Trust Me, I'm Lying

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

I’d normally go. I’m not averse to spending an evening floating in a sea of flounce and frippery. A lot of drama goes down at school functions, providing both free entertainment and potential new clients.

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate and not much in the way of a costume.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Cop-out.”

  “You’re right—it is. But it also happens to be true.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugs dismissively.

  I move toward the half-closed door. “We’d better get a move on if we want to make it to class before the—”

  As I pull the door in, the dean appears, framed in the doorway and wearing a smile like a cat that’s gotten into the cream.

  “Trading secrets, ladies?”

  I open my mouth to lie, but she holds up her perfectly manicured hand.

  “I’d rather hear from Heather. She is my assistant, after all.”

  I silently will Heather to rat me out over something minor to preserve the dean’s trust in her. But the chances she’ll receive the message are slim, as telepathy only works in the movies, and the odds are even slimmer that she’ll figure it out herself since she’s not a player. And sure enough …

  “We were looking for music. For the dance.”

  Not what I was hoping for, but I can work with it.

  “I highly doubt the dance committee is going to approve the marching band for its entertainment.”

  I leap in before the dean can stop me. “The theme is ‘Swing in Space’ ”—that part is actually true; don’t ask me who came up with it, or why—“and we were hoping Mr. Beauford could recommend period-appropriate music.”

  The dean narrows her eyes at me. “So if I were to look in your bag, I would find a list of this ‘period-appropriate music’ ?”

  “We missed him,” I say, smothering a spike of anxiety. If she finds that file in my bag, both Heather and I are toast.

  “Then I suppose I won’t find anything but schoolbooks.” Her grin widens from tabby cat to tiger shark.

  She seriously has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to rule-breaking. There’s no reason for her to suspect there’s anything in my bag. In fact, she probably suspects something totally different from what she’ll find—unless she’s been standing here the whole time, listening to our conversation.

  “Open it,” she says.

  One thing any con worth his salt will tell you is that it’s always a good idea to know the laws you’re breaking, though not for the reason you might think. The laws themselves will tell you how far the people in power can go to catch you, when you can clam up and demand a lawyer, when you can plead the fifth, that sort of thing. So yes, I’ve read the student handbook—memorized it, even. And unfortunately for me, according to ordinance 33, section F, the dean is well within her rights to search me.

  In other words, we’re screwed.

  “Dean Porter, you’re looking lovely today, as always.”

  Tyler Richland, knight in shining armor, strides out from behind the dean. I didn’t even hear him approach, which just shows how off-kilter I am about the stolen file.

  The dean’s smirk turns sour with irritation as she turns to address Tyler. “The late bell is about to ring, Mr. Richland. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “I was on my way there when I saw you,” he says smoothly. “My father asked me to tell you that he really appreciated your campaign contribution.”

  The way Tyler emphasized the word father with a small pause afterward distracts the dean from her objective.

  “He did?” she says, then clears her throat. “I mean, of course. I think his voting record is impeccable, and I’d like to see what he can contribute next term.” She flicks a sharp look at me.

  “He’s hoping you’ll call him so he can thank you personally,” Tyler says, flashing a smile.

  I’m intrigued. He seems to have a knack for the tale. I try to place why his style strikes me as familiar, and then I remember seeing his dad on TV. I’d never thought to equate politics to grifting before, but the comparison seems apt. Especially now, watching the way Tyler is playing the dean.

  “I—well, I—” The dean’s hands flutter as if she doesn’t know quite what to do with them. “I mean, yes. I’ll do that.”

  Then she flits off as if she never meant to check my bag. I wait till she’s rounded a corner before relaxing. Heather levels a death glare at me and hustles down the hall to her own class.

  Tyler, on the other hand, seems happy to see me. His smile transforms from smooth to sincere when his gaze catches mine. Seeing the contrast between the two smiles is an unexpected bonus. It helps me get a better handle on him. If it’s this easy to tell when he’s working an angle and when he’s not, then I’ll have more warning if he tries something on me.

