Seven Ways We Lie(74)

But since Sunday night, I’ve been thinking: what would it be like to talk to García as if he were our age? Talking about our lives and our interests and the future? It would be so weird, seeing him through that lens.

Though I guess since Juniper dropped his class, she doesn’t know him through the omniscient teacher-lens. And that, more than anything, reassures me.

· · · · · · ·


IT’S STILL RAINING WHEN I GET HOME. I SHUT THE door on the sound of it, sighing.

Coming home today is the dull pain of a headache. Besides a glimpse of Kat on Monday evening—she looked frighteningly numb—I haven’t seen her at all. All I have is the recorded messages from yesterday, and now today: We are calling to inform you that Katrina Scott missed one or more classes today.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting Juni, daring to hope it might be Claire or Matt. But the screen reads: Daniel.

Frowning, I pick up. “Hello?”

“Hey. Olivia.”

“Dan?” I dump my backpack and my bag from the pharmacy on the kitchen table. “How’s, um, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good, pretty good.”

“That’s . . . good?” Why are you calling me?

“Look, I heard about Juniper landing in the hospital. That blows.”

“It does.”

“She doing okay?”

“I . . . yeah,” I say in my most discouraging monotone, still wondering what the point of this call is.

“How about you? You must be stressed.”

“Sort of. I mean, she’s better now.” I wander into the living room and sit on our sofa. The springs creak. “Dan—”

“What are you up to?”

“What?”

“Because if you wanted to come over later, you could. You know, for stress relief.”

I take my phone from my ear and stare at it, half floored, half repulsed. “Excuse me?” I splutter, crushing it back to my ear. “Wait, slow down. Are you seriously asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I . . . don’t know?”

“Okay, I’ll simplify: is this or is this not a poorly disguised booty call?”

“Well, my parents aren’t home. House is empty.”

“Oh my God, Daniel. Let me make this perfectly, utterly clear. No.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “What, are you with Matt now?”

“That’s not—”

“Because he’s not even a good guy, you know.”

“He’s not a good guy? And yet you’re the one still trying to hook up with someone who has told you no, like, three times? You could ask out any other human being. What do I have to do here?”

“So the other weekend meant nothing to you. At all.”

I close my eyes. “Look, this has got to be some sort of communication issue. It was fun, okay? I had fun, but it was a onetime thing. I thought we were clear on—”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it does. A, I don’t want to hook up again, and B, I like someone else, so—”

“So it is Matt. What’s the difference between screwing him and screwing me?”

My mind stops. I have no idea what to say, but that’s A-okay, because, God bless him, he keeps on going: “Besides, if you’re going to let everyone and his brother get it, can’t blame me for assuming you’re down.”

When I find words, they rush out in a waterfall. “So by sleeping with more than one guy, I’ve forfeited my right to hook up with who I want? Or are you saying that by having sex with multiple people, I’ve become, like, emotionally incapable of falling for one person? Either way, are you insane?”

“Hey, all I’m saying is, you can’t act like a slut and expect people not to treat you like a slut. It’s just false advertising.”

Sweet Jesus.

I’ve felt my share of anger. There are some kinds you can’t hold in your body. Some types burst out of your every pore at once, and you feel yourself expanding and twisting and turning into something that isn’t human. You feel hot waves of rage punching their way out of your skin. Right now, I swear I could melt metal just by breathing on it.

False advertising? I am done. I’m done with the stares and the rumors and the lack of basic human decency, let alone privacy. I’m so done with being defined by this single part of me.

“I’m not advertising anything!” I yell, my words ringing off the living room walls. “My body is not yours. I don’t owe you, I don’t owe boys some f*cked-up compensation for my reputation, I don’t owe the public an apology for my personal life, I don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing, so get out of my life and stay out!”

I punch end call so hard, a discolored spot shows up on the phone screen. For a second I tremble, my teeth buried deep in my lip. Then I make for the stairs, my hand pressed against my mouth. I feel ill.

I walk into my room, shut the door with agonizing calm, and twist the lock. I fling my phone at the Star Wars pillow on my bed. The muscles in my arm ache in recoil, the phone sinks deep into Han Solo’s face, and I let out a strangled, animal noise of rage. I stand there staring at myself in the mirror, my red cheeks, my sleeve askew, my torn expression. My face is hot and swollen and furious, and I feel like a melting wax candle.