Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  “Tittleman. Yes.”

  “Tomato tomato. I’ve had the dude before. He’s a stickler for properly formatted footnotes.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “It’s the bane of my existence.”

  “It’s stupid is what it is. I have a pretty helpful footnote guide that got me through his class, if you want it.” The footnote guide was Diana’s, but I could probably find an excuse to snag it from her room.

  “That would be great, actually.” Lucy smiled. Straight white teeth. “You’re not an English major, are you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Political science. Economics minor.”

  “You want to be a lawyer?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess. My dad majored in poli sci, and he’s a lawyer.”

  “Is he? Interesting. What kind?”

  “Criminal defense.”

  “Public?”

  “Now, yeah. He used to work at a firm, but he wanted to do more than just white-collar stuff.”

  “Interesting.” I sneered internally. Public defenders get paid shit money in exchange for having a conscience. I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would invest so much time and money in law school and then choose a career as a public defender. You might as well save the money and volunteer for UNICEF or something. But as far as I can tell, from her Barbour jacket and expensive-looking jewelry and the tiniest bit of googling, Lucy’s family has money, so clearly Lucy’s father can afford to be an upstanding citizen.

  “You didn’t want to follow in his footsteps?” I asked her.

  “I wouldn’t make a good lawyer. And I couldn’t major in poli sci. My mind just isn’t wired for it.”

  “I don’t blame you. English is definitely far less dry than poli sci.”

  “Well, English can be dry. This class is brutal. Tolstoy feels like reading the Bible backward.”

  Her reference was not all that comical, but I laughed anyway. When you’re trying to fuck a girl, you laugh at her half jokes. You laugh at fucking everything she says.

  “What I really want to get into is journalism,” she continued.

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “Journalism minor. I remember. You should try to write for The Lantern.”

  “Funny you should say that.” She tilted her head adorably. “You’re looking at The Lantern’s newest staff writer.”

  “No way.” I feigned surprise, though I’d known to mention it after seeing her byline in the latest edition. “Small School, Big City: How Baird Students Really Feel About Los Angeles,” by Lucy Albright. “That’s fantastic, Lucy.”

  “Thanks.” She coursed her fingers through her long hair. “I’m trying to build up my résumé. I’m really hoping to get into this course the English department offers majors and minors the summer after sophomore year, but apparently it’s supercompetitive—”

  “Let me guess. The one where you live on a boat and sail along the French Riviera?”

  “And read Hemingway! And Fitzgerald! Yes! I’m dying to go. That’s what first inspired me to apply to Baird, actually. I read about the course junior year of high school after we read A Farewell to Arms. That book totally broke my heart, but I loved it.” Lucy’s face brightened, her eyes popping wide with an absurd amount of enthusiasm.

  God, how the hell do people get so worked up about fictional books? I can only read nonfiction.

  “That’s the most coveted course at Baird, probably,” I said. “Sounds unreal.”

  “Yeah, apparently you have to have at least a three-point-seven GPA,” Lucy continued. “And even then they accept only twelve students.”

  “I have heard that.” I nodded. It was true—spots in the course were extremely competitive. Diana was an English minor, and her GPA fell one point short of the requirement. She’d whined about it for weeks.

  “But God, to get to spend six weeks sailing through Antibes and Cannes and Saint-Tropez, and for school.” Lucy tucked a strand of glossy hair behind her ear. “It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  “Well, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, if you keep up the hard work, it sounds like you have a good shot.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” She raised a dark eyebrow.

  “Because of the song, I told you. I think it fits you.”

  “You know it’s a song about tripping on LSD?”

  “Maybe that’s one interpretation, because of the acronym.” I frowned. “But it’s supposed to be about a drawing of a girl named Lucy that Lennon’s son made in nursery school.”

  “That’s random. How do you even know that?”

  How did I know? I’d looked it up after Lucy and I first met, should I ever need to bring it up in a conversation such as this one. I could tell Lucy was flattered by her nickname—Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It’s a cool song. And it’s the Beatles. Everyone fucking loves the Beatles.

