Trust Me, I'm Lying

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

  But he never borrows to bet. He bets everything we have but nothing we don’t. His bookie’s his best friend. Ralph even comes to my birthday parties. So I seriously doubt it’s a payment problem.

  It has to be a con that’s gone south somehow. Which means my dad’s in trouble. He has something his mark wants. And not just any mark—a mark willing to break in and do this. That means a mark on the shadier side.

  I reach the kitchen and tip a chair upright. What could my dad be into that would have resulted in this? What could he have that somebody would be looking for? The answer is lots of things: forged documents, information about something incriminating, who knows? The two bigger questions, though, are did the person find what he was searching for, and why didn’t my dad tell me what he was doing?

  My dad is not the sort to shelter his offspring. We’re a team. I sometimes help him brainstorm when he’s planning a con. He doesn’t often use me as a roper, mostly because I’d stick out like a sore thumb in the circles he tends to work. But he always tells me his angle.

  I lean against the wall, surveying the destruction in the kitchen. Something tells me that whoever tossed the place did not find what he was looking for. That might very well be wishful thinking, but I decide to act on the hunch anyway. Can’t hurt to do a bit of searching of my own.

  But before I turn over even a plate, two thoughts occur to me. One, I should call the police before I tamper with any potential evidence. Two, if the home-wrecker didn’t find what he was looking for, he might come back.

  I reach for my phone and tap a nine and a one before I come to my senses. I can’t call the police. Police plus abandoned minor equals foster care. Hello! I let out a shaky breath at how close I came to screwing myself nine ways to Sunday. I delete both numbers and quickly pocket the phone, as if my fingers might somehow betray me.

  I’m sure you think I’m being melodramatic. But I’m not an idiot. Everyone knows that foster care is a prison sentence. Umpteen thousand crime procedurals cannot be wrong. Besides, my dad and I are our own system. I’m the only one who knows him well enough to figure out where he’s hidden whatever the intruder was searching for. If the police get involved, they’ll be the ones ruining the crime scene, not me.

  I picture my dad, every detail from his thick brown hair to his scuffed oxfords. If I were my dad and I had to hide something …

  What hasn’t been touched? I turn in a slow circle till I find it—the perfectly upright, not-even-a-millimeter-out-of-place trash can.

  Only cops dig in the garbage, Julep, and even then, only on TV.

  Before considering the consequences, I yank the bag out of the can and empty it onto what’s left of the linoleum. Last night’s chicken bones come tumbling out, along with several plastic wrappers and a lump of grease-covered foil. Gross, yes. Illuminating, no. I root around in it anyway, holding my breath and hoping. But there’s nothing in the bag that can remotely be construed as valuable. No pictures, no papers, no money, nothing.

  I plop on the floor next to the mess, swearing to myself. I mean, who am I kidding? How am I supposed to find my dad in a pile of half-eaten chicken? The trash can mocks me with its dingy plastic lid. Still upright, it is the only thing in the apartment that’s exactly where it should be.

  I kick out and knock it over. Might as well finish the job, right? But as it falls to the floor, I hear something bang around inside it. I pull the mouth around to where I can see. Inside the can is a padded envelope.

  Ignoring the muck, I reach in and grab the envelope. As I rip it open, I have this strange sense of doom, like liberating its contents is some kind of point of no return. I ignore the feeling. He is my dad, after all.

  But when I pull out said contents, I’m even more unnerved.

  In one hand, I hold a note:

  BEWARE THE FIELD OF MIRACLES.

  In the other, I hold a gun.

  THE GEEK JOB

  “Julep!” Sam shouts as he flies through the door.

  I realize what I must look like, sitting next to garbage with my back against the battered cabinets, holding a gun. Before his eyes find me, I set the gun on the floor behind me. I’m not trying to hide it, but a person can only take so many shocks at once.

  When he sees me on the floor, he rushes over.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I said as much on the phone, Sam.”

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “You really know how to compliment a girl.”

  He tries to pull me to my feet, but I don’t let him. First, because there’s really nowhere else to go. Second, well, I’m not sure my legs will hold me just yet. He sits down next to me instead.

  “You know what I mean,” he says.

  I pull my knees in closer. I could still call the police, I suppose, but I know I won’t.

  “Is this like last time?”

  I shake my head. But it’s a fair question. This isn’t the first time my dad’s disappeared.

  When I was thirteen, I came home from school one day, finished my homework, made myself my standard mac-and-cheese dinner of champions, and watched five hours of television before I realized my dad wasn’t coming home that night. Nor did he come home the following night, or the night after that. No note, no call, nothing.

  I was petrified. But when I told Sam, he assured me that if my dad didn’t come back, he and his parents would take me in. Just having that safety net calmed my panic. My dad eventually came back, two weeks of peanut butter sandwiches later. He’s never really explained where he was, but I got the impression it had to do with a job that went bad.

  At the time, I was angry with him for scaring me. But looking back, I’m certain he was trying to protect me from someone who might have tried to hurt me or use me against him. Had I been him, I’d have done the same thing. Still, everything changed after that. Or rather, I changed. I no longer wanted my father’s life.

