Little Black Lies

by Tish Cohen

  Only he isn’t.

  It’s happening again.

  I press my face to the icy cold glass and watch. He’s out there in his pajamas, walking around and around the van, checking each door handle, then staring at it as if it might jump and run off the moment he turns his back. The freakishness of it hits me in the parasympathetic nervous system, completely obliterating my breathing reflex.

  It’s after three in the morning and I could die from wondering how many times he’s checked those doors.

  OCD has no logic. Although I’ve heard it can make people count things. Which, to me, hardly classifies as a problem. I wish that were the kind Dad had. Numbers give me comfort. I could totally handle Dad zigzagging around the apartment grouping things in fives or sevens. On a subconscious, super-geek level, I might even feel a certain pride. But never quite believing the doors are locked baffles me something ferocious. It’s like that terrible never-ending hole Dad dug in middle school.

  The summer before I started seventh grade was prickling hot. Not a drop of rain fell in two months. With weeds and bushes so dry they sizzled and cracked as you passed, with air so heavy with smog you had to part it like jungle brush, the people of Lundon got a little edgy. But no one worse than Charlie. His mother, my grandmother, died that July, and Charlie spent the rest of the summer inside the house trying to decide where to bury her urn full of ashes. The best way to come to a decision, he found, was by nonstop checking that the windows were spotless and the stove was turned off. The VW—his best friend—sat in the garage and sulked, devastated by his absence.

  One evening in late August it started to rain. Not buckets of rain, as we would have liked. But a noiseless, maddening mist that frizzed up your ponytail and tickled the back of your neck like a mosquito. Just after it began, Dad announced it was time to bury Grandma, went outside with his spade, and headed straight for the front garden at the base of our veranda, determined to dig the perfect hole for the woman who raised him.

  But the hole didn’t cooperate. The sides had to be straight and smooth or he was a terrible son, he said. Over and over he carved into the earth, only to have the muddy walls cave in on themselves. With water drizzling down his beard and his hair sticking up like Einstein’s, he widened the hole, digging up the roses and geraniums and leaving them in a massacred heap on the walkway. Mud gurgled from their roots and streamed down toward the driveway like rivers of blackened blood. Next he excavated the thorny bushes and the newly planted birch sapling and tossed them onto the pile of corpses. Then, once he’d exhumed all vegetative life forms from the bed, he dug wider and wider until Grandma herself could have lain down inside it. It was a full-sized grave.

  Then he was on his hands and knees, crawling through the trench to perfect the corners, his face striped with mud. When the corners refused to behave, he shouted at them, his cries loud enough to bring Mom running out of the house in her pink windbreaker, holding a Good Housekeeping magazine over her head.

  I stood on the walkway and watched, helpless. Sometimes I look back on that day and think if Mom hadn’t been terrified enough to smother his dripping, earth-smeared face in kisses and promises of a better marriage, if she hadn’t led him dripping and sputtering into the house, he might be there still.

  It wasn’t until Dad was safely inside that I noticed the funereal crowd huddled under a web of spindly umbrellas. Once the umbrellas lost interest and scuttled off down the sidewalk, all that remained was twelve-year-old Ryan Hawthorne from school, his yellow eyes flattened into gloating slits, his patchy buzz cut repelling the rain. I actually watched his smudge of a soul leave his body and rise behind him all green and black like a terrible cartoon smell. It was clear what he was thinking, but he told me anyhow.

  “Your dad’s a freak.”

  “Shut up, Hawthorne.”

  “This is going to make the first day of school so much more fun.”

  I stepped over the pile of muddy roots and headed toward him. “Don’t say anything or I’ll tell that your sister’s pregnant. I saw her tanning her giant belly in your backyard last week.”

  “At least she doesn’t flirt with married guys, like your mother.”

  I shoved him to the ground so fast he didn’t have time to break his fall and his head brushed against the edge of a prickle bush. I stepped on the edges of his sopping wet AC-DC T-shirt. “Shut your filthy little face about her and swear you won’t tell. Or I’ll push your bald head right back into this bush.”

