Little Black Lies

by Tish Cohen

  She squished her mouth into an appropriate family-busting frown as she sat down on the rug beside me, put her arm across my shoulder. “Darling,” she said, “you know I love you.”

  It always starts that way, doesn’t it? Six words like this, seeping from down-turned lips. As soon as they hit the air, they rush around and get busy ending your world.

  “But your father and I … you know it’s been wrong for a long time. You know how he thinks. He’s stagnant. I just want so much more out of life. Like I want for you. I’m at the point where staying is suffocating.” She stopped and gathered my hair off my face.

  I knew the answer, but it was my turn to speak. “You’re leaving.”

  “Yes, sweetheart. But I’m not leaving you. Never leaving you.”

  “But I live in this house. So you sort of are.”

  “Don’t look at it that way, Sara. You’re a big girl now. You can hop on a plane and come see me—”

  “A plane? How far are you not going? And is Mr. Nathan not going with you?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “You know?”

  I nodded.

  She pulled me to my feet. “Come into my room and talk to me while I change. I think you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Sure,” I said, following her across the hall. “I don’t want you to be late.”

  Love brings out the stupid in people. It traps fluid in the inner ear and blots out sound. My mother actually smiled at me as if she appreciated my concern for her timing. The sarcasm in my voice didn’t even register.

  I folded my arms across my chest, leaned against the wall connecting my parents’ room to their bathroom, and watched as she tugged off her T-shirt and slipped into a pink silky sleeveless blouse. Her arms were tanned, muscular. As she kicked off her jeans and stepped into a skirt, I looked away, angered by her matching pink silky underwear. I’d never seen this bra or these panties in the laundry before.

  “When I met Michael, it was as if I had a chance at life again, you know? You’ll understand this when you’re older, I promise. My God, you’re going into eleventh grade. You’re almost an adult yourself.”

  Keeping my eyes focused on the bathroom, I tried to blot out her words by staring at a little pile of gold by the sink. The bracelet Dad and I gave her for her birthday two years ago, her gold Wal-Mart watch from her sister. And something else. I leaned to the right and picked up a plain gold ring. It was too shiny, not a scratch or a mark on it. I turned it over in my hands and noticed something was inscribed on the inside. Holding it closer, I read the words Mon amour.

  “Do you understand, sweetheart?” Mom asked.

  She was at the doorway and I nodded, hiding the ring behind my back.

  Taking my shoulders, she looked into my eyes. “Are you sure, Sara? I want us to be really open with this. And I want you to learn from my mistakes. I’ve given almost a quarter of my life to a man I never should have married. When I met Michael, I felt I had a chance again. Like I’d found my reason for living.”

  Her reason for living. Her freaking reason for living. Because she hadn’t found one yet. She didn’t have one living across the hall from her bedroom. Tears pierced my eyes like burning needles and I stepped back. “Could you excuse me, Mom? I need to pee.”

  Closing the door behind me, I dropped the ring into the toilet bowl and flushed.

  The ring wasn’t the only thing that vanished that day. Nor was my mother.

  By the time the balloon-covered gymnasium doors opened for prom that night, every student at Finmory High knew that Tina Black had stolen the beloved Mrs. Nathan’s husband. For me, it was the end of life as I knew it. The only student willing to look in my direction was Mandy.

  chapter 31

  flash futures

  Dad walks into our apartment first. I push past him and head straight for my room, throwing myself on my bed. How unbelievably, utterly, completely humiliating!

  Leo had looked from me to Charlie to me again. Then looked at his dad like he needed convincing that he wasn’t still asleep. And next thing I knew, Dad was shaking Leo’s hand, so pleased to meet an Ant student. So certain his daughter hadn’t been erasing his very existence.

  Leo looked at me, surprised, disappointed, maybe even disgusted.

