Little Black Lies (20 page)

Here sits the former model student and one-time valedictorian hopeful at her desk with a stolen calculus exam stuffed up the vest of her hastily assembled uniform. As I was pulling the test out of the file, I was relieved to see two more copies because there was no way I was going to be able to photocopy this and get it back into the drawer without detection. Will anybody miss one exam out of three? I have no idea. But leaving two behind has to be a whole lot less suspicious than leaving none. My next problem is how to get the exam to Isabella without raising any questions from Sloane or Carling. I lean forward over my desk—directly behind the three of them—and whisper, “I have to pee.”

Isabella snorts. “Thanks for the internal update. Just don't do it in a South American river.”

I say nothing until Carling turns around, then I reach out to Isabella's chair with my foot and give it a gentle nudge. She doesn't turn right away. First she makes sure the others aren't looking, then glances in my direction. I pat my vest and nod, then put up my hand.

“Yes, Sara,” says Mr. Curtis from the blackboard.

“May I go to the restroom?”

“Go ahead. But be quick, we're going to be covering polynomials in a few minutes.”

Isabella raises her hand. “Can I go too? I don't want to miss a minute of the polynomial discussion.”

He plants one chalky hand on his waist and tilts his head. “The perfect loophole to my one-at-a-time rule. Well timed and well executed, Miss Latini.”

“Thank you,” she says, unfolding herself and following me out of the class.

We lock ourselves into the handicapped stall and I pull out the exam. All the answers are right there in red ink. She starts to take it from me, but I don't release it immediately. This is it. My last crime.

“Give it,” she says.

“We'll be even with this, Isabella. Do you swear?”

“Yes. Even.”

“This means everything is as it was, right?”

“Right.” She tugs on it, stronger than she looks, but I hold tight.

“And no one is to know where you got the test. I don't want my father implicated in any way. Not ever.”

She rips it from my hand and backs away, stuffing it into her waistband and heading for the door. “Don't get tough with me, London. I'll win every time.”

Knowing full well I could snap that spindly neck like a fresh carrot, I walk away.

Brice Burnack's new Broadway musical opened on the weekend. Not only was the theater half-empty, but the scalpers—the ones with the uncanny, near-canine ability to sniff out a play's success—got stuck with the tickets they'd gobbled up. And it seems even the critics felt invincible enough to defy Brice's finely sharpened claws and fiery hair. While reviewers applauded the lead actors' performances, calling them “brilliant” and “hauntingly soulful,” they ripped Brice's music score into finely ground tiger meal. The
New York Times
said the musical “might better have been sung by muppets.”
USA Today
suggested it might be “adopted by nursery schools across the country as perfect music for pulling on rain boots.”

According to Brice they were too simple-minded to see the irony in his work.

Carling hasn't been seen without a mouthful of antacids all week. Unfocused and rumored to have been caught smoking in the girls' locker room at recess, she has taken to wearing Isabella as a coat of armor. Not that Isabella minds.

There isn't the tiniest part of me that wants to be at Carling's house after school. Not a fingernail, an eyelash, or a pore. With people like these, at a time like this, anything could happen. Brice himself might open the door, Carling might jump off the roof, and Isabella might find herself permanently glued to Carling's skin. Again, not that she'd mind. But there's a certain wisdom in keeping your enemies close, and I'm afraid to let Isabella Latini out of my sight.

No sign of Brice, the throbbing tiger, when the door swings open. It's Gracie herself. From the look of things I can only assume that their housekeeper, whatever her real name was, has quit. The floor is unswept, there's a stack of unopened mail spilling off the hall table, and a basket overflowing with laundry sits at the bottom of the stairs. Gracie, her hair unstyled, dressed in sweatpants she might have slept in, tries to smile. “The girls are in the basement.”

Music thumps from the rec room speakers and Carling, Isabella, and Sloane are at the bar; Isabella on a barstool in a spa-like white robe and Sloane bent over doing Izzy's toes. Carling is behind the bar—wearing my mother's sweater—stuffing things into the blender and looking happier than she has in days.

Carling grins as I enter. “London. It's Pamper Isabella Day. Grab a pumice stone and start filing the girl's bunions.”

