Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  I ripped the letter into pieces and stood, livid. There wasn’t any point in going to a mediocre law school, I reminded myself, but I could’ve added Wash U or Notre Dame or BU to the list—somewhere one tier down but still top thirty. Regardless, I’d assumed Northwestern would be a shoo-in.

  I debated punching the wall, but collapsed back onto my bed instead. I watched the ceiling fan spin around and around and around, circling stale air through the room. I tried to hold my vision to a single moving blade until I grew dizzy. The thought continued to slam the center of my mind: I hadn’t gotten into law school. I hadn’t gotten into law school, and I was entirely, royally fucked. It was far too late to apply for paralegal jobs; every half-decent law firm had filled those positions months ago.

  I picked up my cell and called Luke, a semblance of a plan forming in some crevice of my mind.

  “Hi.” Luke picked up on the first ring. He probably doesn’t receive many phone calls except for Kathleen.

  “I’ve had a change of heart, Luke,” I said. “I’m going to wait a year on law school. I need to make some money first. I need a job.”

  Luke’s bond-trading gig was kind of lame, but he’d made decent connections in the financial world, and there were always firms looking for hungry suckers right out of college.

  “Huh? I thought you were set on getting a law degree. I know Columbia’s out, but what about the other schools? Have you heard back?”

  “Not yet,” I lied. “But I’ve realized I have all these fucking student loans from Baird to pay off and I really don’t need more loans piling up right away. You make decent money, right? Can you talk to your boss, see if he knows anybody hiring? Not at your company, but maybe he has connections. I’m a poli sci major with an econ minor, top of my class. Tell him that.”

  After we hung up, Luke connected me with his boss, who was very quick on email and responded that he knew someone who knew someone who was desperate for an equity research analyst at a boutique brokerage firm in the financial district, a place called BR3 Group. I sent over my documents, and the CEO, a guy named Doug Richter, called me less than an hour later.

  “Those are some impressive LSAT scores, Stephen DeMarco,” he said through the phone. “You sure you’re not interested in law school?”

  “That was my original objective, but I’ve come to my senses,” I lied, still anxious. “At the end of the day I have a mind for finance, and that’s where I want to be. I’m an economics minor at Baird. I graduate next month. My GPA is shaping up to be a three point eight.”

  “Yes, I see,” Doug said. “I’m looking at your transcript right here. Smart kid.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why do you want to do equity research?”

  “Because I’m curious, I’m mathematically minded, and I’m great with people. And because of money, of course. I’m driven by money, and I know I can make it—for myself and for your firm, Mr. Richter.”

  “That’s exactly what I like to hear, DeMarco. I’ll forward your information to my hiring manager. We’ll be in touch.”

  “I do appreciate it, Mr. Richter.”

  “Please, call me Doug. Take care, DeMarco.”

  I thanked him and hung up the phone. I hate it when people say take care. What does that even mean? Take care of what?

  I took a deep breath and tried to stay positive. If I could get this job—or a job like it—I’d be okay. I could work for a year and reapply to law schools—second-tier law schools if I had to. Officer Motherfucking Gonzalez wasn’t going to stop me from being a lawyer—a dirt-rich lawyer who’d make Luke’s trading salary look like a subpar bonus. I didn’t need a degree from a top-tier institution in order to be successful. Fuck Columbia and Stanford and Harvard and Penn and Northwestern and UVA and all the rich, hypocritical pricks on the admission councils who probably drove their vintage Corvettes drunk twice a week.

  I sat on my bed staring at my laptop screen and waited for something to happen—an email offer from the hiring manager at BR3 Group, perhaps. I was still unable to shake my aggravation. I needed a distraction, and I knew exactly what that distraction would be. I took out my phone and texted Lucy.

  STEPHEN: What are you doing, pretty girl?

  She probably received it right away, but she waited about thirty minutes to answer. Girls always make a point of waiting a certain amount of time to text you back, as if it matters.

