Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix)

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  “If you don’t come, I swear I’ll knock you on your butt,” I threatened.

  “Like you could.”

  “Says Mr. Second Place.”

  “I just don’t want to hit girls…”

  “No, you try to hit her. You just can’t.” Regina pushed his shaved head in that playful-girlfriend way. Tyson was one of those guys who could pull off a dark shiny Bic’d scalp, like a young Michael Jordan, only without the endorsements.

  “Wow, that’s coming from your girlfriend. Ouch!” I mocked.

  “Girl power!” She slapped me a high five.

  “I feel so loved,” Tyson grumbled. “You know I have first place trophies…”

  “Of course you do, honey.” Regina’s tone was mocking.

  Tyson’s full pink lips pursed to the side, his eyes looking insulted. “Okay, well, maybe I should go to the party—”

  “That sounds like an amazing idea!” I prodded, hoping to urge the fight along.

  “I’m just messing with you. I know you’ve got mad skills. So proud…” Regina hugged him, burying her face in his chest and making kissy sounds. He touched her butt, and she giggled. I averted my eyes. I couldn’t compete with that, which meant I’d be attending a party in my own home. Alone.

  I knew after two drinks, Keira would pretend I wasn’t there, which was probably how she’d prefer to live the rest of her life. My sister gave up everything to care for me, from her freedom to med school. She was currently a nurse at Boston General, scrubbing in with doctors who used to be her classmates, a fact she mentioned often. And while she’d never openly admit she resented me for her plummeting career trajectory, it was so obvious, I couldn’t help but resent her right back—especially when she bossed me around or acted like she deserved a trophy for not dropping me off at a firehouse.

  Keira was not my mother (a fact I pointed out regularly), so that only made the Mother’s Day Eve celebration she was throwing in our home tonight more infuriating. She had eleven months until I turned eighteen and she got to relinquish her guardian title, and she was practically marking the days on a calendar with giant red Xs.

  My friends and I headed down a row of rectangular tables set in prison-straight lines. We sat near the windows on the outskirts, one of the few parts of the cafeteria untainted by the stench of meatless veggie burgers and drugstore body sprays.

  I bumped the backs of carrot-colored chairs as we neared our seats. I could see a pack of baseball players headed from the opposite direction, which was unusual given that the popular table sat in the cafeteria’s center. It was like seeing Mickey Mouse in the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom.

  “Hey, look who it is!” said Wyatt Burns in a voice so loud he was obviously working to draw an audience. He hovered over a male student seated alone with his tray, two empty plastic chairs beside him. “Where’s your Harley now, empanada?” Wyatt backhanded the guy’s head, not hard enough to be an actual hit, but too hard to be considered friendly.

  What was strange was that I didn’t recognize the target. He was well-built, with black spiky hair, dark eyes, black T-shirt, and a tattoo of a bull with curved horns showing on his neck. Not exactly someone you could easily overlook.

  I stopped en route to our table, twisting my head toward Regina. “Who are they messing with?”

  “He just started here. Some exchange student or something. I think he’s Mexican. Could you imagine moving to a new school in May? The year’s almost over.” She mindlessly flicked the part in her shiny black hair, which fell toward her waist like a silk curtain. I’d kill for hair like that. Instead, my hair reminded me of my mother’s every time I looked in the mirror—long, thick, and espresso brown.

  “Sometimes you don’t have a choice,” I grumbled, as we continued to our table. I put down my tray, but I didn’t sit; I was too busy watching the scene.

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot about your nomad days.” Regina made a whoops-my-bad face, though it actually was nice not to be considered the new girl anymore. At seventeen, I’d lived in nine cities, in five countries, on four continents, and spoke four languages—including upper-class Moroccan French. “I heard his parents work at Boston General, doing research or something. Hey, maybe your sister knows them?”

  “Maybe he’ll be invited to your party?” Tyson added.

  “Yeah, I’m sure Keira invited the entire hospital staff and their families,” I deadpanned, still gawking. Wyatt wasn’t letting up. I didn’t know what this kid had done to draw the ire of three hulking baseball players, but the entire lunchroom was now involved. Conversations lulled.