  “Okay, get off me. I won’t tell!”

  “Swear to God?”

  “Swear to God.”

  Five days later he told.

  It took the dilution of a high school that fed from four different middle schools for kids to stop calling me “Gravedigger.” Until then, my only friend was Mandy.

  But shortly after the mud-bath incident, maybe because Mom took him to get help, maybe because he was put on super meds, his OCD began to fade. Other than Dad’s getting up early to meditate, other than the bare earth where the prickle bushes and the birch tree used to be, other than the soap-dispenser debacle in tenth grade, it was as if the whole thing never happened.

  I was stupid to relax. OCD is like a puffy white dandelion wishie. With the slightest breath, its feathery seedlings tumble up into the air and disappear. But they aren’t gone. They will find a place to burrow and, sooner or later, will sprout again. It’s the only thing in life I’m certain of right now.

  Watching Dad circle the car in the dark, I press my face into the glass. I know I should be worried for his health. His sanity. But I have only one thought.

  Please don’t do this at school.

  chapter 7

  blinking back stupid

  Friday morning I wake up exhausted. After finally convincing Dad to come upstairs to bed, after finally getting back to bed myself, I couldn’t sleep. I knew Dad’s locking of the van doors would be waiting for me in the morning. In full daylight. Right behind Anton High School. Will it be a repeat of last night? There is no way of knowing until it happens.

  Hunched over his second cup of coffee at the breakfast table, my father seems remarkably well rested for a guy who spent who-knows-how-many hours in a parking lot in his pj’s.

  I wrap my arms around him and give him a peck on the cheek. His skin is smooth, soft. It smells like Christmas morning and makes me sad as I sit down in front of a bowl of Cheerios. “Do you ever do that meditation routine anymore, Dad? The one you did when I was in middle school?”

  “Too much work.”

  “But it calmed you down, remember? It was good for you.”

  “Took nearly an hour. I’m a single parent; I don’t have that kind of time.”

  But he has the time to circle the van all night long. This is the thing. At some point he stopped taking care of himself. Refused to take care of himself. Stopped meditating, stopped seeing his psychiatrist, stopped taking his meds. It almost cost him his last job. It played no small role in my mother’s decision to leave. And all the while he’s the most lovable man on earth. It’s crazy-making. “Pretty wild night, huh?”

  He loads two spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “You know … with the door handles.”

  After sipping from his cup, wiping a dribble of coffee from his chin, he nods. “They’re not in great condition, those handles. It’s impossible to tell whether they’re locked.”

  I stare at the fake wood pattern in the Formica table. There’s one pear-shaped black knot—fake knot—that is tightly wrapped in long, swerving lines. The lines nearest to the knot follow its shape closely, but as they get farther and farther away, the lines begin to lose their fruity direction, until they eventually run so straight they cannot possibly know the knot exists. “That’s not what I meant,” I mumble.

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I spent three hours working on the transmission a few weeks ago and just listen.” Charlie pulls the sputtering van into the
school laneway and I forget any fears of door-handle checking because horrendously loud explosions have begun shooting out the back end like muffled mechanical farts, creating a ripple of excitement among the students in the parking lot. I bend down and pretend to dig something out of my backpack to avoid detection as he continues his rant. “It’s as if she’s in agony. I have half a mind to turn around and spend the rest of the day under the hood.”

  The sun hangs so low I wonder if I might reach up and twist it from the sky, blackening the whole city and rendering me invisible. If only. “It’s just a car, Dad.”

  “No such thing, my girl.”

  I sink lower in my seat, sickened to be attracting such gaseous attention. Dad coasts into a parking spot mercifully close to the edge of the lot, kills the already dying engine, and climbs out. He reaches into the backseat for his jacket, pulls it on, and locks his door. Without checking to see if it really is locked, he walks around to my side and stares at me. “Coming?”

  There’s no way I’m climbing out of this vehicle. Not until anyone and everyone who witnessed our entrance has lost interest and toddled away. Still ducked down, I hold up one shoe and tug at the laces. “Leave me for dead. I’m having footwear issues.”

