Seven Ways We Lie(3)

Juniper mock-retches behind us. “Why, Claire?” I moan. “Why do you give us these mental scars?”

We come out on the third floor, dodging the after-school-club traffic. We pass the computer-science room, filled with Programming Club kids on their laptops, and the English room, where Poetry Society meets in a solemn-looking, somewhat cultish circle. We head into the Politics and Government room.

“Good crowd,” I say. The room’s empty.

“Three’s a crowd,” Claire says, checking her watch. “It’s just juniors today. And the girl who’s running for secretary emailed me—she can’t come. But there’s also a boy running for president, so . . .”

My heart sinks. If there’s only one other candidate, the odds of me wriggling out of this contest without hurting Claire’s feelings are way lower; and what with her hyperactive sense of responsibility, she won’t let it go for a while.

“Who’s the boy?” Juniper asks, perching in the empty teacher’s chair. Mr. Gunnar must be helping with the assembly cleanup. I bet they need a dozen people to mop up the sweat.

Claire unzips her backpack and thumbs through a folder. She draws out a sign-up sheet with one lonely name sitting at the top. “His handwriting’s terrible, but I think it says Matt something? Jackson, maybe?”

“I know him.” Juniper raises one thin eyebrow. “We did a group project together in bio, by which I mean I did the entire thing. The guy isn’t exactly a paragon of self-discipline.”

“Oh, wait,” I say, recalling the kid who slouches in late to English every day, reeking of weed. “Tall? Never talks? Kind of a pointy face?”

“That’s the one,” Juniper says.

“Well,” I say. “This’ll be, uh. Great.”

Claire scrutinizes my expression. “Something wrong, Liv?”

“What? No, everything’s fine.” I shrug. “It’s just . . . not that I don’t want to be Paloma, Kansas’s new political wunderkind, but I sort of want to drop out.”

Claire makes a dismissive tsk sound between her teeth, setting her backpack down. “Oh, come on. Don’t pull that.”

“Dude, I’m being honest. I don’t know about this Matt kid, but everyone knows there’s no contest if it’s me and Juniper.”

We both look at Juniper. She stays diplomatically silent, spinning in Mr. Gunnar’s chair.

“Well, I guess you do have a lot on your plate,” Claire says knowingly.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your latest conquest?” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “Dan Silverstein, huh? Ees vairy eenteresting choice.”

I know she’s not serious, but it’s been a long day of stares. “Hmm, that’s funny,” I say. “I don’t remember telling you about—”

“I mean, no judgment. But, like, did you even know he existed before last Saturday?”

“Claire, give me a break.” I try to ignore the tug of hurt. “Can you stop doing this every time I hook up with someone? I know everyone else thinks I’m, like, Slutty McGee, Queen Slut from Slut Island, but you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Whoa. First of all, it was a joke, and second, there’s not a side.” She frowns. “Although I’ll admit, I don’t get why you sleep with so many guys.”

“It’s not like my reasoning needs to be public knowledge,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my voice level.

“Excuse me? So now it’s not my business?” Her blue eyes stretch wide. Surrounded by gold eyeliner, they look like gilded windows framing a sunlit sea. “Do I need a reason to care about you and your . . .” She gestures in the vicinity of my ovaries.

“My what? My sex life? What, want to hop on down to CVS and pick up some Plan B with me? Because I’ve never seen you or anyone else lining up to chat about that side of things.”

“I wasn’t going to say your sex life, Olivia.” Claire plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, look. You want me to be honest? You’ve been doing this more and more, and I’m starting to get worried about your emotional well-being.”

A million mean responses swell at the back of my tongue—Claire isn’t exactly the crying-shoulder type—but before I can snap back, Juniper cuts in.

“Guys,” she says, standing in one sharp motion. Her voice is quiet with irritation. “Are you listening to yourselves? I’m not going to tell you to apologize, but this is all objectively dumb.” She folds her arms. “Could you please think for ten seconds?”

I stiffen. Juni’s voice of reason tends to be more patient than that.

Claire and I trade a glance, chastened. It’s not fair of us, dragging Juni along for every squabble when she’s already got so much to deal with. Alongside Juni’s unhealthy stack of AP classes, she’s a concert violinist with an obscene amount of Paganini to learn for her December recital. Twice a year, Juni’s parents drive Claire and me out to Kansas City so we can watch her recitals—she plays in one of the performance halls at U of M. This season’s program seems to be stressing her out hard-core.

I look down at my sneakers and count to ten, focusing on the frayed edges of my shoelaces. When I look back up, Claire’s accusatory stare has wilted. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to escalate.”