  But here’s the thing. He wasn’t disgusted that he had nearly gotten involved with the custodian’s daughter. I could see it on his face. He was disgusted by what I’d done—to him, to the kids at school, and most of all to my father. Charlie asked him all sorts of intelligent questions about the Aston, and Leo gave my father the respect he deserves. It was then that I realized the truth. I’d made a terrible mistake in not trusting my father to rise above his job. An irreparable mistake. An unforgivable mistake.

  I am a monster.

  Charlie didn’t know what was really going on in that garage. He actually put his hand on my shoulder as we left and headed for the bus stop, as if I was worthy of his trust.

  Rolling over on my bed, I notice the red light on my cell phone is flashing so brightly it could be a warning for low-flying planes. I don’t have to listen to the message to know who it’s from. What it says. What it means. But I do.

  Leo’s voice. He doesn’t sound happy. “Hey, Sara. Leo here. That was kind of bizarre this morning, waking up and finding you in my garage.” He laughs, then pauses to take a sip of something. “Anyway, sorry but I have to bail on you. I’m not feeling so good. My mom is going to haul me in to the doctor or something. See you later.”

  I snap the phone shut, turn it off, and hurl it into a drawer. Of course Leo Reiser, future CEO of Reiser Industries, is suddenly feeling lousy. He almost got himself involved with me.

  chapter 32

  surrounded by ants

  I don’t come out of my room the rest of the day Saturday. Dad thinks I have a headache and offers—about twelve times—to bring me Tylenol. He has no idea what just happened, and I have no plans to tell him. Not ever. It would hurt him too much.

  When he goes to bed early, I drag myself out of my room and into the living room, where I turn on the TV, desperate to give my misery a break by focusing on anything but Leo and the fact that my entire social life will have dissolved by Monday morning—though by now he’s probably told Griff what I did. And Griff has probably spilled it to anyone who can stand him long enough to listen.

  The credits to a movie roll up the screen, and as I watch the names of the actors pass by—Billy Crystal, Meg Ryan, Carrie Fisher—I realize with horror what I’ve done. I’ve left Mandy alone on her birthday night, the night she was supposed to have been spending with Eddie before he dumped her.

  I race to the phone and dial Mandy’s number.

  Her mother answers, her voice taut. “Hello?”

  “May I please speak to Mandy? It’s Sara.”

  “It’s awfully late, Sara. Eleven o’clock.”

  “Sorry. I just need Mandy for a second.”

  “She went out about half an hour ago. To get a coffee, she said. But I don’t know why she’d need a coff—”

  There is no time for the usual polite “thank you” and “good-bye” and “I hope to see you soon.” This is an emergency. I hang up the phone and dial Mandy’s cell. She didn’t go for coffee. She went to her asshole ex-boyfriend’s hotel room to see if he’s there with his new girl. Mandy picks up on the second ring but says nothing. I can hear her sobbing in the background.

  “Mandy, are you at the hotel?”

  “Screw you, Sara.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself! Following them around is only going to torture you. Please tell me you’ll go home and—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said screw you.”

  “I know I messed up. It’s just that I had a terrible day and I … I just forgot.”

  “He’s in there with her right now.” Her sobs dissolve into hiccups.

  “You have to get yourself home. Just put me on speaker and I’ll keep talking to you until you’re in your d
riveway.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “But you shouldn’t be driving.”

  “I’m in my driveway, okay? So stop trying to make like you give a crap. It’s pretty clear that you don’t.”

  “I do, I swear. You want to know what happened today?”

  “No. I don’t.” And she hangs up.

  I try to call back, but she’s turned off her phone. I send text messages explaining what happened. Then I leave a voice message, begging her to call me, forgive me.

  My mother was right to put an ocean between us. There’s something wrong with me. I was born bad. I ooze pain and hurt wherever I go. If I could take back every single thing I’ve done, I would. There is officially not one single sliver of my life I haven’t destroyed. Not one freaking speck.

  Mandy needed me and I wasn’t there. All the IMs and phone messages in the world aren’t going to undo it.