  LUCY: Just got out of class, meeting with my adviser soon, then library. You?

  STEPHEN: Just hanging in my room. Wanna head here first? I miss those sexy little Lucy legs.

  LUCY: Fineeee. Give me 20

  Diana had driven to Long Beach to have lunch with her aunt, so it was a perfect afternoon for Lucy time. Lucy and I had started sleeping together on the sly three months earlier. It didn’t happen too frequently, because I spent so much time with Diana, but ever since the night it started again, I couldn’t stop.

  She pushed open my bedroom door half an hour later.

  “Can you lock it?” I asked.

  She bolted the door, not before rolling her eyes. I stood and picked her up, tossing her weightless body down on the mattress.

  “I’m getting sick of using the side staircase,” she said while I tried to kiss her. “I feel like a prostitute.”

  “You’re not a prostitute.” I lay on the bed next to her, my hand resting on her stomach. Lucy wasn’t very good at the whole sporadic, casual-hookup thing—I could tell our dynamic bothered her but also that she wasn’t planning on ending things, either. Still, she picked little fights and made constant jabs at me about my continuing to date Diana. Of course it was all my fault, even though she understood the terms of our relationship and, one way or another, had accepted them.

  “Luce.” I tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You know it isn’t always going to be like this.”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “I do not think you’re an idiot.”

  “And what about your friends? If Evan saw me coming up those stairs—”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “What if he did?”

  “I’d make something up. Don’t worry about it.”

  She sighed and blinked at me with her dark blue eyes. No makeup.

  “I like it when you don’t wear makeup.”

  “I have a meeting with my adviser in thirty minutes.” She pinched my earlobe between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Better hurry and get these clothes off you, then.” I ran my hands up her inner thighs, over her cropped leggings. “You have the hottest body.”

  “Stephen. Tell me something honestly.”

  “Anything.”

  “You say things won’t always be like this, but do you mean it? If you don’t, you don’t. But I want to know.” She bit her lip, waiting.

  “I do mean it,” I said honestly. There was no way Diana and I were staying together after graduation. We’d discussed it. She was moving back to Milwaukee for a summer internship and then Saint Louis for grad school in the fall, and in truth I can’t stand the Midwest—it’s full of overly cheery people, ineffectual job markets, and the salaries are comic. “Actually, Luce,” I continued, planting light kisses along her neck. “There’s a good chance I’ll be in New York this summer.”

  “Why? Columbia?” Her eyes widened. “I thought you didn’t get in.”

  “I didn’t. I’ve actually decided to defer law school for another year and work a job in finance. And most of the companies where I’ve applied are in New York.”

  “Wow,” she said. “What about the other law schools? Have you heard back?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve already made up my mind. I’ve just realized that it would be good to get some actual work experience under my belt before I start school again. Plus, I really need to make some money and start paying off my students loans.” I’d mentally rehearsed my answer to that question, since everyone would ask.

  “That does sound smart, Stephen,” she sa
id. Lucy thinks I walk on water.

  “Which means,” I went on. “That we can hang out this summer. If you’re going to be back east, that is.”

  “Oh, really?” She grinned sardonically. “You know, you say these things, but they’re just words. It’s easy for you to say them without meaning them.”

  “Lucy.” I sat up and stared at her clothed body stretched out on my bed. I was starting to get annoyed. I remembered the rejection letters and felt the anger bubbling inside my chest again. I fought it down, focusing my attention on the exposed sliver of Lucy’s abdomen. “I’m having a graduation party at my house in Bayville on June fourteenth. Just something small, but you should come.” I could tell she was trying not to look too excited, but the smile crept through her lips.

  “What about Diana?”

  “Diana and I are going our separate ways after graduation.”

  “Interesting.” She rolled her eyes again.

  “Stop rolling your eyes at me. Things are going to change after I graduate. I’m not lying.”

  “Stop telling me what to do.”

