Lies You Never Told Me(23)

“Ready,” I agree.

We make our way upstream, against the crowd.

The three of us don’t exactly have an abundance of school spirit. The game itself is fun enough—who doesn’t like watching two-hundred-pound dudes brutalize each other?—but the other parts of it, the tribalism and theatrics and rah-rah-rah, are lame. Of course, dating Sasha, I had to go to every single event so I could watch her dance. But now I am free to blow off any and all pep-related activities.

I imagine the crush in the gym, the mass of kids piled into the bleachers while cheerleaders tumble below. The football team will come running out through a big paper banner and everyone will chant, “Wat-er-LOO! Wat-er-LOO!” And then the Mustang Sallys will come out in formation, kicking and strutting to the marching band’s rendition of some cheesy pop song. I can picture Sasha there in the center in her cowboy hat and sequined vest, her smile painted on, her skin glowing in all that luminous attention.

I’ve been trying to avoid her since the breakup. It’s not easy. Every time I turn a corner she’s there, her pale eyes sending a freeze ray right in my direction. She knows my schedule by heart, so I have to assume she’s going out of her way to bump into me. I’ve started ducking into the bathroom every time I see a hint of blond curly hair. I don’t want anything to do with her.

Because while I can’t prove she sent that Snapchat message, I don’t know who else it could be.

I’m not scared. I’m pissed. I don’t trust myself to talk to her. When I imagine it—when I think about the video, the implicit threat to my little sister, my fingers twitch convulsively. I want to grab Sasha by the shoulders, to shake her, to make clear what I will do to her if she comes near Vivi. And that would be trouble.

But I haven’t gotten any further messages from the mystery number . . . so I have to believe it was just a pathetic, fumbling attempt to get my attention. The death rattle of a bad relationship.

“Hey, man, there’s that girl.” Caleb’s voice interrupts my reverie.

I shake my head, look up at him. “Huh?”

He’s a full five inches taller than me; he can see over the crowd and down the hall more easily than I can. He nods to the left. “That girl. You know, the one you chased across the parking lot Monday.”

My head snaps to follow his gaze. There she is, curled protectively around a stack of books: Catherine. She strikes me the way she does every time—some camouflaged forest animal, quiet in the shadows, hard to make out but fascinating once seen.

I’ve been messaging with her all week now—mostly light, innocuous stuff. Videos of baby sloths, pictures of my food, dumb memes from Reddit. Anything I can think of to start a conversation. She’s mostly just responded with smiley faces, or vague, noncommittal words. Cute! LOL. But here and there we’ve had an actual exchange. When I sent a picture of Vivi hugging Rowdy around the neck, she said:


dollorous00: I don’t know if I’m more jealous of the dog or your sister. Pure love.

And another time:


daredevil_atx: Anyone ever tell you you look like Natalie Dormer from Game of Thrones?

dollorous00: Ha . . . no? But thank you.

daredevil_atx: She’s my favorite. Though Sansa Stark’s pretty badass now that she’s dressing like a supervillain.

dollorous00: I HATE Sansa! She’s the WORST.

daredevil_atx: No spoilers! I’m behind by a season and I plan to binge watch the rest this weekend. You should come over and watch with me.

A suggestion that we should hang out was apparently too much too soon, though, because I haven’t heard from her since that one.

Now I stop in my tracks. “Hey, Catherine! Cat!”

It seems to take her a minute to register my voice. She blinks, then gives a little wave without slowing down.

But this time I’m not going to let her slip by me. I push my way across the hall. “Trust me, you can skip the pep rally. Spoiler alert: Waterloo High will Go-Fight-Win. Our opposition will be pushed Way, Way Back. We will score many goal units that way.”

In spite of herself, the corner of her mouth twitches up. “But how am I ever going to learn how to spell victory if I don’t go?”

“Wait, wait, is that a joke?” I feign incredulity. “School spirit is good on you. It really brings out your inner snark.”

She glances up and down the hall, stepping back as a guy in a red-and-blue clown wig walks between us, howling. “This is nuts. No one at my old school cared about football.”

“Must not have been in Texas, then,” I say. “This is pretty tame. Last year we fought our rivals from just outside Houston. There was livestock loose in the hallways. Seriously—their mascot’s a ram, and some dumbshit thought it was going to be a good idea to sacrifice a sheep . . .”

“Oh no . . .” She looks simultaneously horrified and amused.

“Don’t worry, it survived. It got loose, ate half the band’s sheet music, and took a crap on the Mustang mosaic in the middle of the cafeteria before the 4-H kids managed to wrangle it into submission. I hear it’s living in Tori Spencer’s backyard now. Keeps the grass trimmed.”

She laughs.

For that moment it’s like the crowd becomes so many cardboard cutouts around us. The chaos gets swallowed, and in its vacuum all I can hear is her laughter. It’s soft, musical, muted—a tune escaping from a mine, from somewhere deep and dark.