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that song since that day on the houseboat. When I couldn’t find out more about you,” I mockingly accused, “because you refused to let me take you to dinner, I researched the song instead.”

  Lucy glanced over the railing edge, then peered up at me.

  “You’re a very interesting person,” she said. “By the way, I’m sorry I never returned your messages.”

  “God, don’t make me sound so desperate. You could just say message. Singular.”

  “But there were several.” One corner of her mouth curled.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I hadn’t called to check up on you after the whole puking incident.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about that. That was a low moment.”

  “Don’t be sorry, it happens. I was the bastard feeding you tequila. Anyway, I’m still hoping to take you on a proper date. No tequila, I promise. Sushi? Français? Italiano? Zimbabwean? Your pick.”

  “Zimbabwean?”

  “They have food in Zimbabwe.”

  “Stephen, I’m not sure. I’ll let you know? I should really get back to wor—”

  I leaned in and kissed her, midsentence. Not enough guys take advantage of the midsentence kiss. Girls go crazy for it—romantic in any and all scenarios.

  I pushed her back a little, toward the corner behind one of the bookshelves. I ran my hands over the back of her jeans and had to think of Wrigley’s droopy ball sack to keep from getting too excited. God, I couldn’t wait to fuck her. It would happen. I could feel her surrender as I kissed her. She opened her mouth a little wider than the time before. I could feel her heart racing against my chest. She let me kiss her for a whole minute before she pushed me back, an expression of shock pooling in her blue-gray eyes. She didn’t hate it.

  9

  LUCY

  NOVEMBER 2010

  I was helping Jackie craft a text to her ex-boyfriend—he’d asked to see her over Thanksgiving break, but she had yet to tell him she was dating Stuart—when my phone rang. It was lying next to Jackie on her bed.

  “CJ Cell is calling.” Jackie handed me the phone. “I still don’t get why you call your mom by her first name.”

  “It’s just a thing.” I avoided Jackie’s gaze because I could feel her staring at me, and I could tell she knew I was lying. I turned the phone on silent. “I’ll call her later.”

  “You can call her now, if you want. I think this is fine to send Matt, right?” Jackie looked down at the carefully constructed message on her phone.

  “It’s perfect.” I nodded. “And I’ll just call her back later; I have so much reading. Russian lit is killing me.”

  “Okay.” Jackie took out her own homework and said nothing else on the subject, though I sensed her wondering.

  My mother’s name is Cornelia Jane Clifford Albright, but she despises the name Cornelia and has gone by CJ since high school, when she ran away to San Francisco to live with her aunt Marilyn. CJ grew up in a solidly middle-class neighborhood in Rhode Island (a dump, as she ref
ers to it), and hated it there. She was close with Marilyn, her father’s sister, who had no children of her own and had always adored CJ like the daughter she never had. Marilyn also had a lot more money than CJ’s parents (an unimaginable sum she received in a settlement after a nasty divorce from her gazillionaire ex-husband). Marilyn died of cancer when I was four, so I barely remember meeting her, but I’ve seen lots of pictures. She had chocolate-brown hair and a big, wide smile. She wasn’t as pretty as CJ, but almost. I have one of her sweaters. She had really nice clothes and when she died, CJ got to keep some of them, including Marilyn’s famous jewelry collection. Marilyn traveled all over the world after her divorce, and she never married again—she told CJ that life was too short to waste on men. She usually built her trips around advocacy work in developing countries in the fight against AIDS—that was her real passion. CJ said Marilyn used to sleep in huts with AIDS-infected families and counsel gay patients in clinics in Eastern Europe. For every country Marilyn visited she bought a piece of jewelry as a souvenir. She brought CJ with her when she had time off from school (because CJ’s parents couldn’t afford family vacations), and the two of them continued the jewelry collection together, most pieces reflective of their origin. A lot of it is costume jewelry—funky pieces from markets in Africa and Central America or pawnshops in Romania that Georgia and I used to wear playing dress-up. Then there’s the valuable stuff—the ivory-and-gold-twisted bangle from South Africa, the aquamarine choker from Brazil, yellow diamond studs from Kenya, Celtic torques from Ireland, the jade ring from Guatemala, the gold-and-leather cuff from Florence, authentic gold kamarbands from India, freshwater pearls from Japan, diamond-encrusted emerald earrings from Madagascar.

