I haven’t hated anybody since elementary school. Back then, Olivia was the queen bee of South Paloma Elementary, and I hated her. I was so envious, the sight of her used to make me sick. I wanted to slap her every time she smiled. She’d get that self-satisfied look that only eight-year-olds can perfect, and I’d want to scream. But by eighth grade, I loved her so much, I would’ve told her anything. With some people, it’s all or nothing: fierce affection or total detestation, a feeling like a rubber band in your chest stretched too far, about to snap. And for the first time since elementary school, that feeling’s back.
By the time the lunch bell rings, the pent-up energy is too much for me to keep in. I shut myself into the bathroom, grit my teeth, and slam the stall door. One, two, three times. The piercing, metallic banging doesn’t help. What could? What could fix the fact that I have, for two years, loved somebody who apparently thinks I’m a jealous egomaniac?
I storm out of the bathroom, making some freshman dart away with a terrified squeak. I pass classroom doors and advertisements for school photos. Everything is a blur in my peripheral vision until I reach the main entrance. A poster hangs across from the doors, advertising the swim team regionals tomorrow. GOOD LUCK, LIONS! it reads, with a huge picture of the team. My eyes go straight to Lucas’s smile, second from the left in the second row. My fists clench.
Ridiculously, I wish I had hit him. I wish I had gone full bitchy-melodrama-ex and slapped the shit out of him. That would have been satisfying, right? Seeing his stupid, innocent, familiar face go wide-eyed with shock? Even the thought of it is satisfying.
I storm onward, gathering looks as I go, but I’m past caring. I storm by the art room, where we hid in the closet after school last March and made weird collages and kissed against the easels. I storm by the locker he had last year, where he kept lists of inside jokes we had. I storm past the guidance center.
And I slow to a halt.
A terrible thought sneaks into the back of my mind. It feels sickly gratifying, a guilty pleasure even in concept.
A thin plastic sleeve hangs on the guidance center door, filled with the questionnaires we had to fill out. Do you have any information about the identity of any party who may be involved in an illicit relationship?
Slowly, I approach the door. I take a blank form, hatred pulsing sluggishly in my veins like mud. Nothing makes me feel more disgusting than hate.
Can I do this? Can I actually . . .
My heartbeat speeds up as I take the pencil from behind my ear and scribble out five words. I slip the questionnaire under the guidance center door.
I don’t linger. I take off at the fastest walk I can manage.
Whoever’s actually screwing a teacher, I hope they’re grateful that I threw the administration off their scent.
I wonder if the school will believe me. Lucas will deny it, of course, and there’s no actual evidence. His reputation as Mr. Social Wizard, though? Good as gone.
This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve never felt more vindictive—or more content. Maybe I am a terrible person, and maybe I’m fine with that.
Was I looking for revenge this whole time? Did I want to find it?
It was so easy to find, in the end.
THE FIRST TIME I GOT CALLED INTO A PRINCIPAL’S office, I was nine. I told one of my teachers that his breath smelled like fish and that he looked like my dad, if my dad were a century older. It didn’t go over well. I remember telling the principal, “My parents always said to be honest.”
The second time, I was fourteen. I had been in a fight. The fight wasn’t mine—two girls were screaming at each other, throwing punches in the hall. At age fourteen, I’d hit six feet tall, and they were both five foot two, so I figured I could pull them apart. Stupidest mistake of my life. I ended up with a black eye and a fistful of my hair yanked out.
This time is different. No insults, no fights, no explanations. All I have is one defense: I don’t know anything. Principal Turner’s bare desk glimmers. Pictures of her in uniform dangle along the back wall, and certificates and diplomas stand in a neat row atop her shelves. This place oozes excellence. Disciplinary action from her would be terrifying.
“Did he ever try to make you do anything you didn—”
“Principal Turner, I promise, I’ve hardly talked to Dr. Norman outside class.”
