Seven Ways We Lie(25)

I sit back down, put my headphones on, and open Spotify, twisting the volume up. Avril Lavigne belts out some inhuman high note over my dad’s muffled voice. I will guard my Spotify page into the afterlife, because if anyone saw it, I would probably resurrect from shame. I have this thing for whiny pop-rock, lots of Nickelback and Avril and latter-day Weezer, and it’s morbidly embarrassing, but it can’t be cured, not by my mom’s classic rock or Burke’s hipster Bon Iver shit. Besides, nothing’s better for drowning out an argument than Avril Lavigne yell-singing about how much of a crazy bitch she is, which, like, I guess if that’s how you want to describe yourself, go for it.

A red notification pops up at the top of my Facebook page, announcing a message from Olivia. My stomach does acrobatics, and my brain aches as if someone’s slammed a block of wood against my forehead. Jesus, crushes are so humiliating.


Hey, Matt,

Following up for the project thing. We should probably meet over the weekend to practice the actual presentation, sort out who’s going to say what. I can get supplies for a poster or something. Go ahead and call me at 476-880-1323—we’ll sort it out faster that way.

Also, here’s a link to read Inferno online—www.bartleby.com/20/101.html

Olivia


Without thinking, I take a joint from my drawer. My fingers move like rubber, thick and clumsy, as I open my window and light up. The first hit mellows in my lungs for a moment before I exhale into the night wind, leaning out to keep the smoke away from Russ. It’s not long before I feel it: the world engulfing me in its arms. Guitar chords ring deep in my headphones, every note dissipating out into its own rich, vibrating melody.

When I’m sufficiently stoned, I grab my phone, tap in Olivia’s number, and hit call. As it rings, I pause the music, sinking onto my desk chair, and the quiet presses in. Voices rise and fall outside my door, lapping against my awareness in gentle waves. My eyes fix on the trail of smoke twining from the joint out through the window, and Olivia’s phone rings and rings, and it occurs to me that maybe 10:00 PM is a little late to call somebody I don’t know—should I have waited, talked to her tomorrow in class?

The line connects. “Hey, it’s Olivia,” she says, her bright, quick voice as awake as if it’s early morning. I say, “Hey, Matt here.”

“Yeah, I guessed,” she says. “So, when are you free to work on this thing?”

I want to say Slow down; I want to wait; I want to savor the sound of her voice. I reply so slowly, the words barely feel like words at all, just lazy, meaningless streams of syllables. “I’m free all the time. Whatever works.”

“Let’s get it out of the way this weekend,” she says, and I’m like, “Yeah, how ’bout Saturday?” and she says, “Okay. I’m not going to have a car, though, so.”

“We could meet at your place,” I say, trying not to sound too into the idea, and she’s like, “Not advisable,” and I’m like, “Why not?” and she’s like, “Kat’s going to be home. My sister.”

“I won’t be loud or anything,” I say, and she says, “That’s not what I mean.” And I say, “Then what do you mean? Don’t want to embarrass yourself by letting me in your house?” and the second it comes out, my eyes fall shut, and my mind goes, Shut up, Matt. Shut up.

Olivia lets out a disbelieving-sounding laugh. “Know what? Maybe you should meet Kat. I bet you guys would get along great,” and I’m like, “What’s that mean?” and she’s like, “It’s clear you both have lots to figure out before you can act like civilized human beings,” and a defensive instinct surges up, and I say, “Shit-talking your own sister. Classy.” And she snaps, “Well, she’s been nothing but awful since our mom left, not that my family is any of your goddamn business.”

I go quiet.

“Shit. I didn’t mean that,” she says. “It’s . . . she’s weird these days, but it’s not . . .”

I rub my forehead. “No, don’t worry about—”

“All I meant was, if you don’t know her, she gets tough to deal with.”

“Right,” I manage, suddenly hyperaware that although I’ve gone to school with Kat Scott for years, I’ve never talked to her, and I guess it’s because she’s so quiet. I don’t know, there’s this romantic idea about quiet people in movies and books, like, Oh, they’re so mysterious, whereas in my experience it’s not like that at all. It’s more like, Okay, you don’t want to talk? Fine, I’ll let you do your own thing, since you obviously don’t want to associate with me.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m sorry, okay? I keep . . . things just won’t come out right when . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. My thoughts are snarling up like yarn inside my head. Jesus, what is it about this girl that wrecks my ability to goddamn talk?

After a second, she rescues me: “Well, I sort of snapped, too, so . . .”

I search for words, but the knowledge about her family is a roadblock, detouring my attention. Their mom walked out. She and her sister have been fighting ever since. I’ve had this thing for Olivia for years, feeling like I knew all about her because . . . I don’t know why. Because I’ve had a couple of classes with her. Because, like everyone else, I know the guys she hooks up with. Now, though, I picture her blue eyes and try to imagine the miles of thoughts hiding behind them, the years of history concealed back there, and I wonder why it took me this long to think of her as someone with a hundred thousand dimensions, of which I know maybe one. It was too easy to see her as a cutout doll of the perfect girl.