  “You know, I think they serve tacos up there,” Wyatt pointed to the cafeteria line. “Did you grab a couple burritos, ese?”

  The guy said nothing, and even in his silence, I could see he wasn’t Mexican. I’d traveled enough to recognize the basic physical differences between cultures. His features looked European—maybe Spanish, assuming all the politically incorrect digs were based on something other than idiocy.

  “Maybe next time you cut me off on that stupid bike of yours, I won’t slam on the brakes.” Wyatt jerked like he was going to punch him, but the guy didn’t flinch (good for him). Wyatt quickly covered by reaching for the boy’s untouched veggie burger. He plucked it from his tray, took a huge bite, and threw it on the dirty tile floor.

  “Bon appétit!” he shouted, probably not realizing that was French, not Spanish, though I doubted he cared. He was laughing like he’d just told the best joke in the world, bits of food flying from his mouth as his buddies cackled beside him. Then they marched away, straight toward us, patting one another’s backs.

  I’d watched a lot of TV in my seventeen years, and I’d heard theories about “crimes of passion,” people who claimed to pull the triggers of guns yet had no recollection. They swore there was no conscious decision made, it just sort of happened. That was me in that moment.

  I stood watching the cocky smile on Wyatt’s face, his cheesy high fives to his buddies, his undeserved swagger, and I simply stuck out my foot. I wasn’t even sure my brain registered the action, but when Wyatt charged past my right side, my leather sandal wrapped around his ankle, just above his Nike, with perfect timing, and Wyatt tripped.

  Wow, did he trip.

  He stumbled forward in three awkward lunges, arms flailing for balance, until he fell splat on the gritty linoleum floor. Face first.

  The roar of laughter that followed could rival any Comedy Central performer. I pressed my palm to my mouth, trying to hold in the giggles, but I’d just tripped the most popular guy at Brookline Academy.

  Wyatt pushed to his feet and spun toward me, blue flames in his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I sputtered, fingers covering the laughter spurting from my lips. “I didn’t see you.”

  Regina and Tyson doubled over, crying with giggles, as Wyatt’s scruffy hands twitched into fists at his sides. His eyes darted around viciously, but after a few heated moments, he did nothing. He didn’t say a word. He just stomped off in the opposite direction, preserving what little dignity a teen who trips in the cafeteria can muster.

  “I think I love you,” Regina choked. “Like, really love you.”

  “Oh my God. That was awesome!” Tyson added, patting my back with his big sweaty hand. “You’re my hero.”

  Everyone in the cafeteria was staring—the teachers, the lunch aides, probably the roaches in the walls, and especially the new kid.

  Our gazes met for a second. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but when he smiled, they lit with the glint of a rock star on stage. “Gracias,” he said. With that one word, I could tell I’d been right. He was from Madrid. I’d spent only a summer there, but it was good to realize I hadn’t lost all of my nomad skills.

  “De nada,” I replied, noticing the dimples in his cheeks. What was it about a guy with dimples that sucked you in, like you couldn’t look away, even if you wanted to.

  And I didn’t want to.

  Chapter Two

  Apparen
tly, being the hero of the cafeteria did nothing to inspire a change in plans from Tyson and Regina. Not only was I still attending my sister’s party alone, but I was now watching Keira and Charlotte, our roommate and our mutual best friend, decorate the offensive fiesta.

  Only my sister could turn Mother’s Day into a drinking holiday.

  “Don’t you find this a little tacky?” I asked as I watched Keira wind pink and black streamers around an empty curtain rod. Charlotte held the other end of the crepe paper roll.

  “Not at all.” Keira smacked her lips. “I deserve some recognition for not screwing you up these past three years.”

  “Who says you haven’t?”

  Keira shot me a look. “I wouldn’t mess with the one thing standing between you and a group home in Jamaica Plain.” She cocked her head, her ironed platinum blond hair falling over her shoulder.

