Little Black Lies (2 page)

She starts up the stairs and I panic. People will see. It would be mortifying and I'm not altogether certain this girl can handle it. I want to call out to her but it's dangerous. I'm the new kid. I'm nobody.

Truth is, I wasn't such a somebody back in Lundon either. I was the quiet girl who wore the same red boots every day, stood up in math class to solve thorny-looking formulas in her head, and cozied up to inverse trigonometric functions and secondhand novels on Friday nights. Not exactly a girl people wanted to sit next to in the cafeteria. Still, my own particular flavor of strange wasn't what drove my social life straight over the cliff. My mother accomplished that for me.

Bentley Girl is almost at the door now. New girl or not, I have to say something. “Hey!” I race up the stairs until I'm so close I can nearly touch her. “Your backpack's swallowing your skirt.”

She spins around and looks down at me. No. Not at me. Through me. “Did you just diss my skirt?”

“What? No, I …”

She spins around and I stand there like an idiot. As she runs up the remaining steps, I find myself staring up at her impertinent ass. Apparently not even days-of-the-week panties can keep this girl in line. Just before she pulls open the massive wooden door, I see she has
SUNDAY IS THE DAY OF
REST
written in green across her perfect bottom.

It's Tuesday.

Bentley Girl vanishes inside the school, leaving behind the zingy scent of tangerines, fresh wool, and something else I cannot quite decipher. Acid reflux? Bad dreams? I pause for a moment on the steps and try to calm myself before going in.

My parents will never admit it, but I was born about a decade too early. All because of a cat who decided to nap behind the left rear wheel of my grandmother's Toyota. The horror of having killed an innocent creature made her forty-five minutes late in arriving home from work, giving Charlie and Tina just enough time to push their usual after-school routine (necking until they heard her car engine in the driveway) three bases too far. By the time Grandma pulled up in front of the old brick bungalow at 67 Norma Jean Drive, I was a freshly pollinated zygote clinging to a uterine wall, waiting to force two randy teenagers into a marriage that never should have happened.

My untimely birth blurred any focus my parents might have had on the pursuit of education and profitable careers. After I was born, my mother worked nights to free up her days to care for me, eventually working her way up to head chef of a French restaurant in a neighboring town. Dedicated father that he was, still is; passionate car nut that he was, still is; Dad snatched up the first job that promised decent health benefits and summers off to tinker with the crotchety engine of his VW love of the time—an orange two-door Karmann Ghia with the world's smallest backseat. He became the custodian of a middle school in the southwest corner of Massachusetts.

That he never aspired to more, that he rendered all his self-schooling useless by doing nothing constructive with it, was something my mom held up as proof that he was lazy. Unmotivated. Unfair to his family. It drove Mom crazy. More than crazy. It drove her far, far away to a cooking school in France.

My entire existence is an accident. Had one cat felt
marginally
more energetic, my fingers wouldn't be wrapped around the cold metal handle of Anton High School's front door right now.

The foyer, more like that of a shopping mall than a school, with escalators and koi pond surrounded by tropical plants, is about four stories high and is capped with skylights that offer peeks at the clear September sky. All the doors and window frames are reddish brown wood, as are the trophy-filled cabinet cases along the far wall. The floor is a mosaic of teensy colored tiles intricately arranged in the pattern of a warm sunburst.

The office is just to my left and appears to be bursting with activity. With my bag pressed tight against my chest, I shuffle over to the counter and say to the closest secretary, “Hi. I'm new here.”

Mrs. Pelletier, the vice principal, wraps a measuring tape around my waist and cinches it tight, making me catch my breath. The plastic is icy against my shivering flesh. As she bends over to get a good look at the numbers, several strands of pearls too white to be real clatter forward from her neck and I get a noseful of hairspray from her floppy bun. “Twenty-four inches.” She scribbles it down on a chart. “My waist was twenty-four inches once. Four children and two husbands ago.”

