The Secret to Lying

by Todd Mitchell

  I reached for her, but she didn’t bother to raise her hand. She hung from the sticky cords, limp as bait.

  I tore out of that level the moment she started to scream.

  Then silence. I was in the ghost level again — the one of light and freedom. Through the transparent walls of the elevator, I watched a long, dark shadow stretch closer. Insect limbs probed the surface, and a claw pushed against the bubble walls. The Nomanchulators were coming, following me out.

  Instinct told me to run, but I knew that wouldn’t help. I forced myself to concentrate on waking to the next level.

  My eyes snapped open. All around me the walls melted. Sick, wet thuds shook the elevator as the Nomanchulators scrabbled to get in. I woke three more times in quick succession, like a diver fighting to reach the surface before my air ran out. My head reeled from the sudden changes until, at last, the elevator appeared normal.

  The walls, my face, the bed — all felt solid. I tried to stand, but it took a moment before my body moved. Something wasn’t right. I shouldn’t be in an elevator, I thought. It wasn’t normal to fall asleep in an elevator. The deadening buzz of the Nomanchulators grew louder.

  I forced myself to wake again.

  Dark.

  Touching my face, I had to pry my eyelids apart. Then I blinked against the brightness. A bird chirped, and rosy light blazed through the window.

  Morning had never looked so good.

  MY CLOCK SAID IT WAS ALMOST seven thirty. I skipped showering, threw on some clothes, grabbed my backpack, and hurried to class before I missed first period.

  Chemistry. Ms. Krup was finishing with attendance when I scrambled in and took my seat. My stomach rumbled. During break I’d try to get something from the snack machine to make up for missing breakfast.

  I drew a deep breath, relieved to have escaped the Nomanchulators. Being awake gave me a new appreciation for ordinary things — the fact that my desk was solid and the walls weren’t melting and my hand would move when I told it to. All good.

  Ms. Krup droned on and on about stoichiometry. Everyone around me scribbled notes, but I didn’t get what people were writing down. The whole concept seemed too simple. You’d think, with a name like “stoichiometry,” it would be something complicated and earth-shattering, except it wasn’t.

  Halfway through the lecture, someone knocked on the classroom door. Ms. Krup went over the same chemical reaction for the third time, pointing to the board with a bamboo stick as she approached the door. She glanced out the narrow window.

  “Good,” she said. “They’re here.”

  Everyone set down their pencils.

  A sense of dread filled me. I worried that whoever was knocking on the door might have come for me. Could it be Principal Durn? Or Hassert? I tried to remember what I could be in trouble for. I hadn’t arrived that late, had I? Or was it because of the ramen incident? Had someone finally told on me?

  I raised my hand. “Ms. Krup,” I said, “please don’t let them in.”

  She looked at me and frowned.

  I felt ridiculous. It was probably only a guest lecturer or something. No one else in the classroom seemed concerned.

  “Don’t worry, James,” Ms. Krup said. “It will all be over soon.”

  She turned the doorknob.

  A wave of Nomanchulators flooded in, flattening Ms. Krup beneath their long insect legs. I scrambled to the back of the room, but there were no other exits. All the students stood and turned to face me. Their eyes and mouths had been stitched shut.

  I yelled and kicked the wall, desperate to get out. It was no use. I had to maintain control. Think. This must be a dream, and if it was a dream, I could wake up.

  My heart skipped as a Nomanchulator reached for me. I ducked its arm and lurched back, hitting the wall. A dull, metallic smell flooded my lungs. More Nomanchulators crowded the room, numbing my bones with their chittering. I grabbed a pencil off my desk and jabbed the point into my hand.

  Pain surged up my arm, ripping me out of the dream.

  I lurched upright in bed. My hand hurt. Glancing around, I tried to determine if I really was awake or if this could be another trick. The shades were drawn, and things looked dull. I touched the wall — it felt solid enough. How many levels had I come up? Seven? Or six? My clock was blank, which seemed strange.

