Seven Ways We Lie(34)

“It’s . . .” he says, a crease forming between his straight eyebrows. “I . . . it was a good . . .”

He doesn’t finish.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was a good.”

Matt smiles. His cheeks press his eyes up into half-moons.

“All right.” I clear my throat. “We should probably work on this thing.”

And for two hours, we do, cutting orange paper into tongues of flame, writing quotes, collecting characters from each circle, listing sins and virtues.

It’s quiet except for the occasional rumble from the refrigerator, and sometimes we lean close enough above the poster that the light sound of his breathing distracts me. The sight of his dark forearms folded on the table catches me, too, his knobby wrists and the thin hair leading up to his elbows. It feels weirdly intimate, the two of us tucked into a corner of his kitchen, working in silence that’s more comfortable than it has the right to be.





I WAKE UP AT 11:30 PM TO MY RINGTONE BLARING. Instantly alert, I grab my phone, squinting at the screen. The blue light makes my eyes ache in the dark.

I pick up. “Juniper? What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“Claire,” she sings. “Claire fair, Claire bear. Claire Clah-Claire, Claire, Claaaire. We’re hanging out, and we miss youuu.”

I shut my eyes, settling back under my covers. So nothing’s wrong—just a drunk dial. I’m not sure whether I’m more relieved or irritated. “Juniper, I need to sleep,” I say. And I don’t need a reminder of how much fun they’re having without me. Is a little consideration too much to ask?

“Oh no,” Juniper says. The phone rustles. I hear her talking to Olivia. “I woke her up.”

“Well, yeah, you dork,” Olivia says in the background. “It’s, like, eleven thirty.”

“Juni,” I say, “how much did you drink?”

“Whaaat? Drink? Don’t worry about it,” Juniper says. “Don’t even worry about. Yeah.”

I scowl, nibbling my thumbnail. Before I can say anything, static rubs against my ear. I catch a snatch of a muffled protest. Then Olivia’s voice says, “Yo.”

“Olivia. Hi. Can you please explain what’s happening?”

“Juni drank a little too much and got sick, so I’m spending the night. We watched The Road to El Dorado, and Juni wants to do Finding Nemo next.”

I picture them curled up in the living room, on the plush rug in front of Juni’s TV. My frustration builds. “Why is she drinking?”

“I don’t know. She wanted to. Sorry about the late call. I know you have to get up early.”

“I mean, it’s fine.” I straighten up, resigning myself to the fact that I’m awake. “Just . . . I thought you two were supposed to be having a chill night in, and this is two weeks in a row she’s done the shitty-drunk thing. You think there’s something wrong?”

“She hasn’t mentioned anything,” Olivia says. “But . . . yeah, you’re right, she’s been weird. I was gonna ask, but I got distracted by the whole impossible-quantities-of-vomit thing.”

“Ew.”

“That’s better, though, right? Get it all out of her system or whatever.”

“Is that how that works?”

“I think so,” Olivia says. “Science!” The sound of a commercial blares through the phone. Her voice grows distant. “Juni, want to put Nemo on? I’m gonna get some blankets.”

“So. Did Dan text you again?” I ask. The second the question comes out, I wonder why I brought it up. Talking about boys with Olivia is never a good idea.

“No, thank God,” she says. “But Richard Brown got a hold of my number somehow, so now I have to deal with that. Even though I made it totally clear I wasn’t into him.”

“Someone’s popular,” I say.

“Not necessarily a good thing.”

I sigh. She always does this weird denial thing, as if guys being interested in her is bad.

“I’m serious,” she says. “What, you think I’m bragging?”

“I dunno,” I say, chewing harder on my thumbnail. From the perspective of someone totally unnoticed by the male population, it’s hard not to hear it as bragging.

“Getting hit on is one thing,” she says. “But when guys won’t leave me alone, even after I’ve made it apparent I’m not interested? That just means they’ve heard I’ll jump on anything that shows me attention. Not a compliment.”

“Okay,” I say, still not getting it. If she stopped sleeping around, guys wouldn’t expect anything from her anymore, right? Isn’t that the obvious fix?

“Anyway, it’s stressful,” she says. “Like, one time I said no to this guy, and he was all, ‘Fine, I’ll find someone better, skank bitch.’?”

Anger jolts me out of my confusion. I keep my voice from rising, but only because Grace is asleep in the next room. “I—what? Someone said that to you?”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. He was wasted, so—”

“Is this someone we know?”

“No, ’course not,” Olivia says. “I never know guys who act like that. My point is, you never know if you’re dealing with some guy who’s going to get scary-angry or just plain mean if you’re like, hey, sorry, not interested.”