Even When You Lie to Me (13 page)

I caught up with Asha on my way to lunch on Monday. “I’m sorry about Saturday,” I said once I was next to her.

Asha looked at me. “I’ll live,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about making you walk five miles home?”

“Ah, I called my mom and she picked me up.”

“Bet that was a fun conversation in the car,” I said.

“You mean when I told her I was trying to see my English teacher shirtless? Luckily she didn’t ask. I think she was glad I was out with other people.”

We stopped inside the cafeteria. “I just—I’m just really sorry about Lila,” I said. “She’s not usually like that. Well, she is, but…” I stopped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned; it was Drummond. Fear shut me up.

“Uh, bye,” Asha said. She moved off before I could say anything.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he said.

Oh great. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

He motioned me back into the hallway. He hadn’t acted different in class, but he hadn’t been especially friendly either. Now I was sure he knew. I imagined the various ways he could humiliate me and was only about halfway through when we got to his empty classroom.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said as he closed the door.

I sat on the edge of a table and let my legs swing. At least I’d be higher up than he was.

“So your mom contacted me,” he said. He sat down in front of me.

“About—wait, what about?”

“She said she wanted to know if the three of us could meet up to talk about internships.”

My breath gushed out. “Oh my God. I forgot about that.” Annoyance shot through me along with the relief: she’d called him already? Summer was so far away. I hated thinking about it.

He laughed. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“Uh, a little bit.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I just wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I called her.”

I was still reeling from the scare. “If what was okay with me?”

He looked at me quizzically. “You all right?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was ready for you to yell at me.”

“Never,” he said. “If I were trying to let you know that you’d disappointed me, I’d ignore you for a couple of weeks and hope you’d get the hint.”

“That works?”

“No, not at all,” he said. “People just assume you’re busy.” He crossed his arms loosely. I tried not to stare at his chest, but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like now if I’d seen him shirtless. I was suddenly glad I still had to imagine it. I didn’t want to know if he didn’t look good.

“If you don’t want me to meet your mom,” he said, “I certainly understand. I know it’ll only be a letdown for her, meeting me in the flesh after months of your incessant praise.”

I fought back a blush. “She wouldn’t be swayed by anything I said. I’m sorry she’s bothering you about this already.”

“She’s just trying to help,” he said. “I probably should have asked you this before, but have you thought about what you want to major in?”

I wanted to tell him I hadn’t thought much about the future since I’d met him. Deciding on a major seemed trivial now. “A little,” I said. “I like writing.”

“Have you applied anywhere yet?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But they don’t have a journalism program. I was thinking maybe creative writing, but I don’t—I don’t know, really.”

He reared his chair up so it was balanced on two legs. “Let’s pretend. It’s forty years from now. You’re looking back on your career. What were you doing?”

I thought about it for a second. “Writing a bestseller about Russian circus folk.”

He laughed. “You called it
The Plums of Europe.
”

“It sold ten thousand copies.”

“A hundred thousand. Mostly to English teachers.”

“The critics called it a rollicking journey full of luminous prose.”

“I bought it,” he said. “I read it seething with envy. How did you make those circus folk come alive like that? Especially One-Legged Vlad.”

“Ah, you were okay. You became an eminent visiting professor at NYU.”

“Well, I had insight into you that no one else did. I wrote an analysis of it called
Strange Fruit: Digesting
The Plums of Europe.”

We started laughing before he’d finished. He liked the story too, I could tell. It made me feel like we were intertwined, like he too imagined a future in which we still knew each other.

“Did that help at all?” he asked.

“What?” I said. “Lying to ourselves about how great our future’s going to be?”

“We weren’t lying,” he said. “We’re just imagining a possibility. Something to believe in. That’s all writing is: making sense out of chaos; giving random events narrative and purpose and meaning. That’s what you’ll be doing, right? So it’s good practice.”

“Sure, I guess,” I said. “I would like to write someday, if any publishers still exist by then.”

“They say dying industries are the most thrilling.”

“Do they?”

He shook his head. “No. No one says that.”

“At least having to live in a garret will give me material.” I sighed. “I think my mom’s just worried I’ll never leave home and get a job.”

“She has nothing to worry about on that front, I’m sure,” he said.

“Thanks, I think,” I said, looking down. “I won’t object if you want to talk to her. Just…be prepared.”

“I like a challenge,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with her and set it up.”