  “They look just as loathsome as anyone else’s. What’s the problem?”

  “They’re pinching. Go ahead.”

  “Just don’t forget to lock up. It might not sound so hot, but this bus is a classic.”

  “If someone steals it, they won’t get far without attracting attention. Let that be your comfort.”

  “I’m being serious, Sara.”

  “I’ll lock up. Go forth and do that uniform proud.”

  He doesn’t move right away. Just chews on his cheek and considers the pragmatics of walking away and leaving his girl here unprotected. The van, not me.

  I decide to appeal to his sense of responsibility. “Dad, the bell’s about to ring. You don’t want to be late. First impressions, remember?”

  It works. Dad lifts his hand in a half wave, half salute and says, “Right. You have a good day, hon. Try to get your homework done right after school so you can get to bed at a reasonable hour.”

  He vanishes into the maze of vehicles, leaving me squatting on the dirty floor mat, blinking back stupid, and trying to figure out what’s happened to our lives.

  My Nineteenth-Century Lit teacher doesn’t seem to belong at Ant any more than I do. She’s not from Boston—you can tell from the way she pronounces words like get as git—and it’s clear she’s intimidated by the students, probably because she’s practically still a kid herself. She gets flustered and blushes when she loses her place in the lesson. Then, once she figures out where she left off, she giggles and runs a hand through her cropped curls as if in apology. The gesture slices into me, somewhere deep, right in my very center. If anyone gets what it’s like to be the outsider, it’s me.

  Luckily the students at Ant are too grade-centric to give her a hard time. If Ms. Solange stood before a Finmory class and showed herself to be this unsure and timid, the kids would eat her alive, the way they once made it a schoolwide goal to ensure any substitute teacher quit before the end of her first day.

  It’s not a very popular class; only half the seats are filled. There are a few kids I recognize—Willa’s up at the front, and there’s a guy from pre-law near the door. And Poppy is sitting to my right. As I watch the teacher unpack today’s lesson, I wonder if she takes the poor turnout personally. I hope not, but I’m sure, on some level, I would.

  Poppy slides a peppermint onto my desk. “Hey.”

  I pick up the candy, pleased she’s being friendly again. “Is this for me?”

  She unwraps another one and pops it into her mouth. “Yep. I have plenty more. One for each period. Eat it.”

  “I will.”

  “Eat it now.” Her fingers are wrapped around the camera on her lap.

  I just finished a honey-almond granola bar and am quite happy with the current taste in my mouth. “I can’t do mint this early. Late-rising tastebuds.”

  She’s quiet, fidgeting with her camera and staring into her lap. Finally she says, “It’s because it’s from me, right?”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” I can see her mouth tighten and I’m terrified we’re on the edge of another snap-at-Sara episode. “You know what? I will eat it now.” I unwrap the candy and pop it into my mouth. “I love it. It’s so … pepperminty.”

  She seems reassured and starts filming me as I suck on her striped lozenge. I don’t dare do anything but make the candy dissolve as fast as possible.

  Ms. Solange steps in front of her desk and leans back against it. “If you did your reading, you’ll know our friend Rodion Raskolnikov has hazy, unformed theories forming in his pretty head as he sits in his horrid coffin-shaped room.”

  Willa waves her hand. “I liked the inconsistency between Rodion’s good looks and the squalor of his apartment. A lesser writer would have made him look despicable, don’t you think?”

  “Nice observation, Willa. I couldn’t agree more.”

  “I actually read Crime and Punishment over the summer and wrote an essay about it,” says Willa. “His clothing was ragged, so was everything around him, yet his face was beautiful. Said a lot about his soul.”

  “Excellent, Willa,” says Ms. Solange. She turns back to the class. “Now, young Raskolnikov’s ideologies are so imprecise you’ll later see they actually contradict each other. This was not accidental on the author’s part. Raskolnikov gets busy with his borrowed theory that the end justifies the means. And if a desired outcome brings about a situation that benefits humanity, the extraordinary man is justified in using any means to make it happen. Which is how Raskolnikov comes to plan the murder of the old pawnbroker who beats her—”

  There’s a knock at the door and a guy with dark eyes and sandy hair pokes his head in. “Excuse me, Ms. Solange.” He points across the room. “I forgot my stats textbook. You mind if I just go grab it?”

