The Secret to Lying

by Todd Mitchell

  A few days earlier, I’d told Dickie and Heinous about the mysterious messages I’d received. They got a kick out of trying to guess who might be sending them. Heinous thought it was Frank Wood. “I bet it’s a guy,” he said. “That’s why he wants to keep things secret.”

  After the game, Jessica turned and smiled at Dickie and me. “Hey, sophlings,” she said. “What are you up to?”

  I was too stunned to speak. Luckily, Dickie took over and invited everyone back to our wing to play a game. We filtered out of the stands and headed for our dorm, walking past the teams scattered on the sidelines, gathering their things.

  “James!” someone shouted. I spotted George Kaplanski, a guy I’d known since kindergarten, staring at me. He raised his dark eyebrows. “James Turner?” he repeated, sounding less certain.

  Jessica and Rachel were a few feet ahead. They didn’t seem to have noticed George’s calls. I paused. In all the years I’d gone to school with George Kaplanski, I don’t think he’d ever once said my name. Part of me wanted to go back and talk with him, but if I did, I might lose my chance with Jessica.

  I kept walking, hurrying to catch up to the others.

  George didn’t call my name again.

  The girls had to get passes to come into our wing. Katy and Sage claimed they needed to go back to their dorm to pack since they were going home for the weekend, but Sunny, Rachel, and Jessica all signed in for half-hour passes. Mike, the RC on duty, eyed us suspiciously and reminded us to keep four feet on the floor and the door propped open at all times so he could make sure no one was breaking the rules. Whenever Mike patrolled the halls, he’d shout “No babies! No babies!” as he walked, which was his way of promoting the school’s abstinence policy.

  Jessica suggested playing hide-and-seek. I propped open the door to our room and Heinous did the same with his so we’d have more places to hide. Dickie volunteered to be It, probably so he could chase Sunny. The two of them had become an official “serious thing.” Dickie even had notches on his bedpost from how many times they’d done it. I knew that’s what the notches were for, although I’d never actually asked. Sex seemed only theoretically possible to me, the way walking on the moon or becoming president was possible.

  I snuck off to my room and hid in my closet. Each room had two freestanding closets that could be locked. Jessica followed and slipped into the closet after me.

  “Got you,” she said.

  “You’re not It,” I replied.

  “Really?”

  I pushed my shirts back against the wall, giving us more room to stand. Still, it was impossible to keep from touching. “You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” she asked. A sliver of light streamed through the crack between the doors, illuminating one side of her face.

  “No,” I said. “Why would I avoid you?”

  “Fee . . . fi . . . fo . . . fum,” called Dickie from somewhere out in the room.

  We tried to be quiet, but he must have known where we were. Instead of opening the closet and tagging us, Dickie jammed the door shut and fiddled with the latch.

  “Shit!” I said, shoving the door.

  A moment later, I heard the padlock click shut. Dickie drummed on the closet. “You two behave,” he said.

  “Hey, wait!” I called, but it was too late. He’d already run off to find someone else. I glanced at Jessica. “Sorry. He’s kind of . . .”

  Jessica put her finger to my mouth. Then she kissed me, biting my lip in a way that stung and made me shiver all at once. “There,” she said. “Your move.”

  My arms trembled. I tried to remember how to kiss from that truth-or-dare game I’d played in middle school, but this was completely different. Jessica kissed like she wanted to devour me. I leaned toward her, not sure if I should open or close my eyes or how to turn my head.

  “Like this,” she said, pulling me against her. She kissed me so gently I could barely feel her lips brushing mine. Her mouth slid from my mouth to my neck, and down to the muscle that sloped to my shoulder. Then she bit me, making me all shivery again.

  I got the hang of it after a few more tries, letting my lips move playfully over hers.

  Jessica took my hand and squeezed it. “You’re the one,” she whispered.

  “The one what?”

  “The one who’s going to sink me.”

  I wanted to ask what that meant, but I was afraid of seeming dumb. “Okay,” I said, and kissed her again, inhaling the bubble-gum scent of her hair.