She motions for me to follow her into the storage room, a big closet lined with metal shelving that boasts every kind of school supply you could ask for. Zillions of spanking-new pens, highlighters, and staples. Towering stacks of textbooks and cellophane-wrapped packages of blank notebooks. Fully aware of how very geeky I am for even having this thought, I fantasize about winning a shopping spree inside this cupboard. I have a big weird thing for fresh, unmarked notebooks.

As she walks toward a closet with double doors, I lean against a tall wooden filing cabinet. It comes up to my shoulders and is so ancient the top edges of the four drawers are worn down like the edge of a pillow. I realize too late my sweater is caught on a splinter in the ancient wood, and as I work to free the green wool, I notice tarnished brass squares hold labels that announce each drawer's contents, from
AHS EXAMS
—
FRESHMEN
at the bottom to
AHS EXAMS
—
SENIORS
at the top. Strange, this small cabinet contains the key to so many students' futures. Do well, you're golden. Flunk and, well, bye-bye, Harvard.

Mrs. Pelletier yanks open a set of narrow locker doors. Inside are dozens of plaid skirts, gray trousers, navy vests of all sizes—some fraying at the seams, some brand-new. White shirts sway in the draft from the air vent overhead. Two cartons sit on a shelf, one labeled
KNEESOCKS
,
the other labeled
TIGHTS
. She points at the boxes and asks which I prefer. Desperate for a bit of warmth, I shrug. “Tights, I guess.”

“Lucky for you, the students of Anton High are fairly careless with their belongings,” Mrs. Pelletier says, handing me a folded pile of black Lycra. “And their parents rarely take the time to label, so our Lost and Found is something of a free-for-all. Of course,
everything
is laundered before it's hung in the closet.”

I nod to show her I would expect nothing less.

“It gives you a great stockpile to choose from.” She admires the orderly clothing. “One of my children came in last week and helped organize the closet.”

“Do your kids go to the school?” I ask.

“My youngest, Daria. She graduated last year and is just starting at Columbia.”

“Did she take her uniform from the Lost and Found?”

“Oh, heavens, no. This closet is only for proven financial cases. Recent immigrants, struggling fam—” She stops and looks at me, her expression now one of mild horror. “Anyone who needs the help.”

A prickly silence follows, during which I pray that the floor will buckle and swell, crack open along the seams of the tiny porcelain tiles, and, with a mighty belch, suck me inside. Mrs. Pelletier didn't mean to degrade me. But that only makes it worse.

“Sara, there's something I'd like to speak to you about. Not many staff members' children have even attempted the entrance exam, so it's fairly unusual for us to have a family member on campus. This is a competitive school and we have a policy in place to discourage favoritism. If one of our staff knows a coworker's child is a student, he or she is not to divulge it to the other teachers. Whether or not you choose to tell the students is your own choice. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Another silent funk settles over us. I point toward the uniforms. “I'm pretty sure I'm a size six.”

“Great. Let's see what we can find.” She runs her finger along the clothing rack, eventually pulling out the following:

One plaid skirt (looks brand-new)

Two white blouses (both with puckered collars)

A navy vest (looks itchy)

One pair of hideous black leather shoes (Doc Marten is stomping in his grave)

Holding the skirt up to me, she clucks her approval. “Looks about right. Go ahead and try everything on. If it fits, we'll be able to get you to class before attendance is called.” She heads out the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

She closes the door and, ignoring the rule about cell phones, I pull out my phone and turn it on long enough to send my best friend, Mandy—who is probably standing at her new locker at Finmory High right about now—a text message:

MANDY
–
THEY HAVE UNIFORMS HERE
.
SAVE ME
.

I jiggle the doorknob, praying it locks from the inside. It doesn't. Throwing the skirt, vest, and blouses onto a chair, I drag it to the entrance, where I undress with my back firmly pressed against the door. I squirm into a blouse as quickly as I can and button up. The skirt looks a bit small, but judging from the sounds in the office, I'm in very real danger of being invaded, so I step into it and fasten. It's tight. The door handle turns and I throw my weight onto the door, calling out, “Changing in here!”

