The Secret to Lying (26 page)

I’d crossed the line between acting strange and actually being strange.

Over the next week, I began to realize that it wasn’t just with Dickie and Heinous that things had changed. In the hallways between classes, people literally looked away if I glanced at them, and when I entered a room, a low hiss of whispers would snuff out, as though people had been talking about how I’d tried to kill myself, or how I thought I was a bird, or whatever the latest theory was. I’d become a popular subject of discussion, which was a far cry from being popular.

At Chuck’s suggestion, I started running every day to blow off some steam. I kept to a strict schedule:

Wake at 6:30.

Shower.

Brush teeth.

Eat breakfast.

Attend classes.

Meet with Chuck (if a Chuck day).

More classes.

Return to my dorm.

Brush teeth.

Go for a run.

Do homework.

Eat dinner.

Brush teeth.

More homework.

Brush teeth.

Lights out.

Bed.

The schedule helped me keep things on an even keel. As long as I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing, I didn’t have time to get restless and mess up. Any free time I filled with brushing my teeth so I stayed minty fresh and in control.

Still, all work and no play made James a dull boy. Or rather, a very isolated, lonely boy. There were days when I barely spoke. I didn’t even dream anymore — at least, not dreams that I remembered. In a way, it reminded me of how things had been at my old school. The main difference was that in the past, no one had bothered to talk with me because I was Mr. Invisible, the guy who didn’t get an
H,
and now no one talked with me because I was Mr. Unstable, the guy who had jumped out a window.

More than ever, I missed ghost44, but every time I found her online, my messages were blocked.

Spring break came, which meant I had to go home. I survived the first few days holed up inside, watching TV and listening to music. Dad had to work, leaving Moms and me to avoid each other. She tried enticing me to go shopping again, only I’d learned my lesson from last time. I opted to stay on the couch and channel surf instead while she went out.

I watched so much TV, it was like I was an alien studying humanity through its broadcasts. Even lame “reality” shows about spring break fascinated me — all these greased-up Kens and Barbies laughing and dancing on the beach as if they couldn’t imagine anything more fun. The kids on TV were supposed to be around my age, but none of them seemed remotely like me. I pictured myself strolling through the golden masses in my sport coat and ripped jeans, my purple hair spiked into a messy tangle. If I’d shown up at the beach, they probably would have kicked me off.

The more I watched, the lonelier I got. At the beginning of the year, I’d wanted so badly to stand out, only now that I actually did stand out, I wanted to fit in — but I couldn’t figure out how to do it. I couldn’t even tell what was normal anymore. I suppose the teens on TV were meant to represent “normal” people, yet they weren’t really normal at all. They were just what normal people were supposed to aspire to be — guys with buff chests and square jaws, and girls with perfect bodies, clear skin, and stylish hair. I’d never even met anyone who looked like them. Except Ellie.

If Ellie had strolled onto the
Spring Break Beach Party
set in a bikini, girls would have crumbled with envy and guys would have fallen all over themselves to talk with her. None of them would have gotten her, though. They wouldn’t have understood when she talked about quantum mechanics, or the life of Emily Dickinson. They didn’t know what
syzygy
meant.

Moms kept shopping, and I kept watching TV. Every day she came home with different tile samples and paint shades to redecorate the kitchen with. “I’m going for a Mediterranean look,” she said. Then she grilled Dad and me on our opinions of various colors.

I tried to play along, yet I had trouble taking it seriously. Whatever color she chose to paint the walls, it wouldn’t last. Moms changed the kitchen at least once a year. I used to think she did this to show off her “sophisticated sense of taste and style,” but since the hearing I saw her differently. I even felt a little sad for her, because I knew that no matter what borders she used or how she tiled the backsplash, our kitchen would never be the kitchen she wanted.

Dad drove me to school Sunday night. He didn’t talk much on the drive — not until we exited the highway and the lights of ASMA’s campus glimmered above the cornfields.

“Are you ready to go back?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“It was good having you home for a week. I hope you got some rest.”

“I did.”

He nodded and turned onto the road that went behind the dorms. I peered out my window, searching the square for friends.

“You know, James,” he said, after a moment. “You and your mom are a lot alike.”

I scoffed, but he didn’t appear to notice.

“Both of you are dreamers,” he continued. “You always want something better out of life. Bigger and better. The problem is, you don’t see what you already have.”

DICKIE WADED THROUGH A FLOOD
of Styrofoam packing peanuts to help me with my bags. “Welcome back,” he said.

I stared at the drifts of Styrofoam that covered our floor. “I love what you’ve done to the place.”

“Courtesy of the Steves,” he explained. “It was like this when I arrived half an hour ago.”

Styrofoam peanuts squeaked beneath my shoes and clung to my legs as I shuffled to my bed. “Home, sweet home,” I quipped.

We spent an hour picking up Styrofoam. Dickie acted like it was a huge pain in the ass, but I didn’t mind. We chucked Styrofoam at each other until it speckled our hair and stuck to our faces. For a while, it was almost like old times, then Dickie noticed Styrofoam all over the tux he’d brought back for the Spring Fling and he freaked.

“Craptastic,” he said, shaking the white crumbs off the inside of the garment bag. The more he tried to brush it clean, the more staticky it became.

“So you’re taking Sunny to the Fling?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.” He tore off the garment bag and shook out the tux.

“What do you plan on doing?”

“Nothing fancy.” Styrofoam peppered the black lapels.

“Are you going to a restaurant?”

Dickie nodded. “Some Italian place. Heinous’s dad hired a limo to take us —”

“Hold up,” I interrupted. “Heinous has a date?”

“Dude, where’ve you been? Vanessa Drevadi and him are joined at the hip.”

“Wow. The pigs are flying.”

