Even When You Lie to Me (25 page)

Every year on my birthday, my dad woke me up by bringing me cake in bed. After that my mother brought my presents in and I opened them amid the bedsheets, all of us still rumpled, with crumbs and paper spilling everywhere.

On my eighteenth birthday, I woke up to silence. I listened for the rattle of plates downstairs or the gush of water in the walls that meant my dad was using the sink, but all I could hear was the swish of an occasional car outside. I looked at Frida, who slid open one blue eye and thumped her tail, then sighed and closed her eye again.

“Loser,” I said. I lay back for a moment and looked at the ceiling. “This sucks.”

Frida huffed at me, then got up and pushed her wet nose into my arm.

“Come on, Frito,” I said. “Let’s find out what’s so important that they forgot my birthday.”

I peered into the hallway. My parents’ bedroom was at the end. The door was closed and the corridor looked gloomy; the only light came from the window in our shared bathroom.

My parents usually kept the door open a crack so Frida could wander in if she wanted. I knocked softly but there was no response. My mother sometimes went running in the morning, but if she did, she was usually in the shower by this time. She’d be late if she didn’t get up soon.

I decided to shower and get dressed and see if they’d get up on their own, but when I came out of my room again, their door was still closed. I was annoyed now: not only had they forgotten my birthday but I had to wake them up?

I knocked again, not loudly, because I wanted to punish them by standing over them as they slept. I wished I had a party blower to wake them up with. I cracked open the door. I could hear heavy breathing, but not the deep, regular breaths of sleep; these had a suspiciously jagged staccato rhythm. In that instant I knew that I should stop, that I should shut the door, but I didn’t. I let it swing open soundlessly, and I saw my parents on their bed, my mother naked, her body taut like a cable, her mouth red and wet and working, my father with his head in her lap, looking like a dog eagerly lapping up water. Looking debased.

“Oh,” I said before I realized I was going to say anything.

My mother’s head snapped toward me, and before she could look shocked, I saw the imprint of pleasure on her face, the flush on her cheeks, her frayed hair, the way her eyes still hadn’t quite focused and stared at some point in the distance I had never known.

“Charlotte,” she said. Her voice was husky.

I turned and stumbled downstairs, stopping only for my keys—and then I threw them down and found my mother’s bag and dug out her keys instead. I heard my father call, “Charlie, wait!”

“I’m late!” I called back. “But thanks for the great birthday present!”

I ran outside, hoping they were watching me from the window. My mother’s car was an Audi, an older model but still red and slick. I had never driven it. I wrenched open the door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was immaculate inside. I took a long time adjusting the seat and mirrors; then I sat there until I had stopped shaking. I had hoped my father would run after me and plead that I come back inside, but even though I waited and waited, he never did.

By midmorning my mother had called me twice and my dad had sent me several apologetic texts, promising to make it up to me that night. I ignored them both. I was desperate to see Drummond and let him make me feel better, but as soon as I got to class I could see he was distracted.

“Guys,” he said after we’d settled down, “I’m going to need you to split up into groups to analyze a poem today. I have to prepare for a teacher conference, but I’ll come around in a few minutes to check on how you’re doing.”

He didn’t make eye contact with me as he passed around the
photocopies—“The
Flea” by John Donne—and as soon as we were in groups, he started working amid a pile of books. Halfway through class Ms. Anders came in and they talked together for long minutes, quietly enough that we couldn’t hear but laughing loudly enough that we had to notice. The longer she stayed, the more annoyed I got.

“This poem is obscene,” Asha said.

“No, it’s not,” Dev said.

“ ‘It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee, / And in this flea our two bloods mingled be’? That’s gross.”

“I like it,” Dev said.

“You would,” Asha said.

“Harsh,” Dev said.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Ms. Anders finally left and Drummond came around to check on people.

“You like it, Dev?” I said.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “It’s kinda sweet in a way.”

“Isn’t he talking about how the flea biting them is like them having sex?”

“Yeah,” Dev said. His eyes darted from his desk to me and away again. “But he’s doing it to say how much he loves his girlfriend.”

“Or to guilt her into having sex,” I said.

“Well, uh, I guess wanting to have sex isn’t bad in itself,” he said. He was flushed now.

“How’s it going, guys?” Drummond said as he came up behind Asha and tapped her chair with a pen.

“Fine,” Asha said. “We think it’s dirty.”

“Dev likes it,” I said, making my voice lilt. I ignored Drummond and looked straight at Dev.

Dev looked up. When he saw me smiling at him, he smiled back and looked down again.

“So you think it’s about sex?” Drummond said.

“Of course it is,” I said, still looking at Dev. “He’s saying it’s not such a big deal, so why is she objecting so much?”

“He sounds like a date rapist to me,” Asha said.

“I’m sort of inclined to agree with Asha here,” Drummond said.

“I think he just likes her a lot,” Dev said.

“I think so too,” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” I held Dev’s gaze until he glanced away.

The bell rang, and Dev immediately stood and said goodbye to us. Drummond tapped his pen on the table. I looked up. He frowned and mouthed, “You okay?”

I nodded, and then I quickly got up and left. Lila caught me in the hallway.

“Hey,” she said, and I spun around, ready to snap. “Whoa. You okay?”

“I’d be better if people would stop asking,” I said.