  “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I placed my knees on either side of her hips and pinned her shoulders to the mattress. This was the way we could be together only in private, and I knew she savored each moment. “I know you want to pick a fight with me right now, but you only have twenty-five minutes until your meeting, and I really hate it when you’re in my bed with your clothes on. I’ve been hard for over half an hour thinking about you coming over. So can you please shut up so that I can fuck you?”

  Her eyes went shiny with lust, and she did shut up, and I peeled her clothes off in less than ten seconds. Out of the corner of my eye I saw pieces of the UVA letter poking out of the trash can and I fucked her harder, furious. Doubt and anxiety clouded my head, and I just wanted to fill it up with something else. I grabbed her hair in my hands and she dug the heels of her feet into my back. We often ended up fucking like this—angry. She was almost always angry with me, and this time it was Officer Fucking Gonzalez who’d ignited my fury. Because what if I didn’t get the analyst job at BR3 Group, and what if I couldn’t get a job at all, and what would I do then? The panic sequestered me, but then the sensation was so perfectly tight, and the pleasure concentrated toward the tip and I wouldn’t let it happen, I would follow up with Doug Richter tomorrow and tell him I’d fly to New York the next weekend for an interview if that’s what it took, and God it felt so good. I’d do anything. Anything. I felt full and warm and golden inside Lucy, and my LSAT scores were off the charts, and I would be fine. Fine. Completely, completely fine. I lay back on the bed and let Lucy slide on top of me and oh, the feeling. I felt her pulse on top of me, felt her spine arch under my fingertips and in those last seconds the explosive awareness of what was coming filled every part of my body. I closed my eyes and thought blissfully of nothing, trancelike, the feeling filling me and then emptying out into a hot, heavenly stream, leaving me breathless, until I realized I’d come inside her.

  “Fuck,” I said. “I didn’t pull out.”

  “Shit,” she said, standing and pulling on her clothes. “I’m going to be late for my meeting.”

  “Told you, you shouldn’t have done so much talking.”

  She flashed me a look.

  “Lucy, I’m not trying to be an asshole but can you get Plan B? I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, reaching for the door.

  “So you’ll get it?” I pressed. “You can’t risk this kind of stuff.”

  “I said I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks, Luce. We’re having the Eighties party here tonight. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What?” I could tell she was pissed, or annoyed, or something.

  “Where’s Diana? I might as well ask.”

  “On her way back from Long Beach,” I answered flatly.

  “Got it.”

  “I get it,” I added. “If you don’t want to come tonight.”

  “I’ll try to stop by for a sec.” She turned away from me.

  “I don’t even get a kiss goodbye?”

  “I’m really going to be late. See ya,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  I listened to her trot down the back staircase and waited for the sound of the back door shutting before opening up my laptop to check my email. Still nothing from Doug Richter or anyone at his firm. I gritted my teeth and waited, the anxiety settling back in.

  25

  LUCY

  APRIL 2012

  Mr. Levy called me into his office one Friday afternoon in April. Mr. Levy was my adviser, and he also taught Toni Morrison: An Immersion, which I was taking for my cultural diversity credit.

  His office was located on the third floor of Foster Hall, the humanities building, north-facing with windows overlooking the San Gabriel mountains.

  “Have a seat, Lucy,” he said.

  I sat down in the hard wooden chair, already feeling a little sore from my sex with Stephen that afternoon. It had been almost two weeks since we’d had sex before that, and I hated that it would probably be a couple more until we did it again. I hated that he had all the control.

  “Do you know why I called you in here?” Mr. Levy scratched his salt-and-pepper beard.

  My stomach wobbled. I knew I wasn’t doing great in the stupid Toni Morrison class, but I didn’t think I was actually failing.

