“The pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Sunny replied. She was good at playing along.
I said “Hi” to Sage, and she said “Nice hair” to me. After that I didn’t know what to say, so I looked around. Sage and Katy went back to their previous conversation. They giggled and whispered to each other while Dickie and Sunny talked and Heinous threw in a few well-timed jokes.
My eyes drifted over the lamp-lit campus. It seemed like everyone, even the spotted mathletes, had found someone. I studied a few sophomore girls gathered by a concrete slab at the far end of the square. Sarah Parrot, Amber Lane, Jewel Sens, Brandy Morales — all of them were going out with someone. In their center, beside Mark Watson, the golden-crested senior thug, sat the Ice Queen. Mark was talking with some of his friends while Ellie was talking with the sophomore girls. The two of them together were a Hollywood picture of perfection.
I wondered what was wrong with me. Despite my recent rise in popularity, I still felt separated from everyone. It was as if I were staring through a window at all the real people talking and holding hands and laughing on the other side.
A water balloon smashed on the sidewalk near my leg.
“Blast!” Dickie said. “Looks like we might expect a bit of rain.”
“Quite,” I replied, straining for a British accent.
“Rather,” Heinous said.
Two figures popped up from behind some bushes at the edge of the square and launched more balloons at us. One exploded on Sunny. She laughed, ever a good sport.
I recognized our attackers from the way they grunted while giving each other a high five. The Steves, aka Steve Lacone and Steve Dennon — two jeekish sophomores from Boomer wing.
“For your honor!” Dickie said, filling his hand with a snowball-size glop of shaving cream. He launched it at the Steves, but it disintegrated in midair.
“For freedom!” Heinous cried. He ran over the hill, spraying people with shaving cream. The Steves had a whole crew from Boomer wing who chucked water balloons at him.
I joined the fray along with Cheese and a few other Dingo-wingers who came to our aid until we had an all-out battle involving buckets of water from the pond. T-shirts were drenched and hair frothed with shaving cream. The RC on duty halfheartedly tried to get us to settle down, but there was no rule against water and shaving cream fights. Someone even managed to land a glop of cream on the RC’s crotch, at which point he gave up and went inside.
Dickie and I chased Steve Lacone with a bucket full of pond water that we intended to dump on his head. As we rounded a corner, I slipped and skidded into a puddle. Mud splattered from my feet to my cheek. It wouldn’t have been bad, except two girls were standing right there.
One of the girls, with dark hair, silver eyebrow piercings, and a sly smile, stepped toward me while I sat there, dumb as a wet bunny in the lamplight. She wore a tight shirt cut low enough to reveal the black lines of Japanese characters tattooed on her chest, descending into her cleavage. I tried to keep myself from staring as she raised her hand and wiped a glop of mud off my shoulder. Then she touched my forehead with her muddy finger, dragging a line down the center of my nose.
“Cute,” she said, and walked away.
AS SOON AS I GOT BACK to my dorm, I looked through past yearbooks. It turned out that the girl who’d touched me was Jessica Keen, an incredibly hot junior from Chicago. For days following the water fight, I had this nervous, giddy energy. Except nothing happened. I kept an eye out for Jessica, but she hung with an entirely different crowd. The only time I saw her was when I went to the cafeteria. She sat at a corner table with Rachel Chang and some Goth guys, and she never looked my way.
I began to worry that she might be losing interest in me, if she ever had been interested. Maybe I’d only blipped onto her radar for a moment and now I’d been forgotten. My stomach twisted at the thought that history might keep repeating itself and I’d forever be overlooked. Clearly, I had to do something. This new me couldn’t let Jessica Keen get away.
It was Dickie who came up with an idea. Originally, he pitched Operation Ultimate Freak to Heinous and me as a way to protest the dismal cafeteria food. “Chicks love rebels with a cause,” he said.
