Seven Ways We Lie(2)

I fold my arms, glancing around. The expressions in the sea of faces vary: shock, nervousness, and excitement. Normally I might wonder why anyone would get excited about a teacher-student sex scandal, but hey, even rumors of regular sex get our delightful peer group stirred up.

Turner brushes sweat off her forehead—apparently, even she isn’t impervious to the heat—and glances back down at her notes. “Unsubstantiated allegations like these are worrisome, but they serve as an important reminder that the student body’s safety is our first priority. We’ve called this assembly to reiterate our code of conduct and ensure a safe learning environment. I’ve asked Mr. García to prepare a brief presentation on how to handle unwanted sexual advances.”

Turner nods toward the wings. Our English teacher, Mr. García, wheels out an overhead projector and slides a transparency sheet onto it, a nice little throwback to the mid-1990s. García’s whole vintage obsession turns from quirky to exasperating whenever technology’s involved. Seriously, who gets nostalgic for overhead projectors?

As Turner exits the stage, García launches into a lecture. The longer he talks, the less sense any of it makes. I’ve seen shit like this on the news, but it always seems to be a crazy gym teacher and a pregnant fifteen-year-old. The idea of our gym teachers impregnating anyone makes me want to throw up—they’re both, like, sixty-five. It makes even less sense to look at it from the kid’s perspective. What person my age would get themselves into this? Wouldn’t they realize how life-ruining it would be if their name got out?

There are a few teachers young enough for a hookup not to be that gross. I always catch guys drooling over the econ teacher, Dr. Meyers, who’s short and curvy and in her mid-twenties. The calculus teacher, Mr. Andrews, is handsome in a super pale, vampire sort of way. And Mr. García’s definitely hot. Not my type, though. With the way he gets all swoony when he talks about Mercutio, I’m ninety percent sure he’s gay.

God, though, I can’t imagine any of them hitting on a student. Sometimes girls make eyes at Andrews or García, but if the teachers notice, they don’t let on. As for Dr. Meyers, she sent some kid to the office last year for saying she looked “real sexy today, Doc.” Points for her.

Half an hour later, the Powers That Be release us from the brick oven of the auditorium into the November afternoon. The chill air tastes crisp. As the sun’s harsh glare assaults my eyes, part of me feels as if the assembly weren’t real. A heat hallucination, maybe. Juniper and I head down the hill toward the junior lot. She seems just as dazed.

A voice jolts us out of our stupor. “Hey, guys!”

We stop at the edge of the parking lot, a few paces from Juniper’s Mercedes. Claire jogs up to us, her frizzy red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail for tennis practice. She elbows me. “Missed you at the assembly, lady.”

“I looked for you—promise,” I say. “Couldn’t see you. There were, like, you know, a thousand people in there.”

“True.” She clears her throat. “Where are you guys going?”

Shit. That expectant tone means I’ve forgotten something. “Um,” I say, shooting Juniper a frantic look. “To, uh . . .”

“Nowhere,” Juniper says. “Dropping off our stuff before the meeting.”

Right—student government. Juniper and I both promised Claire we’d run for junior class president, so she had at least two people guaranteed to be on the ballot.

I have a million problems with this, none of which I’ve voiced, since Claire’s so rabid about the whole thing. But Juniper and me running against each other is a hilarious farce of an idea. Juni could ask the whole school to jump off a bridge, and they’d be like, “Brilliant! Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”

Juni unlocks her car, and we sling our bags into the backseat. The three of us head across the green. Ahead, at the end of the long stretch of grass, Paloma High School’s main building looms above us like an architectural Frankenstein. They renovated the east wing two years ago. It’s three stories of glimmering plate glass and steel beams now. The west wing—brick, weathered, sixty years old—hangs off the new section like an unfortunate growth.

We cross the entire green before anyone speaks. “So, that assembly,” I say, opening the door to the east wing.

“Yeah,” Claire says. “Girl, dat shit be cray.”

I wince. “Yeesh, please don’t—you are whiter than Moby-Dick.”

Juniper laughs, and Claire flushes, flicking a curl out of her eyes. We head down a long hallway filled with afternoon sun. Light glances off the lockers, making them more of an eyesore than usual: red on top, green on the bottom. Our school colors. Also Christmas colors. Every year around the Christmas season, someone tags a red Rudolph graffiti nose onto the Lions logo out front.

“Seriously,” Claire says, pushing open the door to the stairwell, “when they figure out who’s sleeping with a teacher . . .”

“I know.” I jog up the steps after her. “We won’t hear the end of it for, like, twelve years.”

Claire aims a smirk at me over her shoulder. “It’s not you, is it?”

That stings—I bet half the school thinks it’s me—but I manage a laugh. “Go to hell.”

“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands. “It’s actually me. Me . . . and Principal Turner.”