“Nothing,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes and slid her hand into my pocket, fishing out the condoms. “Expecting something, mister?”
“No.” My face flushed. “I, uh . . . They’re not really mine.”
She tossed the condoms onto her desk. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s true.”
She laughed and kissed me. “I’ve got better ones,” she whispered, pulling off my shirt.
I started to pull off hers, but I forgot to unbutton the top. “Very slick,” she said. “How about I take off the bra?”
“I’ve got it.” I fiddled with the back clasp with one hand, only it wouldn’t come undone.
Jess smirked. “Try two hands, hotshot.”
I did, but those little hooks were impossible. She finally reached around and undid her bra with a smooth, easy flick.
“How’d you do that?”
“One of the mysteries of being a girl.” She leaned over me, her skin warm against mine.
My gaze kept drifting to her chest. I acted like I was only interested in her tattoo, brushing my fingers down her cleavage, over the black lines in her smooth skin. There were five Japanese characters, each slightly larger than a quarter. Before, I’d only seen the first two characters and the top half of the third, but now I could see all five, nestled between the slopes of her bare breasts.
“Is this your first time?” she asked.
“No.” My voice cracked. “How about you?”
Jess chuckled. “Very funny.”
She kissed my neck and unsnapped my jeans, so I unsnapped hers. Then she slid her pants over the curve of her hips, pulling her legs free one at a time. It was a lot like danger golf — like we were daring each other to go further. I struggled out of my jeans, bumping the wall with my elbow.
Jess paused, wearing only her black underwear. Images from movies shuffled through my head. What came next? Kiss her? Slide my hand up her leg? Say something manly?
Luckily, Jess took over, placing my hands on her hips and moving against me.
Even though I’d fantasized about sex for years, now that it was actually happening, it was different from what I’d expected. I mean, it felt intense, yet part of me kept getting distracted, so I couldn’t fully experience the intensity. This is it, I told myself, I’m in bed with Jessica Keen, but telling myself that only took me one step further from feeling it.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being with Jess, which was weird, since I actually was with her. Then I opened my eyes, but I didn’t know where to look. My gaze finally settled on her chest, tracing the lines of her tattoo. I pictured her lying on a padded table while some guy carved those symbols into her bare skin with needle and ink. She’d probably used a fake ID, because she wasn’t yet eighteen. I wondered what the Japanese characters meant and why they were so important to her that she’d want them etched between her breasts, near her heart. Together, the five characters resembled a ladder. It reminded me of a passage from The Great Gatsby that I’d read recently — the one where Gatsby is walking with Daisy and he looks at the lines on the sidewalk and thinks of them as a ladder that he could climb to a place where everything would be exactly the way he’d always imagined it. Except a few of the black lines tattooed on Jess’s chest were diagonal, so if it was a ladder, some of the rungs must have been broken.
Jess bit me, bringing me out of my thoughts. Why the hell was I thinking about The Great Gatsby when she was right there? Naked. I tried again to focus on her. Things got more intense, but only distantly, like my body was having sex in a different room from my mind. Our breathing picked up until at last we collapsed against each other.
Her hair, damp with sweat, stuck to my cheek. I wasn’t certain if that was it, only there was no way to ask without sounding stupid.
“Was that okay?” I whispered.
She drew back to look at me, and I liked her then. I really did. Because I could tell she was just as lost as me, even though she hid it well.
I wanted to laugh and say something about how that wasn’t what I’d expected. Something about how I could never get the world inside my head to fit with the world outside. But I couldn’t think of a way to say it without offending her. “It’s like The Great Gatsby,” I whispered.
“You’re a strange egg,” she said.
Jess pulled on her shirt and curled with her back to me.