The tricky thing about the food service at ASMA was that at the beginning of the week it never seemed that bad. For instance, the pancakes that were served on Monday started off as a tasty breakfast treat. But on Wednesday the leftover pancakes reappeared for lunch as two pieces of bread with ham and cheese in between, forming round grilled sandwiches the menu dubbed “wagon wheels,” and then, with the help of processed cheese and refried beans (that had also been used earlier that week), the “pancake enchilada” was born.
Mealtime outbursts in response to the food service’s less edible choices were something of an ASMA tradition. In my short time there, I’d seen sword duels with stale churros, flying-tortilla battles, and chicken-patty hockey. All we planned was to take the classic notion of the food fight a step further.
“The oppressor always counts on the silence of the oppressed,” Dickie said, trying to psych us up for what we were about to do.
I nodded, going along with him. I knew his justifications were completely bogus, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need any encouragement. Jessica Keen was reason enough for me.
To anyone sitting in the cafeteria that day, Operation Ultimate Freak probably looked something like this:
Trays are clattering and people are chatting, milling about between the round tables. Matt Reis, head of the Juggling Club, is working furiously to keep five stale buns aloft. On the table next to him, engineering geeks are building a tower out of forks, knives, and apples. Seniors are talking among themselves, stressed about test scores and colleges. A few upperclassmen flirt with sophomore girls at the popular table, while Ellie Frost acts uninterested and whispers to a friend. Nearby, Jessica sits at her corner table with Rachel Chang and some Goth guy. Altogether, it’s the usual dinner scene.
Suddenly, a blond kid stands and throws his tray onto the floor. “That’s it!” he yells. “I won’t eat it anymore!”
People put down their silverware and stop tossing buns, wondering what this evening’s entertainment will be. Blond Kid shouts at the top of his lungs, “NO . . . MORE . . . BEANS!” He clenches a fork in his fist like a killer in a horror movie. “DEATH TO THE PANCAKE ENCHILADA!” he cries as he runs across the cafeteria.
But who is he after?
Someone stands at the far end of the cafeteria — that quiet, brooding sophomore with the purple-and-orange punk hair. His fearless gaze meets the charging blond kid’s. “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” says Punk Guy, sounding vaguely like Clint Eastwood daring a criminal to make his day.
Whispers spread that they’re roommates, which makes sense — bizarre explosions of rage among roommates are fairly common, yet Punk Guy seems composed. At the last second, he picks up a tray and, with a mighty baseball swing, smashes it against Blond Kid’s face. A resounding thud echoes through the cafeteria as tray meets flesh. (Actually, I smacked Dickie’s raised arm, but from where most people were sitting, they couldn’t see that.)
Blond Kid’s head snaps back, and he crumples to the ground. A hush falls over the cafeteria. He struggles to his feet and spits four bloody teeth onto a nearby table (white stones and a blood capsule). A girl yelps when one of the teeth lands in her corn.
All eyes are on Blond Kid. He wipes the blood off his face and strides toward his roommate. The fork has fallen from his hand, but he doesn’t need a weapon. A circle of onlookers forms around them. Blond Kid shouts, “No more beans!”
The crowd picks up the chant, thumping their trays against the tables. “NO . . . MORE . . . BEANS! NO . . . MORE . . . BEANS!” thunders throughout the cafeteria.
The two sophomores square off. No longer are they mere roommates fighting. The chant transforms them into symbolic heroes of the daily cafeteria struggle — to eat or not to eat. They come together and lock arms. With a mighty twist,
Blond Kid rips off Punk Guy’s hand.
Punk Guy falls to his knees, gaping at the stump where his hand once was. Ragged tendons (spaghetti and sauce) drip from the wound while Blond Kid raises the severed hand in victory.
But wait — Punk Guy isn’t done. With his good hand, he pulls a knife from his inside pocket. Blood squirts as he jabs the blade into his gloating roommate’s back. Blond Kid gives a tremendous cry, then collapses, gurgling, to the floor. One-handed Punk Guy is not to be trifled with!
“Nooooo . . . !” yells someone from the far end of the cafeteria. Heads turn. That dark-haired obnoxious sophomore is standing on a cafeteria table. He pulls an old Western six-shooter from his pocket, aims it at Punk Guy, and fires.