  After decades of looking like our dad’s Mini-Me—with hazel eyes, a pointy nose, pale skin, and light brown hair—Keira decided to dye her hair Madonna-platinum and coat herself in tangerine tanning solution. It was a reaction to the funeral, and I didn’t have room to criticize. I hardly waited a week before cutting my espresso-colored locks to my shoulders to avoid seeing my mother’s reflection in the mirror. But eventually, I let my hair grow out, confident that my eyes set me apart. They were a smoky gray-blue color that was unique amongst my family, which, depending on who you asked, either made me look perpetually gloomy or a tad mysterious. My sister voted for gloomy.

  “Even if you wanted to celebrate Mother’s Day, which I still think is weird, shouldn’t we be doing brunch and mimosas, not kegs and Cheetos?” I commented as I watched Charlotte shove rosy carnations into an empty vodka bottle.

  “Who said anything about kegs? We’re talking martinis.” Keira fluttered her fingers near her unseasonably tan face as if she were suggesting a cotillion. “We’re classing it up.” Though as she said this, she stepped onto the sofa, lifted a giant metallic “My Mom Rocks” sign, and adhered it to the wall with Scotch tape.

  “What if there is a Happy Legal Guardians’ Day? Did you even look into it? Maybe we should be throwing this party in October or something? I mean, if Hallmark can peddle Grandparents’ Day, Secretaries’ Day, and Valentine’s Day, I’m sure they thought of this, too.” I plopped onto our leather recliner, which expelled a stale puff of air as if it were as exhausted as I was.

  “First off, it’s Administrative Professionals’ Day. Let’s keep it PC,” Charlotte corrected, blowing a stray dirty-blond curl from her eyes. “And second, the first known association of Valentine’s Day with sappy love is in Chaucer’s ‘Parlement of Foules.’ So you can blame him. Hallmark just added the singing cards.” She cascaded fuchsia “I Heart Mommy” napkins on the glass coffee table, looking as if this obscure knowledge simply rested at the tip of her brain.

  “Why do you know that?”

  “Because I read.”

  And she did. Charlotte had a bedroom library that consisted of everything from Pride and Prejudice to JavaScript for Dummies. She actually read law reviews for enjoyment. It was amazing she still was fun to hang out with, but she really was, even if she spent so much time plugged into her computer that she made Mark Zuckerberg seem low tech.

  “So exactly how many people are going to be invading our house tonight?” I asked, hiking up my unwashed jeans. There seemed no reason to wear fancy going-out clothes for a bunch of guests who would probably arrive in hospital scrubs.

  “Like, thirty, depending on who shows.” Keira stacked hot-pink paper plates next to the cheese and pepperoni tray, then twirled a lock of blond hair around her index finger in that way she did when she was nervous. “Hey, did anyone call for me today?”

  “You mean, like, on the landline?” My forehead creased. “Why would a guy call you here?”

  “I never said it was a guy,” she hissed defensively.

  “You didn’t have to.” I rolled my eyes and propped my bare feet up on the table next to the crackers, crossing my ankles. “Unless it’s a telemarketer, that phone doesn’t ring. So let me guess, he lost your number?”

  Keira had a history of spending the night with guys who suffered from crippling cases of selective phone-number amnesia. And I had a feeling she might be seeing someone new, because she’d been “working late” and “pulling double shifts” a lot recently. The last time she used those excuses, she was dating a married man who she worked with. It didn’t end well, and it looked like her new romance might be headed down the same path.

  “It’s not like that. I was just expecting something…”

  “As long as it’s not his wife,” I mocked. “That scene on our front steps wasn’t too fun the last time.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” she snapped. “And get your feet off the table!” She chucked a package of uninflated pink balloons at me, a little too hard.

  “All right, ladies, let’s not fight,” Charlotte interrupted in a calming tone. “It’s Mother’s Day Eve, a time to bring us together. So let’s rock in this holiday like it’s never been rocked before!”

  “That’s because it never has been rocked before,” I noted.

  “Cue the playlist,” Keira ordered.

  Immediately, Ozzy Osbourne’s voice boomed through the living room speakers, wailing “Momma, I’m Coming Home,” and I watched as their hair flew, headbanging, shouting lyrics. If this was what they looked like sober, I could only imagine where the evening was headed after a few martinis.

  ...