After a while, I fell asleep.
ghost44: You there?
johnnyrotten: I think so.
ghost44: The strangest thing happened today. I was walking to class when I saw a squirrel touching a crow.
johnnyrotten: Like, eating it? Killer squirrel on the loose?
ghost44: No, sicko. The two of them were huddled near those bushes by the gym, calm as could be. The squirrel stroked the crow’s feathers, and the crow rubbed its beak against the squirrel’s shoulder. I’m not kidding. When they saw me, they broke apart like lovers caught kissing.
johnnyrotten: Weird.
ghost44: Do you think animals get lonely?
johnnyrotten: Sure.
ghost44: No one ever talks about it.
johnnyrotten: About what? Animal loneliness? If that’s what you’re into, there’re probably some websites you could visit.
ghost44: No, pervy. No one ever talks about IT.
johnnyrotten: What’s “IT”?
ghost44: The things that matter. What’s at the center. People talk and talk, but they never say much. Sometimes we get close, but we rarely mention the truth.
johnnyrotten: What truth?
ghost44: That no one ever really knows anyone else.
johnnyrotten: That’s depressing.
ghost44: That’s the way it is.
johnnyrotten: So why bother talking? Why bother messaging me?
ghost44: Because I saw a squirrel touching a crow today.
ghost44: You still there?
johnnyrotten: Yeah. I was just thinking about that.
ghost44: I heard you spent the night at Jess’s place.
johnnyrotten: How do you know these things?
ghost44: I have my supernatural sources. I didn’t think you’d do that.
johnnyrotten: Are you pissed at me?
ghost44: A little. Do you like her?
johnnyrotten: If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone?
ghost44: Who could I tell? No one can see me.
johnnyrotten: She’s cool. She’s like my dream girl.
ghost44: Lucky you.
johnnyrotten: I know. I should be happy.
ghost44: But?
johnnyrotten: But . . . it’s like this cheap plastic magic trick I had as a kid — the one where you put a quarter in the slot and slide it shut. Then you turn it around and open it and presto! The quarter’s gone.
ghost44: I had one of those. It was purple.
johnnyrotten: Mine was green, only something broke in it so I could never get the quarter to come back.
ghost44: What does a broken magic trick have to do with Jess the wonder girl?
johnnyrotten: That’s how I feel when I’m with her. Everything should be right. I put the quarter in the slot and the audience is waiting expectantly, but I keep coming up empty.
ghost44: Guess you don’t think I’m Jessica Keen anymore.
johnnyrotten: No. Definitely not.
ghost44: What makes you so sure?
johnnyrotten: Because the only time I don’t get that empty feeling is when I’m messaging you.
ghost44: Thanks.
johnnyrotten: For what?
ghost44: For finally talking about IT.
“TIME TO COMPLETE YOUR TRAINING,” Nick said, opening the door to a small, dingy room. “Think you’ve beaten most of the demons out there?”
“I have.”
He shook his head. “The hard ones have all gone underground. To kill a weed, you’ve got to pull up its roots.”
“How?”
Nick n
odded to a bed in the corner. “Go to sleep.”
“I am asleep.”
“Then go to sleep again,” Kiana said, patting the mattress. “Go deeper.”
I sat on the bed. When I lay back, the room changed, morphing into my dorm room with a bunk bed above me and my closet behind me. Posters covered the walls, and papers cluttered my desk.
“What you see is largely a matter of expectation,” Kiana explained. “It’s easiest to think of an elevator, though. That way, you can keep track of how far down you go.”
I nodded and closed my eyes.
After a while, I dreamed I was in an elevator. The old-fashioned arrow above the doors rotated down a notch. With a ding, the doors slid open, revealing a nightclub pulsing with music and movement.
“Welcome to the burrows,” Nick said, stepping out of the elevator. “Now things get interesting.”
Kiana took my hand and led me across the dance floor. Compared to the quiet emptiness of the surface level, the burrows were mesmerizing. A woman with horns writhed against a blue-masked angel while white-faced mimes blew fire and a jester juggled rats. There were people with wings, monkeys, minotaurs, and knights in armor. A tall, chubby rabbit stood behind the bar, performing magic tricks.