A female voice mutters, “Sorry,” and I hear footsteps patter off.

I pull on a pair of tights, thankful for the insulation they provide against the air conditioning blasting down from the ceiling. They hide my freckled legs. But best of all, I won't have to risk anyone reading my underwear—not that it has anything interesting to say.

I slip my feet into the ugly shoes and stuff my boots and clothing into my bag. Just before I head out the door to ask Mrs. Pelletier for my class schedule, I notice a rectangular piece of fabric dangling from the side waistband of my skirt. It's the tag of some student with a weird name. As hard as I try, I cannot rip it off, so I tuck it in and vow to cut it off at home later.

Parking me in front of a large mirror in a hallway lined with long benches outside the principal's office, Mrs. Pelletier smooths my shirt upon my shoulders. “Seems to be a good fit. We don't have a locker available for you just yet. Check back again in a couple of days.”

I thank her and turn away.

“And Sara?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome to Anton High School, dear.”

Room 217. Peering through the window of the closed door, I pray I don't pass out with fear. I turn the doorknob with great plans to slink in quietly, pass my new-student slip to the teacher, and find myself an empty desk at the back. But the squeaky hinges give me away. About thirty kids spin around to stare.

My cheeks burn so hot it's like I've been slapped.

“Welcome to Honors Math,” the teacher says to me, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket and loosening his tie. “I'm Mark Curtis. I was just explaining that I'm here to make your lives miserable for the next few months. By the time you encounter me again as a senior, you'll be thankful you've been broken in. Grab a seat, we've got a lot to cover today.”

The ripple of groans that follows is a nice distraction from the strange kid at the door. Unfortunately it's short lived. All eyes return to me as I walk across the room to hand him my office slip. “I'm new.”

He glances at the paper. “Welcome to the class, Sara. Ever heard of Saint Sarah?” he asks, rubbing his chin and looking up. “More than one author has suggested Saint Sarah was the daughter of Mary Magdalene and Jesus. History's most perfect union.”

A few kids smirk from the front row.

I start to hunt for a seat, when he continues. “This theory was used in Dan Brown's
The Da Vinci Code
. The daughter of Jesus. Fairly illustrious parentage, don't you think?”

I offer him a watery smile.

He grins, his grayish hair swooping down over one eyebrow. “Now that I've destroyed any shot you might have had at a social life, you can go ahead and find yourself a seat.”

There's an empty desk next to a girl with layered hair dyed so black it's nearly blue. As I pull my binder from my book bag, I realize Bentley Girl is right in front of me. Thankfully, her underwear is covered.

I notice her bare knees right away and scan the other girls. Sure enough, every female in the class is wearing kneesocks. No one is in tights but me, and I feel like a kindergartner. I'm tugging my skirt down over my knees when Mr. Curtis asks Bentley Girl about her summer vacation.

She flips her hair and turns sideways in her seat, crushing her mouth into an irritated smile. “I spent six weeks sunning myself in the courtyard behind the Queen Elizabeth Theater, where I was meant to be sorting sweat-soaked costumes for the cast of my dad's new musical while he howled at the orchestra for butchering the music he spent two years writing. But this old fungus-face of a lead actor kept hitting on me, so I bailed.” She snaps her gum and looks around at the class before her bluegreen eyes rest on me. As hard as I try, I can't stop staring. Before she turns away, she adds, “Don't ever let anyone tell you showbiz isn't freaking glam.”

The redheaded boy next to her scoots his chair closer. He's so small his overstuffed pencil case could practically crush him, and with his plump cheeks and soccer-themed backpack, he looks to be about nine or ten. He reaches for her hand and starts to scrawl something on her palm. “Take
my
number,” he says through a nose stopped up with rhinovirus. “I'm younger and way more flexible.”

Bentley smacks the pen to the floor. “We need to get Little Man Griff a blow-up doll before he hits puberty and implodes. He clearly can't handle the estrogen around here.”

