She's the Liar

by Alison Cherry

  I so clearly remember sitting in the auditorium of King Elementary, frozen with horror as I watched Abby miss her cue to start singing “Castle on a Cloud.” A look of pure terror swept over her face, and then her chin started trembling the way it always did when she was little and Mom told her it was time to turn off the TV and take a bath. I focused on her as hard as I could, trying to send her a telepathic message that she should just pick up at the start of the next verse. You can still save yourself! I screamed at her inside my head. But she didn’t, or maybe she couldn’t. Instead she started to sob. It was probably only twenty seconds before a teacher escorted her offstage, but it felt like a thousand years.

  Tabitha Anderson, who was sitting next to me, turned and said, “Isn’t that your sister? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “She’s kind of a freak.”

  Now I pull out my phone and text Abby. Are you ready?

  She writes back immediately. I think so.

  Good luck, I write. Do it like we practiced, and it’s going to go great.

  Thanks, she answers, and that’s it. That’s all I can do.

  It’s not nearly enough.

  The lights in the auditorium go down, and Vice Principal Rosenberg comes out of the wings with a microphone. Seeing her sends a ping of nervous energy through me, just like always. She’s technically the Committee’s faculty advisor, and I’ve already had to dodge her a bunch of times when she wanted to be more involved in our business than was comfortable for me—that is to say, involved at all. I’ve managed to fend off her requests to come to our meetings, giving her the bare minimum of information and stressing how important it is for the Committee to be a safe, adult-free space for students. She’s so into the idea of us governing ourselves that she has bought into it so far; I’ve even been able to smooth things over when a few girls had the guts to complain to the administration that their petitions had been “unfairly” rejected. But it makes me jumpy every time I remember that there’s someone who wants to supervise us.

  “Good afternoon, young women of Brookside,” she says now, her super-enthusiastic voice booming to the back of the auditorium. She’s so hyped up that she’s practically bouncing out of her pumps. “We’re about to take part in the most sacred of democratic traditions: electing our new representatives. Here’s how today will work. First each of our candidates will introduce herself to you, and then I’ll ask them a series of questions, some of which come from me and some of which I’ve collected from the sixth graders. Each candidate will have ninety seconds to answer. When the debate is over, our sixth graders will move down to the polling station in the dance studio in an orderly fashion. Seventh and eighth graders will not be voting today, as they elected their representatives last spring, but I so appreciate those of you who have come out to support your fellow students.”

  “Go Angelina!” someone shouts from the back row, and a wave of giggles sweeps through the auditorium.

  “That brings me to my final point,” Vice Principal Rosenberg says. “I’m delighted by how invested you are in your candidates’ success. But after our initial round of applause, it’s important that you remain quiet until the end of the debate. The best way to help these four young women right now is to let them focus, and then you can show them some love at the polls. The administration will count the votes during dinner, and we’ll announce the winners by email at eight o’clock.

  “Is everyone ready?”

  A wave of cheering rises up around me. My hands feel heavy and tingly with nerves at the same time, but I know people are looking at me, so I force myself to clap.

  “Then here we go,” says Vice Principal Rosenberg. “It’s my pleasure to introduce your candidates for sixth-grade representative: Samantha Bannockburn, Abbi Carrington, Kylee Cho, and Angelina Walker!”

  Everyone screams again as the four girls walk out onstage, smiling and waving as they head toward the semicircle of chairs arranged around a microphone. All of them are wearing their uniforms, but they each have an accessory that makes them look unique. My sister has on a pair of bright pink knee socks covered in stars that I’ve never seen before. She sits in the second chair from the left and crosses her legs. I’m sure she must be incredibly nervous, but she’s hiding it well. All the other girls are fidgeting, jiggling a foot or twisting a bracelet around and around, but Abby is completely still. I cross my fingers and hope it means she’s calm, not paralyzed with fear.

  “Hi there, candidates,” Vice Principal Rosenberg says. “To start us off, I’d like each of you to come up to the mic and introduce yourselves. This isn’t about telling us your ideas for the Committee—just let us know who you are, where you’re from, what your hobbies are, and anything else you’d like to say. Samantha, why don’t you start, and we’ll proceed in alphabetical order.”

  Samantha stands up. She’s wearing Converse sneakers covered in purple sequins, and they glitter in the light as she approaches the mic. She starts talking, but it’s impossible to pay attention to anything she’s saying, knowing that Abby’s up next. In thirty seconds, my sister will be standing at that mic, facing the whole student body. What if she tries to talk and no sound comes out? What if she cries?

  She has so much time left at Brookside. So much time to be teased.

  “Thanks, Samantha,” says Vice Principal Rosenberg. “Abbi?”

  For a minute, my sister doesn’t stand up. Her face doesn’t even change, like she hasn’t noticed someone is speaking to her, and I think, Oh god, she really is frozen. I slide to the edge of my seat, ready to leap up, though I know there’s nothing I can do to save her. But then I see her chest move slowly up and down, and I realize she’s just following my instructions. She’s preparing. And then she stands up, smooths her skirt, and walks to the mic. Her head is up, her shoulders are back, and her arms are relaxed. She looks like Abby, not Abbi.