  After a little while, Mike’s calls of “No babies!” trickled in from the hall.

  “Crap,” I whispered. My elbow thumped the back of the closet. Dickie returned just in time, fumbled with the lock, and let us out.

  Jessica straightened her shirt and gave me a wink. “See you, J.T.”

  I stood, wide-eyed and smiling, as she left. No one from my old school would ever believe I’d kissed a girl like Jessica Keen.

  Dickie shook his head and chuckled. “See? Told you she was into you.”

  “You’re such a jerk,” I said, unable to keep a ridiculous grin off my face.

  He slapped my back. “You’re welcome.”

  THAT NIGHT I FOUGHT my first demon.

  Kiana showed me how to strap the sword to my back and wrap a scarf around my head to hide my face. “There’s a war going on,” she said, pulling her own scarf over her mouth and nose. “If you want to live, you have to stay hidden. Not everyone here’s your friend.”

  I followed them through the maze of streets. We passed other figures wearing scarfs, but none spoke or gave me a second look. Nick stopped at a narrow alley. He cocked his head, as if listening for something. “It’s down there,” he whispered.

  Kiana handed me a coil of silver cable. “Tools of the trade,” she said.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Simple. Hunt the demons before they hunt you.”

  I peered into the alley. It went on for fifty feet or so before it got too dark to see farther. A low slurping, like the sound of a dog drinking, reverberated off the walls.

  Kiana fixed the cable to a strap on my hip. “The sword will work, but demons can’t be killed,” she explained. “You have to use the cable to bind them. Understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Nick muttered.

  “I got it,” I said, eager to prove myself.

  I held the sword before me and entered the alley. Puddles of oily liquid dappled the ground, and the brick walls shimmered with moisture. The buildings seemed to lean closer, surrounding me as I walked toward the slurping sound.

  My eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the dark when I heard the thudding steps of something approaching. A demon burst out of the shadows, resembling a sumo wrestler crawling on all fours. Instinctively, I swung my sword at its reaching arm.

  Hot blood splattered my cheeks. The demon reared and bellowed, its arm completely severed. For a moment I felt triumphant, then two more arms — thinner, wormier ones — writhed out of the bleeding stump.

  It came at me again. I slashed its arms and legs, but the more I injured it, the more limbs it grew. My confidence vanished. All I could think about was fighting harder, hurting it more. I stabbed the demon’s eye, and tentacles wormed out of the wound, entangling my hand. My sword clattered to the ground as more tentacles grabbed my legs and chest.

  The creature lifted me toward its slobbering mouth. I reached for my sword, only it was too far away. Something I’d heard once floated through my head — that if you died in a dream, you’d die in real life. Panic surged through me, filling me with desperate strength, but still I couldn’t free myself from the tentacles.

  My hand brushed the cable at my waist. I grabbed a length and looped it around the demon’s head, trying to strangle him with it. The metal tightened like a thin silver snake. Instantly, the demon dropped me, clawing at the cable.

  I hurried to bind the demon’s limbs. Everywhere the cable touched, it seemed to stick to the creature’s
skin. Pulling back, I pinned its arms to its sides, then I looped more cable around its legs and tentacles until at last the demon fell.

  With a snap, the end of the cable broke free, leaving the demon cocooned in a tangle of silver braid. I glanced at the creature’s chubby bulldog face. It whimpered, looking more pitiful now than terrifying. I almost wanted to release it, but I knew it would come at me again.

  The sound of clapping startled me from my thoughts.

  “Took you long enough,” Nick said. “I thought you were dinner.”

  I wiped the creature’s blood off my brow.

  Kiana smiled. “Don’t listen to him, J.T. That was good for your first time.” She slung her arm around my waist and steered me away from the body.

  We’d almost reached the street when a dull chittering filled the alley, making my skin prickle. A tall, insectlike figure with a long mosquito mouth stepped out of the shadows behind us. The demon’s struggles grew more frantic as the figure approached it.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Just a Nomanchulator,” Kiana said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Nick added. “It’ll take care of the body.”

