Lying Out Loud(8)

Not tonight, though. Tonight I was wide-awake.

Slowly, I crawled across the huge bed and climbed over Amy. She kept snoring. Once she started, there was no stopping her until someone shook her awake the next morning. She took being a heavy sleeper to a whole new level.

Even so, I found myself tiptoeing across the carpet toward her desk. I picked up her laptop and slipped out the door and down the hall.

The Rushes’ house was ridiculous. Three floors, giant bathrooms, ginormous walk-in closets — Wesley’s room even had a freaking balcony. But my favorite, favorite room in the Rush house was the recreation room. It was just down the hall from Amy’s room, and it was every teenager’s dream. There was a pool table; huge, comfy couches; and, as of Amy’s seventeenth birthday, an old-fashioned pinball machine. But the best part was, hardly anyone knew it was here.

I’d been to a few parties at the Rush house — usually thrown by Wesley when he was home from college — and no one ever seemed to find this room. With the door shut, it was easy to mistake it for just another bedroom. Which made it the perfect little hideaway when you wanted a break from the rowdy youths. Or, you know, when you wanted to make out.

The only time I’d ever found the rec room occupied during a party was this year, on the Fourth of July, when I caught Casey Blythe, a former Hamilton High cheerleader, sucking face with her boyfriend, this nerdy kid named Toby Tucker. But Casey was best friends with Wesley’s girlfriend, so she had inside intel on where all the best places to fool around in the Rush house were.

Other than that little incident, no one ever seemed to come into the rec room besides me and Amy. We hung out in here sometimes, when we didn’t have homework to do. I’d play a game of pool against myself while Amy utterly destroyed on the pinball machine.

Tonight, though, it was just me. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo game of pool, so instead I got cozy on one of the couches and propped open Amy’s laptop. I had a paper due in English, and I figured I might as well get started on it while the productivity booster known as insomnia stuck around.

I’d just opened a new Word document when I heard a small ping and frowned. Then there was a second ping. The same sound, but somehow more insistent.

I hadn’t realized an Internet window was even open, but when I clicked around for a second, I discovered I had an instant message on my e-mail server.

From Ryder Cross.

RYDER: I know I’m not the most well-liked guy right now, but that e-mail really wasn’t necessary.

RYDER: I was putting myself out there, and I don’t appreciate you and your friend (I know you didn’t work alone) mocking me.



I shrank back into the cushions, shame writhing in my gut. I didn’t give a shit if I was a jerk to Ryder, but I hated that he thought Amy had been part of it. I mean, she had, but not willingly. Neither of us had actually wanted to send that e-mail.

I sighed and, since I promised Amy I’d apologize to him, started to write back.

ME: I know. I’m sorry. We got carried away. It’s not an excuse, but I had a shitty day and I took it out on you. We really never meant to hit send. I’m sorry.



A second later, he responded.

RYDER: I accept and appreciate your apology.

RYDER: I’m sorry about your bad day.

ME: Thanks.



I opened my Word doc again, thinking that was the end of it, but barely two minutes later, there was another ping and I groaned.

“Damn it, Ryder. I already apologized. What more do you want from me?”

But when I saw his instant message, I couldn’t help but smile a little.

RYDER: I know this is random, particularly since we’re not in the same class, but you have Mrs. Perkins for English, right? Have you written the paper on Julius Caesar yet?

ME: Funny. I was literally about to start on that. I know. I’ve procrastinated.



And then, because I couldn’t help myself:

ME: I bet the kids back at your school in DC weren’t so irresponsible.

RYDER: Ha-ha. I know. I bring up my old school too much. Is it that annoying?

ME: Yes.

ME: Incredibly.

RYDER: Sorry.

RYDER: But, if it helps, whether the kids in my old school procrastinate or not, I do. At least with English.

RYDER: Especially with Shakespeare.

ME: Not a fan of the bard?

RYDER: I wouldn’t say I’m not a fan. But I am not the best with iambic pentameter. Every word of dialogue goes right over my head.

ME: Alert the press! Ryder Cross just admitted he’s not perfect at something. Quick, has hell frozen over?

RYDER: Never mind. Forget I said anything.

ME: I suck with Shakespeare, too.

RYDER: Yeah?

ME: Yeah.



It was true. I was the most miserable translator to have ever touched the work of Sir William. Last year, when we were studying Macbeth, I got so lost trying to understand it that at one point I threw my book across Amy’s bedroom and swore I’d never go to school again. “Who needs English?” I’d asked her. “I’ll be a mime. I’ll join the circus. Screw my education!”

Lucky for me, Amy is excellent at deciphering Shakespeare’s long monologues, and she taught me a trick — it all starts making sense if you hear it. Seeing the words on the page is too much, too difficult to find the rhythm, but if you hear it, it becomes clearer. And lucky for me, Amy, who would make a brilliant thespian if she weren’t so painfully shy, was willing to read to me.