? I’m starting to think they should rename so-called intelligent life.

  “Freeeak,” a voice drones at me. I glance up, narrowing my eyes at the group walking by. It’s half the swim team, uniformly tall and muscular, chuckling like one self-satisfied organism.

  “Incredibly original,” I call after their retreating backs, in as scathing a voice as possible. I don’t know why I’m engaging. I’m better than that. I’m better than them. I’m certainly better than vindicating their juvenile behavior with a response.

  The one in the center of the pack, a curly-haired kid with a long nose, shoots an apologetic look over his shoulder. I glare at him. If he were sorry, he would say something to his douchebag teammate. It must be nice, being surrounded by an army of friends who’ll be complicit in your behavior, no questions asked.

  The swimmer guy looks at me a moment longer before turning back to his friends. He doesn’t say a word.

  That’s what I thought.

  I glance back down at my feet, but I’ve lost count of the asphalt cracks. Sighing, I look up. A girl leaning against a nearby car—Izby Qing: short, slender, hair dyed pink—catches my eye. She stands, laughing and hair-twirling, next to a freckled boy, transparently reveling in his attention.