  Ms. Solange waves him in and starts pacing. She’s lost her place. Sure enough, her hand goes up to hide in the curls. I can’t stand it. I park my mint in the pouch of my cheek and say, “Ms. Solange? The old pawnbroker was known for beating her sister, wasn’t she?”

  “That was smooth.” Poppy is still filming me.

  Ms. Solange looks at me, relieved. As she details the way the craggy Aliona owed the cleanliness of her furniture and floors to her severely underappreciated sister, the guy weaves his way through the classroom and stops right in front of me. He’s wearing the silver tie pin that shows he’s a senior. He grins, his lips parting to reveal smooth teeth. “Mind if I dive under your desk?”

  I look down to see a textbook near my foot. Quickly, I scoot back to give him space. “No. I mean, sure. Go ahead.”

  He climbs down onto the floor and his shoulder brushes against my knee. I pull it away and rub it until the tingling stops. As he withdraws, he bumps his head on the underside of my desk and stands up laughing, embarrassed. He salutes me with his Statistics Today textbook, winks, and leaves the room, not quite closing the door.

  “Turn this way,” whispers Poppy. “I need a close-up.”

  I don’t turn. I don’t even acknowledge her. I can’t. I’m too busy staring at the doorway.

  chapter 8

  skirtie come home

  Anton High has its very own store, located right behind the office. I saw it on my way to pre-law after a very lonely lunch hour during which I hid in an empty classroom, ate a dried-out tuna wrap, and sent desperate text messages to Mandy about my father.

  The store, matter-of-factly called Store, has huge display windows on either side of the door. One is decorated with textbooks, packages of highlighters, and leather-bound weekly planners. Handmade thought clouds offer tired motivational messages such as FAILING TO PLAN IS PLANNING TO FAIL.

  The other window is dressed more like the Lost and Found closet, only this clothing definitely hasn’t bee
n left in a forgotten heap under the bleachers. Mostly the display shows spirit wear, like navy Anton varsity jackets and striped scarves, though school spirit really only extends to the robotics and math teams. Apparently it’s difficult to get students to support a basketball team that hasn’t won a game in fifty-three years.

  Seeing as I’d already failed to plan in my choice of socially acceptable hosiery and moved straight to plain old failing, I’ve been promising myself all afternoon on Friday that I’d treat myself to kneesocks. I considered going back to Mrs. Pelletier—there was that box of unloved cable-knit socks—but I can’t. Or won’t. The twenty dollars in my backpack should be enough to buy me a few pairs of kneesocks.

  After school, the shop is infested with Ants—some still in uniform, some in phys-ed clothes, some who’ve changed into jeans. A bell chimes as I walk in and a security guard makes me stash my backpack into a cubby in the interest of preventing theft. I take out my wallet and hand over my bag.

  Inside the store, girls slip in and out of curtained dressing rooms to admire themselves in full-length mirrors, squealing hellos to people they haven’t seen all summer while their hips gyrate to the punk music thumping from speakers that hang from the ceiling. I grab a wire basket and head down an aisle, hoping no one will notice I’m the only one, besides the student cashier and the backpack bouncer, who’s friendless.

  The back corner is dripping with ties, undershirts, and kneesocks. I throw three pairs of socks into my basket. Beside me, a girl holds a pair of blue yoga pants against her body, then reaches for two more pairs in gray and stuffs them all in her basket. When she leaves to join her friend at the cash desk, I run my hand along the cool stacks of Lycra. Knowing full well I have no way of paying for them, now or in the near future, knowing I’ll only have to put them back on the shelf and walk away depressed, I hunt for a pair of size 6 longs, lay them over my arm, and, keeping my head down, bore through the crowd at the back and disappear into a dressing room.