  The Nomanchulator squatted on too-thin legs. Its mouth hovered over the demon’s chest.

  Kiana tugged my shirt. “We should get going.”

  I couldn’t move. The Nomanchulator’s dead black eyes glanced at me and a wide, clownish leer warped its face. Then it plunged its mouth into the demon, like a spider eating a caught fly.

  I turned, wishing I hadn’t looked.

  ghost44: Hey, sex god.

  johnnyrotten: You’re a girl, right?

  ghost44: Last time I checked.

  johnnyrotten: You don’t write like a girl.

  ghost44: I don’t throw like a girl either.

  johnnyrotten: I mean, you use caps and complete sentences and all that.

  ghost44: would u prefer i write 2u like this? ;)

  johnnyrotten: I’ll pass.

  ghost44: I should have been born into a different time. I’m not much for abbreviation and emoticons and all that fluff. I miss letters — long, old-fashioned, beautifully written letters where people poured their hearts out and used words like “beholden” and “protean.”

  johnnyrotten: Protean?

  ghost44: Constantly changing. Taking on different shapes, forms, meanings, etc. As in, “I am beholden to your protean heart.”

  johnnyrotten: So why don’t you write me a letter?

  ghost44: No attention span for it. Besides, it’s lonely writing letters. You spend all your time trying to capture some fleeting, gut-wrenching feeling in words, and then you never even know if the person you send it to reads it. Or what they’re doing when they read it. Or if they understand. There’s no feedback. Rather narcissistic when you think about it. I mean, who’s the letter for — yourself or the person you’re writing to? At least this way, I know you’re there.

  johnnyrotten: Yeah, but I could be picking my nose right now or sitting buck naked while feral wombats lick pudding off my chest.

  ghost44: That’s how I prefer to see you — except with chocolate syrup instead of pudding.

  johnnyrotten: Great. Wish I knew how to see you. Why are you afraid to tell me who you are?

  ghost44: That again? If you keep asking who I am, you’re missing the point.

  johnnyrotten: Hold up. I’m not asking *who* anymore.

  ghost44: You’re not?

  johnnyrotten: Nope. I’m asking *why.* As in, Why bother with this secrecy? Why not tell me your name?

  ghost44: That’s easy. You ever curse at a dog in a sweet voice?

  johnnyrotten: WTF???

  ghost44: Most of the time, that’s all people do when they talk to each other. Take the phrase: “Your hair looks nice.” Or “Pretty dress.” Or “You want to work on chemistry homework together?” Translation: “That style is lame.” “You’re such a slut.” “What will it take to get in your pants?”

  johnnyrotten: Are you saying that when I do homework with my lab partners, I really want to sleep with them?

  ghost44: No. But when you *ask* to do homework with someone, is it because you really want to solve equations with them?

  johnnyrotten: I see your point.

  ghost44: Communication is deception. What I’m offering is a far better thing.

  johnnyrotten: So what are you offering?

  ghost44: Something honest. Conversation without all the lies.

  johnnyrotten: People don’t always lie. Sometimes they say what they mean.

  ghost44: Oh please. You, of all people, know better.

  johnnyrotten: What’s that supposed to mean?

  ghost44: Just that everyone’s concerned about their image. Everyone wants to seem a certain way. Act a certain way. Fit in. Be popular.

  johnnyrotten: I don’t care about my image.

  ghost44: Yes, you do. It’s just part of your image to seem like you don’t care.

  johnnyrotten: And you’re so much better?

  ghost44: No. I’m worse. I’m consumed by image — that’s why I’m a ghost. It’s only when I have no image at all that I can be honest.

  johnnyrotten: Hold up. How is talking online any more honest than talking to someone in person? I mean, for all I know, you could be a forty-year-old trucker who hacked into our server and is pretending to be a seventeen-year-old girl.

  ghost44: You think I’m forty? How mature of me! Actually, I’m a six-year-old whiz kid in India and I’m writing you during recess to improve my English.

