The Better Liar(46)

I slipped into the room and tapped him on the shoulder. His leg jerked in surprise and he opened his eyes.

“I brought you a cupcake,” I said, pulling it out of my purse and offering it to him. It was slightly crushed.

He struggled to sit up. “I know you,” he said. “You’re that chick Robin. You’re friends with Marisol?”

    I crossed my arms. “I feel so famous. How do you know about me?”

Kevin snorted. “I’m sure you’re fuckin’ mystified,” he said as he unwrapped the cupcake. “You don’t like the party?”

I shrugged. “It’s not to my taste,” I said, trying to sound older.

“Hagh.” Kevin doubled over; he’d bitten into a plastic pig. “Ow, fuck! What the fuck!” He pressed his fist to his mouth and came away with bloody cake crumbs.

“Oh, the ears got you,” I said, watching him interestedly. “I forgot to tell you there were animals in the cupcakes. It’s good otherwise, though, right?”

“Jesus,” he said, wiping his hand on his black jeans and licking his lips. “What do you want?”

He was fourteen, already barrel-chested, with long thin limbs and a wide, melancholic face. I sat on his lap.



* * *



—

It took barely anything after that to convince him to share his weed with me. Nicky Chiklis, my recent first boyfriend, had told me Kevin’s older brother who lived in Bernalillo sold weed, so Kevin always had some. It was true; Kevin said, reclining on the bed, “It’s shush money, basically. I don’t tell our mama what he’s doing on the weekends, and he gives me dimes whenever he visits.”

“Hush,” I said. He cocked his head. “Hush money.”

“Oh, right,” he said, nodding. “How are you feeling? Is it like what you thought?”

“I feel like I’m in a movie,” I said. “Like I’m echoing.”

He laughed too loudly. “I’m high, like, all the time in school,” he said. “I can’t stand it otherwise. I think I’m not cut out for it, you know?”

“Sure you are,” I said, touching his ankle with mine. It was thrilling, like passing a finger through a flame. Kevin drew his leg back and wrapped his hands around it protectively. “Don’t you want to feel close to me?” I said.

“I don’t know anything about you,” he answered, but his eyes crinkled. “You got any older brothers?”

    “An older sister,” I said. “Leslie.”

“Oh, with the…” Kevin held his hand to his chin.

“Pageboy,” I said. “Yeah.”

“I knew her. She was an upperclassman in the junior high when I started. Looked like a kid.” He eyed me. “You don’t look like a kid.”

“She’s not a kid,” I said, inhaling. “She used to lock me up, you know.”

“Lock you up where?” He leaned forward to take the joint from me.

“In the guest bedroom.” I closed my eyes. “She stole the key out of Daddy’s desk. Whenever she didn’t want to watch me anymore…or didn’t want to talk to me…I’d spend hours in there. Looking at the ceiling.”

“My brother locked me in a closet one time,” Kevin said. “It’s like a rite of passage.”

“No,” I said dreamily. “It wasn’t to mess with me. It was over and over. Like I wasn’t really human to her.” I opened my eyes. “She pretends to be a good person. But she locked me in there like a dog.”

“Jesus,” Kevin said.

I patted his hand. “Do you feel closer to me now?”

I think he did; Kevin’s brother went to prison the next year, and by the time I was in high school Kevin was dealing. Discounts for me, because I was his first. We never had sex, but he liked to watch me get high, lying beside me, his face next to mine. I fed him stories that way, like putting my tongue in his mouth; as intimate, if not more. Should I call him a boyfriend? I’d rather call him my priest. I only ever told him the truth.





32


    Mary


The house on Riviera squatted by the road, dull-eyed. I’d seen the big pink stone next to the door when Leslie had taken me here to pack boxes, and I’d been right about it: when I nudged it with the toe of my sneaker, the spare key lay underneath, grimy with dirt.

Inside, the old man’s smell still clung to everything. Spoiled vegetables and cigarettes underneath a hospital varnish of antiseptic gel. I wrinkled my nose and started searching.

Leslie’s room first; why wouldn’t she hide her secrets in among the rest of her stuff? It was the first room down the hall, painted a sunny, virtuous yellow. But it was empty save for a white bed frame and several sealed cardboard boxes. I examined the boxes. TOYS, two boxes of BOOKS, and VINTAGE CLOTHES. Were ’00s clothes vintage? Who was going to buy Leslie’s old low-riders and bedazzled tees?

I scratched at the carpet where it met the baseboards, but each corner was stapled down tight, no way to access the flooring underneath. Whatever it was, she wasn’t keeping it under the floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I checked the underside of the bed frame—dead spiders and dust balls.