There was a silence, and I knew the conversation was over, but I didn’t want to leave yet. “It’ll be weird,” I said. “You meeting my mom.”

He looked amused. “Why’s that? Am I the embarrassment or is she?”

“A little of both,” I said.

“I’ll try not to break wind or visibly bleed for an hour,” he said. “That’s the best I can promise you.”

I laughed a little too hard, giddy that he was trying to entertain me. “I can’t say the same for her.”

“I’ve known you long enough that I’m prepared for anything,” he said, and laughed when I scowled at him. “I’m sure she’s lovely and most likely not a huge, unrepentant racist,” he added.

“So you’ll call her? And actually speak to her on the phone?”

“Is she mute?”

“No, it’s just…”

“Weird, I know.”

“Yeah.” I got up. “All right, I’m really leaving this time.”

“I’ll believe you when you’re gone,” he said.

The afternoon of our meeting, I paced Drummond’s classroom while we waited for my mother to arrive.

“You look like you need a cigarette,” he said.

“I don’t smoke,” I said. “Though this seems like an excellent time to start. You have any?”

“Not anymore.” He looked annoyingly relaxed. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt that was open at the top, and he had his hands in his pockets like he was chatting with someone at a barbecue.

“You used to smoke?”

“Why does everyone laugh when I say that? It was just for a year in college.”

“I don’t know, maybe because of your impeccable fashion sense?”

For a moment he looked genuinely hurt. “I like this shirt.”

I stopped pacing and laughed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.” I liked it too. It was one of my favorites, in fact. He looked outdoorsy in it, as if he spent his weekends chopping wood. And he always rolled the sleeves up in a way that seemed to invite me to slip my hands inside them.

“You get mean when you’re nervous,” he said.

Even though it was perfectly obvious I was nervous, I was still pleased that he’d noticed. “Does it help if I say you look like an off-duty Brawny paper towel man?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Sorry I’m late,” my mother said from the doorway. I knew she’d hurried because she always hurried, but she looked immaculate. She held her bag in one arm as if it were a carefully wrapped present she was afraid of damaging.

Drummond sat up when he saw her, as if she were the teacher and he were the anxious parent. “Hi, Mrs. Porter,” he said as he shook her hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Oh, please, call me Julia,” she said.

“Tom,” he said, glancing briefly at me.

They both found seats in a way that was so awkward and polite that I nearly had to turn away in embarrassment. I slouched next to my mother and tried to catch Drummond’s eye, but he didn’t look at me.

“As you know,” my mother said, “I wanted to have this meeting to see if you had any ideas about internships for Charlotte.” So she’d be taking control. I stared at the ceiling so I wouldn’t roll my eyes. There was a water stain up there that I’d never noticed. I couldn’t find any shape in it other than a blob.
Blob,
I thought, and nearly started laughing.

“Well,” he said, “I know Charlie had a few ideas already, and I’m happy to help you look for some more places. I know a couple of journalists, and I can get in touch with them and see if they have any openings this summer. I also know a few creative writing programs if she’d rather go in that direction.”

“That would be perfect, thank you,” my mother said. “I just want her to get some experience and see if writing is something she really wants to do. The creative writing is maybe a
bit…Journalism’s
a little safer, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “But it’s good to get experience in both.”

“I work on the paper here,” I said, to remind them I was still in the room. I was careful not to let the petulance I felt creep into my tone.

“I know you do, honey,” she said. She patted my leg. “But it’s different working at a professional paper.” She looked at Drummond for backup.

“It is,” he said. “They actually put out issues, for one thing.”

Her mouth sagged open. “Oh, I didn’t realize you hadn’t finished any issues yet. I was wondering when I could read one of Charlie’s articles.”

“Technical problems,” he said. “By which I mean none of us understand computer software. But it’ll be worth the wait.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said.

They both looked at me. “What?” I said.

They laughed like they were sharing a private joke. Drummond turned back to my mother and said, “I’ll get on that soon. Summer internships fill up fast.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It was bad enough in my day, but it’s gotten ridiculous now. You should’ve had Charlie studying Latin in kindergarten.”

“You couldn’t have gone to college that long ago,” she said as if there was no way he could be telling the truth.

“Ah, it was longer than I care to remember,” he said.

She chuckled throatily. “I doubt that,” she said. I hit her leg and she shot me a look like grim death. Then she straightened her jacket and ran her hand through her hair. “So the other thing I wanted to ask about was scholarships. Charlie applied early to Oberlin, but—”

“You applied to Oberlin?” he said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Yeah,” I said, pleased I had his attention. “I thought I’d told you.”