  People tended to think that hospital employees were the epitome of stoic professionalism. “Get me ten cc’s of epinephrine, stat!” That might be true, but I was watching those same employees missing their mouths as they tried to swill back cups of vodka-something while attempting the MC Hammer and yelling catchphrases from at least two decades ago (“Loser!” with an L hand gesture propped on their foreheads).

  I pulled myself up from the sofa and shoved another handful of Dorito crumbs into my mouth as I started toward my bedroom. It had better be unoccupied. I turned in the hallway, my bare feet collecting cracker bits from our creaky pine floors. The brownstone was one of the few things inherited from our parents—a four bedroom, 1,500 square foot, walk-up in Brookline. After lifetimes of relocating, our family had become experts on housing markets from here to Morocco.

  Good thing, too, because apparently our parents weren’t big on saving. We inherited little cash, and it wasn’t until months after the funeral that their best friend and colleague, Randolph Urban, stepped in, claiming Mom and Dad had a life insurance policy through Dresden. He said he was terribly sorry he hadn’t informed us of it sooner and handed us a check. We didn’t ask any questions (mostly because we were sick of eating ramen noodles), but we were never quite sure if such a policy existed or if he’d simply wanted to help.

  “What up, Phoenix sistahs?” cried Charlotte as she flung open her bedroom door. She stepped into the hallway in ripped jeans and a thrift store T-shirt, looking about as dressed up as me. “How hot am I?”

  “The hottest computer science geek the corporate world has ever seen,” I joked.

  “Don’t you know it!” She waved her hands in the air, staggering slightly, her messy curls flopping in her face.

  Charlotte was a major reason why Keira and I still functioned in society. After the funeral, our grief got stuck at the anger stage. We screamed over everything—my grades (which tanked from B’s to D’s in a single quarter), my suspension rate (which accelerated alarmingly due to skipped classes), and even whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher (“I may be your guardian, but I am not your maid!”). We resented our parents. We resented each other. And we resented the Red Sox for winning the World Series and making everyone in the city so damn happy.

  Charlotte helped. She was a friend of Keira’s from BU who had a high-paying full-time job and was in need of a place to live. Plus, she came equipped with every season of Buffy on DVD, an insane knowledge of everything in the kno
wn universe, and unquestionably sound judgment. (“Keira did the dishes yesterday. It’s your turn.”) She was our judge and jury.

  “Hey, where’s Keira? ’Cause I need to fill ’er up!” Charlotte slurred as she waved her empty plastic cup.

  “In the kitchen, but—”

  “Anastasia!” Keira shouted as if sensing her name in the wind. “Where’s the sugar?” She stumbled out of the kitchen in a new pair of too-tight skinny jeans, gripping a pink-and-white striped plastic pitcher in one hand and a yellow cocktail in the other. Her eyelids hung heavily, and her right shoulder was exposed, her wide-necked black shirt sliding down her arm like a modern version of Flashdance.

  “It’s next to the coffeemaker,” I griped, taking in her drunken spectacle.

  I didn’t drink. Not because I was a goody-goody, but because there were a lot of things social services was willing to overlook, but an orphaned teen being supplied illegal substances by her twenty-something guardian wasn’t one of them. It was a one-way ticket into foster care, and as much as I questioned my sister’s right to boss me around like a lowly subject, I knew I had it pretty good. There was no lock on my fridge and no bruises under my clothes. Keira and I were the only family we had left, and even if we’d never admit it to each other, that meant something.

  “No, that’s sweetener. I need sugar. The real stuff,” Keira spat, her head flopping like a bobblehead.

  “You threw out all the sugar when you went on Weight Watchers.”

  “No, I didn’t! And I’m not on points. Mom was on points, or so she said. Not that she needed it. Not that she needed anything…or anyone, apparently,” Keira rambled as she took another gulp. “I’m on South Beach, by the way.”

  “Whatever.” My sister had a habit of bringing up our parents when drunk. The anniversary of their deaths was two months ago, and she had spent the entire day polishing off a bottle of tequila and slurring about the old days until she vomited. Repeatedly. “Just use Splenda. Or better yet, stop drinking.” I rolled my eyes.