Seven Ways We Lie(67)

“Shut up,” I say.

Dean blinks a few times. “What?”

“It’s not true, so stop spreading it around.”

For a second, he stays quiet, apparently stunned by my audacity. Then his voice rises, and he puffs up like an enraged bird protecting its territory. “You wanna go?” he says, taking a few steps toward me. “What, are you also a cocksucking little—”

I panic for an instant. Then I wind up like a pitcher and slam my fist into his nose.

The thing most forms of media fail to portray about punching someone in the face is that it’s as painful for the hand involved as for the other person’s facial regions. I suppose I should’ve expected that—equal and opposite reaction, and everything—but hell if I’m in the mood for information recall.

Essentially, though, it works. I reclaim my hand, cradling it to my chest. Dean clutches at his nose and reels off balance. People around us retreat, exclaiming as he crashes to the floor.

“The f*ck?” his redheaded friend says, eloquently.

“Next time, watch your mouth,” I say. The redheaded guy makes a grab for me, but I stumble back. Knocking people out of my way, I forge through the crowd.

After I emerge into the chilly open air, I realize what I just did. The concept smacks me, buffets me: I attacked someone. If Dean tells the school, I’ll be suspended. I hope to God that his pride stops him from saying anything.

Adrenaline buzzes in my blood. I stick my hands in my pockets and force myself not to sprint to my car. Panic is pouring around me, liquid in a glass box, drowning me inch by inch. What will Lucas, forgiving nature and all, think of me when he finds out what I did?

When I slide into the garage at home, I bolt out of my car, slamming the door. My mind races as I head inside. I should turn García and Juniper in—I should tell them Dean was saying those things before he can tell anyone I hit him—I should do a million things.

“Hey, kiddo,” calls Dad from his study, poking his head into the hall. “How are you?”

I hurry by, not meeting his eyes. When he finds out what I did, he’s going to disown me.

“Lasagna for dinner,” Dad calls after me, his voice cheerful.

“I’m so overjoyed,” I shoot back, and on seeing his smile wilt, I instantly regret it. Why did I say that? Why can’t my mind cooperate with me? Why can’t I just be normal?

I close my bedroom door. My cell phone falls out of my pocket, taunting me, reminding me that I have nobody to call. I’ve pushed everyone in the world away with both hands and the strength of a vicious tongue. If I can’t tell Lucas, I’m alone again.

It’s stupid. Shouldn’t I want to tell him? Aren’t we on the same side? I thought a friend would stand up for someone that way. But I’ve only known him for a week—would a friend go that far, after such a short period of time?

I told him I trust him at lunch, and it’s true, but I hate that he’s made the mistake of trusting me, with his whole, earnest, stupid heart. He’s the first person who’s bothered to try; he’s taken my every eccentricity in stride. And this is how I repay him: by fighting and running.

Can I fix this? I could clear his name to the administration.

No. I can’t abandon Juniper’s cause, not after forcing the others to promise their silence. And heaven knows I don’t want to feel responsible for Mr. García getting fired.

Sitting down at my desk, I realize how disposable I am, how frail the thread between me and Lucas is. You don’t realize how alone you are until you let yourself out of your cage, or until someone finds a way inside. And now that Lucas has found his way in, here I am against the bars, terrified he might slip right back out again.





EMILY FINISHES HER MONOLOGUE, AND I STRIDE onstage, striking everything superfluous from my mind. Running to catch the bus in the morning? Gone. Last night’s screaming match with Olivia? Gone. Lucas McCallum and Dr. Norman? Definitely gone.

Even though I know it’s a lie.

Focus.

Even though I should turn Juniper in.

Focus!

“You’re tired of waiting?” I snap at Emily, who shies back. “You’re tired of waiting. You, Natalya, who left me in this town? Look at me. Look at what I am now.”

“I am looking at you,” she says.

“Look harder.”

“I see a loving mother, a caring sister. I see—”

“You see nothing,” I say. “I am nothing anymore except wasted potential. Nothing.” I take a step forward. “You were supposed to be my teacher. You said I was brilliant—a prodigy, you said. You were supposed to take me away, teach me everything, but instead you ran the first chance you had!” My voice hits the yelling point.

And then García calls, “Hold.”

I hesitate, frowning out into the audience. He said we weren’t going to stop this run for anything. I glance down—maybe Emily or I didn’t hit our lights?—but we’re well placed in the bright spots on the stage.

García leans over the lip of the stage, facing me. It’s a jolt. I’m the problem? What did I do wrong?

“The objective here,” he says. “Your goal. What do you want from her?”

“An apology,” I say. “I . . . I tried to think of anything else. But that’s all I have.”