Liar, Liar k-1 Read online

  She looked at me curiously. I started to sweat. I felt drops, then streams, of perspiration slide down my ribs. I didn’t dare look down—I was sure there was a puddle developing around my shoes. I stood very still so that I didn’t accidentally splash Tina or send stink waves in her direction.

  I tried taking a deep breath to get control of myself, but all that happened was a loud gulp, like in a cartoon when the bear eats the picnic basket whole.

  Tina studied me. Probably wondering why she’d never realized I was socially retarded and had epic glandular problems. She didn’t edge away nervously, though, or look around for an excuse to leave me standing there making weird noises to myself. Instead, she smiled.

  Tina smiled at me.

  Before I could tell her how much she had come to mean to me in the past three minutes and that I hoped she’d feel the same way about me—maybe not in the next three minutes, but soon—my arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as JonPaul jerked me down the hall toward the cafeteria. I waved nonchalantly at Tina with my free hand and hoped she wouldn’t notice the sweat stains spreading down my shirt.

  “Dude, gotta haul it if you don’t wanna get the crusty leftovers.” JonPaul bobbed and weaved through the crowded hall, unaware that he had ruined my great moment with Tina. I stared over my shoulder at Tina’s right hip, which was all I could see through the crowd.

  “You can let go of my arm now,” I finally said after he’d dragged me around a corner. Oh, sure, now I can talk, I thought.

  He grunted and dropped my arm, but he picked up the pace. JonPaul is very serious about eating on time.

  “Hey, JonPaul. You ever been in love?” I tried to sound matter-of-fact even though JonPaul and I don’t talk about feelings.

  “No,” he said. “Girls are germy.”

  JonPaul is a germaphobe. The mere thought of girls makes him whip out his hand sanitizer. JonPaul plays football, basketball and baseball and is roughly the size of a half-ton Chevy pickup, but he’s a total wuss about his health. When he was done disinfecting his hands, he pulled a bottle out of his backpack and swallowed a couple of vitamins. Just to be on the safe side.

  “Kev”—he jumped out of the way of some girl who might have been about to sneeze—“remember how we talked about how my cardio program will keep me from getting sick?”

  JonPaul’s workout was the last thing I wanted to talk about, when I had so much I needed to ask him about Tina. But because I am such a good friend, I mm-hmmed encouragingly.

  “It’s all a waste of time unless I focus on nutritional balance and …” JonPaul kept talking, but I stopped listening. He obviously wasn’t going to be any help at all on the Tina front, and she was all I cared about right then.

  I nodded and uh-huhed through lunch and, although I’m sure we sat with our crew like we do every day—Jay D. and Jay M., Scott Kahney, Greggie Hoffman, Todd Neiderloh, Kurt Sneed, the new kid I don’t really know yet and Sean Sexton—my mind was on Tina. I couldn’t taste a thing, I didn’t hear a word. I just sat there, watching Tina eat a salad.

  She was all I could think about all day. I spent every class writing down things I knew about her (she’s got an older brother, she’s on the swim team and she broke her arm in second grade) and questions I wanted to ask her (what’s her favorite food, why does she feel Americans have taken so long to embrace soccer and does the idea of paranormal activity creep her out). It’s a good thing I make such detailed outlines for my research papers, because I knew how to organize my thoughts and start making sense of what I was feeling.

  By the time the final bell rang, I was newly aware that Tina sat directly in front of me in language arts, two people over and one behind in science lab, and kitty-corner in the cafeteria. I saw her after fifth period on the sixth step from the bottom in the south stairwell, and after eighth period, when I lurked outside her French class and followed her to the bus line, even though I walk home and don’t take the bus myself.

  I didn’t dare try to speak to her again all day, and I wouldn’t until I was sure that real words would come out of my mouth and that they were the best possible words to make her want to go out with me. I’d never had a girlfriend before and I’d never stammered and sweated like that, either, but I wasn’t going to let any of that stop me. Millions of guys had girlfriends; there was no reason I wouldn’t be able to figure it out too.