  But this disappearance is different. This time someone’s destroyed our apartment.

  “He’s still not answering his cell?”

  “I haven’t tried again since calling you,” I admit. “But I called seventeen times. If he hasn’t answered by now, he’s not going to.”

  “His circumstances might change,” Sam says, choosing his words carefully. I appreciate the tact, but let’s call it as we see it, shall we?

  “Look at this place, Sam.” I gesture at the mess. “This is not the work of his usual kind of mark. This is something else.”

  Sam scans the room, shoving shards of a plate out of the way with his foot.

  “Well, you can’t stay here.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. A flash of fear spikes through me as I realize he might out me to the cops. “You have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Julep, you aren’t actually considering staying here—”

  “Of course I am. He might call or come back.”

  “But—”

  “Sam, please. You can’t tell anyone or I’ll get shipped off to some foster farm. No more St. Aggie’s.”

  Sam opens his mouth to protest but closes it when he realizes I’m right.

  “You still can’t stay here,” he says after a pause. “You can stay with us.”

  “Your mom thinks I’m a ‘bad influence,’ remember?” I put air quotes around bad influence to soften the sore point he hates talking about.

  “She’ll just have to deal.” He’s irritated despite my air quotes.

  “We’re not in grade school anymore, anyway,” I say. “Sleepovers aren’t exactly kosher.”

  “This is serious, Julep. You can’t just brush it off. What if whoever did this”—he nods at the linoleum strips—“comes back?”

  I hate to admit it, but he’s right. If the thugs decide to try again, it will be tonight.

  “Fine. I’ll stay with you for one night.”

  He lets go a breath I didn’t realized he was holding.

  “Good,” he says.

  I give him a so
ur look. “Just one. I’m pretty sure they won’t come back. Why would they waste their time? They either found what they were looking for or they didn’t because it isn’t here.”

  “What would they be looking for?”

  “No idea. Maybe nothing. But I found this.” I show him the note. Then I slowly pull out the gun. “And this.”

  His expression turns stormy again, and he takes the gun from me, dropping the note into the chicken drippings.

  “Hey!” I say, rescuing it.

  He ignores me, ejecting the bullet-holder thingy and checking the chamber with expert skill.

  “Since when do you know anything about guns?” I glare at him as I wipe off the note.

  “The colonel’s been taking me shooting since I was twelve, Julep.”

  Sam’s dad, who he lovingly refers to as “the colonel,” in addition to being a CEO, is a retired army colonel with the military bearing, ambitious drive, and strict governance of Sam to go with the rank. Of course the man would teach his son how to shoot a handgun.

  “I thought it was, like, duck hunting or something.”

  He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if you know me at all.”

  I wrinkle my nose, not wanting to admit that I might be a little hurt by that, mostly because there’s a chance it’s partially true. Very partially. Like, a minuscule amount.

  “Anyway, it’s not loaded,” he says.

  “My dad gave me an unloaded gun?”

  “So it appears.” He puts the gun back together and hands it to me. Then he reaches for the note. “What does it say?”

  “ ‘Beware the Field of Miracles.’ ”

  He scans the note. “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s just like my dad. Riddles.”

  “Do you think it’ll lead us to whatever it is these people want?”

  “Possibly,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.

  “But … you think it leads to something else?”

  “It could lead to the missing millions or whatever. Or it could lead to my dad. But the note is definitely from him, and he clearly wants me to do something.”

  Sam sighs and takes my hand. I let him keep it.

  After I pack a bag and we move our party to Sam’s house, Sam and I have a perfectly uneventful sleepover, involving sneaking me in through his bedroom window and arguing over who’ll be taking the bed versus the Star Wars beanbag chair. I win the argument for the beanbag chair and yet somehow wake up in the bed anyway, and so I am extremely grumpy the next morning. I then sneak back out his bedroom window when the maid knocks on his door. I give half a thought to hot-wiring Sam’s car and taking off without him, but he shows up with the keys and drives us to school.

  St. Agatha’s Preparatory School, fondly referred to as St. Aggie’s by most of its attendees, was Chicago’s first private all-girls academy. But due to various recessions and other natural catastrophes over the years, it became a coed institution. It’s still true to its Catholic roots, however, holding Mass on Wednesdays in the chapel, lighting candles for every holy day, and passing the presidency from nun to nun.

  The campus itself is gorgeous. Several turn-of-the-century buildings form a perimeter around a large, grassy quad complete with fountain and triumphal arch. The southern side is bordered by Holy Mother of God Church, while the northern end is bound by the gymnasium and theater building. The other two buildings house the classes as well as the administrative offices for the various school authorities.

  The smallish parking lot is tucked under the shadow of the church’s steeples, adding to the chill I feel through my wool coat and school-mandated tights. Despite the warmth yesterday, September is fast fading into October, and Chicago’s famous wind is already starting to blow.