“You don't
file
bunions, you cow,” says Isabella, adoring all the attention. “A bunion is a swollen bursal sac with an osseous deformity at the mesophalangeal joint.”

“Stay still,” says Sloane. “You're messing up your pedi.”

I sit down and watch Carling pour frozen berries into the machine. “Carling, when am I going to get my sweater back?”

“You're too uptight, London. I'm not keeping it.” But she makes no move to take it off.

I know why everyone is treating Isabella like the queen, but have to ask, “What's the occasion?”

“Izzers just got me into med school,” Carling says with a happy squeak. “She stole Curtis's math test for me, and I decided she deserves some juice.”

Isabella stares at me. “If only Carling knew what things I do for her when she's not around.”

My heart thumps in my throat.

“That's the best kind of friend to have,” says Carling. “One who's working for me—Round. The. Clock.”

“Can you believe I did that?” Isabella looks at me. “Next I might start telling outrageous lies about myself. I might even start telling people
I'm
from London. Wouldn't that be fun?”

“A riot,” I say without taking my eyes off her.

She continues. “How about you, Sloaney? If you could suddenly be from anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

Sloane sips from a small bottle of sparkling water and thinks a moment. Then says, “Italy. But only because of the accent and the hot guys.”

“But some people can drop their accents just like that,” says Isabella, snapping her fingers. “Like London.”

“I told you, I wasn't born there,” I say, wanting to slap her.

“Still,” she says, “you'd think you would have picked up the accent in all your years of going to British schools, riding in British limos, fraternizing with the Royals …”

“I never said I knew the Royals.”

Isabella says, “Don't some of the Royals have weird obsessions? I wonder if you know anyone weird, London. Anyone with strange quirks who calls attention to himself in crazy ways? Maybe even someone who can't stop—”

“Can I see it?” I blurt out.

“What?” asks Carling, pushing the juice across the counter to Isabella.

“The stolen test. Show me, I want to know what's on it.”

Carling roots through her backpack behind the bar. She starts out slowly, then starts pulling out pencil case, binder, Tums bottle in a panic. “Oh my God. It's not here!”

“What isn't?” asks Isabella.

“My little purse.” Her nostrils flare and her chest starts heaving. “I must have left it on the floor by my locker. I pulled it out of my backpack because I couldn't find my lipstick. I must have forgotten to put it back!”

“So you lost your Prada bag,” says Sloane, sticking her finger into Isabella's juice. “Don't be so dramatic. You can get another in, like, a couple of days. And I'll hook you up with a new fake ID.”

“The test was inside my purse. If anyone finds it and opens it up …”

Sloane looks up. “You're dead.”

Ever since I got home about an hour ago, I've been in and out of the bathroom three times, certain I'm going to throw up. We went to the school and found no sign of Carling's purse, no sign of the stolen test. And Isabella made one thing clear to me as I left: if Carling gets caught, she's turning me in.

I'm leaning against the sink when Dad pokes his head in. “You don't look so well. Are you sick?”

“No. I don't know. Probably just tired.”

“Would you like a sandwich? I'm making one for myself. We have the lean turkey you always ask for, and mayonnaise.”

“Please. No food.”

“Why were you so late getting home?”

“I went back to school to help a friend look for her purse. But we couldn't find it. Some kid probably took it home.” The image of Isabella whispering in Mr. Oosterhouse's ear while pointing at me fills the air above my head and my stomach lurches. “It was a pretty expensive bag.”

“Was it brown? Canvas and leather with a logo on one side?”

I look up. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“I found a brown purse on the floor beneath a row of lockers. I didn't want to invade the owner's privacy by looking inside.”

“Seriously? I'll call her and tell her we have it.”

He turns away and starts padding down the hall, scratching himself. “It's not here. I left it with the principal.”

While every parent is unique and will psychologically damage his kid in his own special way, most fall into three fairly recognizable categories when faced with the trauma of being called into the office because their child messed up.