  After school, I paced around my room, trying to come up with the best method to get Tina to notice me—in a good way—when I happened to glance out the window. I saw my four-year-old next-door neighbor, Markie, who I babysit for every week, playing war with his family’s cat. I don’t think the cat knew she was playing war, though: I think she thought she was asleep in the sun. Markie was on his belly, commando-crawling up behind her, ready to pounce when he got close enough. Good soldier, I thought, taking advantage of the element of surprise.

  An idea started to form in my head, and I walked over to the shelf of books of military history next to my desk. All that reading was about to come in handy.

  I’ll read anything about war; I’m fascinated by the strategies and thinking of great military leaders. My mother always says, “I worry that I’m raising a future warmonger.” But I knew she’d be proud of the way I was going to put all that research to good use.

  Okay. Time to think. I sat down, tipped my chair back and started to thumb through the index of one of the books.

  Obviously, the best approach to landing Tina as my girlfriend would be to study the way generals plan military maneuvers. I would utilize foresight, bravery, skill, careful timing, reconnaissance missions and the support of staunch allies to show her that I was the best possible boyfriend for her.

  “What are the primary components of a good military campaign?” I asked my reflection, because I’d read about a general who talked to himself in the mirror to get psyched for battle.

  “Go with what you know, use what you have, play to your strengths,” I answered.

  This was going to be a cinch. All I’d have to do was make sure Tina knew how amazing I was—without being conceited. Piece of cake, because I’m funny (I’ve always cracked myself up) and smart (I’ve never made a big deal about my 3.769 GPA) and popular (I wasn’t sure she particularly liked my friends, but I had a ton of good buddies and figured that had to be a strong recommendation to a girl).

  What girl wouldn’t want to date a guy like that?

  It’s not that I thought highly of myself, it’s that I really am a great guy. I’d never thought about it before, but once I looked at the evidence, it was obvious.

  And if by some small chance all of that didn’t work, I’d fall back on what I do best—I would lie.

  That is, in military terminology, I would employ subterfuge.

  But this was, I felt certain, the one situation where lies wouldn’t be necessary. The truth was plenty good enough: I had what it took to be her boyfriend. I just knew it.

  I didn’t mind saying it (mostly because there was no one else in my room who would): “I’m a freaking genius sometimes. I really am.”

  3. A GOOD LIE BEGINS WITH AN ELEMENT OF THE TRUTH

  I was still lying on my bed, thinking that even her name was gorgeous—Katrina Marina Zabinski—and sounded like music (kah-TREE-nah mah-REE-nah zah-BIN-skee), when I heard a car pull into the driveway. My sister, Sarah, was dropping our brother, Daniel, off after hockey practice. I jumped up to run downstairs and ask her to take me to the mall with her, since I was going to need new clothes to impress Tina.

  My mom was working late, like she always is; my dad was on one of his business trips, like he always is; and even Auntie Buzz, who lives in the apartment above our garage, wasn’t home yet, and I’d been counting on Sarah for a lift.

  But before I could take a step, the car zoomed back down the driveway.

  I’m fourteen. Daniel’s fifteen. Sarah’s sixteen. We were born exactly thirteen months apart from each other.

  Daniel had his learner’s permit, whic
h burned me, but Sarah had her driver’s license, which killed Daniel. We also had Auntie Buzz’s old car, which ticked us all off. We spent a lot of time on the driveway screaming at each other.

  That wasn’t the plan. The plan was that Auntie Buzz would go green by not having a car and we would save the Earth by carpooling. She’d showed us the scooter she’d bought and told us about the power walking she’d do to and from work and asked me to help her read the bus schedule. What wound up happening, though, was that Auntie Buzz, who owned a decorating business, drove her work van (which got terrible gas mileage, so where the green part came in, I’ll never know) and we became the new owners of a rusted-out piece of junk that caused more problems than it solved.

  When Auntie Buzz gave us the car, she’d handed us each a key. She wanted to be fair, though she didn’t seem to care about being legal, since she was giving two unlicensed kids keys to a car they couldn’t drive. Then she said, “Now, remember, you have to share.”

