Seven Ways We Lie(50)

I work my jaw loose. “We should, um,” I say. “We should probably get out of Juni’s parents’ room.”

“Right,” he says, standing.

For a moment, I don’t move. He’s so close—three feet? Four?—and the proximity doesn’t make him any more readable than usual, but it sure makes everything vivid. The point of his nose. The dark tan of his skin. The flecks of stubble on the tip of his chin. For a second, I wonder what his hair would feel like between my fingers.

He meets my eyes, probably waiting for me to say something or act like a normal person in general. This, unfortunately, is beyond my current abilities. I can only look at him, frozen in our eye contact. It’s terrifying, eye contact: the knowledge that somebody is regarding you with their whole and undivided attention, that for a moment, you’re the one thing in this world that demands their focus.

I could see if he’s interested. It’d be easy enough to say: So, hey, how do you feel about kissing me? It’d be less awkward than letting this silence stretch on longer, that’s for sure. But my voice is on lockdown, which is bizarre, given that locking down my voice is usually about as doable as locking down a rampaging rhinoceros.

I don’t want to say anything that might make him go.

Why am I invested? This is a horrible idea. Whoever invented emotions is hopefully frozen in the ninth circle of hell. They deserve it.

“Right, yep, let’s go downstairs,” I say in a rush, heading for the door. I hold it open, and as he passes, I catch a whiff of the air that sweeps after him. Tonight, he doesn’t smell like the usual eau de ganja. Tonight he smells like something aged and a bit sweet. Well-worn leather and honey. He walks with his hands deep in his frayed pockets, and I wonder what the tips of his index fingers feel like, and if the flats of his palms are rough or smooth, and if I were to take his hand, what he would say.





THIS IS THE FIRST SATURDAY NIGHT IN NEARLY A YEAR that I’ve had plans. Last time, I watched a partial lunar eclipse with my father and a local astronomy group comprised of a bunch of sixty-year-old hobbyists. I don’t expect tonight to be anywhere near as fun.

Juniper said her party starts at nine, and the Internet suggests it therefore would be weird if I got there before ten. I don’t see why they don’t just start it at ten, but who am I to make edits to social norms?

After dinner, I bury myself in a new book, one I stole from my father’s study. By the time 10:00 PM rolls around, I’m so invested in the book, I don’t want to leave. I dawdle for fifteen more minutes, but eventually, I mumble myself into it, grab the spare keys, and head for the door.

A voice stops me, calling from the recliner in front of the TV. “Going out, kiddo?”

My father seemed to stop adjusting to my changing age when I was ten or so and now only refers to me as “kid,” “kiddo,” and “sport.” Maybe for Christmas I’ll buy him a parenting manual that was published after 1960.

“Clearly,” I say.

Dad’s gray-brown hair sticks up as he shifts his head against his ergonomic pillow, looking up at me. “Whereabouts?” he asks, a hopeful smile propping up his round cheeks. It’s almost sad, watching him trying to connect to me in whatever small way.

“A party. I need to talk to a girl from my grade.”

“A girl, huh?” Dad winks. “Well, then, I won’t keep you. Go get her.”

I turn away, restraining an exasperated sigh. “Right. Sure.” That sort of thing is exactly why I speak to my parents as little as possible.

“Curfew’s midnight, all right?” My father goes back to the History Channel, and I grumble my assent, heading for the door.

I reach Juniper’s neighborhood at 10:30. Called Mossy Grove, the place is composed of a maze of cul-de-sacs. The houses look as if some architect Googled “upper-class suburbia” and modeled his designs after the results. Each house has the same gable over the front door, the same carport set off to the side, the same vaulted black roof with a chimney poised near its edge. I get lost not once but twice, thanks to the genius who decided that both “Mossy Grove Place” and “Mossy Grove Court” needed to exist.

I slow down, triple-checking the address. Juniper lives near the back of the neighborhood with the other houses that veer into “mansion” territory. Her house sits on a dark, sweeping lawn, perched far back and high up like a king surveying his realm. Halfway up the yard, a pebbled path littered with flagstones circumnavigates a two-tiered fountain, and tall conifers sway at the edges of the lawn, making the house’s driveway seem even longer than it is. The golden light pouring through the magnificent windows, as well as the distant thud of bass, suggest a huge gathering.

My throat tightens. I can’t believe I’m breaking my precious sixty-three hours and twenty minutes of weekend solitude for crowds and noise. I haven’t even knocked on the door yet, and I already feel on the brink of panic. Yet here I am, cruising past the stream of cars that eats up the curb on Juniper’s street.

Part of me doesn’t want to find out which teacher it is or learn the whole story. Knowing would make me even more responsible than I already am. I didn’t ask to get involved.

Despite my every instinct urging me toward the contrary, I shove the car into park, steel myself, and start the trek up.