Seven Ways We Lie(9)

Eventually, Burke says, “If you want to meet up with Olivia, why don’t you go to the thing at Dan’s this weekend, huh? Maybe she’ll be there.”

I make a grumbling sound. I’d rather chug cyanide than show up to Dan’s sister’s birthday party. It’s sad, the thought that everyone I know is so repressed, they have to get, like, oh my God, totally wasted to have an excuse to act the way they want to act. “Thanks, man, but I’m good,” I say. “Like she’d talk to me, anyway.”

“Bro, don’t be so f*cking defeatist,” Burke says, and that’s a Burke phrase if ever I’ve heard one, so f*cking defeatist, but before I can tell him he’s ridiculous, an overloud voice butts in:

“Hey. Are you Matt? Matt Jackson?”

I turn. A couple of varsity tennis girls have stopped near my car. The only one I know by name—the one who’s talking to me—is Claire Lombardi, who has enough freckles for a family of four, as well as an arsenal of identical tank tops that display Nike across her huge chest. The girl is Paloma-famous, since she does every miserable extracurricular this place has to offer: debate team, French Club, Academic Bowl, Young Environmentalists, student government . . . the list goes on.

She moves to the front of my hood, brushing her frizzy red hair out of her face. Since I can’t remember having actually spoken with her before, and since I stay under the radar, it’s kind of weird that she knows my name, but I reply, “Uh, yeah. Hey,” and she says, “We missed you this afternoon. I can send you the information later by email, though.”

“What?” I say, glancing at Burke. “Missed what?”

“Student gov. There are only three candidates, so your chances are pretty good.”

“I—chances for—?”

“Make sure you start campaigning next week. It’d be great for the program to have some competition in the presidential race, at least. For, like, visibility’s sake.”

“Um,” I say, trying not to let my confusion show, and she’s like, “You’re running against Juniper Kipling and Olivia Scott, if you were wondering,” and I’m like, “But I—” and then one of her tennis friends nudges her. Claire glances to the right. Her gaze fixes on something near the far end of the lot, and she says too fast, “Heading out—see you,” and leaves me sitting there wondering what the hell just happened.

I check over my shoulder to see who scared her off. It’s the guys’ swim team. For a moment I wonder what Claire’s issue is, but then, from the middle of the pack, Lucas McCallum gives me his usual cheerful wave, and I remember his and Claire’s heinous breakup last spring, which nobody could shut up about for frickin’ ever.

Lucas bounces by, pushing his curly hair back, a smile the size of California plastered across his face as usual. “Hi, Burke! Hey, Matt! How’s it going, guys?”

I nod in response, wondering if his cheeks ever get tired. If you turned a six-week-old puppy into a human being, you’d get Lucas. Dude’s so cheerful all the time, I keep getting this creeping suspicion that he thinks we’re friends because he sells me weed. But that wouldn’t make sense—he deals to half the school, providing the teeming masses with an ass-load of pot and cheap beer. Maybe Lucas is just chronically overjoyed to be alive.

He jogs off with the rest of the swim team, leaving Burke and me alone.

“Dude, I don’t know what Claire’s talking about,” I say, looking at Burke. “I didn’t sign up for anything.”

A second passes, and the corner of Burke’s mouth twitches.

“You shithead,” I say, realizing. “You did this. You put me on some list for this.” And Burke cracks up, and he’s like, “Who, me? ’Course not. But I can’t wait to see your campaign promises.”

I punch him. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

I blow my hair out of my eyes, giving him the dirtiest look I can muster, but I can never stay mad long—I don’t have the dedication for grudges. Good thing for Burke, too, ’cause he’s always doing this, dragging me to after-school clubs or putting my email address on information dis-lists. It’s the most random stuff. Last week he signed me up for some national newsletter about clock making. God knows what he’s getting out of it.

I lean back on the roof. Dusk hunches over the sky, and the twisted end of our joint blisters on the asphalt beside the car, the bittersweet smell of it floating and fading.

“So, who do you think it is?” Burke says, and I’m like, “Who do you think what is?” and he’s like, “Didn’t you go to the assembly?” and I laugh so hard, it turns into a coughing fit. “Is that a serious question?” I sputter, and he’s like, “Some teacher’s sleeping with a student. They don’t know who yet.”

I give him a confused look and ask, “Am I supposed to care about this?” and he’s like, “I mean, it’s sort of crazy, huh?” and I’m like, “Not that crazy. It happens everywhere,” and he sighs and says, “What’s it gotta take for you to be interested in anything, huh, dude?” and I’m sort of affronted. “Hey, get off my case, would you?” I say. “We can’t all be, like, conscientious citizens and read The f*cking Gay Science for fun.”