Murphy is lowering his tray to a table when Heather marches up to him, her face red with rage. He glances up in surprise. But before he can ask the question, she gives him a full, flat-handed slap across the cheek. The sound echoes through the dining hall and all conversation ceases at once.
Murphy looks floored for a second before he stiffens, probably adding two and two and getting the square root of Julep. He puts a hand to his reddening cheek but doesn’t say anything. Heather, appearing satisfied, draws herself up to her full five-foot-nine and whirls around, stomping back out the way she came.
Sam whistles low as the whispers start. Everyone’s sizing up Murphy with great interest, including Bryn Halverson.
“Well, you were right,” Sam says. “Girls.”
I raise my watch yourself, Y chromosome eyebrow at him.
“I’ll never understand how reverse psychology works on them every time.”
“First, it’s not reverse psychology. It’s straight-up female brain. Model-hot Heather cares enough about model-airplane Murphy to slap him.”
“And second?”
“Second, I’m a girl. Jerk.”
“You going over there?” He nods in the direction of Bryn’s table.
“Got to strike while the irony’s hot.”
I gather up our lunch detritus and head to the tray-disposal cart, threading through the tables in as roundabout a way as possible to pass by Bryn’s group. When I get a table away from them, I put the trays down and check my phone for a nonexistent text message.
“I heard that he dumped Heather because her boobs are too small,” says one of the cattier girls. Which amuses the heck out of me, because I never started that rumor. I love it when the pettiness of people works in my favor.
“He’s gotten cuter for sure. When did that happen?” Bryn says.
Score!
“Yeah, but would you go to the formal with him?” asks another girl—Portia, I think her name is.
“Count me in,” says the first girl.
Bryn shrugs. “I’m still waiting for Tyler to ask me.”
Crap.
Their conversation quickly turns to inane topics like how the economic downturn might affect the availability of the newest Vera Wang collection, so I make a beeline for the tray repository and then hustle to the door, where Sam is waiting for me.
“Well?” he asks as I fall into step with him.
“There’s a small hiccup,” I admit. “But I think I can fix it.”
“What kind of hiccup?”
“A Tyler-shaped hiccup, actually.”
“Hey, Julep,” Heather says. “The dean wants to see you in her office.”
“What? Why?”
“She didn’t tell me.” Heather waves absently at a passing friend. “I almost broke a nail on those crappy Kenneth Cole glasses, I’ll have you know.”
“When does she want to see me?”
“Right now,” Heather says, disappearing into a knot of sophomores.
“Any thoughts on what she might want?” I ask Sam as we head toward the dean’s office.
“Maybe she found out about the folder.”
“Doubtful. Tyler intercepted her before she searched me. Unless she has video surveillance set up in her own office, she has no idea it’s even been tampered with.”
“Well, whatever she wants, be careful with your backstory. She’s been suspicious since the Franklin job.”
The Franklin job was a scam we pulled our first finals week at St. Agatha’s. Dr. Franklin, our philosophy teacher, had given Christina LaRocca a B-minus on her oral report, and since she couldn’t have the subpar grade besmirching her perfect A-plus record, I “accidentally” spilled a Coke on his laptop while conferring with him about a reading assignment. When he called the IT department, Sam, posing as an official Netjockey, showed up and fixed both the computer and the grade. Unfortunately, we weren’t aware that all repairs require an approval form, and when Dr. Franklin submitted his, IT sent up another technician. The lazy tech didn’t bother reporting the anomaly, and by the time the dean learned of the discrepancy, Dr. Franklin had retired and joined a service mission in Uganda.
“She has no proof that was me,” I grumble. Though I know as well as anyone that she doesn’t need proof. She has something much more powerful—a hunch.
Sam splits off from me as we near the Brockman Room, St. Aggie’s ostentatious tribute to past contributors to the school. I climb the heavy wooden staircase, which is the only functional element in the Brockman Room, to the administrative wing. I always feel slightly uncomfortable climbing these stairs. Nothing says You don’t belong here, Julep Dupree like gilt-framed portraits of frowning, bearded white men. Their disapproving eyes follow me all the way up to the gallery.
The dean’s office is a far cry from the Brockman Room. Where the Brockman Room is formal and brocaded to within an inch of its life, the dean’s office is a mishmash of contemporary styles, from Asian influence to techno-modern and everything in between.
“Ah, Ms. Dupree,” Dean Porter says with only the thinnest veneer of cordiality. “Thank you for coming. I trust you’ve had no further rodent incidents.”
“Nope—just the one,” I say, and she moves aside to admit me to her inner sanctum.
The dean gestures to the floral monstrosity on the student side of her desk, and I oblige her by sitting in it, immediately affecting a slightly guilty expression.
It’s a little-known fact that innocent people always look guilty. Only the truly guilty splutter in self-righteous indignation that they have nothing to hide. Is the dean savvy enough to know this? Honestly, I don’t know. I make it a habit to keep myself off the dean’s radar as much as possible. Three conversations in less than a week is not a precedent I should be setting.
“You were not in class yesterday,” she observes. “And before you claim to have been ill, I should tell you I noticed your friend Sam Seward was not in class, either.”
