Little Black Lies Read online

  I don’t say a word.

  The phone disappears when Mr. Curtis breezes in. He holds up a stack of papers. “You’ll all be pleased to learn I cancelled my date with Mrs. Honors Math last night in order to finally grade your pop quiz. It’s the kind of guy I am. You can all thank me by coughing up better results on the next test. With very few exceptions, your grades are nothing short of abysmal. Only two students scored above ninety-five. The rest of you averaged a B-plus.”

  Back at Finmory, such a statement would have been met with a chorus of cheers. Here, the kids whimper and lick themselves in near-silent misery.

  Mr. Curtis sets the test on the desk of a tall boy with wiry hair and motions for him to pass them back to us. “This is Honors Math and I don’t have the reputation of being the toughest prof in the school for nothing,” says Mr. Curtis. “If you do not work your pampered tails off this semester, you will not see the perfect scores your parents believe you to be capable of. This quiz was nothing compared to the next test. Are we all clear?”

  No one has the strength to nod.

  In the next row, Griff gets his test back. His fist shoots into the air. “Yes!” I take it he was one of the top scorers.

  Carling crumples her test in a ball and mutters to Isabella, “Lot of good that did me.”

  “Sorry!” Isabella squeaks in self-defense.

  My test appears on my desk. “I guess you guys have better schools in England,” says the wiry-haired boy. He nods toward Isabella, who, along with Sloane and Carling, has perked up and is listening. “Latini’s been replaced. We have a new Princess of Calculus in our midst.”

  It’s as if Isabella has just taken a fist to the gut. Her face falls and her shoulders hunch forward. Her chin tilts toward the sky as she gulps in air. Then, when Carling turns to laugh at her, she straightens up and does a spectacular job of feigning nonchalance. The only thing that gives her away, and I’m likely the only one who has noticed, is the way her fingernails are boring into her thighs.

  There’s a tidy “98.89%” in the upper right-hand corner of my quiz. I flip through the pages to see where I went wrong—I’d been fairly confident about my answers. After a few moments I can feel someone reading over my shoulder and I look up.

  Carling is leaning close to me, staring at my test, her eyebrows leaping like dolphins. I brace myself for a bitchy remark, but she says, “Nice work.”

  After a grueling fifty minutes of working through brain-bending equations on the chalkboard, the bell rings and we all wander out into the hall in a mathematical daze. As I head toward the door, Poppy sidles up beside me.

  “Was that film some kind of punishment for me?” I ask.

  “Oh, believe me, I’m not the one who’s into punishment. Your good buddy Carling is Ant’s resident expert on getting even. She once threw an ex-boyfriend’s laptop into the deep end of the pool because he didn’t notice she’d had her hair trimmed.”

  “She’s not my good buddy. I barely know her.”

  This makes Poppy smile a little. “I swear it was an accident. I wasn’t focused on the background.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Doesn’t matter.”

  She holds out her hand. “Want another peppermint?”

  I don’t think I can get mixed up with her. She might be acting normally right now, but who knows what histrionics are around the bend. “I’m actually more of a spearmint kind of girl.”

  “Okay. Cool. I’ll see you in pre-law, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  As Poppy wanders off, Carling appears beside me, followed by Isabella, then Sloane, who appears so bored she could be asleep. “You did great on the quiz,” Carling says to me, her voice unusually high-pitched and sunshiny.

  “Thanks.” I search her body language for any sign that I should flee.

  “Curtis is such an ass,” says Carling. Isabella tugs on her sleeve as if to pull her away, but Carling shrugs her off.

  Aware of their stares, I search fruitlessly for something witty to say. “Yeah.”

  Carling plunks her books in Sloane’s arms, pulls a rubber band from her pocket, and wraps her hair in a messy bun. One thick strand falls away and nudges her cheekbone. “So, where do you hang at lunch?”

  Where do I hang? Let’s see … there was that bus shelter the first week. And I sat in the girls’ locker room with the lights off once last week. Not exactly a pattern I’d like to brag about. I shrug. “I don’t know. Wherever.”

  “Well, if you’re around, come sit with us. We’ll save a spot for you at the Petting Pool. Heard of it?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not really sure where or what it is.”

  Sloane drops Carling’s books to the floor and says, “You won’t know it from the surface, but it’s the tangle of body parts on the second-floor landing.”

  “Where? Right there on that big sofa? There’s tangling of parts right out in the open?”

  “Not as far as the teachers know. They’re pretty certain it’s an urban legend,” says Isabella. “The good stuff happens down below. The kids on the surface are more of a shield.”

  “Yes,” Carling says. “Better not be late or you’ll have to sit on the floor. Miss out on all the fun.”

  Without waiting for my answer, she floats away with Sloane and Isabella being sucked along in her wake. As they trot up the stairs, I get a flash of Carling’s lime green panties. In light pink type, they read WEDNESDAY I’VE GOT JUICY ON MY MIND.

  I nod to myself. Mathematical formulas never fail me.

  Before the girls disappear into the crowd, Isabella glances back at me, her face completely devoid of expression.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been invited to lunch. And I’ve learned that lunch dates, once made, are easily broken. Like the time Mom took me shopping for my prom dress. It was the night after the toxic chicken, and her motherly guilt for not having been home to hear my news was peaking. Right after breakfast, she announced it was time for Girls’ Day Out.

  Dad drove us to the mall in the van and, after a quick stop for an Orange Julius, walked us to the balloon- and prom-dress-filled windows of Wanted, the teen shop on the second floor. Inside, music thumped from speakers and teenage girls and their mothers swarmed the displays. Near the front, two girls argued about which one picked up a tangerine minidress first.