  Angry thuds pounded the door. I slid out of bed. Someone pounded again, shaking the door in its metal frame, only the sound was muffled. Unreal. I pinched my arm and slapped my cheeks.

  The pounding quickened.

  I hurried to the window and raised the shade. If this was level one, I’d be able to fly away until my alarm went off and pulled me from the dream. I grabbed a chair and threw it at the glass. It bounced off. Weird. I swung the chair again, putting more force into it.

  The window shattered into hundreds of glistening triangles. For an instant, all was quiet, then the Nomanchulators pounded the door again. I climbed onto the window ledge, jumping just as the door burst open.

  Cool air rushed past me. Reaching out with my mind, I tried to bend things so I could fly, yet my body kept falling.

  I hit the ground with a jolt that punched the wind out of my chest.

  It hurt more than it ever had in a dream. I’d only fallen twelve or so feet, but I’d landed on broken glass. My shoulder and thigh stung. Coughs wracked my body as I struggled to draw breath back into my empty lungs.

  An RC ran across the field toward me. I realized that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. The morning dew chilled my chest, while other parts of me burned with pain. A few shards of glass seemed to be lodged in my palm.

  “Holy shit!” Heinous said. He and Dickie leaned out the broken window above.

  The earplugs had come out, making things sound real again. Someone shouted my name, asking if I was okay. A crowd gathered. From the window, Heinous erupted into surprised, hysterical laughter.

  THE SCHOOL NURSE CLEANED ME UP. Some of the cuts were long, but most weren’t very deep, so I didn’t need stitches. “You’re going to have some impressive scars,” she said.

  Hassert didn’t waste any time scheduling my expulsion hearing for the next day. As soon as I got back to my dorm, I found out about it. Everything was arranged very formally. Instead of meeting in Principal Durn’s office, we were meeting in the Conference Chambers — a fancy room on the second floor with a big table where the school board gathered.

  My dad had to take off work to attend. I greeted my parents in front of the school. Dad wore his normal wrinkled white work shirt with a brown checkered tie. Moms, on the other hand, had obviously dressed up for the occasion — bright red blouse, black skirt, and a cloud of perfume hovering around her. She’d probably spent all morning getting herself ready, “putting on her face,” as she called it.

  “Are you okay?” Moms asked, worry lines creasing her cheeks.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  She and Dad looked at each other.

  “Do you have much homework today?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m missing physics class right now.”

  “Oh,” he replied, as if only then remembering that it was the middle of the school day.

  “I can’t believe this, James,” Moms said. “What’s going on with you? Is it us? Did we do something?”

  I didn’t even try to address Moms’s questions. It bothered me how she always made everything about herself. “The meeting starts at two o’clock,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  On the way to the Conference Chambers, I gave them a little tour. “My English classroom is down there,” I said. “Those are some of our Beat poetry projects. Mine’s the cube hanging from the ceiling. And the big goldfish in that tank is called Lucky because every year for Saint Patrick’s Day someone dyes the water green. There used to be other fish, but they all died. Lucky eats Tater Tots.”

  My parents nodded, seeming interested. I guess I’d never told them much about ASMA before.

  I took them upstairs and show
ed them the library, along with the view from the balcony.

  “Is that clock right?” Dad asked. According to a clock on the wall, we were five minutes late.

  “We’re almost there,” I said, leading them along the balcony to the Conference Chambers.

  Linda opened the door and invited us in. My parents and I sat on one side of the long table. Everyone else was already seated.

  Principal Durn made the introductions. Nancy Snodgrass, the Head Director, sat at the far end of the table, wearing a blazer with shoulder pads so big they made her look like a triangle. Mr. Funt was there, too, since he was the Sophomore Class Adviser, and Hassert, Head of Residential Life. Linda, who’d be taking “minutes” on our meeting, sat at the other end of the table next to Chuck.

  Chuck didn’t mention that I’d met him before. He looked different, although I couldn’t put my finger on why. Maybe he’d shaved. Principal Durn introduced him as Dr. Charlie Rainen and said he was there as Director of Student Services. Everyone had their titles.