I look down at my hands long enough to call up my patented watery-eyed expression of woe. “He skipped school to help me.” It’s true enough, and the first lesson of Lying 101 is that it’s best to begin a lie with a scrap of truth—it lends an air of credibility to an otherwise false account.
“Last I checked, helping a truant friend is not a legitimate excuse for missing school.” She picks up a pencil and makes a mark I’m certain means nothing on a sheet of paper on her desk. The scritching of the pencil lead on the paper is meant to unnerve me. Amateur.
“He took me to the hospital to find my dad,” I say. “He was in a car accident.”
“Oh, dear,” the dean says with not a whit of actual sympathy. None even of pretend sympathy. She either doesn’t believe me or she has no soul whatsoever.
“That’s why he didn’t call to report my absence.”
“I see,” she says, tapping the point of the pencil … well, pointedly. “No note?”
I stare at her, mouth agape, because—you guessed it—no note. I allow myself five full seconds to be thoroughly disgusted at my mistake. The real me would have thought of that. Who am I, and what have I done with Julep Dupree?
“I’m sorry. I—I forgot,” I stammer. The stammering is not as on-purpose as I’d like it to be. “I can bring it tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother,” she says, tossing the Scantron torture device on her desk and leaning her elbows on the surface. She interlaces her fingers and pins me to my chair with a triumphant smirk. “It will take a lot more than a note to convince me your excuse is genuine. I want to speak to your father directly.”
THE FAVOR
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll have him call you when I get home.” And before she can stick me with anything else, I get up and head to the door. “Thank you, Dean Porter, for your understanding.”
I examine my latest predicament from every angle as I head in the direction of my next class. The problem, of course, is that my dad is not available to lie for me. And if the dean finds that out, I’ll be out
of school and in the foster system before you can say community college.
I remember strolling through this very quad with my father the day we toured the campus. I was in the eighth grade, and St. Aggie’s was the third private school we’d toured that week. He played the role of dutiful parent well, asking all the right questions about academic programs, rate of matriculation to all the top schools, opportunities for extracurricular activities, et cetera.
But I saw his eyes casing the campus. Every hall named for a powerful family and every plaque boasting a famous historical graduate added up like points in his head against every other private school in the county. Connections are more impressive than money, he always says. Connections open doors that all the money in the world can’t seep through.
After the tour, I was feeling particularly guilty. It was right after my dad came back from his two-week disappearing act, and I had already decided I wanted to give up the grift. But it’s hard hiding a secret that big from your dad. I dreaded the disappointment I’d see on his face, even though my resentment over his ditching me for two weeks still stung. I didn’t exactly blame him, but I didn’t not blame him, either.
He must have sensed something was off, because when we stopped to inspect the ostentatious arch on the north end of the quad, he leaned back against the foot of a neoclassical Minerva statue with an earnest look replacing his usual wry expression.
“You don’t have to go here if you don’t want, Jules. We can pick a different place, or you can stop altogether.”
“I do want to go to St. Agatha’s,” I said, both annoyed and gratified that he’d misread me.
“Then why the face?”
I didn’t know how to say what I should have, lie or truth, so I countered with a question. “What happened to Mom, Dad? Why did she leave?”
His expression sharpened from earnest to alert. “Why do you ask?”
“I just—” I don’t want this. “I don’t want to end up alone.”
“Oh, honey,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry. I had to go and I couldn’t tell you. But I won’t leave you again.”
“Promise?” I said.
But either he didn’t hear me or he didn’t want to lie, because he never responded.
“Julep!”
Tyler’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and he waves to get my attention as he saunters up to me. I didn’t realize class was over, but people are pouring out of doors on their way to other buildings for sixth period. I’m glad. Memory lane is all well and good, but forward-action lane is more productive. I shake off my somber mood and return his greeting with a smile.
I meet Tyler halfway and draw him in the direction of the music room. I have to pick up the funds for the IDs on my way to class, and I might as well have a handsome escort.
“So I need to ask you for a favor,” I say, looping my arm through his. I tell myself it might help Murphy’s case if Bryn is watching. And it might. But that’s not why I do it.
“You mean besides drive you to a bookie’s hideout, call you a tow truck, and help you find your father, who may or may not have been abducted by the mob?”
“Well, now that you put it that way … yep, I do.”
“I would be happy to extend any service within my capability to my fair lady,” he says with a small mock bow—midstep, no less.
“I need you to not ask Bryn Halverson to the formal.”
He laughs. “Not quite what I was expecting you to ask,” he admits ruefully. “Let it never be said that you’re predictable.”
“I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“I can see that.”
“Well? Can you ask someone else to the dance? I need Bryn Halverson to be dateless.”
He gives me an assessing look, like he’s going to ask the question, but then shakes his head and smiles. I need to tell him to stop smiling. It puts me off my game.
“I don’t know, Julep. It’s asking kind of a lot,” he drawls, leaving the sentence open-ended.
“What do you want in return?”
He considers for a moment. “Help me with my dad’s campaign this weekend.”