  Not that I think he will try something. There’s no motive, for one thing. He may be the hottest thing to happen to the female population since hair product, but he’s still just a student at St. Agatha’s. He’ll no doubt be someone important someday, but right now he’s just a pair of amazing brown eyes and a tight—Um, well, you get the idea.

  “That should give you time to hide whatever it is you don’t want the dean to see,” he says.

  Okay, an observant pair of amazing brown eyes.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to the dean, which makes it obvious to everyone.”

  “Fabulous.”

  He laughs. “Don’t worry. It’ll take her at least an hour to get ahold of my dad.”

  I lean against the doorframe, frowning at him. Despite my newfound and grudging respect for his skill, I’m still irritated about his spilling the beans to Valerie about the rat.

  “So you’re following me now?”

  He points at a nearby classroom filling with students. “I have Grosky for Spanish seventh period. And yes, I am following you.”

  Cute. I make a mental note to have Sam download Tyler’s class schedule. Just because there’s no reason for Tyler to lie to me doesn’t mean I shouldn’t check.

  “How did you know the dean has a thing for your dad?”

  “She uses every imaginable excuse to call him personally. She goes out of her way to ask me how he’s doing. She almost swooned when he complimented her suit at last year’s fundraiser. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  “Well, I’m impressed. I’d never have guessed she had the capacity for a crush. And you not only read her right but used it to your—well, my—advantage. I hate to say this, but I owe you one, cowboy.”

  “You’ll owe me two when I help you catch the guy who put the rat in your locker.”

  “About that,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m miffed that you told Val when I asked you to keep it between us.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell her. She was there when I saw him.”

  “She saw him, too?” Maybe my secret admirer isn’t really all that secret.

  “No. He’d just left when she came up to me. She asked what I was looking at, and I told her someone put something in a locker and took off. I didn’t think anything more of it until you opened the locker and Rachelle screamed. Val must have put two and two together.”

  I scan his features, using my new knowledge of his tells to determine whether he’s playing me like he played the dean. My gut says no—that about this, at least, he’s being truthful. Still, my reaction to him is troubling.

  “I told you I wouldn’t tell, and I won’t,” he says, his voice soft, as if he’s trying to coax a feral kitten from a sewer.

  I gaze at him a beat too long and then break eye contact, laughing softly at myself. “You’re good.”

  “Am I?” he says, his smile back.

  The late bell rings, jarring us both out of whatever we’ve stumbled into. I feel flushed all of a sudden.

  “¿Quién necesita español?” Tyler says. “Let’s just go. I’m buying.”

  “Actually,” I say, regretting the decision even as I’m making it, “I think I’
ll pass on coffee.”

  He looks disappointed.

  “I have something else in mind,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a trip to Chinatown. You in?”

  THE BOOKIE

  Tyler has a shiny silver sports car—an Audi R8, to be exact. With fine Nappa leather that my petty-criminal butt has no business sitting on. The word aerodynamic is an insult to this car’s sleek, almond-shaped carapace. It looks more like a rocket ship than a car, which is why my knees are hugging the gearshift and I’m leaning toward the middle as Tyler guides it around turns at speeds that would make a Formula 1 driver sweat. I shouldn’t complain, though. Tyler volunteered to drive since I lack a car and Sam’s was unavailable.

  Speaking of Sam, he’s going to burst a diode when he finds out I’m taking Tyler to see Ralph. Not that I blame him. I’ve really gone off the rails on this one. And what’s worse is that I have no idea why. This isn’t a game. The people who trashed my apartment are not in it for laughs. If I’m really going up against them, and it seems from this trip to Ralph’s that I am, then I have no right involving civilians. Especially this particular civilian. One whiff of scandal and his father could very well lose the upcoming election. Tyler certainly wouldn’t thank me for getting his pretty R8 repossessed.

