Seven Ways We Lie(37)

Lucas wilts, his shoulders slumping. Abysmal posture notwithstanding, he has nearly a foot on me, his shoulders so wide that I feel as if I’m facing down a bear. His guilty eyes are the dark brown of wet bark. Looking at his glum expression, I somehow feel bad for him, although he’s hardly a victim here.

He opens his mouth, presumably to apologize, but I interrupt: “It’s fine.”

Even as my words come out, I wonder why I’m saying them. It isn’t fine. From the rough end of things, silence looks an awful lot like complicity.

Before I can speak further, Juniper’s brunette friend bounces back out the door to the cafeteria, wheeling to an ungainly halt. “Hey, Juni,” she says. “Can I steal you back? Claire says we ‘need to talk’ about Saturday night, which is, like, the most terrifying thing in many moons. I think she thinks I funneled the wine down your throat or something.”

The sound of a cleared throat makes all of us turn. Mr. García, striding by, has slowed his pace, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but gives Juniper and Olivia a look.

“I mean, uh,” Olivia says as he passes, “nobody here consumes alcohol, because we are all under the age of twenty-one.”

García’s frown deepens. He disappears down the hall, and Olivia makes a face after him. “How is he a hard-ass about drinking? He finished college, like, two hours ago.” She glances at me. “Also, hey, sorry for interrupting. Also, also, I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you.”

Juniper gives me an apologetic look. “Valentine, do you mind if I catch you later? I kind of need to talk something out with Claire. This isn’t something urgent, is it?”

“I mean, it’s—” I cut myself off. If I say it’s urgent, I’ll interest Lucas and Olivia far more than I’d like. I try to say no, but it doesn’t come out; my throat has gone tight, scared into disuse by the three of them looking at me at once. They are all taller than me and all very good-looking. This is the most woefully unbalanced conversation of my life. “Fine,” I say, lifting my chin as much as I can without feeling ridiculous. “It could be postponed if you . . . yes.”

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?”

“Right.”

She stops in the arch, looking back with something like determination. “Also, Valentine, I’m having a thing at my place on Saturday around nine. Feel free to come by if you want.”

My first instinct is hysterical laughter. Miraculously, I tamp it down. “Right,” I say, trying not to sound too incredulous. Me going to a party: definitely a viable option. “Thank you.”

The two girls disappear back into the cafeteria. Lucas dallies by the door, examining me.

“Good-bye,” I say pointedly.

But he doesn’t move. “I’m sorry.”

“I already said it was fine.”

“It’s just, Dean’s swim captain this year, so the rest of us kind of put up and shut up. And since regionals are only a week away, he’s twice as hard-core these days, which—”

“I don’t care.”

Lucas looks taken aback. “Uh,” he says. “Fair, I guess. But I am sorry, okay?”

There’s something not quite Kansan around the edge of his accent; he spits his consonants too hard, flattening his vowels. He has an overeager sort of voice, quick and insistent, as if he’s terrified he might lose my attention for a second. God, people who try too hard are so embarrassing.

I’ve hesitated too long. He seems to think it’s an invitation to keep talking. “I’m Lucas McCallum,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Valentine Simmons.”

“Quite the name.” He grins, and I feel disgusted, looking at his smile. It’s stupidly photogenic, the type of Hollywood-handsome that verges on absurd. This kid is going to go through life and get everything handed to him on a silver platter because he looks like some sort of minor Greek god. I hate him a bit already, and it baffles me that he seems so desperate for validation. Hasn’t he, like every other attractive person, been trained to expect the world to fall into his lap with no effort whatsoever?

“So,” he says, “what up, Valentine Simmons?”

“Not much. Lunch awaits.” I turn on my heel and take all of one step before he says, “Not in the cafeteria?”

Over my shoulder, I give him my most contemptuous look. Some people say there are no stupid questions, but here’s a perfect counterexample if I ever heard one. “The cafeteria is filled with people I have absolutely no use for,” I say coldly.

He lets out a generous, tumbling laugh, as if I’ve cracked the funniest joke all day. I round on him, not bothering to mask my glare. “What?”

“It was funny,” he says. “Was that not a joke?”

“I mean. No.”

“Oh. Okay.” He forces a serious expression. “So, what, you eat off-campus?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

“Why?” I ask.

“Just a question. Doesn’t need any analysis or anything.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Okay. Well. Analysis is sort of my modus operandi.”

He’s smiling again, for no reason. The unforgiving hallway lights illuminate the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. He glows with inner contentment, and I don’t know where he gets it, but it must be nice. He’s probably from some other planet, where the sun always shines and everybody is unconditionally nice to one another and puppies frolic around the streets.