Seven Ways We Lie(17)

A gust of wind scurries through the parking lot. I watch it toy with the heavy leather laces of my Sperry Top-Siders. I shouldn’t have said anything.

Nobody cared at Pinnacle, home to yuppie liberals galore. My friend Alicia used to kiss her girlfriend in the stairwell, and they were only thirteen, and nobody cared. Paloma High, though, is different. On the swim team, if you make a one-word complaint about a workout, you get told to “suck it up, fag.” After a hard test, people whine, “That was gay as shit.” And when my teammates compliment one another, they follow up with “no homo.” (They do this every time, as if people might’ve forgotten from the last time that they’re not a homo.) I’ve never seen anyone getting crucified for actually being queer, but that’s just one step up from, “Suck it up, fag.” So I’ve stayed quiet.

I should say “no homo,” pretend I was kidding, but I can’t get the words out. They taste bitter sitting on my tongue.

Matt still looks startled. “I thought you dated that Claire chick forever.”

“I did.”

“So?” he says.

I shrug. “So . . . what?”

“So how does that work if you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.”

He looks baffled. “You just asked me out, dude.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not gay. It’s—”

The warning bell blares, saving me the explanation. Matt hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and gives up. “Okay, whatever. After school? Weed? We good?”

“Sure,” I say. “And, um, Matt?”

“What?”

“Would you . . . don’t say anything, all right?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, no.”

He walks off, leaving me uneasy but relieved to see him go. I hate the What is a pansexual? conversation. It means explaining the same thing I’ve explained so many times before to every cousin, aunt, and uncle in our address book. I’ll come out a million times before I’m dead, and I’m already bored of it.

To be fair, though, the What is a pansexual? conversation is a million times better than the That doesn’t sound real conversation. Uncle Jeremy still stands by his claim that my sexuality is imaginary. Nice to know I don’t exist.

Mostly, though, I’m lucky in the family department, since my parents are the type of Christians who don’t stick too close to Leviticus. My dad still wants me to settle down with a girl, but he’s stopped saying it out loud, at least.

The seed of the secret being out in the Paloma world worries me. I want to snatch it back, put it deep in my pocket. Never talk about it again.

Making sure the lot’s empty, I transfer a half-dozen cases of Miller to Dan Silverstein’s SUV, grab my cash from the trunk, and head out. Thumbing through the thin leaves of twenties, loving the smell and feel of them, I cross the green at a jog. It’s ridiculous, the profits I make, with a couple of extra dollars per case as commission. People always want the same stuff: beer that’s basically sugar water and enough weed to sedate a bull elephant.

The only vaguely difficult part of this was getting hooked up in the first place. For the liquor, I called in a favor from back in New York to get a fake ID sent to me here, since fakes in town are way overpriced and way unconvincing. Now, with my magic piece of plastic, my secret identity is local superhero Anderson Lewitt, a twenty-two-year-old from Vermont who always buys in bulk.

I got lucky with the weed. The guy who used to deal to our school moved away six months into my freshman year, and I networked my way into replacing him. My supplier is a morbidly obese thirty-six-year-old named Phil who prefers to go by “Teezy.” He has never explained this to me.

The bell rings. “Crap,” I mutter, stowing my wallet deep in my pocket. I take the last bit of the green at a run, shoulder through the door, and skid into the Spanish room. Se?or Muniz-Alonso gives me a hawklike glare, and I respond with a sheepish grin, scurrying to my table.

“Luciano . . . tarde,” Muniz-Alonso says, like a death sentence. “Y fuiste tarde ayer también. ?Ten cuidado! No quiero darte una detención . . .”

I try to translate the words, but they slip away the second he says them. “Sorry,” I say, sitting down.

“En espa?ol, por favor.”

“Uh,” I say. “Lo siento.”

Muniz-Alonso goes back to writing irregular conjugations on the board, and I relax.

“Yeah, Luke, ten cuidado.” My tablemate, Herman, elbows me. I elbow him back, grinning. Herman swims backstroke, and of course, the second he joined the team, people nicknamed him Merman. He has such long, thick hair that some people call him Mermaid instead, but I don’t know. I’m into the idea of mer-dudes drifting through the ocean, straggly hair wafting down to their waists.

Muniz-Alonso starts another conjugation chart. I wait for him to finish, stretching my arms out. Herman eyes my wrist. “Yo,” he says, “nice watch.”

“Thanks,” I say. Before I can restrain myself, the brand slips out. “Movado.”

He looks mystified. “Huh?”

I clear my throat. “Knockoff,” I lie.

“Oh. Thought you were conjugating on me there.”

I grin, rubbing my thumb across the watch face. I don’t mention the price tag: most of August’s profits. I want to regret spending nearly a thousand dollars on a watch—I could be saving the money for my car fund or, hell, helping my parents with the bills—but I can’t regret it, as much as I try. With something this valuable wrapped around my wrist, I get a thrill every time I glance down. I’m already thinking of my next buy, Gucci or Citizen, stacked up by the dozens in my online cart.