“Mr. McCallum, I’m sorry to keep on like this.” She folds her hands, looking at me over the rims of her glasses. “But if there’s any chance that you’re being coerced into silence by—”
“I’m not being coerced. I have no idea how somebody could think it’s me. It’s got to be some sort of prank.” Could it be someone on the team? Last week, the guys were making fun of this whole thing, joking about which teacher would be the worst in bed. But would they take a joke this far?
No. They wouldn’t take the chance of making me miss tomorrow’s meet. And if I have to miss it because of this, I’ll burn the school to the ground. This was the hardest season of my life—our new head coach is a sadist maniac, but he makes everyone so much better that we can’t complain about his methods. He’s expecting me to place tomorrow in the 500 Free.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“Mr. McCallum, there’s no reason for you to apologize. If this isn’t true, somebody else is in serious trouble for making false accusations. And if it is true, you’re still not at fault here. I hope you trust me when I say I have your best interests in mind.”
“Yeah.” But I’m not sure, with the unforgiving gleam in her eyes. She wants to find the culprit. Of course—she should want that. But how can I convince her it’s not me?
The obvious sings at me, trying to lure me in. I could turn in Juniper and García.
But I made a promise to Valentine on Sunday morning. I swore myself to secrecy.
Could one of the others have done this? Olivia could want to get Juniper off the hook. Or Juniper—what if she wanted to frame someone else?
God give me patience. I fidget and shift, disoriented, tossed into a room with zero gravity. I am spinning. The world around me won’t slow down.
One thought grounds me: the night before last, the oasis of that memory. What I scribbled in my journal:
The stillness of the lake.
Valentine’s stiff, quiet voice.
The echoes of the night air . . .
“For now,” Turner says, “you should go back to class. Please don’t disclose any details of this conversation.”
I let out a slow exhalation. “No, of course not.”
“You’re dismissed.”
VALENTINE DOESN’T BELIEVE ME AT FIRST WHEN I tell him, but after a while, it sinks in that I’m not joking. “Well,” he says with his usual reassuring scorn, “why would they believe someone on zero evidence? Don’t worry; it’ll get dropped as soon as they remember they need proof.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I’m so accustomed to that by now, it doesn’t faze me.
“I’m just worried none of my friends are going to take my word for it,” I say. “I don’t want things to be weird, you know? I want them to trust me, and—”
“I trust you,” he blurts out. My heartbeat stutters.
My first instinct is to say, Of course you trust me—you were there Saturday. Or to joke, That’s a shame, since I’m hugely untrustworthy. But the way he’s looking at me—with a mixture of hesitancy and apprehension—keeps me quiet.
I wonder how many people he’s said that to before. I’m willing to guess I could count them on one hand.
I lean back on the hill, crossing my arms, still holding his gaze. I’ve noticed he’s better with eye contact when I’m not so close, but his eyes stay as piercing no matter how far away I am. Just as filled with life and thought. I’m surprised I didn’t spot him halfway across the country, from back in New York.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I don’t know
if everyone will believe me, but I’m glad you do.”
“Of course.” He swallows, making his prominent Adam’s apple bob. It’s not until he looks away that I can breathe again.
THE RUMOR BARRELS THROUGH THE SCHOOL, REACHING everybody by the end of the day. I have no idea who started it, but they have to stamp it out soon, for Lucas’s sake.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Sunday. The chill wind, the earthy smell of the lakeside, and the way Lucas laughed, looking in no way like he wanted me to be somebody more normal. I wanted to ask him at lunch, but with recent developments, the question didn’t seem appropriate: does he think we’re friends now?
The bell rings. I slip into my coat and exit the classroom, cramming myself into the usual clogged artery of the hallway.
Behind me, two swimmers discuss their meet tomorrow. I hoist my backpack higher on my shoulder, away from their jostling, and one of them says, “Bro, by the way, did you hear about Lucas?”
I purse my lips, my shoulders tensing up.
“Yeah, shit,” the other boy says. “You think it’s true?”
“It’s weird,” says the first. “If he’s gay, I mean.”
