by Gary Paulsen
Liar, Liar
( Kevin - 1 )
Gary Paulsen
Fourteen-year-old Kevin is very good at lying and finds that doing so makes life easier, but when he finds himself in big trouble with his friends, family, and teachers, he must find a way to end his lies forever.
GARY PAULSEN
Liar, liar : the theory, practice, and destructive properties of deception
This book is dedicated
with gratitude and respect
to Barbara Perris,
my longtime copy editor,
fiercely protective of my writing,
the elements of style and grammar,
and getting the details right.
FOREWORD
I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet.
I should be good; I’ve had a lot of practice. I’m only fourteen, but I’ve known for as long as I can remember that there will be times when I’m going to have to tell a lie. It’s a universal rule, a cosmic inevitability.
If you ask me, people who say honesty is the best policy are just terrible liars.
I’m good because I make it easy for people to believe me.
See, people only listen for what they want to hear, so I only tell them that.
I tell my parents what they expect—school went well and I had a good day; yes, I did my homework; dinner was great; I’d love to drive 116 miles to go to a flea market and look for antique cookie jars and old political memorabilia with you and Dad this weekend; and no, I don’t have any dirty dishes under my bed.
I tell my friends versions of what they’ve already said to me—yeah, the new girl is hot; Coach is psychotic to have us run suicides in gym; I’m not gonna read the whole book either; the Cubs don’t have decent relief pitching but will probably clinch the division this year anyway.
I tell my teachers what they want me to say—yes, I understand the equation and how you solve it; I missed the foreshadowing until you pointed it out, but now it’s as clear as day; I really do have to use the bathroom and I don’t just want to walk around the halls during class wasting my time; no, I didn’t see who lobbed that apple across the cafeteria, nearly taking out the lunch lady’s eye (by the way, that apple missed her by a mile; everyone knows Neil Walker throws like a girl).
If you look at it from the right point of view, lying is just good manners.
Lying is my second language, a habit, a way of life. It’s gotten so that it’s easier for me to lie than to tell the truth, because lying is all about common sense. Not to mention self-preservation.
I don’t think I’m good enough to beat a lie detector test, but most of the time I’ve pretty much got everyone I know right where I want them.
Lying makes my life and—let’s face it—everyone else’s, too, so much better. So really, I lie for the greater good. I’ve come to believe that it’s almost my duty. Like I’m some kind of superhero who uses his power for society. I like to think I’m doing my bit to make the world a better place—one lie at a time.
I’m not bragging or being conceited. I’m just making what they call objective observations.
Another observation is that I’ve never gotten in trouble for lying. Because I’m that good. I have a knack for knowing what needs to be said and done.
And if a little is good, then a lot is better, right?
I used to think like that. Before my life went from zero to crap in a week.
1. A GOOD LIE FURTHERS YOUR AGENDA
By midmorning Monday, I had Katie Knowles believing that I suffer from a terrible disease. One that modern medicine doesn’t recognize, can’t identify and is powerless to treat.
I told her that I have chronic, degenerative, relapsing-remitting inflammobetigoitis. Which doesn’t exist. I culled symptoms of mono, plantar warts, shingles, borderline personality disorder and a bladder infection, as well as listing a bunch of side effects from some TV ads for drugs.
Even for me, this was a whopper.
But I had to come down with whatchamacallit so that I wouldn’t have to team up with Katie for the working-with-a-partner project in social studies this semester.
Cannot. Deal. With. Katie.
She’s some sort of mechanized humanoid, made up of spare computer parts, all the leafy green vegetables that no one ever eats and thesaurus pages. We’re only in eighth grade, but everyone knows she’s already picked out her first three college choices, her probable major and potential minor and the focus of her eventual graduate studies. To Katie, middle school is a waste of time, so she takes more classes than she needs to and does extra credit the way the rest of us drink water. She’s probably got enough credits already to graduate from high school.
The Friday before, we’d been assigned to be each other’s partner for our social studies independent study project: a ten-page paper and an oral presentation in which we would “illuminate some aspect of our government relevant to today’s young citizen.”
Thanks, Mr. Crosby, way to narrow the scope.
We wouldn’t have class for the next week so that we could go to the library or the computer lab to work on our projects. This was going to teach us about independence and self-determination. Or something like that; I wasn’t really listening.
I really dig Mr. Crosby; he’s pretty laid-back except when he starts talking about what he calls “government pork,” and then he gets all wild and upset. I must have irked him somehow to get assigned to Katie. My best friend, JonPaul, and our buddy Jay D., who are the biggest troublemakers this side of a prison riot, were project partners, and even the Bang Girls (I call them that because they’re BFFs who have identical haircuts with the exact same fringe hitting their eyeballs in a weird way that makes my eyes water if I look at them too long) had been paired. Before I could ask Crosby what I’d done to set him off, he’d announced, “Once partners are assigned, there will be no switching.”