  When Marilyn died, CJ poured the jewelry all over her bed and slept in the sea of it, convinced she could still smell Marilyn’s Chanel No. 5 lingering on the gems. She slept like that for a week before putting it all back in its big teak jewelry box. My dad didn’t complain, not that he ever does.

  When I was twelve, I was examining some of Marilyn’s gorgeous clothes in CJ’s closet, and I tried on an ivory cashmere sweater, softer than a cloud. CJ found me wearing it and she didn’t even get mad at me for going through her stuff. She said I could have it, just because. It smells like mothballs, but it’s the best piece of clothing I have. I keep it in the top of my closet and wear it when I need a little extra strength. I don’t remember Marilyn, but I’ve heard enough Marilyn stories, and I know I would’ve liked her. Examining her exuberant collection of global jewels and hearing about her adventurous life ignited something in me. From a young age I began hoarding CJ’s travel magazines—stacks of Travel + Leisure and National Geographic piled around my bedroom in chronological order. I was in awe of the glossy photographic spreads of the world’s most exotic destinations—the pink-sand beaches and lush, prehistoric-looking mountain ranges and intricate architecture and tribal regions—and especially the stories behind them. I told CJ I wanted to be a travel writer when I grew up, that I wanted to explore the hidden corners of the world and write about them, and she said it sounded a lot like something Marilyn would’ve wanted to do, which I knew meant she approved.

  When CJ moved to San Francisco she didn’t ask her parents’ permission; she just packed a suitcase and bought a one-way ticket to California. She said her father was always working and her mother was too busy smoking and playing bridge to notice. (Whenever I push her on this, she sighs: “Oh, Lucy. My mother wasn’t a mother to me the way I am to you and Georgia. It was different for her. I just had to get out of there.”)

  CJ stayed in San Francisco. She got good grades in high school and received a partial scholarship to Berkeley—Marilyn paid the rest of her tuition. The year after she graduated, CJ met my father at a Fleetwood Mac concert at the Cow Palace. Or my father found her, so he says. He was in San Francisco for the weekend visiting friends. CJ was in her hippie phase, and she was twirling around in a long skirt and flower crown trying to be Stevie Nicks’s gypsy, so stoned she knocked right into my dad, spilling beer all over his nice white oxford. I hate that I ended up loving Fleetwood Mac as much as CJ does, but the love has always been unconscious—CJ says she used to play “Dreams” to get me to stop crying in my crib.

  CJ had a lot of boyfriends in her time, but Ben Albright was the jackpot. She says that when she met him, she thought he looked like John F. Kennedy Jr. More important, he came from money, grew up on the water in Locust Valley, New York, had a summer house in Chatham, Massachusetts, was on the brink of a successful law career having graduated magna cum laude from Columbia, and he wanted to take care of her. He was wealthy but not spoiled; he mowed his own lawn and had a masculine knack for odd jobs, like assembling a bookshelf or fixing a leak. It was a perfect match. CJ was tired of California, but if she was going to go back east, she wanted to go back on her terms and live a certain way, the well-off way—the opposite of her childhood in the northwest corner of Rhode Island. So she traded her flower crown for a Ralph Lauren sweater set, and Ben bought her a one-way ticket to New York. He met her at LaGuardia Airport holding a sign that read: The most beautiful girl in the world. She loves to tell that part of the story. They got engaged six months later.

  CJ was twenty-four when Georgia was born; twenty-five when she had me.