  And then there was me. Head of Screwing Up. Insane Action Adviser. Director of Student Destruction — that’s what Hassert might call me. But from Principal Durn’s tired expression, I figured he’d give me a title like Chief Nuisance, or Waste of Opportunity.

  Hassert began the meeting by reading his report on “the incident.” Apparently, when I hadn’t shown up for breakfast, Heinous and Dickie had come back to the dorm to play a little drum solo on my door. Then they heard a loud noise, unlocked the door, and barged in. That’s when I pulled my Superman and jumped out, or in Hassert’s terms, “fled the scene of destruction.”

  Hassert went on to detail damage to the chair (the chair, for Christ’s sake!) and how much window repairs would cost ($356!). He listed my previous three strikes — the ultimate freak incident in the cafeteria (which he called “a tasteless mock shooting”), the “profanity” scrawled on my forehead (EAT ME?), and the pond incident. In Hassert’s lingo, my winter swim translated to “reckless behavior while under the influence of an illicit substance.” Finally, he clarified that I was already on academic and disciplinary probation for my previous actions. He closed his manila folder and sat back, satisfied.

  Principal Durn looked like he’d fallen asleep. His elbows were propped on the table and he held his forehead in his hands so his bald spot pointed directly at me.

  “Was a drug test performed?” Ms. Snodgrass asked. I couldn’t believe it — like smoking pot would make me jump out a window.

  “Oh, God.” Moms gasped. “Drugs? You think James is on drugs?”

  “Please understand, Mrs. Turner: it’s our policy in situations like this to consider all contributing factors.”

  “I wasn’t on anything,” I started to say, neglecting to mention the cough syrup.

  Hassert cut me off. “Regrettably, no drug test was performed. The, uh, Resident Counselor on duty failed to make a proper substance-abuse assessment.”

  Ms. Snodgrass jotted something on her notepad. “Mr. and Mrs. Turner, I hope you understand that, from a legal standpoint, your son’s behavior has become a liability to this institution. In addition, he’s broken the terms of his enrollment contract.”

  “Excuse me,” Chuck interrupted. “This isn’t merely a legal issue. This young man’s future is at stake.”

  The director gave Chuck a long look. I got the distinct sense that Chuck wasn’t much liked by the administration. “Certainly,” Ms. Snodgrass replied in a clipped voice. “Of course the well-being of the student is foremost on my mind. But as a public residential learning institution, we’re not equipped to deal with these types of behavioral issues. If a student hurts himself or, God forbid, attempts suicide, we could be found negligent.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I said.

  Principal Durn raised his head and focused his tired gaze on me. “Would you like to explain, James, what exactly you were trying to do?”

  “Well,” I began, “it was an accident.”

  Hassert scoffed. “So the chair accidentally flew through the window?”

  “I thought I was asleep.”

  Principal Durn sighed. He rubbed his face, stretching his cheeks up around his eyes. “Never, in twenty years of being a principal, have I seen a student destroy school property and jump out a window in his sleep.” He drew a deep breath and stared at me, Director of Dumb-Ass Excuses. “James, it seems that these meetings have become a habit with you. I’m disappointed to see you here again. Disappointed, because you’re smart enough to know better. Mr. Funt tells me you’re a good student. You have strong grades. . . .”

  Mr. Funt nodded. I felt bad about being rude to him before.

  “But from where I sit,” Principal Durn continued, “it looks like you’re determined to get yourself kicked out. Frankly, I agree with Ms. Snodgrass.” He turned to my parents. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Turner, but I see no other choice than to discontinue your son’s enrollment.”

  “Discontinue?” Moms asked. “You’re saying he’s going to be expelled?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “It’s the middle of the semester. Where do you expect him to go?”

  “He can transfer back to his previous high school.”

  Moms and Principal Durn kept talking about my transcript and how this would affect my college admissions, but I stopped paying attention. I pictured myself back at my old school — the claustrophobic, dull-green hallways, burnt-out teachers, and students who thought I was nobody. I could’t go back to that.

