Seven Ways We Lie(82)

I don’t line those eyes. I don’t glue anything or brush anything or draw anything onto that girl. I walk downstairs barefaced for the first time in God knows how long.

“Claire bear, you okay?” Grace asks, stirring her oatmeal. She doesn’t have class today, because apparently that’s a thing in college, having no class for a whole day. “You look tired.”

I tilt my head. My sister’s sea green eyes shine. “Have you ever messed something up?” I ask, my voice gravelly with morning raspiness. “Like, so badly, it feels like you’ll never fix it?”

“Of course.”

“What was it?”

“That time junior year.” Grace twines a lock of her sandy hair between her fingers. “I was driving home and hit Mr. Fausett’s dog.”

“But that was an accident.”

“Still,” she says, her voice shrinking by the word. “He had this look on his face . . . just, God, you know?”

“What did you do after?”

“Everything I could,” she says. “Just everything I could, you know?”

The drive to school is a stupor. Pressure clutches my shoulders.

I consider turning back. Hiding in my bed. Hiding in the dark. Unwilling to face myself.


IN FIRST PERIOD, PRINCIPAL TURNER’S VOICE RINGS over the intercom. “May I please have your attention for the morning announcements?”

I look up at the black speaker, imagining her talking to Dr. Norman. Imagining him going home, thinking about what he might do if he lost his job. Is he married? Does he have a family? Has he had to tell them about this? And Lucas . . . I imagine myself yelling, Lucas McCallum is now out of the closet over that intercom, which is essentially what I did.

“Students and staff,” Turner says, her voice heavy, “we have reached closure on the issue we spoke about during our assembly two weeks ago.”

I freeze in my chair. They couldn’t have found Dr. Norman guilty based on my twenty-second-long, cowardly impulse—that’s impossible. There’s no evidence.

Voices rise around me. Eager muttering. Norman. Lucas. Norman.

Turner goes on: “Our junior honors English teacher, Mr. David García, has come forward and confessed to having a romantic relationship with a student.”

Everything goes quiet. We all stare at the intercom, smacked into silence.

It’s a testament to how much everyone liked Mr. García that people hardly joked about the idea of it being him.

“Disciplinary action has been taken,” Turner says, “and Mr. García is under investigation by the police. We ask patience from all his classes while we locate a permanent substitute. A news station plans to arrive after school to ask questions of the student body. We ask that you remain respectful and truthful, and most importantly, that you disregard previous allegations, as they have no foundation in truth. Thank you for your attention.”

When she goes quiet, part of me wants to cry with relief—and with remorse. Dr. Norman’s job isn’t on the line anymore. Maybe people will leave Lucas alone. Maybe this has undone some of the damage I did.


TEN MINUTES BEFORE SECOND PERIOD, THE HALLS are quiet. People have finally seemed to realize that this is a big deal. A teacher they liked is gone for good—is that what it takes?—but I still hear them murmuring about who the student could be. I don’t hear Lucas’s name once.

With every step I take toward the classroom where he sits, my insides twist tighter. My sneakers squeak on the freshly waxed floor, its chips of mica glaring at me like fireflies.

I knock into somebody and mutter a halfhearted apology without looking up. Then a hand is on my shoulder. I look up, and there’s Juni, folding her arms.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I don’t bother trying to tell her it’s nothing. With a pained look on her face, she steers me past the stairwell and out the side entrance.

“I have something to tell you, too,” she says. “You want to go first?”

I shrug and think distractedly, God, I need a thicker jacket. It’s so cold out today.

“Okay,” she says. “Explain.”

“No, I . . .” I stare down at my shoes.

“Tell me what’s up, Claire. Please. Look at me.”

It’s hard to look up, and when I do, she has that sternness in her eyes. She cares fiercely, Juni. I feel as if she knows already. I hate her for it. I love her for it.

A plane hums overhead, leaving whiskers of white exhaust behind. The breeze sighs in my ear. “I did something bad,” I say. “You know how Lucas . . . you know how people thought he was the one who . . .?”

“Yeah.”

“That was me. I turned in a form saying it was him.”

Her eyes go wide.

Words keep rushing out of my mouth. “I wasn’t thinking, I—I got angry, and I couldn’t talk with anyone, and I—”

“You could’ve talked to me. I know we fought, but you still could have—”

“No, I couldn’t have,” I burst out. Her mouth closes, and I rush on. “I’m so tired, Juni. Don’t you get it? I lost it with you two last week because I’m sick to death of you guys being so much better than me, Olivia drowning in attention, you being so f*cking perfect!”