She gave me a suspicious look and said, “Okay. Sorry. I was just going to ask if you wanted to come over after school. You can help set up if you want.”

“What— Oh, the party.”

“You’re not going to bail on your own birthday party, right?”

“No,” I said. “No, this is good. Yeah, I’ll come straight over.”

“All right,” she said. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fantastic,” I said.

Lila’s family lived in a gated neighborhood up the hill from ours, each generically imposing house more glittering and opulent than the one before. Lila’s house stretched out on the ridge of the hill like a cat sunning itself. When I pulled into the forecourt, Lila ran outside and bounced toward me.

“Happy birthday!” she said. “Sweet ride.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. I slammed the door. “On loan for my birthday.”

“Come inside,” she said. “Parents and sister have been expelled and we’re setting up.”

Jason barged out through the garage.
“Chuck!”
he bellowed. “Happy freaking birthday!”

Lila rolled her eyes. “Sorry. He raided the vodka. Watch out, he gets affectionate.”

He cantered toward us with the giddy expression of a dog who had slipped his collar. As he neared me I realized he wasn’t slowing down. I braced myself. When he reached me, he swept me up into a sideways hug and spun me around. I couldn’t help laughing. It felt good to let someone touch me, to be so bodily embraced.

“Jase,” Lila said, “have you thought that maybe Charlie doesn’t want to be swung around like a rag doll?”

He stopped spinning but he kept his arms wrapped around me. I relaxed against him. Something about his maleness, his willingness to touch me, filled me with happiness.

“Is this true, Charlie?” he asked.

“I’ll make a birthday exception,” I said.

“Ah, I knew you would,” he said, and kissed the top of my head.

“Sorry,” Lila said. “I can’t take him anywhere.”

“You love it,” he said.

“I tolerate it,” she said, but her mouth crooked into a smile. It struck me that they were happy. I gently loosened myself from Jason’s grip.

“So you’ve got alcohol?” I said.

Lila raised an eyebrow. “You’re drinking?”

“Seems like the right time to start,” I said.

By the time people arrived, Lila and Jason had given me something they called a screwdriver and we had been dancing wildly in the vaulted great room, which echoed with music, until we were sweaty and flushed and laughing. Drinking was much more pleasant than I had imagined: the alcohol tasted like paint-stripping fluid in my mouth, but it went down hot and the warmth lingered like coals glowing in my stomach.

I didn’t shy away when Jason started to grind on me and Lila. It started as a joke, but the more they drank, the farther they got from me and the closer they got to each other. At first I tried to get in between them, and then I started to look away when they whispered to each other and giggled and kissed, and then I retreated to the vast kitchen, panting and red as a rash, and waited to see if they’d notice.

Once the house started to fill up, I realized how few of the people I knew. They were mostly Jason and Lila’s friends, and though I felt warm and lubricious from the alcohol, the more people I saw, the more I wondered how much this party was really about me at all. I knew Lila had invited Asha and Dev, but they’d had a family party they couldn’t get out of. She hadn’t invited Katie or Frank or anyone else from our lit class. Who was I kidding, though? I wasn’t even friends with them. We were friendly—that grazing, noncommittal word—at best. Lila was all I had, and she was with him. I watched the throbbing mass of dancers from the edge of the room and saw that Lila and Jason had slipped into a corner and started making out. For a second the warmth in my stomach fanned into a hotter anger. Lila leaned into his ear and whispered something; he raised his eyebrows and she nodded. She took his hand and led him into the hallway.

I knew I shouldn’t follow them. I knew I would only regret it. But I did, and they went up to Lila’s bedroom suite, and I could hear giggling and then moaning and then I ran back downstairs. I grabbed the first drink I could find—someone had brought Pabst Blue Ribbon—and chugged it as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast at all. When I was finished, I stood in the corner of the great room again and looked at all the people dancing and thought about what it would be like if Drummond were there. Then I made myself stop. He wasn’t there and he wasn’t going to turn up and claim me and he wasn’t ever going to finish what he’d started that night in the hotel. He was gutless, and he didn’t give a shit about me.

I barged onto the patio. There was a couple making out by the pool, but otherwise it looked deserted. Except for Mike. He was hunched against a wall, looking intently at his phone.

“Oh, great,” I said. “You.” On his own, outside school, he looked smaller.

He looked up. I wasn’t sure what to expect when he recognized me—laughter, maybe, or scorn—but he seemed worried. “Uh,” he said, “hi.”

I realized I didn’t care what he thought of me anymore. He couldn’t scare me. “You realize this is
my
birthday party, right?”

“Yes,” he said. He held a red plastic cup in one hand and he looked around as if he wanted to set it down but couldn’t find a place for it.

“So why were you invited?”

“Uh,” he said. His face stuttered into a smile. He looked like a dog who knew he’d done something wrong. “Jason invited us, and Austin—”

“Austin?” I said. My head filled with anger. “Is he here?”

“No, he left. Said it was lame.”

“And you stayed? I thought you were his shadow.”

He laughed. It was high-pitched, like a balloon leaking air. “No shadows at night.”

I stared at him. “You made a joke. Not a very good one, but a joke.”

His eyebrows rose and he smiled as if he was embarrassed.

“Why would you come to my party?” I asked. “Did you just want to torture me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. He was still clutching his drink. He looked too nervous to take a sip.