Punk Guy stumbles back, grabbing his chest. Spots of blood darken his T-shirt. Obnoxious Guy fires four more shots. Punk Guy lurches with each one. At last he collapses, succumbing beside Jessica Keen’s chair.
The smell of caps permeates the room, and the rest is silence.
I kept my eyes closed and tried to still my breathing to keep from laughing. It was perfect. With each shot, I’d imagined the pain searing through me. The ketchup packets taped to my chest were warm and sticky. Nothing had ever made me feel so alive as playing dead.
A few kids clapped, and more joined in until the cafeteria literally shook with applause. I opened my eyes a crack. Crowds had gathered around Dickie and me, then Jessica gave me a hand up. I got to my feet, and she leaned so close I thought she might kiss me.
“Nice one,” she whispered, “for a soph.”
Hassert, the RC on duty, barged through the crowd, sending students to their seats. “Get over here,” he growled to Dickie and me. He already had Heinous by his shirt collar.
“See you later,” Jessica said.
Hassert clamped his meaty hand onto my shoulder. He led us out, ranting about how we’d crossed the line and were going to face severe disciplinary action.
I didn’t pay attention to any of it. All I could think about was Jessica Keen’s warm breath tickling my cheek.
HASSERT KEPT US IN his office for almost an hour, but Principal Durn, the man in charge of student discipline, was away at a conference, so he eventually had to let us go. “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” Hassert threatened. “This isn’t over.”
For the rest of the night, upperclassmen I’d never spoken to before called my name and slapped my back, while guys from Dingo wing acted out scenes from our performance, redoing parts in slow motion. The few who hadn’t been in the cafeteria kept saying to me, “Man, I can’t believe I missed it,” as if they’d somehow let me down. People looked at me now like they had no doubt that the stories they’d heard were true. My image had been sealed.
After social hour, an instant message blipped onto my screen while I was working on a paper. Outside of checking my calculus answers with a couple other students in my class, I wasn’t much into IMing people, and no one ever IM’d me.
I clicked “accept.”
ghost44: Hello, James Turner.
johnnyrotten: Who is this?
ghost44: I’m a ghost. Are you a ghost too?
johnnyrotten: Not that I know of.
ghost44: I think you are. I think I recognize you.
johnnyrotten: From where?
ghost44: Where is a place, and the answer to that is rather obvious, since we’re both here. The real question is why. Why would I recognize you?
johnnyrotten: Umm . . . because you’ve seen me before?
ghost44: Only in myself. I’ve seen you in myself. It takes a ghost to recognize a ghost.
johnnyrotten: Why am I a ghost?
ghost44: That’s what happens when you die.
johnnyrotten: If you’re talking about the cafeteria thing, you must not have heard — they saved me at the hospital. Pumped a few pints of ketchup into my veins and now I’m good as new.
ghost44: I doubt that. Not even ketchup, the miracle vegetable, could save you, dear James. Sometimes ghosts don’t know that they’re ghosts and then it’s hopeless. But I knew you were one. I guessed it the first time I saw you. Today only made it clearer.
johnnyrotten: Because I pretended to die?
ghost44: The opposite, actually.
johnnyrotten: Now you’ve lost me.
ghost44: Ghosts pretend to be alive, and we’re good at pretending — so good that we might even fool ourselves. You’re lucky I found you.
johnnyrotten: Why’s that?
ghost44: Because it’s lonely being a ghost. Maybe I’ll see you again. Will you see me?
johnnyrotten: That depends. What do you look like?
ghost44: A wisp of smoke.
ghost44: A reflection of light off the surface of a pond.
ghost44: A color seen out of the corner of your eye.
ghost44: But if you look straight at me, I’m one-hundred-percent invisible.
johnnyrotten: Who is this?
The ghost logged out.
