Seven Ways We Lie(42)

“What?”

“You sure you don’t care? I’m just saying.”

He meets my gaze properly. His eyes lay me open with a demanding and invigorating edge. I hope that wasn’t going too far.

Eventually, he shakes his head. “Why am I telling you this? You don’t care.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What?”

“I care.”

“Why? What, do you care because I’m here? Is that how your mind works, you just go around throwing your care at whatever’s within range?”

“Why not? Not like I’m going to run out.”

Valentine unleashes a mighty sigh. “Okay, Lucas. All right.”

In spite of the exasperated tone, the sound of him saying my name feels like a tiny acceptance. His voice hangs in the air a minute, bobbing in the wind. We both turn to our lunches, letting the silence settle.

“So,” I say after inhaling my sandwich, “you think you’ll go to Juniper’s party this weekend?”

“No. I’m sure I’ll be able to talk to her before then.”

“About what?”

He tightens his thin lips. “Something personal.”

“Ah,” I say. It makes sense, his being interested in Juniper. She was always a different kind of smart from Claire—the quiet, terrifying sort of smart. Seems like Valentine’s type.

Strangely, something near my heart feels deflated, but I keep my voice bright. “I could get you her number, dude. She texted me yesterday, asked if I could hook her up.”

“Hook her up?”

“With drinks. Liquor.”

“What? You’re responsible for all that?”

“Oh yeah. Dealing is kind of my bad hobby. I should’ve taken up, like, scrapbooking or something.”

“Is it profitable?”

“Yeah, that’s sort of the point.” I unzip the front pocket of my backpack and pull out a rubber-banded roll of tens and twenties. Valentine stares. Then he laughs a surprisingly clear, loud laugh. “What?” I say. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing’s funny. It’s just, no wonder you like everyone, when they’re throwing their money at you.”

“I’d like them anyway. Most people are harmless.”

He lets out a disgusted, mumbling noise. “If by ‘harmless’ you mean boring, hypocritical, and self-serving, then sure, they’re—”

“Dude. That’s really mean.”

His mouth snaps shut.

“Don’t give me that look,” I say, laughing. It’s like somebody smacked his whole family. “I mean, you don’t have to love everyone in the world, but you don’t have to be all, I detest humanity and all it stands for!”

“That isn’t what I said,” he squeaks, his ears flushing bright red. “All I ‘detest’ is when people are boring, hypocritical, and self-serving. Which seems to be a disproportionately high percent of the population. So—so there.”

I hold the question inside for a long second, but in the end, it trips off my tongue: “Does that include me?”

He stares at his knees for a long minute before mumbling, “We’ll see.”

That he doesn’t hate me yet is a tiny admission, one that makes me feel weirdly proud. I smile wide, fold my hands behind my head, and lean back on the hill with a contented sigh.

Valentine shoots me a look. His gaze is a laser-sharp ray, aimed down at me. He’s as narrow as a reed, and if I had to guess, barely five foot five. But with me lying here, and with the power of his colorless, unreadable eyes, he towers like a Titan.

When he looks away, he’s just a kid again. “You know, you’re interesting.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“It is a surprise. This doesn’t really happen, ever, but I am interested by you.” He thinks for a second and then says, “So you can cross that off your to-do list, I suppose.”

I grin, grabbing and throwing my journal at him, and he lets out a startled laugh, snatching the book out of the air. In retort, he throws it at my face. I don’t dodge fast enough. It smacks me right in the head, stars burst in my vision, and he yelps, “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

As the world comes back into sight, the mixture of horror and alarm on Valentine’s face emerges, and it’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. I lean back on the grass and howl with laughter. After a second, he starts laughing, too—nervously at first, then with something like relief. The clear sound fills up the air like light. Our laughter echoes off the brick face of the west wing. Off those rosebushes pruned and shivering in the shade. Off that vast bowl of the Kansas sky.





I ALWAYS HEAR PEOPLE COMPLAINING ABOUT MONDAYS, but Tuesday is the true evil of the week. You still have the whole week ahead, and you’re already exhausted. During the dragging haze of fifth-period English on Tuesday, I’m so worn down, all I can do is write my first-act monologue on my desk, lazily drawing the words.

You tell me, “Don’t be ungrateful, Faina. Don’t be loud, Faina; don’t question, Faina; don’t ask for a thing, Faina! Don’t say a word, Faina!” Am I not allowed to speak, to ask? To grasp for more? Am I not allowed to yearn, to live, as my life trickles down like a bead of honey from a comb—it will fall soon, Father, don’t you see?