Seven Ways We Lie(22)

I try a smile as the current shuffles us toward the door. “What’s up?”

“I got in a car accident earlier!” he says with so much enthusiasm, he might as well have said he adopted a kitten.

“What? Are you okay? What happened?”

“It was great. I value life so much more now.”

I laugh, but it sounds weak. I watch his hands as he pushes his hair back from his forehead. I ache to trace the chunky silver ring on his pinky finger. He still wears half the money he makes, trading it in for appearance. He buys leather shoes and designer jeans, rich felt coats and flashy sunglasses, T-shirts that used to feel like tissue between my fingers. At home, his room is littered with treasures, too: the newest MacBook Pro and bulky, noise-canceling headphones. In his small, shabby house, Lucas’s acquisitions glare like diamonds.

As we clank through the doors, someone calls, “McCallum!” I flinch back just in time—good to see I still have my bro-dodging reflexes. Lucas’s teammates swoop down on him from the green. One wiry kid jumps onto Lucas’s back, hollering something about weight lifting. Another buries both his hands in Lucas’s hair, ruffling it until it resembles a tumbleweed. I swear, the swim team has the gayest straight boys in the world.

“Whoa, whoa, unprofessional behavior,” says Herman, the one with the long hair. He wrestles off the guy on Lucas’s back. “Careful, or they’re gonna call another assembly.”

“I’ll see you around,” I say to Lucas, but his only response is a hasty wave as he disentangles himself from his friends. The wordless dismissal stings like a nettle, and I hold my head higher as I stalk down the green.

When I reach my car, I stow my backpack and pull out my gym bag, trying to shake off the sight of him. It clings stubbornly. When I blink, I see him printed in the dark.

Every couple of weeks, Lucas springs himself on me like this, and for the rest of the day, sometimes longer, he’s all I can think about. When he dumped me, he asked, “Can we still be friends?” and like an idiot, I said, “Sure.” So now I have to grin and bear it every time he treats me with this impersonal brand of friendliness.

As I head back toward the green for the Young Environmentalists meeting, my eyes fix on Juni’s car, which sits in a far corner of the junior lot. Behind the windshield, Olivia props up her feet on the dashboard. Juni’s eyebrows are drawn together. Is she explaining why she blew up at lunch earlier?

I can’t remember seeing Juniper so stressed so often. Usually, nothing fazes her, gets through her seemingly impervious layer of levelheadedness. But I could swear, she looks an inch from tears.

For a moment, I consider veering their way, to figure out what’s wrong once and for all. But then I remember Juni’s voice echoing through the bathroom door—“I need some time.”

Did she need time? Or did she simply want a pair of ears that wasn’t mine?

I force myself not to be curious. If she wanted to, she’d tell me what’s wrong.

I duck my head, my cheeks aflame. I hurry away from the car and down the green.





“I . . . LINE,” EMILY SAYS.

Mr. García calls out her line from the front row. “You are to be married—”

“Married to Faina,” Emily finishes. “She is beautiful, brilliant. What could you . . . oh God, I’m so sorry. Line?”

Watching Emily always stresses me out, this scene more than the others. She has a crush on her scene partner, who plays my husband. Every time they make eye contact, she forgets her lines. The obnoxious thing is that he has a crush on her, too—everybody knows it—but they won’t stop dancing around it and date already.

I retreat into the greenroom. A pair of sophomores sit in the corner, one on each massive leather sofa. I hate that those sofas are in here. It enables all the theater kids who are obsessed with couch piles and being way too physical with each other.

I sink into the chair at the end of the nearest sofa, stick in my earbuds, and take out my laptop. A paused game opens up, ready for me to resume. I hit play and sneak through the ruins, a huge assault rifle in my avatar’s hand.

“I heard some guys saying it was Dr. Meyers,” says Ani, the girl who plays my daughter.

Oh, great. They’re talking about that whole thing. As if we haven’t heard enough about it since Monday. Thank God the week’s nearly over.

I let loose a volley of bullets on some approaching zombies. In my peripheral vision, Elizabeth puts her head on an armrest. Ani sprawls across the other couch.

“They probably just think she’s hot,” Elizabeth says. “Isn’t it usually creepy old men who do this?”

“Not always,” Ani says. “I heard this one time in Montana—”

I purse my lips and shoot some more zombies. Black blood explodes out of their heads as they keel to the side. Double-tapping the up key, I jump onto a crumbling stone wall, duck behind it, and find two packs of ammo. Score.

“—Kat?”

I jolt at my name. I hit pause and take out one of my earbuds. “What?”

Elizabeth says, “What do you think?”

I look from one to the other. “About the teacher-student thing?”

They nod.

“No opinion.”

“Really?” Ani asks.

“Really. Don’t care. I’m trying to focus on the show these days.”