“I mean, I don’t know. The teacher thing is weirder than the gay thing.”
“But dude, it’s creepy. He’s seen us in Speedos all season. You think he just swims for the dicks?” My fists ball up by my sides. The boy’s voice is loud, confident, and familiar. I stop in my tracks and turn, to the protest of the people swarming around me.
It’s Dean Prince, who was so friendly with Lucas a week ago when he called me a freak. He’s talking about Lucas like this on nothing more than speculation.
“Shut up,” I say.
Dean blinks a few times. “What?”
“It’s not true, so stop spreading it around.”
For a second, he stays quiet, apparently stunned by my audacity. Then his voice rises, and he puffs up like an enraged bird protecting its territory. “You wanna go?” he says, taking a few steps toward me. “What, are you also a cocksucking little—”
I panic for an instant. Then I wind up like a pitcher and slam my fist into his nose.
The thing most forms of media fail to portray about punching someone in the face is that it’s as painful for the hand involved as for the other person’s facial regions. I suppose I should’ve expected that—equal and opposite reaction, and everything—but hell if I’m in the mood for information recall.
Essentially, though, it works. I reclaim my hand, cradling it to my chest. Dean clutches at his nose and reels off balance. People around us retreat, exclaiming as he crashes to the floor.
“The fuck?” his redheaded friend says, eloquently.
“Next time, watch your mouth,” I say. The redheaded guy makes a grab for me, but I stumble back. Knocking people out of my way, I forge through the crowd.
After I emerge into the chilly open air, I realize what I just did. The concept smacks me, buffets me: I attacked someone. If Dean tells the school, I’ll be suspended. I hope to God that his pride stops him from saying anything.
Adrenaline buzzes in my blood. I stick my hands in my pockets and force myself not to sprint to my car. Panic is pouring around me, liquid in a glass box, drowning me inch by inch. What will Lucas, forgiving nature and all, think of me when he finds out what I did?
When I slide into the garage at home, I bolt out of my car, slamming the door. My mind races as I head inside. I should turn García and Juniper in—I should tell them Dean was saying those things before he can tell anyone I hit him—I should do a million things.
“Hey, kiddo,” calls Dad from his study, poking his head into the hall. “How are you?”
I hurry by, not meeting his eyes. When he finds out what I did, he’s going to disown me.
“Lasagna for dinner,” Dad calls after me, his voice cheerful.
“I’m so overjoyed,” I shoot back, and on seeing his smile wilt, I instantly regret it. Why did I say that? Why can’t my mind cooperate with me? Why can’t I just be normal?
I close my bedroom door. My cell phone falls out of my pocket, taunting me, reminding me that I have nobody to call. I’ve pushed everyone in the world away with both hands and the strength of a vicious tongue. If I can’t tell Lucas, I’m alone again.
It’s stupid. Shouldn’t I want to tell him? Aren’t we on the same side? I thought a friend would stand up for someone that way. But I’ve only known him for a week—would a friend go that far, after such a short period of time?
I told him I trust him at lunch, and it’s true, but I hate that he’s made the mistake of trusting me, with his whole, earnest, stupid heart. He’s the first person who’s bothered to try; he’s taken my every eccentricity in stride. And this is how I repay him: by fighting and running.
Can I fix this? I could clear his name to the administration.
No. I can’t abandon Juniper’s cause, not after forcing the others to promise their silence. And heaven knows I don’t want to feel responsible for Mr. García getting fired.
Sitting down at my desk, I realize how disposable I am, how frail the thread between me and Lucas is. You don’t realize how alone you are until you let yourself out of your cage, or until someone finds a way inside. And now that Lucas has found his way in, here I am against the bars, terrified he might slip right back out again.
EMILY FINISHES HER MONOLOGUE, AND I STRIDE onstage, striking everything superfluous from my mind. Running to catch the bus in the morning? Gone. Last night’s screaming match with Olivia? Gone. Lucas McCallum and Dr. Norman? Definitely gone.