  So why am I involving him?

  I grit my teeth and grip the door handle as my internal organs are left on the sidewalk across the street when Tyler rounds another corner.

  “Where am I taking you again?” Tyler asks, breaking through my rambling thoughts.

  “To see Ralph, my dad’s book—er, friend,” I say, coughing to cover the slip. It’s not that I think Tyler would tell. It’s just not my secret to share.

  Which brings me back to wondering why I’m sharing my own secrets with Tyler. I’m not exactly reticent, but I do tend to keep to myself. He’s explained his interest. He’s kept the secret I asked him to. He’s even stuck his neck out to save me from the dean, or at least from my own stupidity in getting caught, and proven he has some natural talent in the grifting department. He could be—already has been, in fact—a real asset.

  What makes me nervous is that I have no idea what he’ll ask for in return. I deal in favors all the time, but it always goes both ways. You don’t get something for nothing. Not in life, and certainly not in this business. Tyler seems content to just be along for the ride. But Sam’s question, though insulting, raised a fair point: if Tyler doesn’t want my services, what does he want? Until he asks for something, I’m stuck waiting for the other shoe to drop. Unless I kick him to the curb, which, I’ll admit, I’m reluctant to do for all the reasons I listed, and for some I didn’t—eyes and hair and general dreaminess are not valid reasons.

  “I take it you’re not a fan?” Tyler says.

  “What?” I blink.

  “This guy we’re going to meet. You don’t seem excited to see him.”

  “Ralph’s fine,” I assure him. “He’s a good family friend.”

  “Then what is it?” He downshifts and rolls to a stop at a red light.

  “What is what?”

  “You’re thinking hard about something.” He reaches over and gently touches my face. “You get a small line next to your nose when you’re concentrating.”

  I touch the spot he touched between my nose and my left cheekbone, knocking his hand in the process. I can’t decide if it’s adorable or alarming that he’s trying to read me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “The Cubs’ chances at making the playoffs.”

  The light turns green, and the R8 streaks off the line without a sound.

  “I get that you don’t trust me. I just wish I knew what I could say to change your mind.”

  Go back in time and show some interest in me before someone threw a rat in my locker.

  “I am already trusting you far more than I should,” I say instead. “That’s what I was thinking about—that I shouldn’t be in this car right now, that I should be going to see Ralph on my own.”

  He’s silent for a moment, turning this over. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, really, but I want you to know that I trust you.”

  “Why?” I ask, exasperated. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I don’t have to. I just … feel like I can trust you.” He seems uncertain, like he’s afraid he’s not explaining it right, or afraid of my reaction, maybe. He steals a glance at me.

  “Well, it’s easy to trust the victim,” I say. “But thank you. I guess.”

  He smiles, relieved. “Is there something you can tell me while I’m still in the process of proving myself?”

  “That depends. What do you want to know?” I say.

  “More about you. Where do you come from? Why does everyone think you’re a thief?”

  I laugh. “I prefer the term fixer. And I come from all over. We moved a lot when I was younger.”

  “So you’re not a Chicago native,” he says. “That explains a lot.”

  “Does it?” I raise my eyebrow at him. He doesn’t see it, because I can only raise my right eyebrow. It’s a failing. I’m working on it.

  “You’re different. Somehow less breakable.”

  I’m surprised and kind of pleased by the observation. It’s an odd compliment, perhaps, but I’ll take it.

  “Takes more than wind to knock me over, I suppose.”

  “It feels sometimes like the people who grow up here take the wind for granted.” He frowns.

  “What does that say about you?” I ask. “You’re from one of the founding families, aren’t you?”

  He concentrates on driving instead of answering. Normally, I wouldn’t care if I alienated him. He’s not my mark, so I don’t need to lead him around by the nose. But something in me twists a little at the thought that I may have hurt his feelings.