The guides surveyed the room, looking for someone. Nick finally pointed to a figure by the far wall. A pale scarf covered his face, and an elegant white-handled sword hung off his side.
“That’s White Blade,” he said. “If you want to win, he’s the one you have to beat.”
The white-cloaked figure must have noticed us staring, because he turned suddenly and headed for the door. I started after him, pushing through the crowd.
“Let him go,” said a woman blocking the doorway.
She seemed familiar, although I couldn’t figure out why. “Who are you?”
“I’m the Thief.”
I frowned, confused. Before I could ask anything else, Nick was telling her to get out of our way. The Thief reached for my shoulder, but Nick knocked her arm aside. Quick as a blink, she spun, catching his jaw with the back of her hand.
The two of them traded blows and blocks like fighters in a kung-fu movie. Whoever the Thief was, she clearly had power. Nick was no small entity, but he could barely hold her off.
“Go!” he grunted, glancing at me. “Don’t lose him!”
I stood, not sure who to trust.
“Hunt the demons before they hunt you,” Kiana urged.
It made sense. If I didn’t go after White Blade, he’d come after me. I had to protect myself.
I slipped out of the nightclub and into the alley where White Blade had gone. As I turned a corner, a silver blur sliced toward my face. I ducked, and the sword whooshed past, lodging into the bricks behind me.
White Blade kicked my chest, and my breath huffed out. Then his fist struck my jaw. I crumpled to the ground, losing control. Blood tickled my cheek. The more he hit me, the less it hurt.
Kiana must have seen that I’d lost my grip. “Wake up!” she shouted from farther back in the alley.
A foot smashed my face, and my mouth filled with blood. I ran my tongue over the jagged end of a chipped tooth. Great, I thought. That’ll look nice.
Another blow made my senses scatter. Everything was falling apart. First thing in the morning I’ll have to call a dentist.
My mind seized on that thought. Morning. In the morning. White Blade pulled his sword free and raised it over my head.
I woke.
My head lay on a pillow. I kicked off the hot, sticky sheets. Just a dream, I told myself, relieved that I’d made it out. My tongue flicked over the edge of my teeth, finding the front one chipped. Pain surged through my jaw from the exposed nerve. I touched my face, and my fingers came away wet with blood.
A sword slid between the elevator doors, prying them apart.
Panic gripped me. Then I remembered that I’d fallen asleep twice — it was still a dream. Wake up, damn it! I hissed, slapping my cheeks. The pain from my tooth became excruciating.
My chest seized, and my eyes flicked open. The room appeared gray. I stared at the pattern of springs on the mattress above me. Touching my face felt no more real than it had in the dream, except there was no blood. Still, my jaw ached.
The clock on my desk said it was 5:47 AM, but I didn’t want to risk going back to sleep. I staggered to the bathroom. My breath caught when I looked in the mirror.
Black lines stained my face. Written in large block letters across my forehead were the words BEAT ME.
THE MARKER MUST HAVE BEEN permanent, because no matter how much I scrubbed, it didn’t come off. Dickie had lines on his face, too, but not nearly as bad as mine. I guess that was the advantage of sleeping on the top bunk.
I tried wearing a bandanna low across my forehead, except it made me look like a demented hippie. Dickie decided to pretend everything was normal and let other people freak about it. Easy for him to do — he didn’t have any words on his forehead (although they had colored the tip of his nose red, and I noticed that he tried very hard to get that off).
The best I could do was to scribble over the “B” with another magic marker so instead of BEAT ME it said EAT ME. It wasn’t much, but I thought it made a better statement.
By the end of first period, at least a hundred students had asked about my forehead. I started making up ridiculous stories to explain it. I said it was a political statement, and I said it wasn’t marker, but a tattoo. Then I told Beth Lindbergh, who was incredibly gullible, that it was how they marked admission at this nightclub in Chicago, and I made her swear not to tell anyone I’d snuck off campus to go there. She nodded, taking it very seriously.