  Monday morning I go to school prepared for the very worst. For everyone in the building to know me for the lying, cheating wretch I am. Dad went in early to get a start on some heater that needs fixing, and in some feeble and cowardly attempt to stand by him now that it’s too late, I went with him. The foyer was empty when we walked in, which diminished my move significantly, but before he headed down the first-floor hall toward the boiler room, I kissed him on the cheek.

  He looked at me and smiled. “You really are the perfect daughter.”

  It was all I could do not to weep. But a high-school student’s instinct for self-preservation runs deep. I bit hard on the inside of my cheek, then said, “I don’t deserve you.” As I headed up to the second floor, the only sound I heard, other than my own footsteps, was my father’s key ring rattling from downstairs.

  The hallways are thick with students by the time I spot Carling, Sloane, and Isabella. I wade upstream in a river of kids flowing in my direction. It takes twice the effort to fight the rapids, strength I just don’t have today, but I drum it up to protect my father from whatever Carling might have schemed up over the weekend.

  As soon as Carling sees me fighting the human flotsam, she squeals and pulls me into a huddle with the other girls, walking us toward the girls’ bathroom. “London. Operation Takedown is about to launch a few days early.”

  I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about, but have to ask, “What’s that?”

  “To take down Crazy Charlie. Our worst-case-scenario Izzy came up with the perfect plan that will ensure that his reputation is forever trashed. In fact, that’s what we’ll call our strategy, Forever Trashed.” Aggression oozes from her body, making her seem a caricature of herself. Her square jaw line looks mannish and sharp, almost as if her jawbones have been replaced by a steel box. Muscles bulge in her neck, and her long, wild hair seems to be hissing like a nest of writhing cobras. Flanked by her brainy, kneesock-sporting thugs, with hordes of students filing around her, Carling looks ready for a fight.

  “Listen up,” she says. “Izzy’s going to tell him there’s a leaky toilet in the girls’ room. Tell him the place could be crawling in germs and we need a custodian. So in comes Charlie, all bug-eyed with determination and his bucketful of bleach. Sloane is going to make sure the restroom is empty. With one exception.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  She pushes a gold spiral out of her eyes and grins, pressing against the doorway. “Me. I’ll be waiting for him with my shirt ripped open. Charlie walks in, I count to five, then scream, ‘He touched me!’ Let him face a fraction of what I faced all weekend with Brice. See how he likes it.”

  In my most manic dreams, I didn’t imagine her going this far. Even if Charlie had turned her in on purpose, which he didn’t, it’s beyond extreme. So much so it makes no sense. Noah was right. Carling Burnack is capable of anything. “It won’t work,” I say. “Charlie will call for the female custodian, what’s her name? Jeanine?”

  Sloane says, “No. That’s why we’re doing it now. Jeanine’s not in. I heard it in the office. It’s today or never.”

  “Then never.” I hear my voice get shrieky and bounce off the cement walls. “You can’t do this. It will ruin his career.”

  “Career?” Carling snorts. “He’s a freaking Molly!”

  “You’ll destroy him. Think about what you’re doing, Carling!”

  Her eyebrows cap her turquoise eyes, which are suddenly shining with tears. The hallways have almost emptied out now, but she lowers her voice to a deep, husky whisper. “You think Charlie didn’t destroy me? Huh? You think for one minute waiting to be expelled has been fun?”

  “That’s nothing,” I snap. “And you won’t get expelled. Maybe you’ll get your cell phone taken away, boo freaking hoo! You can’t turn around and wipe out a man’s life. Charlie could end up in jail. You can’t do it!”

  “Why not?” Carling demanded. “Give me one good reason.”

  I stare at the way her lips break into a wicked smile, stretching her nostrils so wide I can practically see into her brain. I look away, if only because it makes me feel intrusive and criminal.

