She's the Liar

by Alison Cherry

  My parents exchange the kind of look where you can practically see words flying back and forth between their brains. They’re obviously surprised by my new attitude, but it’s like they decide together not to mention it. “Okay,” Dad says, clapping his hands. “Pizza it is.”

  We end up at a place called Stromboli about ten minutes from campus. Syd seems to relax as we settle in at a table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth and order drinks. But then the door opens again, and when three other girls walk in with their parents, her whole posture changes, shoulders flying up to her ears like she wishes she could retract her head like a turtle. The girls all look perfectly nice, and one of them even waves and calls, “Hi, Sydney!” But my sister just gives them a tight smile. Maybe they’re mean girls who are pretending to be sweet in front of their families.

  “Oh, are those friends of yours?” my mom asks. “If you want to eat with them, maybe we could get the waiters to move some tables together and—”

  “No,” Syd says, and her voice comes out so low and dangerous that Mom breaks off right in the middle of her sentence.

  “Oh,” she says, looking a bit bewildered. “Well … okay.”

  “See you Tuesday!” calls another girl as the server leads them to their table. She’s wearing a pink shirt so bright it almost hurts to look at it. “We have some really amazing ideas for the dance team this year, and we’re hoping you’ll—”

  Syd’s hand shoots out of her lap quick as lightning, and her Sprite topples and splashes all over the table like a bubbly waterfall. Mom and I yelp and scoot out of the way as soda pours in streams off the tablecloth, ice cubes riding on top like tiny rafts. A server comes to the rescue with extra napkins right away, and by the time everything is cleaned up, the girls and their parents are seated all the way across the restaurant.

  “Oops,” Sydney says, but she doesn’t apologize or anything. It kind of seems like she did it on purpose to end the conversation.

  Something the girl in pink said tugs at the corner of my brain as I reach for a garlic knot. “You’re not on the dance team, are you?” I ask my sister. I can’t picture that at all.

  “Ew, no!” Sydney snaps, so indignant it’s like I’ve told the whole school who she has a crush on. “I would never associate with those idiots. God, don’t be stupid.”

  Syd has never exactly been the warmest, fuzziest sister, but I’m not used to her calling me names, and hearing the word “stupid” directed at me stings like getting a paper cut between my fingers.

  “Sydney, please be nice to Abby,” Mom says.

  “Sorry,” Syd mumbles.

  “That girl said she’d see you Tuesday, though,” I say. “What happens Tuesday?”

  “Nothing,” Syd says. “I don’t know. Class, I guess? I barely know her.”

  I don’t know why I even try with her sometimes. I’m about to give up when I remember I actually have an important question. “Oh, hey,” I say. “I wanted to ask you—what’s Petition Day?”

  My sister’s eyes widen. “What? Why? Who said anything about Petition Day?”

  “Our blinds fell down earlier, and when I asked this girl on my hall how we get new ones, she said I had to go to Petition Day and ask the Committee. And she made it sound like it was obvious what those things were, and I didn’t want to look dumb, so I said I’d ask you.”

  Syd’s hand flies up to rub her eye again; it’s lucky she doesn’t wear makeup, or she would look like a raccoon by now. “Okay,” she says, a little calmer. “So, the Committee is made up of six students, two from each grade. Well, there are four right now, since elections for sixth-grade representatives aren’t for another few weeks, but soon there’ll be six. It’s like student council, but they have a lot more control over what happens at the school. They meet every day during first period, and then they also have Petition Days on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. If you need something, you go to the Student Government Office in the basement of the Student Center, and you fill out a form. And then you stand in line to go before the Committee and ask for what you need. If it’s something quick, they vote on it right then—like, I’m sure your blinds will get approved right away. If it’s bigger, like you want money for your club or something, they wait till their meeting the next morning to discuss it, and then they vote.”

  “Do you know the girls on it?” I ask. “Are they cool?”

  My sister shrugs. “Everyone knows everyone here. I’m not really friends with them or anything.”