“No,” he said. “I would’ve remembered a hippie college like that.”

“Where’d you go, then?”

“Will you believe me if I say Oberlin?”

“No you didn’t.”

“I’ve got the Phish ticket stubs and the enormous student loans to prove it.”

“Well,” I said. “Did you like it? Do you think I’ll like it?”

“You’ll love it,” he said. “You couldn’t be a better fit.”

“That’s good to hear,” my mother said. She was watching us with an expression I couldn’t read.

“Sorry, Julia,” Drummond said. I tried not to smirk when he used her first name. “I interrupted you.”

“Oh,” she said as she looked at me. “I was just going to say that even though Charlie applied early to Oberlin—and we hope she’ll get in—”

I rolled my eyes this time.

“—we’ll most likely need to rely on some scholarship money. And while her humanities grades are great, her math scores are…” She trailed off as if to mention them would be like telling him an embarrassing family secret. “Let’s just say that in math, she takes after her dad.”

“Math is overrated,” he said to me. “Where has it ever gotten us? What’s your dad do?”

“He’s an artist,” I said.

“We don’t know where the writing came from,” she said. “Neither of us is any good with words.”

“Maybe the milkman,” I said cheerfully.

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “The sense of humor comes from her father. I don’t take any responsibility for that.”

Drummond laughed. “Nor should you. Anyway, that shouldn’t be a problem. There are plenty of scholarships that reward ability in a particular subject.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” my mother said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You know I think you’re a great writer,” she said. “And Mr. Drummond clearly thinks so too.” She looked at him
conspiratorially,
like it was their
accomplishment,
not mine.

“Clearly,” he said. “I’d be happy to go over applications with you, Charlie, but I don’t think you need it.” He turned to my mother. “She’ll be fine on her own.”

“I hope she will,” she said.

I shot her a glance.

“Thank you for this,” she said finally. “Charlie’s our only child and we tend to be a little
overprotective.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he said.

“So she’s doing all right?”

“Mom!” I said.

Drummond laughed. “She scrapes by.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

“That was weird,” I said, clutching the handle above the passenger-side window.

“I thought it went well,” my mother said. Her voice went up like I’d hurt her feelings.

“No, it was fine,” I said as she started the car. “Just strange having you guys in the same room.”

She looked straight ahead. “Did I embarrass you?”

I paused and then said, “You were both acting different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just different.”

She was quiet as we approached a red light. After we’d been idling for a moment, she said, “I had a lot of crushes on teachers when I was your age.”

My heart knocked and I tried to laugh. “You?”

“Mm-hm,” she said. “I preferred them to high school boys. They always seemed so young and immature.”

“I guess,” I said. Was I that easy to figure out?

“And it was safe,” she said after a silence. “I was afraid of boys and I knew nothing would ever happen with a teacher. I knew I wouldn’t have to deal with having a real relationship.”

I wasn’t sure whether to take the bait. “Mom, are you possibly trying to imply something?”

She glanced at me and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I’m just saying I understand.”

“What’s to understand?”

“All right, pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about if you want.”

“I’m not pretending!” I said. “You seem to think I have a crush on my teacher, which is both illegal and gross.”

“It’s not
illegal,
” she said. “Well, for him it would be, but that’s not really…”

“He’s not—this is not—”

“Charlie, calm down, please. Look, I can see why. He’s funny, he’s young, he’s cute—”

“
Mom!
Please stop talking.”

“It’s normal! I was trying to…” She trailed off. “Never mind.”

She thwacked on the blinker and took the turn too fast. I braced myself against the door. I looked out the window toward the park, where two girls were chasing each other and screaming with laughter.

“Thank you for trying
to…understand,”
I said finally, “but I honestly don’t have a crush on him. He’s nice and I like him, but I don’t have, I don’t know,
feelings
for him.”

“Okay,” she said. “I won’t bring it up again.”

Then I felt guilty. But how dare she intrude on me and pretend to know how I felt? She knew I was lying, but there was no way I could admit that I did have a crush on him, no matter how obvious it was to both of us.

“Sorry I snapped,” I said.

“I’m sorry too,” she said.

We rode in silence for a few minutes.

“Can we get some ice cream?” I asked.

She laughed. “I suppose.”