In a way, the nightclub story felt the most true to me. My memories of the burrows were as vivid and real as anything I’d experienced in my waking life. I even grew nervous walking around corners, as if White Blade might be waiting to attack. Logically, I knew the writing on my face had little to do with my dreams. It wasn’t hard to guess who the real culprits were, and the Steves’ laughter when they saw Dickie and me only confirmed my suspicions. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that it was more than coincidence. My dreams didn’t feel like dreams anymore. They were spilling out. Taking over.
Dickie and I decided to pretend that we’d marked ourselves. We didn’t want to risk having the administration get involved. Fortunately, no one made a big deal about the marks — at least not until last period rolled around and I had to go to Mr. Funt’s English class.
Since his divorce, Mr. Funt had become a bit too focused on school. A balding, unpublished writer with a ponytail, he hung around campus for long hours after classes ended, grading papers, drinking coffee, and sponsoring every club that crossed his desk. He was a good teacher — smarter than most of the adults at ASMA. While a lot of teachers resorted to bragging about their advanced degrees and hiding behind their grade books, Mr. Funt treated us as equals. When we discussed stories, he could always point out a few things no one else had noticed, yet he never acted like he knew everything. If you said something interesting, he’d wrinkle his forehead and say, “That’s interesting,” and sound like he meant it. Overall, I liked Mr. Funt, but he had an annoying habit of reading too much into things.
He stopped me and read my forehead when I came into class. “Hmm . . .” he said. “I don’t find that funny.”
“Oh, well,” I replied. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
A few students snickered. By this time, my various EAT ME explanations had spread throughout the school.
Mr. Funt frowned and started class. I thought that was it, but later on, while everyone was working on the creative writing assignment he’d given us, he asked me to step outside. The room grew quiet as I stuffed my things into my backpack.
“James,” he said, after closing the classroom door, “I think you should see the counselor.”
“Why?”
“That”— he gestured to my forehead —“is very distracting. I can�
�t help but wonder what your true intentions were.”
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“No. It is definitely not ‘nothing.’ I take this sort of thing very seriously. I’d like you to talk with the counselor.”
“Is this optional?” I asked.
“Everything’s optional. But I plan on stopping by Chuck’s office later to make sure you showed up. Understand?”
“Yeah, I understand. I’m in trouble, even though I haven’t broken any rules.” I scowled. “Why don’t you just give me a detention?”
“You’re not in trouble, James.” Mr. Funt brushed his hand over the strands of side hair that formed his scraggly ponytail. The ends of his fingers were tinted yellow from smoking. “I’m asking you to go because I’m concerned about you.”
“Right,” I replied. “You got me. This is clearly a cry for help. I woke up this morning and wrote EAT ME on my forehead because I’m thinking of killing myself. Thank God you noticed.”
“I don’t know why you did it, but you shouldn’t expect me to pretend that it’s nothing,” Mr. Funt said. “Besides, that isn’t the only reason I want you to go.”
“This is stupid.”
“Humor me.”
“Fine.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked away. I guess I should have been happy to have gotten out of class, but it bothered me that Mr. Funt thought I needed to see a shrink. Just because I’d done a few strange things lately didn’t mean I was crazy. It was the people who tried to seem normal all the time who were really messed up.
I got so worked up thinking about how Mr. Funt had singled me out that by the time I reached the hall where Chuck’s office was located, I was sweating. The administration had recently turned on the heat for the winter, and they kept it several degrees too high.
I walked past the door to Chuck’s office, trying to gather my thoughts before going in. My only experience with Chuck had been at the beginning of the semester, when he’d come to our wing and done the trust fall, but I’d seen him around campus since then. He’d learned every student’s name in the first few weeks of school, and whenever he saw someone, he’d say, “How are you doing,__________?” pronouncing the person’s name real loud as if to prove that he knew it. Then he’d stop and stare at the person, like he really wanted to hear how they were doing. That was the freaky part, because of his one eye. The thought of him asking me questions and staring at me with his empty socket made me want to hork.
The Secret to Lying Page 8