  “I love how progressive this school is,” Mom says. “It’s so great that you girls get to govern yourselves. It’s setting you up to be amazing leaders. I wish I’d had those kinds of opportunities when I was your age. Even just electing your own representatives is such great practice for being a politically engaged adult.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Syd says.

  Our server shows up with our food, and the conversation stops for a minute while we figure out where the Hawaiian pizza and the pepperoni and mushroom and the salad should go. Once everyone is served, Dad says, “How are you feeling about starting school, Abby? Are there any extracurriculars you think you might want to try?”

  “I’m sure this school has a wonderful art club,” Mom says super gently, like she’s tiptoeing toward a sleeping cat and is afraid of startling it. “But do you think it might be cool to try something where you can be part of a team? I played soccer and sang in the choir in middle school, and both of them were such great experiences.”

  “I did band, and I loved it,” Dad says. “I played—”

  “Ugh, Dad, we all know about your saxophone,” Syd says with a giant eye roll, and everyone laughs. Sometimes on holidays, Dad digs out his saxophone and tries to play it. The only thing he can play is “Jingle Bells,” and even that is almost unrecognizable.

  “Seriously though, Abs,” Mom says. “What do you think?”

  I bet Mom thinks I’m going to go quiet, shake my hair down over my face like a curtain, and say I don’t want to be part of a team. She has no idea that Abbi’s living inside me now, and I can’t wait to surprise her with the idea that took root this afternoon and has been growing and flowering ever since.

  I sit up straight and put my pizza down; it seems like my big announcement will hold more weight if I don’t have sauce all over my fingers. “Actually …” I draw the word out, then pause to create suspense, and it works—pretty soon my whole family has stopped chewing and is looking at me. “I think I’m going to try out for the play.”

  Saying the words out loud makes me feel fizzy with nervous excitement. I love to sing and act in the privacy of my bedroom, and part of me has always wished I could show other people what I could do. After the third-grade talent show, I felt like that door had closed in my face forever. Later that week, when I stood up to give a class presentation about penguins, Evan Hamilton started fake crying, making these loud “Boooo-hooooo” sounds, and everyone in the whole class laughed. And then people started doing it in the lunchroom and on the playground and in the halls, and that’s when I basically went quiet for the rest of elementary school. But here I have an audience that doesn’t know anything about me, and a brand-new personality to go with it. Abbi can obviously do things I can’t do, and it seems like this might be one of them.

  “Abby, that’s …” Mom’s voice wavers, and her eyes go all soft and warm, like a caramel that’s been sitting in the sun. “Sweetheart, that’s a wonderful idea. I’m so proud of you.”

  Dad reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I can’t wait to see my girl onstage.”

  Sydney looks back and forth between my parents like they’ve said they’re going to get a pet ostrich and keep it in her bedroom. “You guys all know this is a really bad idea, right? We do have a good art club, Abby. You should just be in that, okay?”

  “I can be in both,” I say.

  “But there’s no way you can possibly be in the play,” Syd says, and her words send little sparks of doubt showering through me.

 
Mom shoots my sister a look like she’s seriously trying her patience. “Sydney,” she says, her voice deadly serious, “could you please try to be supportive? Your sister is being really brave, and we think it’s wonderful that she wants to try something new. I know that coming back here after a summer at home is an adjustment for you, but Abby’s starting at Brookside for the first time, and she’s probably more nervous than you are. All our attention can’t be on you today.”

  “What, you think I’m jealous of her?” Syd snaps.

  “You’re the big sister,” Dad says. “We need you to act mature and show Abby some kindness, okay?”

  “That’s not—augh.” Syd’s face is turning red, and she balls up her napkin like there’s a bug in the middle that she needs to squish. No matter what she says, I know this is about jealousy. My sister has noticed there’s something different about me, and she knows I might actually be able to succeed here in a way she hasn’t managed. I bet she’s afraid I’ll get more popular in a week than she’s gotten in an entire year. And if all goes well, maybe I will.