  “Hi, everyone,” she says in her normal voice. “My name is Abby Carrington, and I’m from Somerville, Massachusetts, and I’m so excited to be running for sixth-grade representative. I love singing and acting. At my old school, I was in Art Club, and I especially like painting with acrylics. I love graphic novels and Moana and cats and going to the beach in Maine with my family, and I hope you’ll let me represent you on the Committee this year!”

  She turns around and walks back to her seat, totally confident, and I let out a sigh of relief so loud that Lily glances over at me. But I can’t help it. My sister is doing it. She practiced giving her answers like I showed her, and this isn’t going to be a disaster of epic proportions.

  Of course, it will be if she wins. But I’ll deal with that later. For now I can breathe.

  When everyone is done with their introductions, Vice Principal Rosenberg asks the obvious first question: Why are you uniquely qualified to represent the sixth grade? She asks Abby to go first, and this time my sister doesn’t even pause. She’s on her feet in a second and bounds up to the mic like she’s eager to give her answer. “Angelina says on her posters that she has superpowers,” she begins. “But I have a superpower none of my fellow candidates have: experience dealing with the Committee.” She goes on to give the answer we practiced last week, embellished with accounts of how she has already helped fight for things that will affect the whole school, like more vegetarian options in the cafeteria. Her delivery seems so natural that I can tell she’s been practicing a lot.

  “And I’m unique in my passion too,” she continues. “A few weeks ago, I auditioned for the fall play, and I landed a part. I’ve never been in a play before, and I was super excited to try it. But then the Committee canceled it, which I believe is completely unjust.”

  A group of theater girls is sitting near me, and one of them shouts, “Yeah!” then claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she stage-whispers, and everyone laughs, including Abby. It’s her normal laugh, not her high, manic Abbi laugh.

  “Thanks, Lydia,” she says into the mic, totally casual, like she’s used to
having friends cheer for her. “Anyway, if you elect me as your representative, I will do absolutely everything I can to have the play restored, and I will fight just as hard for every other student who has something unfairly snatched away from her.”

  I’m actually surprised by how diplomatic she’s being. I expected her to get up onstage and call me out personally. Against all odds, my sister is a great politician.

  Vice Principal Rosenberg asks a lot of the questions I thought she’d ask, and Abby fields them all really well. She fumbles a bit more on the ones we didn’t practice—once she even pulls her braid over her shoulder and twists it as she thinks—but she muddles through. Angelina is super prepared too; she seems a little less friendly than Abby, a bit more ruthless. I don’t feel like I have a good enough handle on her to control her, and that scares me. But if she gets elected, I’ll consider it a challenge. If you dig deep enough into anything, you’re sure to hit dirt eventually.

  Samantha is charismatic and funny, but her answers meander so much that she passes the ninety-second mark every single time, and when Vice Principal Rosenberg stops her, she goes, “But wait, I just want to say one more thing …” Kylee is a total mess—all her answers basically boil down to “I want to be on student government because … I want to.” I hope everyone votes for her. I bet I could get her to do what I want even without digging up dirt on her.

  Vice Principal Rosenberg moves on to questions the other sixth graders have submitted. Most of them are super specific, like, “If I petitioned for two hundred dollars for my club, would you approve it?” It gets boring after a while, but Vice Principal Rosenberg patiently works her way through a bunch of them, including the one that says, “What’s your favorite kind of cheese?” When Abby gets to the mic, she says, “Does the cheese powder on Doritos count?” and everyone laughs.

  I’m surprised to find that I’m not sitting on the edge of my seat anymore.

  And then the whole thing is abruptly over. “Please give our candidates a huge round of applause,” our vice principal says, and everyone lets out all the enthusiasm they’ve been bottling up. I watched a bunch of political debates to prepare before I ran for the Committee last year, and I know that the candidates should all shake hands now. But these girls awkwardly stand up and look around, then grab one another’s hands and take a bow. Abby stands toward the middle, beaming as everyone claps.

  I guess it’s only fair that she should get a chance to bow in front of a cheering crowd, since I took the play away from her.

  The candidates head offstage, and the noise level sky-rockets as the seventh and eighth graders make their way out of the auditorium and the sixth graders line up to head downstairs. Since the Committee is in the front row, we’ll be the last ones out.

  Gianna nudges me as we wait to exit our row. “Your sister did awesome,” she says.

  “She really did,” says Lily, and Maya nods in agreement.

  I know they would tell me Abby was great regardless of what happened up on that stage, but the thing is, she really was. There wasn’t even one moment when she verged on making a fool of herself, and part of me is dizzy with relief.

  But by proving that she can handle herself in front of a crowd, my sister has also proven that I canceled the play for absolutely no reason. I didn’t need to protect her; all I’ve done is take away something she loves. And now, no matter what happens, I can’t give it back without making myself look weak.

  Before, fighting my sister was about doing what was best for her. But now it’s about upholding my reputation as a strong president.

  If one of us falls, it has to be her.

  The email goes out at exactly eight o’clock, like Vice Principal Rosenberg promised.