I SPENT THE NEXT DAY trying to figure out who ghost44 might be. Jessica Keen was at the top of my list, but that seemed too good to be true. Girls like Jessica had never even looked at me before, not to mention writing me secret IMs. It could have been Sunny — that would explain why she had to keep things a secret, since she was going out with Dickie. Or it might be Sage Fisher. Sage was pretty cute in a busty, back-to-nature way, but I couldn’t figure out why she’d call herself invisible.
When I got back to my dorm room after class, there were two letters slipped under my door. At first I thought they might be from ghost44, but my excitement soon derailed when I saw the official-looking ASMA stationery. One letter was addressed to me, and the other to Dickie.
Beneath the NOTICE OF A DISCIPLINARY HEARING heading it said, “Regrettably, the hearing will have to be delayed until after the weekend, due to scheduling.” Only Hassert would start a sentence like that with “Regrettably.” From day one, he’d had it in for me. He had his favorites, and he had the students he despised, and he made no bones about it. “I don’t like your attitude,” he’d say. Or, “I know what you’re up to” (which always made me chuckle, since I never knew what I was up to).
A tight knot of dread lodged in my chest when I read the paragraph in the letter that said our parents would be notified. Dickie read his letter at the same time as me, then tacked it to the wall over his desk.
“My first act of civil disobedience,” he said, as if the letter was something to be proud of. He promptly called his parents to explain how ridiculous the charges against him were, given that no one had gotten hurt and no rules were broken. According to Dickie, his most recent “performance art event” had been a resounding success.
I realized, listening to his enthusiastic conversation with his parents, that I wasn’t worried about my parents being angry with me. What bothered me was having to deal with my parents at all. I wanted to keep my life at ASMA completely separate, but if the school called them, my parents might show up for the hearing on Monday.
I pictured my dad thumping the walls of the main building while Moms fussed over my purple hair and chatted with people about how I used to fear cats. Anyone who met my parents would know I wasn’t the person I claimed to be. They were the kryptonite to my Superman. Without even trying, they’d ruin everything.
Our phone rang several times that afternoon, but I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t even listen to my mom’s voice on the machine without feeling ill. Unfortunately, Dickie picked up the phone later before I could stop him. “Certainly, Mrs. Turner, he’s right here,” he said, handing the phone to me. Good luck, he mouthed.
The knot of dread rose to my throat. I took the phone and carried it into the bathroom for privacy.
“Hey,” I said.
“Jaaames,” Moms replied. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been calling all day. Didn’t you get our messages? We left a dozen or so on your machine, and then it stopped working.”
She was off and running, laying on the worried-parent act.
In truth, there were only two messages on the machine before I unplugged it, but she loved to exaggerate.
“Are you there, James?”
When I spoke, it was in a dull, flat voice. “I’m right here.”
“Then why didn’t you call us back?” Moms asked. “Don’t you check your machine? I think it must be broken.”
“The machine’s fine. I’ve been busy.”
“Are they giving you too much work? It’s not good to work too hard. You have to take breaks. At least it’s Friday and tomorrow you can come home. How does that sound? We’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, then we can go clothes shopping. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I hate shopping.”
“I think you need sweaters,” Moms continued. “It’ll be cold soon.”
“I don’t need sweaters.”
“Honey, you can’t go around wearing ripped-up clothes. You look like a bum. Tomorrow morning we’ll pick you up and get you something nice. And then we can chat.”
“Chat?”
“About things . . .”
“What things?” I asked, playing dumb.
That stumped her. The phone crackled, then my dad cleared his throat. He must have been on the bedroom phone listening in. My parents always did that — they’d both be on the line, but only Moms would talk. I could picture her pinching the cordless between her head and shoulder, giving my dad a frustrated look while mouthing Say something.
“James, we got a phone call,” Dad grumbled, breaking his customary silence. “Mr. Hassert explained that you were involved in a disturbing incident.”
“It wasn’t disturbing.”
“Then why did they call us?” pounced Moms, like a professional wrestler tagging in. “I mean really?”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “Hassert just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“And now there’s this hearing. We should be there.”
“No. Definitely not.”
The Secret to Lying Page 3