  Sarah’s definition of share was that she drove our/her car everywhere she wanted, whenever she wanted, and made us beg for rides. “I’m the only legal driver,” she kept pointing out, “and besides, you and Daniel never chip in for gas.”

  Daniel’s and my definition of share was that, because we were part owners, she should have driven us everywhere we wanted to go, every time we wanted to go anywhere. Daniel jingled his keys at her and said, “We represent a two-thirds majority,” while I reminded her, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  To be honest, I don’t know what Auntie Buzz was thinking, giving three teenagers a car in the first place, but she only sees the positives of a situation, none of the negatives.

  Things went from bad to worse at the beginning of the school year because my brother and sister were both in high school and I was stuck in that yawning chasm of nothingness, middle school. “And our school starts twenty minutes earlier than yours,” they said, “which means you can’t ride to school with us.”

  The “so there” was implied.

  After our parents refused to intervene—“Your car, your solution,” they said—I asked Auntie Buzz to mediate. I wasn’t happy with her decision.

  “You live close enough to easily walk to school, and high school kids have so many more activities, and it’s just so nice to see the two older kids finally spending time together.” She must have felt very King Solomon–esque, or, come to think of it, the very opposite of King Solomon, since everyone got something when he laid down the law.

  So Sarah and Daniel drove to school together every morning, making a fast-food drive-thru breakfast run along the way. I walked and ate granola bars.

  And then this: Sarah leaving with the car like I didn’t even exist, as if there might not be someplace I needed to go in the afternoon.

  Daniel and Sarah had ignored me once too often.

  I had to make them see my point of view. Talking it out hadn’t helped, screaming it out hadn’t worked; it was time to take action.

  I sat thinking about them for a little while. About their weaknesses. And how I might pit one against the other to my advantage with a few teeny, tiny little lies.

  I smiled finally and then went to the kitchen for my favorite snack: a banana dipped in melted chocolate chips. Because creativity, my art teacher always says, must be nourished. Okeydokey.

  Daniel came into the kitchen after his shower, grunted hello at me and grabbed a soda and a bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips.

  “Where’s Sarah?” I asked as I peeled my second banana. I concentrated on looking innocent, which is harder than you’d think, and I wished I’d practiced that in the mirror too.

  “She said something about shoe shopping.” He crunched and slurped his answer.

  “That’s weird”—I paused to lick my finger—“because she was whining all last week about being flat broke. Girls, go figure.”

  Daniel just kept wolfing down chips. I could tell he was going to need a nudge to see things clearly. Or, at least, from my point of view.

  I shook my head. “She seems to have a lot of new clothes all of a sudden. Where does she get all that money, anyway? I hope”—I forced a completely fake laugh that anyone older than five days would have recognized as phony—“she hasn’t been stealing.”

  He did a complete and perfect double take. Then he looked at me with huge, shocked eyes. Daniel’s primary character flaw is that he’s gullible.

  “Nah. I don’t … stealing?” He was thinking hard, and I hoped he was calculating the cost of Sarah’s wardrobe and the price of gas.

  Sarah works like a beast of burden: She’s got a part-time job at the hospital; she babysits a couple of times a week; she occasionally works for Auntie Buzz; and she charges her friends to do their hair and makeup for weekend parties and dates. Our sister is a mogul-in-training and only complains about being broke because she loves to sound dramatic and put-upon.

  But Daniel isn’t aware of these facts. He doesn’t particularly notice things, not if they aren’t in a hockey rink or a computer game; he’s not stupid, he’s just not observant.

  But I am. I’m a very observant guy.

  Daniel was still thinking. “I heard Mom and Dad talking with Sarah the other day in the kitchen. They seemed really upset. I couldn’t hear much, but I wonder if they were trying to figure out what to do about her stealing.”

  I pretended to look surprised. Then thoughtful. Then sad. I said, slowly, reluctantly, “I read an article in the newspaper the other day about the rise in teen shoplifting statistics.”