  johnnyrotten: Now I’m disturbed.

  ghost44: The point is, it doesn’t matter what my name is. Image, popularity, dress size — all of that is completely irrelevant, because here we’re just words. Sure I could lie to you and pretend to be someone else, but why bother? If I’m free to be anyone, then I’m free to be myself. My true self. That’s what I mean by honest.

  johnnyrotten: So what do you mean by “true self”?

  ghost44: Mmmm . . . don’t know yet, but I’d like to find out. I’ll make you a deal. A ghost pact.

  johnnyrotten: Go on.

  ghost44: I’ll promise to be as soul-strippingly, mind-shatteringly honest as I can be, if you’ll do the same.

  johnnyrotten: Deal. Just one more *why* question.

  ghost44: Shoot.

  johnnyrotten: Why me?

  ghost44: Because, dear James, you need to be honest with someone.

  “I HEARD YOU AND JESSICA KEEN hooked up,” Frank Wood announced in his typical booming voice. It was a few minutes before physics class started, and Dr. Choi hadn’t arrived yet. “Concerned citizens want to know: what happened in the closet?”

  “Dude, what do you think?” I replied, glancing at Ellie. She pulled a notebook out of her backpack and slapped it onto her desk.

  “Oh, man,” Frank said, his eyes widening. “So are you two going out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Frank nodded. “Right. I get it.” Then he gave me a sly, guy-to-guy look. “That’s cool.”

  Dr. Choi walked in and Frank hurried back to his desk, but his question kept nagging me. I really didn’t know what to make of Jess and me. We hadn’t talked since Friday. When I saw her at lunch, sitting at her usual table, she didn’t wave me over or leave her group to sit with me, and I didn’t cross the cafeteria to join her.

  It wasn’t until a few nights later, while I was out chipping golf balls with a five iron during social hour, that Jess came up to me. Dickie was off with Sunny somewhere, and Heinous was playing video games. I wasn’t a big fan of golf, but chipping balls gave me an excuse to walk around alone outside without looking like a loser.

  “I always thought golf was something bald guys with beer bellies did,” Jess said as she approached.

  “Not danger golf,” I replied. “Danger golf’s different.” I explained how the object of danger golf was to hit the ball in a random direction without breaking anything. It was the sort of game I figu
red I’d play, even though I never had.

  Jessica pointed me toward the tennis courts. “Okay, hotshot. Go for it.”

  I lined up and took a full swing. The ball landed smack in the middle of the far court and bounced over the fence.

  “Want to give it a try?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But I don’t know how to swing.”

  I tossed out a ball and passed her the club. “It’s easy.” With my hands on hers, I guided her through a swing. “See?”

  We swung together, my arms wrapped around her body and my cheek brushing hers. After a few swings, she took her hand off the club and touched the inside of my forearm. The cuts I’d given myself had healed, leaving raised, pink scars. “How’d you get these?” she asked.

  I pulled my arm back. “Fighting,” I said. “I used to fight a lot.”

  “Really?” She sounded skeptical.

  “Really.”

  “Who’d you fight?”

  “Other kids. Jerks mostly.”

  “Did they carry knives or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I hesitated, hoping she’d drop it and let the scars be a mystery.

  “Come on. You can tell me,” she pressed.

  “Swear you’ll never tell anyone?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pointed to a few scars and described the street fights that had caused them. Some details I invented, and some I pulled from the fights in my dreams. Jess seemed to buy it.

  “Sounds like fun,” she said.

  “Not really,” I replied. “But it was exciting.”

  “My man.” She brushed her fingers along my arm.

  My cheeks burned. I felt a little funny that she believed me. Then again, it wasn’t that far from the truth. What difference did it make if I cut myself or if someone else cut me?

  I pointed to the ball. “You have to hit it as hard as you can. Them’s the rules, missy.”

  “No problem.” Jess lined up and swung. She lifted her head, so the ball didn’t go far. I gave her a few pointers and her second shot was a beauty. The ball landed in the bleachers, hitting the metal with a loud thunk!