One of Us is Lying(32)

So after I’ve watched as many Japanese horror movies as I can stand and it’s almost midnight, I take a new phone out and call the one I gave Bronwyn. It rings six times before she picks up, and she sounds nervous as hell. “Hello?”

I’m tempted to disguise my voice and ask if I can buy a bag of heroin to mess with her, but she’d probably throw the phone out and never talk to me again. “Hey.”

“It’s late,” she says accusingly.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No,” she admits. “I can’t.”

“Me either.” Neither of us says anything for a minute. I’m stretched out on my bed with a couple of thin pillows behind me, staring at paused screen credits in Japanese. I click off the movie and scroll through the channel guide.

“Nate, do you remember Olivia Kendrick’s birthday party in fifth grade?”

I do, actually. It was the last birthday party I ever went to at St. Pius, before my dad withdrew me because we couldn’t pay the tuition anymore. Olivia invited the whole class and had a scavenger hunt in her yard and the woods behind it. Bronwyn and I were on the same team, and she tore through those clues like it was her job and she was up for a promotion. We won and all five of us got twenty-dollar iTunes gift cards. “Yeah.”

“I think that’s the last time you and I spoke before all this.”

“Maybe.” I remember better than she probably realizes. In fifth grade my friends started noticing girls and at one point they all had girlfriends for, like, a week. Stupid kid stuff where they asked a girl out, the girl said yes, and then they ignored each other. While we were walking through Olivia’s woods I watched Bronwyn’s ponytail swing in front of me and wondered what she’d say if I asked her to be my girlfriend. I didn’t do it, though.

“Where’d you go after St. Pi?” she asks.

“Granger.” St. Pius went up to eighth grade, so I wasn’t in school with Bronwyn again until high school. By then she was in full-on overachiever mode.

She pauses, as though she’s waiting for me to continue, and laughs a little. “Nate, why’d you call me if you’re only going to give one-word answers to everything?”

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “Did you do it?”

I don’t have to ask what she means. “Yes and no.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Yes, I sold drugs while on probation for selling drugs. No, I didn’t dump peanut oil in Simon Kelleher’s cup. You?”

“Same,” she says quietly. “Yes and no.”

“So you cheated?”

“Yes.” Her voice wavers, and if she starts crying I don’t know what I’ll do. Pretend the call dropped, maybe. But she pulls herself together. “I’m really ashamed. And I’m so afraid of people finding out.”

She’s all worried-sounding, so I probably shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it. “So you’re not perfect. So what? Welcome to the real world.”

“I’m familiar with the real world.” Bronwyn’s voice is cool. “I don’t live in a bubble. I’m sorry for what I did, that’s all.”

She probably is, but it’s not the whole truth. Reality’s messier than that. She had months to confess if it was really eating at her, and she didn’t. I don’t know why it’s so hard for people to admit that sometimes they’re just assholes who screw up because they don’t expect to get caught. “You sound more worried about what people are gonna think,” I say.

“There’s nothing wrong with worrying about what people think. It keeps you off probation.”

My main phone beeps. It’s next to my bed on the scarred side table that lurches every time I touch it, because it’s missing a leg tip and I’m too lazy to fix it. I roll over to read a text from Amber: U up? I’m about to tell Bronwyn I have to go when she heaves a sigh.

“Sorry. Low blow. It’s just … it’s more complicated than that, for me. I’ve disappointed both my parents, but it’s worse for my dad. He’s always pushing against stereotypes because he’s not from here. He built this great reputation, and I could tarnish the whole thing with one stupid move.”

I’m about to tell her nobody thinks that way. Her family looks pretty untouchable from where I sit. But I guess everyone has shit to deal with, and I don’t know hers. “Where’s your dad from?” I ask instead.

“He was born in Colombia, but moved here when he was ten.”

“What about your mom?”

“Oh, her family’s been here forever. Fourth-generation Irish or something.”

“Mine too,” I say. “But let’s just say my fall from grace won’t surprise anyone.”

She sighs. “This is all so surreal, isn’t it? That anybody could think either one of us would actually kill Simon.”

“You’re taking me at my word?” I ask. “I’m on probation, remember?”

“Yeah, but I was there when you tried to help Simon. You’d have to be a pretty good actor to fake that.”

“If I’m enough of a sociopath to kill Simon I can fake anything, right?”