Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(7)

They had gone through a series of names in those first weeks: DangerGran, Basket of Rats, the Toastkillers, No Fun Before Bedtime . . . Those kinds of names were popular for student comedy groups—some kind of weird phrase. Right before their first show, it was time to come to a decision, which meant a trip to the pub, many bags of crisps, and hours of discussion. Over the last round, Rosie was sober enough to count and find that there were nine of them.

“We should be the Nine . . . ,” she said, clearly having had enough of the meandering debate.

“The Nine what?” Yash had asked.

“Just . . .” Rosie considered her empty pint glass. “The Nine. That’s it. It’s different from all these other names. It’s simple. Monolithic. Like Blur or Pulp or Suede.”

It was late, they were all a bit drunk, and they needed something for the flyer by morning. The Nine it was.

From that point on, you never saw one of the Nine without at least one of the others. In the summer before their final year, Angela found the perfect house—a student rental with nine minuscule bedrooms, three bathrooms with questionable plumbing, a kitchen with only two working burners on the stove, and signs of recent fire damage in the lounge. It was farther out from town, so getting to lectures required long bike rides, bus trips, or perhaps a ride in one of the two cars owned by members of the group.

But it fit nine people—even if that fit was snug, and there seemed a small but not impossible chance of the whole structure going up in flames. Best of all, it had a muddy walled garden out the back that led down to the river. This became the featured spot at their house parties, and the saggy and half-rotted picnic table served as a dining surface when the sun was out (and often when it wasn’t). Sooz strung some outdoor fairy lights and garlands of fabric flowers for some party and never took them down—ditto for the two floppy camping tents that Peter bought for a festival. This was the kingdom of the Nine—and it was all coming to an end. When this week was over, everything was over, so the party had to rage on as intensely and as long as possible.

There was a knock at the door and Peter appeared, with his sleepy-eyed smile.

“Lost my lighter in the car,” he said. “Can I use yours?”

All of the Nine were smokers except for Theo and Yash. Angela planned to give it up after this week.

“It’s in my bag, the blue one, on the bed.”

Peter went over to the bag and fished out the lighter. He put the cigarette between his lips and joined her at the large window.

“Any chance you want to help us run some scenes this week?” Peter asked, striking a light.

“We’re supposed to be relaxing,” Angela reminded him. “This is a party, remember?”

“Sure, but there’ll be time.”

Peter always had his eye on the future. Only he and Yash planned on making an actual career out of comedy, which was not known for being the most stable of livelihoods. She never doubted they would make it, though. They were fantastic writers and they never stopped working. She was a writer as well, but she never felt like she could keep up with the two of them. Well, she was a historian really. A researcher. That was her calling.

Or maybe she had failed. She just didn’t have their commitment. If you wanted to be funny, you needed to be deadly serious about it.

She sat on the windowsill and leaned out a bit farther to let the cool air brush her face.

“Careful,” Peter said. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be falling out the windows this early in the week.”

“Remember that time,” Angela said, “that Yash fell out that second-story window while trying to make a girl laugh?”

“The Spider-Man impression.”

“What college was she from? Kings?”

“Pembroke,” Peter replied. “His ribs still hurt him. I don’t think those breaks healed properly.”

“Breaks never do, do they? I broke my wrist when I was a child. It’s always been a bit funny.”

Peter was looking at her curiously. She had the light, tingling feeling like he was about to kiss her. It made sense that this might happen now. They had never come together romantically in the last three years. It was one of the few couplings that hadn’t come up. The Nine tended to date internally and reconfigure themselves regularly. To keep up with their love lives, you needed a chart. Julian and Sooz were tied for most romantically active within the group. Along with her two stints with Julian, Sooz had dated Peter for a full year, Yash for a week, Noel for several scattered weekends, and Angela for two months. All the girls had taken their turns with Julian, including Angela. Sebastian, too, had a dalliance. Angela had a tender, brief kiss with Yash their first year, and then dated Noel for much of the second year.

It was like a logic puzzle, keeping it all straight. They often couldn’t do it themselves and would forget who was with who—or they would at least pretend to. This friction is what made the Nine what they were—webbed together by a meshed network of nerves and veins, reacting to each other’s pain and pleasure. They were an organic soap opera with eighteen swinging arms. The tension and the drama was part of what made it all work.

Peter wasn’t handsome in the way Julian was (few people were). He wasn’t romantic, like Yash, or rubbery and goofy like Noel, with his 70s clothes and spindly energy. Peter was thoughtful, with heavy-lidded eyes that missed nothing. Sooz had only good things to say about his physical attributes (and Sooz was nothing if not forthcoming). He had a broad, athletic build, a soft flop of coppery hair. But the sexiest thing about him was that he was funny—the funniest of them all, really—but that was something you only came to understand over time. Peter wasn’t one for the witty exchanges, like Sebastian, or physical gestures, like Noel or Yash. He was quiet. He saved it, wrote it all down, refined it.