  I sit up straight and tell myself not to listen to her. She can be unsupportive all she wants. If she believes I can’t do it, fine. None of that has to affect me.

  I’m going to get up on that stage, and I’m going to show her how wrong she is.

  The basement of the Student Center is already crowded with girls by the time I get there after class on Tuesday. Most of them are grouped around a folding table near the vending machines, and when I make my way over, I see that they’re jockeying to grab pastel papers from a bunch of plastic trays. These must be the forms Sydney mentioned. Other girls are chatting as they fill them out, sprawled on the squishy, mismatched couches covered in cat scratches and stains. It looks like all the teachers’ reject furniture has ended up down here, but it’s kind of cozy in a way.

  I’m not 100 percent comfortable being Abbi yet, and my stomach twists when I think about pushing into the fray and trying to figure out which form I need. Old Abby would have been terrified of making a fool of herself. But I’ve done a great job of being Abbi today—I answered questions in math and English, and I even made a joke at lunch that Christina and two other girls laughed at. I can totally do this.

  I recognize the girl who was wearing the pink shirt at the pizza place on Sunday, so I move toward the table and tap her on the shoulder. “Hi,” I say in my perky, confident Abbi voice. “Do you know which form I need to get new blinds for my room?”

  The girl grabs a pale blue paper from a tray and passes it back to me. It says MAINTENANCE REQUEST across the top. “Here.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I smile at her. I’m still getting used to smiling for real in public places; it makes my teeth feel naked and shy. The girl smiles back, so I guess I don’t look totally weird, but it definitely doesn’t seem like she recognizes me from the other night.

  “Is this your first Petition Day?” she asks. I nod, and she says, “When you’re done filling out your form, get in line over there, in front of the Student Government Office.” She indicates a hallway next to a bulletin board plastered with flyers for clubs and activities; there are at least fifteen girls over there already, a sea of navy blazers and plaid skirts and ponytails. “Don’t worry, it usually moves pretty fast.”

  “Thanks,” I say again. “Do they, um …” Abbi doesn’t say “um,” so I swallow and try again. “Does the Committee usually give people what they want?”

  “I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting new blinds. You’ll be in and out in two seconds. But stuff like this …” She holds up her yellow form, which says BUDGET REQUEST FOR ACTIVITY. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen. The new president doesn’t like me very much, so …”

  “Does that matter?” I ask. “Even if you’re asking for something reasonable?”

  The girl shrugs. “With her it does.”

  “She sounds kind of mean,” I say. “I hope you get what you want.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  I find an empty chair in the corner of the room and fill out my form—name, ID number, room number, maintenance issue—and then I get in line. The door of the Student Government Office opens right at that moment, and a girl with curly blond hair and a round face storms out, cheeks red and eyes murderous. A green form is crumpled in her hand. A tall girl with her hair in tons of tiny braids goes inside and shuts the door behind her.

  “She said no,” the blond girl says when she reaches her friends. “Can you believe that? All I’m asking for is two hours off campus so I can go shoe shopping with my mom!”

  “That’s so stupid,” says one of her friends. “Did she say why?”

  “She said they weren’t issuing off-campus passes this early in the year, but she gave one to Brianne ten minutes ago for her sister’s birthday party. She’s obviously trying to get back at me because I campaigned for Chelsea.”

  “Chelsea deserved to be president so much more,” says a third girl.

  “So much more. She would’ve actually run things fairly.” The girl tips her head back and makes a frustrated, strangled screaming sound. “Gianna and Lily and Maya all wanted to give it to me—I could tell. Like, they were raising their hands to say yes, but then she gave them this look, and they all put their hands down. There’s a hole in the sole of my sneaker. How am I going to do cross-country tryouts?”

  “I’m sorry,” the first friend says. “You can appeal on Friday, I guess?”

  “Tryouts are Thursday. It’ll be too late by then.”