  CJ was Mommy when I was really little, pouring warm water over my fine hair in the bathtub, drying me off with a towel in her arms. Then she was Mom, who packed my lunch box and French-braided my hair before dance recitals; Mom, who made me finish my milk every night; Mom, who took Georgia and me shopping for bell-bottoms at Limited Too; Mom, who showed me how to shave my legs in the bathtub the day I came home from sixth grade, crying because everyone else had started doing it, and I felt like a hairy beast.

  But one afternoon in September, the second Thursday of my freshman year of high school, Mom died forever. She became CJ.

  10

  STEPHEN

  DECEMBER 2010

  I noticed Lucy crying outside the football house the night of the Ugly Christmas Sweater party. She was sitting on the back stoop wearing a big red sweater, smoking a cigarette, which surprised me, because I hadn’t taken her for a smoker. The cigarette trembled in her fingers. She wiped her eyes with one of her big red sleeves. It had been two months since Lucy’s drunken sleepover after Wrigley’s birthday, and one month since our library kiss, but this was my golden opportunity.

  “Lucy?” I stood in front of her in my own ugly sweater, which was green with a felt reindeer on the front. “Here.” I pulled a handkerchief out of my back pocket. I always carry a handkerchief with me.

  “It’s okay.” She shook her head. “But thanks.”

  “Come on, do you really want to ruin that beautiful sweater?”

  “Thanks.” The faintest hint of a smile showed on her face.

  I sat beside her. I was feeling drunk from about fifty games of flip cup, and a little dazed from the weed brownies I’d just eaten upstairs with Wrigley.

  “I can’t believe you smoke cigs,” I said.

  “Hardly ever.” She exhaled a stream of air. I watched it dissolve into the black night.

  “Those things’ll kill you, you know.”

  “I barely smoke; I told you.” There was an edge to her voice that intrigued me.

  “Let me guess. Only when you’re having a rough day?”

  “I don’t really want to sit here,” she said, ignoring my question.

  “Do you want to walk?”

  “I’m just going to walk home.” She stood.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “Don’t you want to stay at the party?”

  “Nah. I’m not a football-house fan, to be honest.” It was true—football-house parties were dominated by slutty girls lusting after loud, meathead football players. I’d never enjoyed them much.

  “Oh.”

  “So I’ll walk you?”

  “If you want.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked again
.

  “Not really.”

  “Try me, Lucy.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Let me guess. Boy problem?”

  “No.” She shot me a playful glare.

  “Friend fight? Girls can be dramatic.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Family?”

  Lucy was silent. We were taking our time walking toward Kaplan, even though it was cold.

  “Aha! I got it. Family. Well, you are in luck. My family just happens to be about the most dysfunctional one around. So I’m the perfect person to vent to. Spill the beans.”

  “I can’t, Stephen.”

  “You can, actually.”

  “Well I don’t want to.”

  “Fine. I won’t press. Just trying to help.”

  “I know you are,” she sighed. “But it’s beyond complicated.”

  “Yes, I know. Familial matters tend to be complex.”

  Lucy was quiet. Tear remnants stuck to her flushed cheeks.

  “For example,” I continued, sensing a bit of receptiveness on her end. “My mother is bipolar. My father finally kicked her out when I was eleven, after she drove off with my then four-year-old sister for a week without telling anyone. My dad thought my sister was dead until the cops found them in a random hotel in Charleston. It was one of my mom’s manic episodes—one of hundreds, but the last straw for my dad, I guess.”

  “Jesus,” Lucy replied, looking me in the eye for the first time all night. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s old news at this point. I’m just glad she’s out of the picture. It’s better for all of us.”

  “Is your dad remarried?”

  “God no. That’s the worst part—he’s still fixated on my mom. After a decade. After she blew all the money in their savings account. After all the shit she’s pulled. Like he’s always trying to reach out to her and stuff, like there’s still some chance it can all be fixed and she’ll come back and have magically morphed into this dependable wife and mother. It’s very delusional thinking on his part.”