  Daniel looked at me disbelievingly. Then an expression of disgust crossed his face.

  “Knowing Sarah, she probably made herself seem misunderstood so that they’d feel bad for her and let her off easy.”

  “She can talk her way out of anything.” I shook my head in dismay. “I can’t believe, though, that Mom and Dad didn’t at least take the car away.”

  Bingo.

  Daniel has always thought Sarah is spoiled and selfish and never gets what she’s got coming to her.

  “She’s in all this trouble and she still busts my chops about giving me a ride to and from hockey practice? She’s got nerve.”

  Just then Sarah came into the kitchen and, as luck would have it, she was carrying four or five shopping bags and looking smug. Her natural expression.

  “You always get everything exactly the way you want it, don’t you?” Daniel snapped before he stormed out of the room.

  “What’s with Dannyboy?” Sarah asked me.

  “He was all peevish that you always take the car because of your, what did he say? Oh yeah, selfish nature.” I didn’t bother mentioning that I had manipulated the situation and that he now thought she was a klepto. Oops. My bad.

  “Well, if that’s the way he feels about me, then—” Sarah has never backed down from a fight, and I knew exactly how the next five minutes were going to play out.

  She went flying down the hall and started pounding on Daniel’s door. His stereo volume increased to drown her out.

  Just as Sarah started shouting curse bombs to get his attention, my mother came home.

  She opened the kitchen door and looked at me. “Why do they sound like tiny demons from hell?” Without waiting for my reply, she marched to Daniel’s bedroom and flung open the door.

  “Sarah, give me your car keys. Daniel, yours, too. I’ve had it with this constant fighting. Now neither of you will be driving that car for a week and maybe I’ll get some peace and quiet around here.”

  “That means I’ll have to get a ride to school with Alex the greasy loser from across the street and his skanky girlfriend,” Sarah moaned.

  “Indeed.” Mom was not impressed.

  “And”—Daniel’s voice was glum—“I’ll have to bum a lift to hockey practice in Derek’s deathmobile that reeks of jockstraps.”

  “That’s what you get for not honoring the spirit of Buzz’s gift by working things out with each other,” Mom said.

  A
better person than me would have felt bad that Daniel thought Sarah had issues that led her to thievery.

  And a more upstanding young man than me would have felt terrible that Sarah felt compelled to yell at Daniel:

  “You’re nothing but fecal matter and I wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire!”

  “But I’m your brother.” Daniel sounded genuinely wounded.

  “You,” she announced, “are a turd in the punch bowl of life.”

  Nice one, Sarah! Even Mom, who was back in the kitchen and sorting through mail, lifted an eyebrow in approval.

  Two doors slammed. Silence.

  “Ah, that’s better,” Mom said. “And how was your day, Kev? And have I mentioned that lately you’re my favorite, and not incidentally quietest, child?”

  Before I could answer, Sarah, seething, reappeared in the kitchen.

  “I’m telling Dad.”

  “Be my guest,” Mom snapped as she swept out of the room. Under her breath, I heard her say, “The next time he stops in for a visit.” Her bedroom door shut. Then she opened the door and slammed it.

  Blink.

  Huh.

  That was new. Mom is usually as cool as a cucumber and, as family fights go, this one was only about a 4 on a scale of 10; I’ve seen Mom reach out and catch sandwiches we kids have hurled at each other without losing her page in the book she was reading.

  Mom had been working overtime because the bookstore she manages is short-staffed. Meanwhile, Dad’s new promotion meant that he was always on a business trip. They’d both been crabby lately. I hadn’t really noticed that until Mom slammed her door.

  Sarah, having lost everyone’s attention, slunk back to her room. I sat at the kitchen table and thought.

  It occurred to me that our family didn’t pay much attention to each other when we were together, which, once I thought about it, wasn’t much to begin with. We were all so busy. And when we were home, everyone usually had his or her nose stuck in one of the books or advance readers’ copies that Mom brought home from work.