  The door opens again, and the girl with the braids comes out, clutching her yellow form and beaming. She practically skips over to the stairs, where her friend is waiting. “She said they’d consider the telescope!” she says. “They’re going to vote on it tomorrow. Can you believe it? I thought for sure they’d say no.”

  Her friend jumps up and down and squeals. “Oh my god, if we ordered it tomorrow, Astronomy Club could have it by next week for the supermoon! And Saturn is supposed to be so bright the week after—do you think we’d be able to see the rings? We could get so many more people to join.”

  “Maybe! I’ll check the specifications to see—” They head up the stairs, and the slamming door swallows the end of her sentence.

  The blond girl’s eyes bug out of her head as she watches them go. “Are you serious right now? Jenna gets a freaking telescope, and I can’t have two hours at the mall? I hate this place.”

  Her friend puts an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go get a hot chocolate.” They follow the other girls up the stairs.

  I guess Dance Team Girl wasn’t kidding about the new president. When I try to picture her, I imagine Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty, complete with the horn headdress, the cape, and the raven on her shoulder. I know that’s not what the president will look like, obviously—she’s an eighth-grade girl, not an evil queen. But my heart gives an anxious flutter anyway, like a scared bird has gotten trapped inside it. It doesn’t help when another girl storms out of the room with a giant dark cloud hanging over her head. As she pushes by me, muttering to herself, she crumples her form into a ball and throws it in the trash.

  There are just two more people in front of me, and then, after a shockingly short time, there’s only one. And then I’m face-to-face with the door of the Student Government Office, and my pulse is so out of control that I can feel it in my fingertips.

  I remind myself that I’m only asking for blinds; Sydney and Dance Team Girl both said I’d have no trouble getting them. The president has nothing against me. She’s never even seen me before. If I make a good impression, maybe I’ll end up like Telescope Girl and I’ll be able to get anything I want for the rest of the year.

  I take a deep breath, lift my chin, and try to banish every leftover molecule of Abby from my body. And then the girl behind me impatiently says, “It’s your turn,” and I skitter forward before I’m totally ready, and then I’m inside the room, clutching my blue paper in my clammy fingers.

 
I close the door behind me and turn to face the Committee.

  And then my mouth drops open. Because there behind the table, flanked by three other girls, is my sister.

  Her chair is different from their plain metal folding ones; it’s wood, with a higher back and arms, and it makes her a bit taller than everyone else. In front of her are a red ink pad and three rubber stamps: APPROVED, DENIED, and PENDING. Not only is Sydney on the Committee, it looks like she’s running it. My sister is the evil queen.

  “Syd?” I say, and my voice comes out squeakier than Abbi’s ever would. But nobody hears me because Sydney starts talking right over me.

  “Hello,” she says, totally cool and neutral, like she’s never seen me before in her life. “How can we help you today?”

  I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that my sister—my nerdy, know-it-all sister who had to switch schools because she had so much trouble interacting with people—is the dreaded president everyone fears. And she just spent an entire summer at home without ever once mentioning it. Why would she hide something so important from her own family? Why didn’t she tell us at dinner on Sunday when I asked about the Committee? And why is she acting like she has no connection to me at all, like we haven’t spent practically every day of our lives under the same roof?

  I stare at her, stunned into silence by the number of conflicting feelings flooding through my brain, and she stares right back. She’s sitting up straight and tall, filled with a fierce confidence I’ve never seen in her before, and she has this giant pair of lace-up black boots on. They look like the ones she described that time she told me what her Dungeons & Dragons character, Capriana the Rogue, looked like.

  “Helloooo?” The girl on Syd’s left grabs a handful of cereal out of the Ziploc bag she’s holding and stuffs it into her mouth. “Can we have your petition?”

  “Um, yeah.” I force a smile, hoping I look way more relaxed than I feel. “Here you go.” I approach the table and lay the maintenance request form down in front of my sister. It’s crumpled along the edge from my sweaty fingers, and I try to smooth it flat.