  “Principal Durn,” I interrupted. “Please let me stay. I’ll be good.”

  “How do you expect us to believe you, given your behavior?” Principal Durn replied. “You’ve had warnings, James, and yet you’ve continued to break academy rules.”

  “I was asleep,” I repeated. It sounded lame, even to me. No one spoke for several seconds, waiting for some other explanation, except I didn’t have any other explanation. “I . . . I thought I was dreaming.”

  Hassert leaned forward, placing his doughy hands on the table. “You might think we’re being hard on you, James,” he said. “But what we’re doing is for your own good. When young people aren’t given consequences for their actions, they keep pushing the limits to test what they can get away with. I’ve seen it before. This time it might be jumping out a window. Next time overdosing on drugs, or driving a car into a tree.” He shook his head, as if all this was very difficult for him. “Your behavior is getting increasingly reckless because you crave boundaries. I believe we have to expel you, otherwise you won’t take your actions seriously.”

  Principal Durn checked his watch and shuffled some papers. “Anyone else have something to add?”

  “Automatism,” Chuck said.

  Ms. Snodgrass scrunched her face, like she smelled something foul. “Care to clarify?”

  “Sleepwalking. If James was asleep when the incident took place, we can hardly hold him accountable.”

  “I’m not buying that for a second,” Hassert said.

  “I suppose you’re aware that five percent of all young males are sleepwalkers?” Chuck asked, focusing on Hassert. I finally realized why Chuck looked different — his glass eye was in. I couldn’t even tell which one was fake.

  “As someone in charge of Residential Life,” he continued, “that’s probably something you should know about. Although it’s not usually violent, there are many cases where people have gotten dressed, left their homes, even driven cars while sleepwalking. I can refer you to the journal articles if you like.”

  Hassert frowned. “As interesting as such articles might be, I don’t see what it’s got to do with this.”

  “Really?” Chuck asked. “If you did a little research, you’d find that individuals have been acquitted of crimes, including murders, that were committed while sleepwalking. So if courts of law have found that someone can’t be held accountable for actions committed while in a state of automatism, I don’t see how we can be different.”
He turned to Ms. Snodgrass. “Legally speaking, that is.”

  Chuck’s point suddenly hit me. If I was expelled, I could appeal it based on what he’d said. I wished Dickie was with me, flipping through his rule book.

  “This is ridiculous,” Hassert blurted out.

  “And what explanation do you have for why someone would jump out a second-story window?” Chuck asked.

  “He wants attention,” Hassert said.

  Chuck grinned. “Is that your expert opinion?”

  “Gentlemen,” Principal Durn said, cutting off Hassert’s angry response. He cleared his throat and folded his hands. “What’s your recommendation, Dr. Rainen?”

  “Continued academic and disciplinary probation,” Chuck said. “In addition, James will be required to see me on a biweekly basis until it’s determined that he’s psychologically stable and his sleepwalking episodes are appropriately treated.”

  Ms. Snodgrass shook her head. “You’d need parental consent, and a signed waiver to cover us for negligence.”

  “Mr. Turner and I have already spoken about this,” Chuck replied.

  “Mr. Turner?” Principal Durn asked.

  My dad cleared his throat. “I agree with Charlie here. I’d like James to get some help.”

  Moms shook her head. “He doesn’t need a shrink.”

  “James needs counseling,” Chuck said. “And he needs our support.”

  “I’m sorry?” Moms replied. “Are you suggesting that I don’t support my son? You’ll excuse me if I’d prefer that my son not talk about his personal life with a total stranger.”

  “Hannah,” Dad mumbled.

  Moms threw up her hands. “You’ve no idea,” she said to no one in particular. “I’m a good mother.”

  Principal Durn cleared his throat. “James, would you mind stepping into the hall for a few minutes?”

  My chair screeched as I pushed back from the table. Moms wouldn’t look at me. She searched through her purse for a tissue.