Lying Out Loud(7)

“Hello, hottie.”

“Oh God,” Amy squeaked. “I’m already feeling weird about this.”

“I’d love to keep talking to you.” I read it to her in a slow, sexy voice. “But not at a restaurant. My room is much more comfortable. And the only thing I want to be eating is whipped cream off your chest, lover boy.”

“Sonny!” Amy cried. “You can’t say that!”

“Why not?”

“He’ll think I’m some sort of freak.”

“That’s the point. He’ll be creeped out — and perhaps slightly turned on, though he’d never admit it — by your over-the-top e-mail and too embarrassed to ever speak to you again.”

“But what if he tells other people about this e-mail?”

“Who would he tell? No one can stand him. He doesn’t have friends.”

She sighed, which I took as permission to continue.

“You mentioned my friend in your e-mail. Sonny would also like to be present for this ‘conversation.’ She loves to watch me fool around with guys. Though recently, I found some creepy voodoo dolls of the guys I’ve been hooking up with in her drawer. And, come to think of it, a few of them have had some serious accidents. I hope the possibility of a few broken bones doesn’t scare you off.”

This time, she giggled. Just a little.

“I have to say, Ryder, I’m so glad you e-mailed me. I’ve had my eye on you since you got here. I tried to play it cool, but secretly, I’ve been building a shrine to you in my closet for months. It’s nothing special — just a few pictures I took of you on my phone while you weren’t looking and a life-size sculpture I made of you using garbage and gum I scraped out from under your desk.”

“Oh, that’s so gross!” Amy gasped. “Ew.”

I continued, “I can’t wait to show you my work of art. I know you’ll appreciate it. So it’s a date. Friday night. I’m going to blow your mind, Ryder. You have no idea. Love (because that’s what I am, in love with you), Amy.”

I sat back and admired my brilliant prose. Beside me, Amy was giggling, but she also looked a bit nervous.

“You can’t really send that, you know,” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s cool. I got it out of my system. But you’ve got to admit — it’s a pretty epic love letter.”

“Sure,” Amy said.

“I’m saving it,” I told her. “You’re going to want to look back on this one day when I’m some sort of famous poet … or criminal mastermind being hunted by the authorities. Whichever comes first. It’ll be worth something.”

I leaned forward and moved to click the SAVE button, but Amy’s elbow bumped mine by accident, and my hand slipped. Instead of SAVE, I clicked SEND.

“Uh-oh.”

Amy saw it at the same time I did. Her eyes went wide and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “What just happened?”

I clicked over to drafts, hoping to see the e-mail there, safe and sound. But no. “It sent,” I said.

“No, no, no!” Amy looked horrified. “Oh my God.”

“Well … he’ll never ask you out again?” I offered. “Ugh. I’m sorry. That really wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

“I know. I bumped you.” She bit at her pinkie nail. “This is awful. I can’t believe we sent that. It’s so mean and … There’s no way of, like, getting it back, right?”

“That’s not exactly how the Internet works.”

“Ugh.” She buried her face in her hands. “I hope he doesn’t read it.”

“He might not,” I said. “He might realize too late that asking you out was a mistake and he doesn’t have a chance in hell, so he won’t read the e-mail. He’ll save himself from the heartache. There’s actually a good chance of that.”

Amy looked skeptical.

“I’m serious,” I said.

But I was just saying that to make Amy feel better. I knew he’d read it. He’d be an idiot not to. I just hoped he didn’t forward it to anyone. If someone teased Amy about this, I’d never forgive myself.

I wasn’t convincing her, though. I could tell she felt awful, and I wished that I’d just wallowed earlier.

“I should send him an apology e-mail,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m the one who wrote the stupid thing. I’ll e-mail the apology.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” I would hate every second of it, but I’d do it for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m tired, too. Practically falling asleep as we speak.”

It wasn’t the last lie I’d tell that night.





I pretended to sleep until Amy started snoring. It really was astonishing that someone so adorable could make such a horrific noise. It was about ten times louder than her speaking voice, and it came from deep in her throat. Amy wasn’t usually a mouth-breather, but at night? Jesus.

It used to keep me up when we were little. We’d have sleepovers, and I’d stay up all night, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I got so used to the demon that possessed Amy’s body at night that it became a sort of rhythmic, guttural lullaby.