  “I know my last paper wasn’t the best,” I said. “I was going to talk to you about it. If I could just have a couple of days to rewrite it—”

  “Lucy, Lucy.” Mr. Levy held up his hand and smiled. “Your paper was fine! Not the best essay you’ve written, but that’s not why I called you in here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Overall you’ve received excellent grades during your first two years at Baird. Lit theory brought you down a bit, and your Toni Morrison grade will probably fall below your average, but you still have one of the highest GPAs of any English major or minor in your class. You’re just above a three point seven.”

  “That’s good news.” I tried to smile but my mouth wouldn’t move.

  “It’s great news. The English department is thrilled to be able to offer you a spot in Writers on the Riviera next month. You’re one of the twelve students accepted. Congratulations, my dear!” Mr. Levy beamed. His chronic enthusiasm could be exhausting.

  “Wow.” My voice came out scratchy and hoarse.

  “The committee loved your personal share about wanting to be a travel writer—how you grew up reading the travel sections of your mother’s magazines in the bathtub. It was so different! Most students write about a passion for Hemingway or Gatsby, you know, something that could be in line with a potential thesis, which is all well and good but gets repetitive. We found yours very refreshing. And I love that you’re interested in journalism. Perhaps you could do a piece for The Lantern while you’re over in France.”

  I nodded and forced a smile, unable to speak. I avoided mentioning to Mr. Levy that my stint at The Lantern was likely over—I hadn’t written for the paper in months. I hadn’t picked up any assignments since October, come to think of it, and staff writers were expected to contribute at least two stories a month.

  “You’re happy, I hope?” Mr. Levy probed. “I know you’ve been excited about the possibility of taking this course. It’s an exceptionally phenomenal experience. Robin Murphy is fantastic—I believe you’ve had class with her, yes? Anyway, I’ll give you all the paperwork—just look it over, sign where I’ve highlighted, and return it to me by the end of the week. Then the department will begin getting flights booked, and, voilà. I’m thrilled for you, Lucy. You’ve worked hard for this.”

  I remembered my prior passion for Writers on the Riviera, and I did my best to look pleased. The truth was I’d forgotten about the program and the application I’d completed last fall and the fact that the English department informed the accepted students in April. My mind felt l
ike sludge, like a big piece of it had dropped right out from under me, and I couldn’t see straight.

  “What are the dates again?”

  “You’ll leave on the fifteenth of May, right after the semester ends, and return the twentieth of June.” Mr. Levy smiled again. He never stopped smiling. When I smiled that much, my mouth hurt.

  “Do I have time to decide?” I asked. “About going on the trip, I mean.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d be sold.” Mr. Levy’s brow creased with confusion.

  “I am, I mean—I just have to talk to my parents and run it by them. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thank you. It’s a big honor.”

  “Of course. Run it by your folks and let me know by the end of the week. But Lucy, take my word for it—this is an opportunity you want to take.”

  I left Foster and walked back toward my dorm the long way, around campus instead of cutting across the quad. I took my phone out and stared at it, remembering the feeling I’d gotten when he’d texted me to come over just a couple of hours earlier—the warm rush to my chest, the excitement blocking all of my other sensations, particularly the inevitability of this sensation, the sad, solitary aftermath of our half an hour in bed together. I wished so badly that he would text me and tell me to come back over. A fresh round of lust welled from deep down, almost unbearable. I wished everything were different.

  But things would be different. It was only a matter of time, and I could make it just a couple more months.

  June 14. June 14. June 14. The date repeated inside my head—Stephen’s graduation party in Long Island, which he’d invited me to, at his house in Bayville. No more Diana—just Stephen and me. Back in New York. A fresh start.

  It was hot out, and I noticed a couple of freshman girls in bathing suits lying on Adler Quad. I’d been in such a funk lately that I’d almost forgotten summer was coming, but I was suddenly excited. June 14.

  But then I remembered Writers on the Riviera in the South of France and my meeting with Mr. Levy that had happened ten minutes ago, and I realized I was supposed to be excited for the trip, even though it fell over the fourteenth of June.