Seven Ways We Lie(11)

you can forget it all again.)





FROM WHERE I’M SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM, I CAN hear the rattle of keys. Finally. That’s got to be Kat.

I flip my textbook shut and walk into the kitchen, hitting the light switch. A chipped lamp sitting on the counter flickers to life, illuminating our wooden table. Our bare fridge is framed by a square gray rug. This house sort of looks as if it took interior-design tips from the little-known “prisons” section of Better Homes and Gardens. I ache for drooping pumpkins and trios of pinecones, the decorations our Novembers used to wear when Mom was around. Not even three years ago, but it feels like a different lifetime.

“Hey, where were you?” I ask as Kat shuts the door. “I called you, like, three times.”

“I know.” She kicks off her shoes beside the fridge.

“Dude, you’ve been out of rehearsal for nearly an hour.”

“I know,” she repeats. “Thanks for the update, helicopter sister.”

The unwanted nickname hits me right in the pet peeve. I try to muster patience. “Dad’s working until eleven, so he said not to be loud when he comes home. He needs a good night’s sleep, so . . . I don’t know. Use headphones, if you’re gonna game.”

Kat trudges toward the staircase. I talk faster, calling after her. “And I made dinner. And also, there were two new messages about you skipping class, so can we talk abo—”

She starts up the stairs.

“Jesus Christ, Kat,” I say. “Could you—”

She turns. “What?”

When I get a good look at her face, my angry thoughts stop swirling. My sister looks exhausted. Her neck-length blond hair is bedraggled and tangled. It’s brittle from too many home-brewed bleach treatments, but her roots have started to grow out dark. The circles under her eyes glare like wine stains on white cloth. Her lips are thin and bitten.

“Are you okay?” is all I say. It comes out timid.

She half smiles. It looks an awful lot like a sneer. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “And how was your day, honey?”

Hurt bursts in me like a bitter grape. She strides upstairs.

What is her problem? Doesn’t she see how hard I’m trying?

Nothing works with her anymore. For hours, Kat locks herself in her room with her best friends: BioShock, Mass Effect, and Half-Life 2. I hear shooting through the walls. Amazing, how loud her laptop gets.

It’s not my job to drag her out kicking and screaming, but some days, I wish I had the guts to. Our house has started to feel like solitary confinement.

My phone buzzes with a text. I yank it out—it’s Dan Silverstein. Hey you, how are things?

I sigh. This Dan thing has been so well publicized, I don’t want to reply. But it’s not fair to take it out on him because other people are giving me shit.

Things are solidly average, I reply. How about you?

As I wait for his response, I take the pasta off the stove and spoon myself a bowl, then put the rest back to stay warm for Kat. I always hope she’ll join me for dinner, but she never does; this might be for the best. Last time we ate together was maybe a month ago. We spoke six sentences to each other. Two of them were “Hey” and “Hey.”

I can’t help remembering dinners from eighth grade. Better-cooked, for one thing, because my mother—unlike me—was an expert at putting food items into heating implements without causing fires. More than that, though, dinners tasted better with the family around the table. Mom’s absence is always glaring, and tonight, Dad’s chair is empty, too. He’s been working later and later these days. This is the third day in a row he’s out until eleven.

I wolf down my pasta so fast, it burns. I flinch, rolling bits of skin off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

My phone buzzes. I’m doing pretty good, Dan says. I had a nice time Saturday

Me too, I reply. Not too much of a lie. The guy’s no Han to my Leia, but he was cute and nice and seemed pretty harmless. A surprisingly rare combination.

So what’s up? he asks.

Just having dinner. Pasta yay!

Oh sorry didn’t mean to interrupt

No, I mean, I just finished, it’s okay, I reply, standing to wash my plate. What’s up with you?

Not much, is all he says. I wait for a follow-up, but nothing comes. I can’t help but laugh. Why did he text me if he’s going to say that “not much” is up? How do male brains work?

Then a picture of his dick pops up on my phone screen.

I let out a splutter and drop my phone. “What? Why?” I say loudly at the phone, sort of hoping Siri will shed light on the situation. There must be a mistake. Did I say something that made him think I wanted a picture of that?

I snatch my phone up and scroll back through my texts. I definitely didn’t say anything inviting, unless he has a weird attraction to pasta that I don’t want to know about.

It’s not even the appropriate time for a dick pic! It’s 6:10 PM! Although there really isn’t an appropriate time for dick pics you didn’t ask for.

I text back, Dude.

His reply: Dude what

I tap in what I think is a well-measured response. Though it’s a little tough to get past the panicked mental loop of Penis! Penis! Penis!

What do you expect me to do with that?? I say.

Idk? Enjoy? he replies.