I am not a guy who gives in easily, so I spent the weekend thinking of ways to convince Crosby to change his mind, and avoiding Katie, even though she’d been calling, emailing, IM-ing and texting. It was only third period on Monday morning and already she’d left a couple of notes at my locker and had tracked me in the hall between classes.
“Kevin.”
I flinched. Katie has one of those bossy yet whiny voices that make you want to stab pencils in your eardrums to make the noise stop. I turned and broke out a killer smile. I can always tell when it’s time to crank up the charisma.
“Hey, Katie, I meant to—” I started, but she cut me off before I could come up with plausible and inoffensive reasons why I’d ignored her all weekend.
“It doesn’t really matter.” She flipped open her notebook and handed me a sheaf of papers. “I utilized the time by getting started on the initial research. You can see that I brainstormed about a dozen ideas we could examine that I believe to be unique and ripe for exploration. Why don’t you take the packet home, read everything over, and then let me know by this time tomorrow, if not sooner, what you’ve decided? I’m okay with any choice you make, and we should, after all, be democratic about how this partnership functions, because of, you know, the class subject and all.”
“Uh … yeah, right. I see that you, wow, you typed up—what’s an abstract, again?”
“A brief summary and succinct explanation, the theoretical ideal, if you will, behind the project topic.” She tapped her foot impatiently, probably wondering why I hadn’t been writing abstracts since nursery school.
“Sure, that was what I was going to guess. You did an … abstract thingie … for all twelve ideas?”
“Of course”—she pushed her glasses a little higher on her nose—“because that kind of organization and attention to detail will enable us to make the best possible choice among our
options. Besides, I’m sure I can put the seemingly superfluous work to good use in the form of extra-credit projects later in the year.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like I said, why don’t you take this home and—”
I cut her off. “No, I don’t need to do that; let’s pick number, um, seven. Yeah, that looks like a great idea.”
“The analysis of data collected during the most recent national census about the underserved population and how they interact with and regard the government services structure, especially pertaining to the link between educational grants and future acts of public service?”
I really should have read her summaries, but it was too late. The analysis of the something census and how the something interacts with something as it pertains to something it was.
She beamed when I nodded, and I knew that I’d somehow chosen right even though I didn’t know what the peewadden she was talking about, and I was sure, if I’d tried, really hard and for a very long time, I could not have come up with a more butt-numbing topic.
JonPaul and Jay D. came over, grinning.
“We got a beauteous subject, Kev; Crosby laughed at first, but then he signed off on it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring the possibility of a link between the World Series and voter turnout in presidential elections,” Jay D. said proudly.
“You know, like, if an AL team wins, does that mean more Democrats will show up at the polls, or,” JonPaul explained, “will Republican voting habits change if the NL team wins?”
“That’s not about the government, you moron. And it doesn’t even make sense.”
“It has to do with the executive branch; we’re golden,” JonPaul said.
“You’re just jealous because we’re going to spend a week cutting and pasting World Series highlights into a PowerPoint presentation,” Jay D. said, smirking. “What’re you doing?”
I studied the floor and mumbled, “The analysis of how something about the census something interacts with the something and pertains to something.”
They snorted, punched my arm and left me with Katie, who had been rereading her notes and probably hadn’t even noticed JonPaul and Jay D.
“You don’t look so good, Kevin.”
“I …” I would rather die than work with you on this monkey butt of a project, is what I wanted to say. But I heard myself saying, “Look, Katie, it’s probably not fair that you got stuck with me, because I have … some medical issues that might prevent me from, er, living up to my part of the project. It’s just too soon to tell—we’re waiting on test results and some studies in Germany that have to be concluded.”
“Really?” She looked intrigued, which was new, because Katie usually walks around with this distracted expression on her face, like she’s busy figuring the square root of the prime number closest to the gross national product. “I’m fascinated by medical mysteries.”
“Well, that’s what this is, all right. No one can figure out what’s going on. We’ve been to an endocrinologist, a cardiologist, a neurologist, an osteopath, a Reiki practitioner, an energy healer, a physical therapist and a physiatrist, because they”—I paused meaningfully—“specialize in chronic pain management.”
She gasped. I’d had no idea until that very moment what a great audience Katie Knowles was.
Note to self: Katie is smarter than a NASA computer, but wuh-hay too trusting for her own good. Excellent.
I was feeling pretty lucky right then that JonPaul is a total hypochondriac who’s always worried that he’s coming down with something rare and dangerous. I could rattle off the names of all those different kinds of doctors like I was a fourth-year medical student because we spend a lot of time entering his alleged physical ailments in medical website search engines.
Katie leaned forward, and I whispered the many problems I’d been suffering, which had led to the diagnosis of chronic, degenerative, relapsing-remitting inflammobetigoitis. “It started with night sweats, which caused the dehydration. Then I developed mood swings, hair loss and cotton mouth. And, of course, there’s the sensitivity to light, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, dry skin, loss of appetite and frequent thirst, which were worrisome. But all that wasn’t nearly as bad as the muscle aches, migraines, gastric reflux, bleeding gums and mild to moderate confusion when fatigued.”