First there are the Hand Wringers. They could be dressed in anything from socks with sandals to a power suit, but they have one common trait: they all bought the parenting book that said you should never say no to your toddler. Other parents read this book too, but the Hand Wringers were the idiots who fell for it. These parents are flimsy and unsure of themselves and have that scared-rabbit look in their eyes because their kids now have all the power. After being invited to the office and informed little Ocean or December told the teacher to go bite herself, the Hand Wringer will wonder where he went wrong and ultimately forgive the child for her failure.

Next are the Egalitarians. These guys don't take their teenagers' bad choices personally, they just accept the bad news and move forward. Upon hearing their high-school senior skipped thirteen out of twenty days of school to stay home and play World of Warcraft, they might be inwardly worried they've raised a resident of an alternate universe, but know that saying it out loud will result in a broken kid who will never have the self-esteem to pack up his warlord fantasies and move out of the house. Instead they keep their yaps shut, start planning to retire to a one-bedroom condo one day, and confiscate Ronan's cell phone for two weeks. Not that anybody calls.

The most volatile is the Bottled Inferno. This is the parent who, while sitting across from the principal, nods and grunts and makes all the appropriate concerned-parent sounds. What the principal can't see from behind his or her desk is that the parent is gripping the arms of his chair so hard they have fused with his flesh. Other telltale signs are nostrils tensed into flared triangles and pupils that swirl with tiny tornados. The Bottled Inferno will be fairly silent during the school meeting, but you just know he'll blow once those car doors are firmly shut.

Brice Burnack is a Bottled Inferno.

Mr. Oosterhouse's door is cracked open just enough for me to see—as I drop off Mr. Curtis's attendance sheet the next morning—the Burnack family sitting across from the big desk. I can't see all of Gracie, only her slender legs, crossed at the ankle, but I can see Carling and her dad. Carling, sitting in the big leather chair between her parents, looks about twelve years old. As if she's gone back in time. Probably wishes she could. And Brice. Brice smoldering—dark, red, and ashy—in the corner.

I shift myself closer to the door and try to hear snippets of what Mr. Oosterhouse is saying.

“… which is why I move that we deal with this incident in the same way we've dealt with your daughter's other infractions.” I peek inside to see the principal reach for a stack of papers. The phones are ringing like mad in the office behind me, so I press my ear closer to the door to hear him explain, “Here are the architect's plans for the new music wing. Very detailed, as you'll see…”

Brice shifts forward in his seat, looking sick.

The principal is speaking again. “… of course, and we would hold an elaborate naming ceremony for the new
Brice Burnack Music Wing
.”

Brice's hair practically starts sparking and smoking as he shoots a look of incandescent fury at his daughter. He drops his head into his hands and rubs his temples hard. When he looks up again, his face has lost its charred toughness. “I can't do it this time,” he says eventually. “I just don't have the cash.”

“Brice, don't,” says Gracie. “It's nobody's business.”

Someone sidles up beside me. Sloane holds up a brown envelope. “For Mrs. Pelletier. Curtis tried to stop you, but you'd already gone.” She peeks inside Oosterhouse's office and whispers, “This is not going to go down well. Especially after Bricey's just had his creative genius mocked in every major publication in America. If there's one thing Mr. Burnack hates, it's public humiliation. And Carling's just given him a ton.”

Suddenly the principal's door bangs shut, nearly taking off the tip of my nose. Mrs. Pelletier, her hair pulled back more severely than usual, her glasses shelved on her bosom, takes our shoulders, spins us around, and propels us toward the hallway. “That'll be enough snooping, girls. Off you go, back to class before you get yourselves into just as much trouble as your friend.”

It's pathetic how, after all I've seen of Carling, after all I know, I still get a little thrill from being referred to as her friend.

At the end of math class, we find Carling waiting in the hall. She motions for us to follow her into the closest restroom, and once inside, Sloane checks that all stalls are empty before sliding both metal trash cans in front of the door. They won't exactly stop anyone from barging in, but we'll hear them coming long enough in advance to stop talking.

“We only have a few minutes,” says Carling, her face gaunt and pale. “My parents are waiting for me in the car.”

“What happened?” asks Isabella. “Am I dead?”

“No way,” Carling says. “I went down alone.”

“Seriously?” I ask, relieved beyond belief that this won't be traced back to Charlie's keys. And his daughter.