  It is my pleasure to announce that the two sixth graders who will serve on the Brookside Academy Student Representative Officers Committee are Angelina Walker and Abbi Carrington. Congratulations to all our candidates on a wonderful campaign and debate. As always, I’m so inspired by the intelligence, persistence, and bravery shown by the young women of Brookside. Thanks are also due to the rest of the sixth-grade class, who took part in the sacred American tradition of electing our leaders democratically. It is so important to vote and make your voices heard, and I hope you do so with pride at every opportunity for the rest of your lives!

  It’s not like I’m surprised—Angelina and Abby were clearly the best candidates. But I still feel like I have a rock in the pit of my stomach, and I know it’ll be there a good long while.

  Loud music starts blasting from the quad—it’s that cheesy “Celebrate good times, come on!” song that my dad likes—followed by peals of laughter. When I peer out the window, I spot Grace O’Connor parading across the lawn, holding a wireless speaker aloft with one hand and leading my sister by the other. A whole bunch of girls follow them, cheering and waving their hands in the air. When they reach the middle of the quad, Grace sets down the speaker, and the girls form a dancing, whooping circle around her and Abby.

  Old Abby would’ve been traumatized into silence for the next week by this kind of display. But as I watch, my sister takes Grace’s hand and lets her friend spin her around. I catch a glimpse of her upturned face for a moment as she whirls, and I see that she’s laughing.

  A tiny part of me wonders what it would be like to have a friend spin me around.

  I close the blinds, crack my knuckles, and get to work. I have more important things to do.

  I open all my social media accounts and search for Angelina Walker. She doesn’t seem to have Facebook, but I find her Instagram account after a few tries. However, she only has seven pictures posted: five of her cat, one of a doughnut, and one selfie in a pair of giant sunglasses. There’s nothing here I can use.

  Instead I log into the Brookside website and pull up the student directory. Angelina’s picture is third from the bottom of the sixth-grade class. The generic blue background makes me think it’s her school picture from last year, and her hair is in cornrows with beads on the ends instead of the twists she has now. I find her hometown, then search the whole directory for Kingston, Rhode Island.

  My heart does a little twirl when I get a second match. There’s another sixth grader from Kingston named Katie Radner. Jackpot.

  I send Katie an email. Hi. My name is Sydney, and I’m the president of the Committee. Quick question for you: Did you know Angelina Walker before you came to Brookside?

  A reply comes almost immediately. Yeah, we went to the same church. We’re not really friends though. Why?

  A tiny part of me is actually disappointed—it’s almost not fun when a source falls right into your lap with no effort at all. But it’s not like I’m going to turn it down, so I write back, Can you meet me in the Student Center in fifteen minutes?

  She replies, Am I in trouble or something?

  I send back one final message: No, of course not. I just want to talk to you. And then I grab my bag and head across the quad. I make sure to go out the back door of my dorm, the one that doesn’t face Abby’s celebratory dance party.

  The Student Center is completely empty, so I sit down on one of the couches instead of waiting in the Student Government Office. All the furniture in here is pretty disgusting—we should allocate some money toward getting new couches. Then again, we can barely afford to send Astronomy Club to Cape Canaveral, and that’s obviously more important.

  Katie arrives right on time, shifty-eyed behind her bright pink glasses. She’s got her hoodie sleeves pulled all the way over her hands like she’s trying to protect them, and I feel kind of bad that I’ve made her so nervous. But there’s no reason to be sorry, really. If everything goes like I think it will, she and I will both have something we want by the end of this conversation.

  My instinct is to stand up to greet her, but I force myself to stay seated so I look less intimidating. I probably should’ve changed out of my Capriana boots. “Hi,” I say in my gentlest voice. “I’m Sydney. Want to come sit down?”

 
“Okay,” Katie says. She crams herself into the opposite corner of the sofa, knees pulled up in front of her. She’s small for her age, and she’s wearing tiny pink Keds that match her glasses. “Did something, like, happen to Angelina? Because I don’t know anything about that.”

  “No, nothing like that,” I say. “I was hoping you and I could make a deal. I think you might have something I want, and I’m pretty sure I can offer you something you want in return.”

  Now she looks completely bewildered. “What things?”

  “Do you know how Petition Day works, Katie?”

  She nods, obviously relieved to be back on a subject she understands. “If we want something, we fill out a form, and then we come and ask you guys to approve it? And then you vote on whether we can have it? My RA told us.”

  “That’s exactly right,” I say. “So, this is what I’m thinking. If you can tell me something embarrassing about Angelina that happened back in Kingston, something she wouldn’t want anyone at Brookside to know, I promise to get three petitions approved for you this year. They can be anything you want, within reason—I can’t get you a thousand dollars of personal spending money or anything, but off-campus passes, budget approvals for clubs, a pizza party for you and your friends … Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.”

  Katie’s eyes widen. “Really?”

  “If you can give me the information I need, yes. Really.”

  “But if something embarrassing about Angelina gets out and then I show up at Petition Day and get whatever I want, won’t she know it was me? She’s on the Committee now.”