I figured all this was icky enough to make Katie want to keep her distance but not so bad that she’d wonder why I wasn’t in the hospital. Or quarantined.
She looked horrified. “Oh, you poor brave thing.”
I nodded sadly and tried to look brave. Brave and wan.
“I’d, well, you know, I’d wondered about you. That maybe something was amiss,” Katie said sympathetically.
Oh, you had, had you? But before I could blow my cover by sputtering something defensive, Katie saved me. Boy, did she save me.
“Look: I can handle the project for both of us.”
I opened my mouth to pretend to talk her out of her selfless offer, but she raised her hand to shush me. “You were lucky to get paired up with me, because I don’t know anyone else in class able to cope with this much responsibility on their own.”
I could tell that Katie was actually relieved that she wouldn’t have to work with anyone else, and I silently congratulated myself on my gift of saying the right thing to the right person. Without knowing it, I must have sensed that she’d rather work alone. Even if it was because her partner was chronically ill and that meant she’d have to share credit.
I’m a very intuitive guy.
“Are you even strong enough to be in school?” She peered anxiously over her glasses.
“Uh-huh. My medical team says that keeping things as normal as possible—while avoiding stress—is the best treatment.”
“That makes sense.” After looking behind her, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Does anyone else know about your condition?”
“No. I haven’t felt … comfortable enough to share this. But there’s something about you; you’re a really good listener, and a person feels like he can confide in you.”
She squeezed my hand, clearly believing that my random symptoms weren’t contagious. “Don’t worry; I won’t say a word. You just concentrate on getting better. I’ll do the legwork and you can help with the revisions and fact-checking, okay?”
“That sounds amazing, Katie, thanks.”
With a conspiratorial wink, she headed off to her next class.
Suh-weet! I’d essentially be proofreading—checking for errors and making suggestions about work that had already been done on behalf of “our team.”
Look, I just wanted to get assigned to a different partner. Is it my fault that Katie volunteered to do the whole dang project? I think not.
Once again, my lie had created a win-win situation—I didn’t have to work with Katie, and Katie didn’t have to work with anyone.
And what was wrong with that?
2. A GOOD LIE GAN SUPPORT ANY PLAN
The only people I don’t lie to are girls, but that’s because I almost never talk to them and it’s hard to lie when your lips aren’t moving.
Katie doesn’t count. Not. A. Real. Girl.
My older brother, Daniel, says I’ll outgrow thinking that girls are complicated and really emotional. My guess is that he’s lying to me. But I never thought much about it one way or the other.
Until I was walking down the hall just after my talk with Katie, on my way to my locker, happy about how things had turned out.
Then I turned the corner in the upstairs hall on my way to lunch and fell in love.
Just. Like. That.
Tina Zabinski was standing by the drinking fountain with some of her friends, laughing. I heard her laugh and my heart gave this crazy lurch, and my breathing did a stop-start thing, and I got sweaty, and did other stuff we learned about in Family Life, stuff that marks the moment a male’s physical maturation begins. I’d never been so glad to be carrying a math book.
I’d heard about love at first sight, but it sure had never happened to me before. In fact, I wasn’t even certain you could count what was happening right then as love at first sight, because I’d known Tina since preschool and I’d probably seen her every school day for eight or nine years. But I’d clearly never really looked at her before. Or else she’d turned into the prettiest girl in the world since I’d seen her the past Friday.
I ducked inside the Spanish lab to study her through the window in the door.
I started to count the many colors of her hair—butter, honey, wheat, gold—and as I was racking my brain for ways to say blond, I realized that I had what it took to be the world’s greatest boyfriend. I’d never cared about stuff like this before. But I cared then. In fact, I was starting to care so much I was having a hard time standing, because my knees felt weak and rubbery.
She must have felt me staring at her, because she turned and saw me peeking through the window in the door.
I waved casually like I hadn’t just been caught gawking and started to walk toward her to see what it was going to take to get her to be my girlfriend—I am a very goal-oriented guy.
Halfway across the hall, I tripped. No, that’s not right; I actually fell over my own feet, which felt like they were being remote-controlled by a spider monkey during a sleep-deprivation experiment.
“Hey, Kev, you okay?” Tina asked as she watched me peel myself off the seventh grader I’d trampled.
Had her voice always been so … soft? How could I not have noticed that? I must have talked to her a million times.
“Gunh.”
That started out as “Sure, fine,” in my head.
I blinked in surprise. For the first time ever, I couldn’t speak. I’m never at a loss for words, so this was a new sensation.
I swallowed and tried again.
“Ereewah.” My voice cracked. Oh, great! Puberty was hitting now. Here. In front of Tina. Good timing.