  Sam tugs one of my braids and I smack the back of his head, which is our loving way of saying “See you later.” I need a coffee and some research time before starting my day. First period is one of those things I consider optional. Like nuts in brownies. And flossing. So as Sam goes into the nearest building, I head in the direction of the Ballou.

  “Hey, Julep. Got a sec?” Murphy Donovan—a soft, bespectacled nerd from my biology class—stops me before I get very far.

  “You happen to have a decent cup of espresso on your person?” I say.

  “Not on me, no.”

  “Then if you want to talk, you’ll have to walk me.”

  He falls into step like a well-trained puppy, but he seems to need a little prodding in the talking department.

  “So is this a social call?” I ask.

  “No. That is, um, I’d like to”—he lowers his voice and looks over his shoulder at the students flitting hither and yon around us—“hire you.”

  “I see. How can I be of service?”

  “I want you to get Bryn Halverson to go to the fall formal with me,” he all but whispers.

  I consider his request as I shift my bag. I could do it. Easily, in fact. All it takes is a modified fiddle game. My brain is already spinning the con, assessing resources, gauging the mark. But I’d like a little more information before I take the job.

  “The Bryn Halverson?” I say. “Head JV cheerleader, homecoming court, failing Spanish—that Bryn Halverson?”

  “She’s failing Spanish?”

  “Focus, Murphy.”

  “Yes, her,” Murphy answers.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  He drops his gaze to his hands. “I like her,” he mumbles.

  “You and every other straight, red-blooded American male,” I say, more truthful than kind. I don’t need to drag this out of him. I can do the job without it. But how I approach the job affects him, and understanding his motivations lets me know how far I can go.

  “I liked her before. I’ve liked her since middle school, when she had braces and frizzy hair and was whipping all our butts at algebra.”

  I sigh and give him a sympathetic look. I’m going to take the job, of course, but I’m not thrilled about it. Not because I’m opposed to manipulating Bryn, but because I already know Murphy’s going to get trampled. And since Murphy’s a tech-club buddy of Sam’s, Sam is not going to be pleased if I help Bryn break Murphy’s heart.

  “Honestly, Murphy, it would be easier if you just wanted the social status.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  I nod reluctantly. “Yes. But you’ll probably regret it.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends on how much you like her.”

  “No, I mean—”

  I wave him to silence. “I know what you mean,” I say, calculating the fee in my head. What is the going rate for breaking somebody’s heart? This is one of those questions that make me reconsider my line of work.

  “Five hundred. Cash. Plus the standard proviso.”

  “What proviso?”

  “You owe me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “The kind where you don’t know what it is until I ask it,” I say, pausing at the door to the Ballou. “If it’s any comfort, it’s usually something pretty tame, and generally in your area of expertise.”

  Murphy mulls over my terms for all of half a second before forking over the cash. I’d never pay that much for a school dance, but then most of the students at St. Aggie’s have money to burn. Even worse is the threat of an unspecified favor to be called in at a later date. But I’ve never had anyone protest. I guess that’s what comes of having unlimited access to whatever you want—when you need something you can’t get, you’re willing to put everything on the line. Maybe the opportunity to confess your undying love is worth it. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, so what do I know?

  “When should I ask her?” he says.

  “A week from tomorrow,” I answer as I open the door. “That gives us time to lay the groundwork, but still gives her a few days to buy a dress. Assuming she doesn’t have a closetful already.”

  “What if she says no?”

&
nbsp; “You should be more worried about her saying yes.”

  He gives me a confused look.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I say, stepping into the warm glow of the Ballou.

  It takes me longer than most people to order coffee, because I’m chatting up the cashier to finagle a free drink. It’s not hard. Especially at a chain, which is more likely selling the coffee-shop experience than the coffee. But even indie-shop baristas are given a lot of leeway. All I have to do is determine what pushes the buttons of the person who pushes the buttons, and bingo—all the macchiatos I can drink. But it does take a little more time than fishing for cash.

  “You new?” I ask as I step up to the counter.

  I’m a regular at the Ballou, so I know all the baristas. I’ve never seen this guy before, so I already know he’s new. It doesn’t really matter whether you’re a regular or not, though—just have a spiel handy for either possibility.

  “First day,” he says.

  Stocky and bald and built like a linebacker, the forty-something man looks more like he should be on the set of an action flick than wearing a barista apron.

  “Like it so far?”

  “Manager’s nice enough.”

  “I’ll have a triple soy caramel macchiato, please.” The please is essential when angling for a free drink. “My name is Julep,” I continue, offering a hand while flashing him a dimpled smile.

  “Mike,” he says as he shakes my hand.

  “I know all the baristas’ names,” I tell him. “Have to put something next to their numbers on my speed dial. You never know when you’re going to have a caffeine emergency.”

  He laughs and starts making my drink without charging me first, as he can see that I’m winding up for a full-on conversation.

  “Have you been in the barista game long?”

  “My first time, actually,” he admits with a smile. On him, it looks like a piece of granite cracking in the middle. “Tell me if I mess it up and I’ll try again.”