Even though I know it’s a lie.
Focus.
Even though I should turn Juniper in.
Focus!
“You’re tired of waiting?” I snap at Emily, who shies back. “You’re tired of waiting. You, Natalya, who left me in this town? Look at me. Look at what I am now.”
“I am looking at you,” she says.
“Look harder.”
“I see a loving mother, a caring sister. I see—”
“You see nothing,” I say. “I am nothing anymore except wasted potential. Nothing.” I take a step forward. “You were supposed to be my teacher. You said I was brilliant—a prodigy, you said. You were supposed to take me away, teach me everything, but instead you ran the first chance you had!” My voice hits the yelling point.
And then García calls, “Hold.”
I hesitate, frowning out into the audience. He said we weren’t going to stop this run for anything. I glance down—maybe Emily or I didn’t hit our lights?—but we’re well placed in the bright spots on the stage.
García leans over the lip of the stage, facing me. It’s a jolt. I’m the problem? What did I do wrong?
“The objective here,” he says. “Your goal. What do you want from her?”
“An apology,” I say. “I . . . I tried to think of anything else. But that’s all I have.”
His eyebrows knit together. His eyes are reddened, as if he’s been rubbing them hard. He shakes his head. “Okay. If you’re going to play it like that, you’ve got to find different tactics. You’re just—watching this scene right now, it’s like watching you scold her. Not the characters, either. It’s like watching you, Kat, scold Emily. It’s too harsh, too . . .” He snaps his fingers. “You’ve got to dial back the anger. It reads as one-note, repetitive. Boring.”
I stare at him. That’s harsher criticism than he’s ever given the rest of the cast combined.
Maybe he’s saying that because he thinks I can take that sort of critique. I know I should say, All right, I’ll work on it, and find subtler notes next time through. But what comes out of my mouth is, “So, am I not allowed to be angry?”
“Excuse me?”
“She left.” I point at Emily. “She left me, and what, I’m not allowed to be angry about it? I think that’s realistic.” My voice rises beyond my control. Focus, whispers the voice in my head, but I’m no longer outside myself. Kat has f
orced her way back to center stage, and her voice keeps going. “I think if someone came back after years, having abandoned me like that, yeah, I think I’d be a little mad.”
“Kat,” García says, a warning. It incenses me. First Olivia, now this. After last Tuesday, I thought García got it—understood me, like nobody had before—but no. Is anybody on my side?
“Why don’t I get a reason?” I say, my heartbeat thudding in my palms. Emily looks at me, eyes wide and shining. “If someone can just tell me why I should stop being angry,” I say, “I’ll do it. But the way I see it, I have plenty of things to be angry about. You keep telling me to rethink this apology thing. You know what? I don’t buy it. She deserves an apology after getting stabbed in the back by someone she thought she could trust.”
Whispers from the side of the stage distract me. The rest of the cast has gathered to watch the new show.
García climbs onstage, striding toward me. The closer he gets, the taller I realize he is, and up close, he looks even worse. His hair is a mess. The red in his eyes makes thin veins visible along the edges of his eyelids.
“Stop it,” he says. His voice doesn’t shake. It’s solid ice. “This is a work space, and you leave everything else at the door, you hear? You drop your day there, and you don’t bring it onto this stage. If I carried every problem I have into this theater, you know how many times I would’ve lost it in this rehearsal process?”
“Oh, I know,” I say.
“What?” His voice falters.
I don’t stop to explain how much I know. “Besides, maybe you should lose it a little more. God knows they could use it.” I stab my finger at the side of the stage. The other actors stare at me, askance. “Yeah, that’s right,” I snap. “Jesus, this is the most attention you guys have paid in any rehearsal. You realize how infuriating that is?”
And García loses it. “Kat!” he yells. “Please. You’re here to act, not to bully the rest of the cast!”
His words resound off the back walls, and as they fade second by second, he deflates. The hard gleam fades from his eyes, leaving exhaustion behind.
Seven Ways We Lie Page 20