“That'll be enough from the two of you.” Mr. Curtis crosses his arms. His head tilts to one side as he stares at the girl next to Bentley. “How about you, Sloane? Do anything interesting?”

Sloane slumps lower in her seat, causing her too-tight vest and shirt to ride up and expose her slender waist. She nudges Bentley Girl. “I spent the summer texting my poor friend from my dad's office.” She pushes a tangle of chestnut hair from her face to reveal eyes the color of smoke and a pouty lower lip that gives her a drowsy sulk. She looks as if she'd like to go back to bed. Not necessarily alone. “It was boring. All I really learned was that you can't get a good cell signal in the basement of Mallory, Mallory, and Montauk unless you sneak out into the rat-infested back alley and risk the plague.”

“Don't think I didn't appreciate it, Sloaney,” says Bentley Girl.

“Rats didn't cause the plague,” says another girl, haughty and offended. Unlike Bentley's, this girl's voice is shrieky and metallic, like a spoon scraping against the bottom of a mixing bowl. Her yellow bob is tamed by a velvet headband. Everything about this girl looks fragile; from her thin legs to her papery fingernails to her dangling butterfly earrings. “It was fleas that carried
Yersinia pestis
and they transmitted it to the rats. In fact, rats carry very few zoonotic conditions.
Leptospirosis
, maybe, but you'd basically have to lick rat urine while it's still wet to catch that, and it isn't even in season during the summer.” She settles herself back in her seat and folds her arms across her chest, satisfied. “Not outside of the tropics, anyway.”

Sloane blinks at her as if too tired to push her features into any sort of expression. “Is that information meant to kill me, Isabella? Because it might.”

Isabella doesn't answer. Just adjusts her headband and turns to Bentley Girl. “Anyway, what about me, Carling? I braved old fungus-face every Tuesday to meet you for lunch. Don't I get any credit?”

Carling. Wait a minute … I suck in my stomach and fumble around inside my too-tight waistband to pull out the dangling tag on my left. It says
Carling Burnack
. My stomach flips over as I realize I'm sitting in Bentley Girl's cast-off skirt. After class, I should go back to Mrs. Pelletier. Tell her this skirt isn't lost. It escaped. From the girl with the composer father and randy old actor and the chauffeur with the dreads.

Carling reaches over to slap the blonde girl's forearm. “Isabella gets a love smack.”

This pleases Isabella so much I have to look away. Though, on some level, I understand her fascination.

Mr. Curtis turns to a girl with smooth black hair pulled back into a high ponytail so glossy it could be made of strands of satin. Her eyes are enormous, her dark-skinned face heart-shaped. Her shirt is buttoned to the chin. She launches into an explanation about helping her right-brain father choose scuff-proof hotel wallpaper and helping her left-brain mother develop an industrial robot system to vacuum each floor, and I realize who she is. Willa Patel from Patel Hotels. I hear they're so completely computerized, the front desk is notified electronically when a room's toilet paper is low.

“What about you, Saint Sarah?” says Mr. Curtis when Willa is done. “Do anything special over the summer?”

Everyone turns around to look at me. They're waiting for me to hold up my superior genes for all to see. My mother's law firm, my father's robot army. But all I have is a hole where my mom used to be and my jilted dad in his really bad janitor uniform.

“I just moved here from Lundon.”

“London,”
says Carling, kicking one leg out in front of her in despair. “I'd kill to live in London. They're about two years ahead of us in style. Whatever they're wearing right now, you can be sure we'll be wearing our freshman year in college.”

“No,” I say. “Not Lond—”

Mr. Curtis interrupts. “If that's true, Carling, you should probably take your new classmate with you on your next shopping excursion. Sara, do you have advice about next year's skirt lengths or must-have accessories?”

For a moment, I'm full of promise. Kids, mostly the girls, especially Carling and her friends, look at me as if I hold the key to their long-awaited transformation from wool-wrapped super geeks into world-weary It Girls poised on the knife-edge of global miniskirt fashion. Then I open my mouth. “I never, um, never really paid attention to that sort of thing.”

