The Better Liar(14)

“Ih dosen mar becah I’m nagana do ih,” I said into her fleshy palm.

“What?”

I pulled her hand off my face and wiped my mouth. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to pretend to be your sister.” An absurd smile crept over my face again at the idea.

“You need the money,” Leslie said, following me. “And—and I need the money. I can’t wait for them to contest the will. I lost my job. We’re going to lose the house. Dave can’t accept it, he won’t—he thinks he can fix it all himself, but…” She flexed her fingers, as if they’d lost feeling. “Fifty thousand dollars would fix everything for me,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t it fix everything for you?”

Sam’s song licked at my ear: Going to the chapel and we’re…gonna get married…His ruddy hands grasped at my waist.

“It’s just a few days,” Leslie said. “A week, maybe.”

I stared at her, the smile falling off my lips.

“Please, Mary,” she said. “Just think about it.”

She left this long quivering silence between us. It was uncomfortable on purpose; it was uncomfortable so I’d say something, so I’d say Yes! and fling myself into her arms.

Instead I just enunciated, “I have to pee,” went over to the bed, grabbed my duffel bag, pushed past her into the bathroom, and shut the door in her face.





8


    Mary


I did have to pee, anyway, but then once I was done I didn’t want to go back out there. The door closing had given me instant relief. There was something funny about Leslie’s body language, a nearly infectious panic. I wished she would go back to normal. It had felt like we were friends, sort of, until the last few minutes.

It would have been nice if she’d just wanted to be my friend.

I turned on the shower so Leslie would think I was doing something in the bathroom, but instead of showering I squatted on the nasty tiled floor in front of the full-length mirror and took the veladora from my duffel. I counted the money, quickly at first, then again slowly to be sure I’d gotten it right. My life savings was in here—I never left it at home because my roommate was a kleptomaniac. Five hundred forty-five dollars. I sat there in front of the mirror, holding the money.

I’m gonna come visit you, Sam had said to me. You work most Saturdays?

The glass slowly fogged as I stared at myself. At first under the fluorescent lights I only saw my reflection in familiar bits and pieces, the hairpin lines beside my mouth that never went away anymore, the slightly asymmetrical eyebrows. Eventually my features blurred, and blurred again.

    I could have been anyone in there, underneath the condensation. Just a smudge with hair.

I stayed in the bathroom until I was almost sober again, looking at myself.

When I came out finally, the room felt like it was freezing. Leslie was lying sideways on one of the beds, watching the credits roll over American Graffiti and jiggling her feet, first one, then the other, so the bed creaked in an annoying little rhythm. I came closer and startled her into a sitting position, her back against the pin-striped wallpaper. “Hi,” she said, too loudly. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” I sat down on the other bed and pointed myself toward the television. The credits finished rolling. Next up on TNT: Transformers.

Leslie kept glancing at me and opening her mouth like she was going to say something, then shutting it again.

“What?” I said, after the fourth time.

“Nothing,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I said I was fine.” I picked at my nails. There was peanut gunk under one of them.

“Mary—” she started.

I thumped my head back on the pillows. “Oh my God,” I told her, “I just want to watch Transformers. Okay?”

I flung an arm into the narrow canyon between the bed and the wall and groped for my backpack, which had my cigarettes in it.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Leslie said meekly from the other side of the room as I pulled out a Spirit.

“Well, maybe I’ll just head out, then,” I snapped.

“No—you don’t have to—”

I glanced at her. Leslie closed her mouth and crawled over to wrestle with the window, pulling the blinds to one side, but it wouldn’t open. She groped her way over to the door and yanked it open. The noise of car horns and descending airplanes rushed in.

“I feel sick,” Leslie said suddenly, as I lit up. She tried to sit down on the bed and almost missed, scooching her torso up until the rest of her made it onto the mattress.

    “You’re just drunk. You’ll be fine.”

She shut her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

I looked at her lying on the bed. Half of her tow-colored hair had fallen over her face, and her makeup in the lamplight highlighted the ruts and creases on her skin where it had begun to age. She was a mess. Part of me wanted her to pass out.

If she did, would I leave?

Across the room, the door hung open.

“Leslie,” I said, reaching across the empty space between our beds and poking her in the shoulder. “Leslie?”

She sighed. “It’s almost four in the morning,” she said, opening her eyes. “We should go to sleep.”