  When I was about eleven, I used to sit folded up, with my knees tucked under my chin, in the backseat—more like a shelf—of Dad’s dented orange Karmann Ghia and stare at myself in the rearview mirror. I used to isolate my features, contort my body so I could view my forehead separate from my eyes, my eyes disconnected from my nose, all the way down to my chin. It was shocking how beautiful my features were when viewed on their own. A smooth rounded forehead blended into center-parted blonde hair. A straight nose that could grace the “after” photos in any plastic surgeon’s office. Heavily lashed green eyes. A small, determined chin. But when I caught sight of my face as a whole again, my perfection vanished. I was plain again. Mousy, washed out, homely.

  Carling, I’m noticing for the first time, is the opposite. When offered as a faceful, her features are breathtakingly gorgeous. But if you mentally detach one feature from the rest, its glory is gone.

  Her parts, like mine, are full of lies.

  My throat grows thick and I choke on tightness before I speak. “You can’t do it because he’s my father, Carling.”

  Wild strands of uncontrolled hair blow and dance in front of her eyes, feeble against the air vent above her, and she does nothing to push them away. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Charlie Black is my father.”

  “I should have told you, Car,” says Isabella. “I figured it out a few days ago.”

  “Damn straight you should have told me.” Carling turns back to me. “You lying little bitch. So that’s how you got into Ant? Because Daddy is the janitor boy?”

  “No. I took the test.”

  She laughs a bit hysterically. “Whatever. And all this time you’ve been lying to us?”

  “Yes. So there you go. Now you know me for real. You should have stayed away from the start. I’m a thief and a liar.”

  “This is so pathetic I can’t even speak. Why would you do this?”

  “How else was I going to fit in? I’m from Lundon, Massachusetts. That’s Lundon with a U. I’m the daughter of a janitor and a cook. Some fancy genetics, huh? The result of a teenage pregnancy and a marriage that never should have happened. I’ve never been out of this state in my entire life, and I live in an apartment above a hardware store. There you go. Those are my illustrious, so-not-Ant-worthy genes. Don’t even ask why I did it, I’m pretty sure you can apply the Genius Theory to my situation and figure it out for yourself.”

  Carling’s head shakes from side to side in a movement that is almost imperceptible. “You little bitch.” Without taking her eyes off me, she says to Isabella, “Go get the Man of the Morning, Izz. I’ve got a lesson to teach him. And his two-faced daughter.” With the hall completely empty behind her, Carling Burnack rips open her blouse and disappears into the bathroom while her friend races toward the stairwell.

  It isn’t easy to find Charlie. Takes a full twenty minutes. He is down in the pool area tinkering with the heater.
It doesn’t matter which one of us, me or Isabella, reaches Charlie first. Charlie Black, Custodian Extraordinaire, Mopped Crusader, hears there’s a terrible mess in the girls’ bathroom and no amount of begging, crying, or warning on my part is going to stop him. He marches toward the restroom door as if he were heading into war, dragging his mop and bucket behind him.

  “I swear to God, Dad,” I say, tugging on his arm. “They’re setting you up!”

  “It’s a good thing you’re here, Charlie,” Isabella says from his other side. “Jeanine isn’t in today.”

  “Dad!”

  As if I don’t exist, he turns to Isabella. “When did you say it happened?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. And you better hurry. There are Niners on this floor and you know how clumsy they can be. They’re like toddlers. And you know what they say about their immune systems—weak.”

  He walks faster.

  “Dad, no! Carling’s mad about her purse. There was a stolen exam in it—she’s trying to frame you.”

  He marches on. It’s like the flower-bed incident or the science-lab sink. No amount of reasoning can get through to him. The OCD acts like a filter, screening out whatever gets in the way of its twisted, imagined purpose.

  A weird feeling rushes me hard, like a bucket of warm water dumped from the ceiling that has soaked me to my bones. At first it slows me down—it’s not easy to chase someone with an imaginary bucket on your head—but then I see what’s happening. What has needed to happen all this time. I don’t quite know what to call it, but it feels an awful lot like I’ve aged.

  I reach out to grab Charlie by the sleeve and force him to stop, but I trip and my cell phone goes skittering across the floor. “You’re not listening to me. I need you to listen.”