“Are we going to see a Brice Burnack plaque on a wall somewhere tomorrow morning?” asks Sloane. “Or will they wait until after the renovations to christen it?”

Carling turns on the tap and splashes cold water on her face. Her hair falls into the water and she stands up with wet strands clinging to her face like leeches. “Brice offered big bucks, believe me. But Oosterhouse is being a total moron. He said to go home for today until the school decides what to do with me.”

Brice offered big bucks? Not quite what I heard.

“Hey, just as long as I'm not expelled.” Carling pulls a few paper towels from the dispenser and turns around, blotting her face dry. “You should have heard Oosterhouse. He was all, ‘This isn't like you,
Carling
. We'd like to think our students can ask for help,
Carling
. You might want to consider dropping down to Applied Math,
Carling
.'”

“What an arrogant ass,” says Isabella.

“I'm so pissed at the guy who ratted me out. That new janitor, Crazy Charlie. He found the purse and turned it in to the office. Crap for brains. Probably looked inside, saw the test, and figured he'd take me down. Ladies, it's time for punishment.”

“No,” I say too loudly. Sloane and Carling look at me, surprised. Isabella just folds her arms and waits. “Why would … Charlie look in your purse? He probably thought he was doing you a favor by giving it to someone in charge.”

“He knew it was mine. My name was inside. Besides, he's hated me for weeks. One time I grabbed the stair rail to stop myself from falling and he came up behind me and cleaned the spot I touched. Like it was contaminated. From me. I can't
stand
that prick. I swear to God, if it's the last thing we do, we're taking him down.”

I'm alone in the bathroom. Carling left school with her seething parents and the other two went to class. But I haven't yet regained the ability to move my feet. As I stare at my traitorous face in the mirror, my hands start to shake. This is all my fault. Charlie meant no harm. The man would rather ingest a shovelful of dirt than hurt another person. He's no match for Carling. She's volatile, capable of anything. Especially with Brice's doubly scorned ego licking her heels.

It's going to take a distraction. If she can get focused elsewhere, my father may recede to some forgotten, cobwebby part of her demented mind. I need to give her something so ultimate, so irresistible, so hurricane-huge that she disappears into it and gets too dizzy to breathe.

There's only one thing I know that can do that to a girl. Leo Reiser's kiss. As much as it will kill me, I have to step aside. To keep my father safe from Carling's twisted mind, I have to make Leo see her as desirable again.

Pushing through the swinging door, books balanced on my hip, I walk straight into Griff and Leo, scattering all our belongings across the speckled floor. “Don't say it,” I say as they squat down to scoop up the aftermath. “It's too pathetic at this point.”

Leo hands me my books. “Hey, I wasn't brought up to argue with cute girls.”

Griff huffs. “You weren't raised to do anything with cute girls. Me, on the other hand …”

“Bye, Griff,” says Leo, taking his mini-friend by the shoulder and guiding him away from us and toward the flow of students. “Your work here is done.” As he watches Griff feign death and stagger off, Leo twists his mouth to one side in amusement. His upper lip is smudged with the stubble of a recently shaved mustache, leaving behind a stinging red nick. It takes everything I have not to reach up and wipe away the dried blood. The thought of touching him again sends currents of static through my veins.

“I was hoping to bump into you,” he says. “Not literally. I do have my rugby arm to consider.”

Please ask about Carling. And I'll say she's had a rough morning. That you should call her. See her. Forgive her.

“I was wondering,” he continues with a bashful look in his eyes, “if you want to go to a movie with me Sunday afternoon.”

For some crazy reason, the framed photo of me and Dad that sits on my desk at home pops into my mind. It was taken at my old school. Dad was in his far less lame Finmory custodian uniform and we were arm in arm on the steps of the school. His hand was resting on my shoulder, his knuckles soft, pink, unchapped.

Say no to Leo. You started this deranged situation for your father by lying about who he was instead of encouraging kids to get to know him. It's all your doing; now undo it. Tell Leo that Carling needs him. Tell him she's hurt. That she loves him.

Against my will, my lips curl back in a smile and I hear my voice saying, “I'd love to.”