Carling, Sloane, and Isabella look disappointed. One by one, they spin around in their seats and face forward.

There's nothing to see back here.

“Figures, the daughter of Jesus is an Ant,” mutters the dark-haired girl beside me. As Mr. Curtis scrawls a complicated formula on the blackboard, I look up to see she's filming me with a large camera.

I hold a hand up to shield my face. “What?”

“Most insane school in the country. Figures you'd go here.” Pulling back from the camera, she squints at it, presses a few buttons, and resumes shooting me, this time leaning closer. The blue circles beneath her eyes, set against her ultra-white skin, combined with the wild black layered hair, make her look like she's been exhumed from a grave.

I'm the daughter of somebody all right, but after spending ten minutes in this class, I'm not sure I should say whom. “What's with the little boy?”

She whispers, “That's Griff Hogan—an eleven-year-old perv-sicle genius who scored higher on the Ant admission test than anyone in history and will probably rule the world one day and force all women to walk around in rubber chaps and pasties. He's in the news all the time and they make him out to be this model student. What never makes it into the papers is that he's more interested in bra sizes than algorithms. Total deviant and not once in the two years has his sniffer been mucous-free.”

She's funny, this girl. I wonder if she has any openings in the friend department. “But how does he not get trampled in the halls? He's, like, three feet tall.”

She shrugs. “Brains are revered around here. And no one is brainier than Griff Hogan. His family lives in a shack in the South End that should be condemned, but his dad's some famous researcher who won the Nobel Prize in physics about a million years ago. There's some serious cerebral wattage in that family. Any one of us could be begging him for a job one day and we know it. Like I said, Hogan's going to rule the world.”

The parents who voted for uniforms were wrong. White shirts and ties might be able to camouflage Griff Hogan's crumbling house, but the real inequality between these students and me can't be erased. The cerebral wattage of my genetic background is comparatively low in volts and all the entrance exams and wool skirts in the world won't change that. Even the poor kids, the ones too gifted to need cram schools and tutors, come from brilliance. I don't belong.

I nod toward Carling. “And her?”

“Carling Burnack is kind of like the school mascot, our crazy-faced lunatic. The daughter of this major award-winning Broadway composer whose career is now seriously wounded. The chicks making googly eyes at her are her minions. The blonde, Isabella, is a prickly little know-it-all, totally devoted to Carling. The brunette who can't keep her eyes open is Sloane Montauk, about the laziest human you'll ever meet. If the boys offered to carry her from class to class on their shoulders, she'd be up for it. These girls all hang out at the Petting Pool at lunch.”

“Petting Pool?”

She writes something on a scrap of paper, folds it a few times, and slaps it down on my desk. “Here's my number. Stick with me and you'll be okay. I'm Poppy, by the way. We should totally hang out.”

“That would be cool,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. When she moves in close with her camera, I laugh. “What's with the short-lens-stalker thing?”

A boy with acne-scarred cheeks and greasy hair grunts from behind her. “Poppy's mom is Kiki Chan.”

“The director? Seriously?”

“Don't get all excited about the DNA,” the boy says, giving the back of her chair a few playful flicks. “There won't be any Oscars for Poppy. She'll be more into shooting cheating husbands through restaurant windows … maybe a few porn flicks to keep her creative edge.”

Poppy frowns, lowering her camera for a moment. “I can't even believe you said that, Landau.”

Landau squints. “I was joking. Chill.”

“Yeah, right!”

“I actually think he was,” I say, baffled by her overreaction.

“Oh. So you're taking his side?” Her voice rises into a pathetic squeak.

“No. I …”

“You know what, Sara? I've changed my mind. Don't call me.”

Mr. Curtis's voice booms from the front of the classroom. “Can we have a little less chatter back there?”

I flip open my binder, mortified. And once I'm certain Poppy isn't looking, I slip her phone number into my pencil case. An overly sensitive friend is better than no friend at all.