“Anyhow,” Dickie continued, “Amber Lane is having a party, so we might leave the dance early and go there. Her parents are out of town. She lives in this mansion with an indoor pool, and she’s letting people stay the night.”

“A pool, eh? Sounds fun.”

That was the signal for Dickie to invite me along.
There’s always room for one more,
he could say.
Amber wouldn’t care. We’ve rented a limo, for Christ’s sake, so you have to come. The Three Amigos ride again!

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he pulled the garment bag back over the tux and kicked some remaining Styrofoam peanuts under the bed. “It’ll probably be lame,” he muttered. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. I mean, you’re not going to the Fling, are you?”

“Bloody hell,” I said, forcing a British accent. “Could you picture me in a flippin’ tux?”

Dickie grinned. “I doubt the DJ would play any Sex Pistols.”

“No one respects the classics.”

“I mean, what would Sid Vicious do?”

“Probably vomit on the chaperones.”

“So you’re cool?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

“Right-o.” Dickie grew silent, looking at his tux again. “I think I’m going to see who else is back.”

“Never mind the bollocks,” I replied.

“Huh?”

“It’s from a Sex Pistol’s album.”

“Oh. I’ll see you later.”

“Right-o,” I said.

I finished picking up the rest of the Styrofoam alone, then decided to call it a night. It wasn’t until I turned off the lights and went to bed that I discovered the true genius of the prank.

Crickets.

Three seconds after I closed my eyes, the place chirped like a meadow in heat. Crickets trilled from beneath my bed, under the desk, behind the closet, even the bathroom. I flicked on the light and tried to catch them, but they were impossible to find. After twenty minutes of searching, I finally gave up and crawled back to bed.

I couldn’t risk earplugs again, so I shut my eyes and pretended I was camping.

If Dickie did something to the Steves in retaliation, he never told me about it. I suppose that was for the best since I couldn’t risk getting in any more trouble. I started to like the sound of the crickets, anyway. Dickie borrowed the custodian’s industrial strength Shop-Vac and tried to suck them off the floor, but the little guys must have buckled down into cracks or held on to the carpeting, because they didn’t go away. Eventually, Dickie gave up and dragged his mattress to Heinous and Cheese’s room to sleep there.

Left alone in the room, I became the Cricket Man of Dingo Wing. I put pieces of bread and lettuce under my bed in case the little guys got hungry. I even named a few, based on their different locations. There was Sid, after Sid Vicious, since he lived somewhere near my Sex Pistols poster. And Krishna, who hung out around my ramen stash. And Lu-Lu the Wailer, who lived beneath my bed. It’s not like I’d completely flipped and talked to the crickets all day, but they kept me company. No wonder I couldn’t get a date.

As the weather warmed, people started going outside again for social hour. I made it part of my schedule to stroll around campus from ten to ten thirty. Usually, I avoided the crowds and wandered around the pond. That’s where I found Jess one night, pacing behind a hill, sneaking a cigarette.

“Howdy, stranger,” I said. We hadn’t spoken all semester — not since the night she’d visited my hometown.

“Howdy, asshole,” she replied.

“I’m getting this weird vibe that you’re pissed at me.”

She took a drag of her cigarette, keeping her hand cupped to hide the cherry. “I was pissed.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Guess I can only hold a grudge for so long. You might have outlasted it.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You know, about acting crazy and driving your dad’s car off the road.”

“Could have told me that before.”

“Better late than never, right?”

She flicked some ash off the end of her cigarette, kicking a spark as it fell. Leather boots, fishnets, and black skirt — classic Jess. Her shirt was cut low, revealing the lines of her tattoo on her chest. I tried not to stare, but it still entranced me.

“Hey,” I asked, “are you going to the Fling with anyone?”

“Don’t start with me, bub.”

“What? I’m asking as a friend. We can be friends, right?”

“I don’t know.
Can we?
” There was an angry edge to her voice. I hadn’t realized how much I must have hurt her. No one had ever liked me enough to get hurt by me before.

“I was kind of a jerk. Wasn’t I?”

“I always fall for jerks,” she said.

“You deserve better.”

Jess took a long drag, narrowing her eyes as she exhaled. “Look, I just got over you, so you’re not allowed to be sweet, okay?”

“Okay.” I took a step back, raising my hands in surrender. “I won’t be sweet. Scout’s honor.”

She chuckled.

“Besides,” I added, “I think I’m cursed to be alone right now.”

She gave me a long look. “You all right, J.T.?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said, surprised that she still worried about me.

“I heard you got in a fight with a window.”

“We had a little disagreement about reality.”

Jess smirked. “I should probably head in.”

I didn’t want her to leave yet. “I still have your flask,” I said. “It’s in my room. I could drop it by your dorm sometime if you’d like.”

“Keep it. It was a gift.”

“You sure?”

“Something to remember me by.”

“Thanks.”

She turned and started to walk toward her dorm.

“Wait. Can I ask you a question?”

Jess paused.

“What does your tattoo mean?”

“You’re asking me that
now
? It’s a bit late, don’t you think?”

She had a point. Why hadn’t I tried to know her better when I was with her? It was like what my dad had said — I never noticed what I had. “Please. I really want to know.”

She glanced at her dorm, then at me. “It’s from a poem by Matsuo Bashō,” she finally said. “In Japanese it reads
Yume wa kareno o.
”

“You know Japanese?”

“I’m learning to speak it. I want to go there after I graduate.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” She brushed her fingers across the top two characters of the tattoo. “Anyhow, this is the middle line from Bashō’s last poem. His death poem.”

“What’s it say?”

“It’s hard to translate.” She kept her hand over her chest, protectively. “Pretty much, it says,
My dream goes wandering.
Or
In dreams I wander.
”