  “I’m sorry,” I say into the silence. The words feel foreign and heavy on my tongue, and I realize that I haven’t apologized for anything in a long time.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You’re right. I’m about as native as they get.” He doesn’t make it sound like a good thing. “Tell me how you got here.”

  “We moved from Atlanta when I was eight. Before that we lived in Tucson. Before that, Seattle, San Diego, Denver, and, randomly, Mount Vernon, a tiny town in Maine.”

  “Was your dad in the military or something?”

  “No.” And before he can ask me anything else, I move the topic to safer waters. “My mom left us after Atlanta. Just didn’t come back one day. And my dad decided to settle down for a while so I could go to a good school.”

  I could tell him more. I could tell him that my dad actually settled down to teach me the family business, that he wanted me to go to a good school so I could learn to fit in with the haves as well as the have-nots. Instead I focus on the unimportant. It’s all about distraction, sleight of hand. Don’t look at this; look at this shiny thing I have over here.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know about your mom.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” I echo his words back to him with a smile.

  Before he can ask any more potentially incriminating questions, we pull into a parking space outside Ralph’s shop. I don’t wait for Tyler, though he’s only a step or two behind me. Chimes tinkle merrily as I push open the door.

  Now, you’ve probably made some assumptions about Ralph. You’re probably thinking potbellied, balding man in his fifties, perpetually holding an unlit cigar, shirt collar open at the neck to reveal an abundance of chest hair and a penchant for gold chains. You’re also probably thinking his establishment is a seedy bar stinking of booze, broads, and billiards. At the very least, you’re probably imagining a cigar shop or liquor store with a fine layer of filth along the floorboards. Maybe even an accountant’s office, if you’re versed in the profession.

  But none of these things could be further from the truth. Well, the balding thing is accurate, actually. In all other respects, though, Ralph
is not at all what you’d picture a bookie to look like. He’s a short Korean man in his midsixties. He’s affable and slightly shy, bighearted and super smart. He works numbers the way my dad works marks.

  His shop is a musty Asian oddities and antiques store on the eastern edge of Chinatown. As Tyler and I walk through the maze of shelves and displays filled with segmented metal koi, intricately knotted red silk cords, and kimono-inspired pajamas, I remember the first time my dad brought me here.

  He’d met Ralph at a backroom poker game and had formed an instant kinship with him—strangers in a strange land, I suppose, with Ralph trying to make it as an unaffiliated bookie (meaning no mob ties) and my dad trying to make it as a smalltime con rather than a high-stakes grifter.

  Anyway, he’d placed a few bets with Ralph and he’d just scored a take big enough to pay him back, so he brought me to be his “wingman” for the transaction. I was nine at the time. I still cared about being my dad’s wingman.

  I remember studying the shelves, fascinated by everything. There was a tiny Chinese tea set painted with pale pink lilies that I practically drooled on, I wanted it so badly. I remember hearing the mixture of my dad conversing with Ralph and the tinny flute music drifting through the room and feeling oddly at peace, despite the fresh scar of my mother having disappeared without a word.

  After we’d chatted with Ralph and he’d given me the tea set for free (yes, I still have it—or did before our apartment was looted), we were on our way out and I was dragging my feet because I didn’t want to leave the unexpected comfort of Ralph’s shop. My dad must have sensed my mood and the reason behind it, because he stopped and knelt in front of me, taking my little hands in his rough ones.

  “I know I’m not your mom. I’m not a natural at this like she was,” he said, his eyes the most honest I’d ever seen them. “But just hang in there with me, okay? I’ll do right by you.”

  I remember nodding and feeling like my footing was suddenly even more precarious.

  “We’ll get through it together—you, me, and sixty-three.”

  Then he stood and patted my head, pulling me to his side for a quick squeeze. And much more than confessions of parental ineptitude, this familiar catchphrase of my father’s eased my anxiety. I have no idea what it means, but he’s said it enough that it’s become a part of our lexicon.