That’s a surprise. “You want me to help your dad with his campaign?”
I’d been hoping Tyler was becoming more of a friend, like Sam. But then, out of left field, bam! I’m reminded of what I am and what I do. I know I have no right to feel manipulated. I have a skill, and I owe him one (or, actually, several). The only wonder is that he hasn’t called in the debt before this.
“What’s the angle?” I ask, already refining ideas for a half-workable wire game.
Tyler gives me a puzzled look for a second, and then some kind of realization flits across his face.
“Oh. Not that. I don’t want you to help my dad’s campaign. I’m just asking you to hang out with me on Saturday while I stuff about a thousand envelopes. I volunteer for a self-study credit. I figure if he’s going to make me work anyway, it might as well count for something.”
I’m so surprised by this that I almost get smacked in the face by the door. Tyler catches it before it can do any damage, and the freshman on the other side apologizes profusely when she recognizes Tyler.
“I—” I give myself a mental shake. “Of course,” I say. “Thanks.”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “For asking you to participate in mind-numbing busywork for three hours early on a Saturday morning?”
“For everything,” I say, smiling more brilliantly than I should.
He smiles back. “You’re welcome.”
An indeterminate amount of time later, I return to earth, realizing I’m blocking the entrance to the building. I break eye contact and step into the hallway as if nothing happened.
I wouldn’t be the first girl to be taken in by Tyler’s laser charm. But only a moron would fall for the same boy everyone else is salivating over. Since I’m not even a little bit of a moron, I won’t be confessing that my heart is sweating and my forehead is beating too fast anytime in the near future. Er … something like that.
“Anyway, I thought Saturday would be a good time to talk about the next clue.” He’s right behind me and speaking low to keep anyone from overhearing. The practical effect of which is his warm breath ghosting along the back of my neck. I suck in a breath.
“Yes,” I say. My overstimulated brain can’t come up with anything better than a simple affirmative.
“Great. I’ll text you the address.”
I turn to smile at him and glimpse through a nearby window a black muscle car with white racing stripes parked across the street from us. My whole body stiffens. Tyler senses my unease and looks through the window next to mine. Without a word, he heads back in the direction of the door, his expression just shy of lethal. I leap to grab his arm before he gets out of reach.
“Tyler, wait!”
“That’s the car that ran you and Sam off the road, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m ending this. Now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s probably armed, and you definitely are not.”
He turns his angry glare on me, and I almost step back to protect myself from the heat. But I’m no more subduable than I am predictable, so I hold my ground.
He looks as if he’s about to argue with me, his temper still simmering. “Fine,” he says instead, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“Calling the police.”
I snag the phone out of his hand. “No you are not.”
“Julep.” His tone radiates warning.
“We have to be smart about this, Tyler. We have the advantage.”
He unclenches his jaw as the message sinks in. But he folds his arms, capturing my hand, which is still on his not-inconsiderable biceps. I mentally smack myself for making that observation. I’m no longer shocked by my reaction to Tyler, but that doesn’t mean I have to indulge it.
“Besides,” I say with a predatory smile, “I hav
e this kind of fabulous idea.”
I pull out my own phone and start tapping. The phone on the other end rings three times before its owner picks up and mutters a surly greeting. He’s still kind of pissed at me, I’m sure, but a deal’s a deal.
“Hey, Murphy,” I say, cheery. “Listen, about that favor you owe me …”
THE PHONE CALL
I click the Refresh button for the billionth time. Three more emails come in for fake IDs, adding to my steadily growing pool of reprobates. But still nothing from Murphy.
“Stop it. You’re making me twitch,” Sam says without even looking up from the soundboard. We’re hanging out in the recording studio his parents set up for him in their ginormous basement as a Christmas present last year. He’s working his magic on that phone call for the dean. I’m mostly sitting in the corner, pretending to help. He’s grumpy for some reason, and I’m too frazzled to drag him out of it.
Watching the video my dad recorded at Sam’s birthday while Sam extracts pieces of it to create a phone call for the dean was harder than I thought it’d be. After all, I’m getting him back. Finding his second note at the racetrack gave me a significant boost in confidence.
But still, with the autumn light fading into darkness, the nagging worry that he could be in a worse way than I’ve been letting myself believe is tormenting me. Mobsters may be utter morons, but they’re far from cuddly. What if they have him chained up? Or worse?
I hit Refresh again to distract myself. Nothing.
“He’ll send it when he has it downloaded. Give him a break.” Then, in a whisper meant for himself, he adds, “Give me a break.”
I hit Refresh again to spite him. He glares at me.
I set my laptop on the floor next to me, drawing my knees up as my mind returns to unwanted images of my dad in dank rooms with bare bulbs and grimy floors. My imagination adds a busted lip, a black eye, a broken arm. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the scene.
My brain is whirring so loud, I don’t notice at first when Sam stops fiddling. Once I do notice, I glance up and see Sam looking at me. All the irritation has evaporated from his expression, replaced by deep concern. Poor Sam. He worries so much about me. I should say something to reassure him. But he knows me well enough to tell when I’m faking.
Trust Me, I'm Lying Page 8