  “I’m afraid this is as far as I go,” Dad said. “I will be of no use to anyone in this estrogen-rich emporium.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “As badly as you don’t want to go in, we don’t want you even more.”

  “Now that hurts,” he said, pointing his straw at me. He ruffled my hair and kissed Mom. “Off you go, then. Call me on my cell if you need me to break up any brawls.”

  “We can take these girls, can’t we, Sara?” said Mom, guiding me inside. She called back, “Don’t buy too many car magazines, Charlie. We’re already heading toward an intervention. Two or three more Road and Track magazines in that rec room and I’ll start calling your long-lost family members.”

  “One,” he said. “I’ll keep it to one this time, I promise. And don’t be too long. I want to work on the VW this afternoon.”

  About ten minutes later I was in the changing room. Mom knocked on the door and yanked it open before I could answer. Standing in my bra and underwear, I grabbed my jeans from the floor and covered myself so strangers wouldn’t get an unexpected eyeful of my shivery white flesh. “Mom,” I whispered. “I’m practically naked.”

  “Try this one, sweetie,” she said, holding up a strapless dark green gown. “It’ll look terrific with your eyes.”

  I snatched it from the hanger and slammed the door.

  “It’s simple, don’t you think?” she called to me. “And elegant. Like something Jennifer Aniston would wear to the Oscars.”

  The zipper got caught and I wiggled it free before stepping into the dress and sliding it over my hips. I wished my mother would lower her voice. I saw a couple of girls from school on the other side of the st
ore.

  “Sara, did you hear me? Don’t you think it’s something Jennifer Aniston would wear?”

  The price tag said $99.99. I kind of doubted it.

  “Hon?”

  “Sure.”

  I shuffled out of the changing room, tripping over the long hem.

  The saleslady, Ruth, pulled off her glasses and set them on a ledge, then she took my hand and led me to a wide step at the trio of angled full-length mirrors. “Don’t worry, we’ll take up the hem and nip in the waist,” she assured me. I stepped onto the platform and spun around, and I don’t know who went more crazy, my mother or Ruth.

  “Oh, Sara,” said Mom, moving closer and tugging the dress out from under my heels. “You look beautiful.”

  Ruth nodded. “Just like Miss Aniston.”

  I stared in the mirror. Mom was right, green did match my eyes. I never would have picked this dress off the rack, but I had to admit, it looked pretty decent on me. Made me look older, at least twenty, I thought. I pulled my hair off my shoulders and held it up in a sexy kind of half-up/ half-down bun.

  Holding my shoulders from behind, Mom stared at my reflection. “Have I mentioned how proud I am of my girl? You’re growing into such a lady.” She laughed and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Look at me. Getting all weepy in the Lundon Olde Towne Mall.”

  I reached up to touch her hand. I didn’t mind her getting weepy over me. Not one bit.

  Ruth folded up the fabric at the hem, then looked up at me. “How high will your heels be?”

  I looked at my mom. “I guess I’ll wear my black flats? The ones I wore to Grandpa’s funeral?”

  “No flats,” said Ruth, glowering as if I’d insulted her. “Go with black patent. They have gorgeous slingbacks in the shoe store next door, with a three-inch heel. Just in from Europe.”

  Sounded expensive. Sounded like something Rebecca Morgan’s mom would buy her, not like something I would dare hope for. “That’s okay. My flats are fine.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Mom. “If my daughter needs patent slingbacks for her first prom, she’s going to have them. We’ll stop at the shoe store on our way out. What do you say to chicken fingers and shakes at the Foggy Dog—just you and me, since Dad wants to work on the van? He can drop us off and we’ll take the bus home.”

  I nodded, scarcely able to believe it. “Sounds great!”

  Tori Nathan, my science teacher’s daughter, walked into the changing area carrying an armload of dresses, followed by her mother in her wheelchair. Mrs. Nathan was the school guidance counselor, adored by everyone for what kids called her Friday Night Bitch sessions—a weekly gathering where any student was welcome to drop by and discuss problems they were having at home. She even let one girl stay for an entire weekend when her parents split. And after Mrs. Nathan’s parasailing accident … well, the students of Finmory only loved her more.

  “Hi,” said Tori. “You look great in that dress.” She reluctantly pulled a green dress from her arms and hung it on a hook. “Guess I’m not trying that one on.”

  Mrs. Nathan rolled closer, taking my hand and beaming. “Oh, Sara. You do look glamorous. This dress was made for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hello, Tina,” Mrs. Nathan said to my mother.

  Mom, usually so friendly and talkative, friend of all people who interrupt her mother-daughter time, shot Mrs. Nathan a quick smile and took a step backward. Her voice was frosty. “Gloria. You’re looking well.”

  I just thought Mom was guarding our mother-daughter moment. That she wasn’t going to allow even the greeting of an acquaintance to break up our fun. Her rudeness gave me a private thrill.

  I wouldn’t find out the truth for another seven days.

  Mom’s cell phone rang. As she moved away to talk, Mrs. Nathan and her daughter disappeared into the corner changing room, and Ruth pulled pins from a puffy, heart-shaped cushion and began taking in the side of my dress. The velvet of the heart was blood-red in the creases but had otherwise faded to a sick, fleshy pink. About a hundred pins pierced the little pillow’s surface. It was eerie. Like the heart of a floppy doll had been torn out and stabbed with tiny daggers.

  The day was turning out to be better than I’d imagined. The perfect dress. New shoes. The Foggy Dog. My glorious mother all to myself.

  When my mother returned from her phone call, her expression had changed. She seemed exhilarated, and I hoped it had something to do with finding me a bag to match my new gown.

  It didn’t.

  “Slight problem, sweetie. Turns out I do have to go into work. So we’ll come back for the shoes one night after school. We have two and a half weeks until prom; we’re not in a big rush. Does that sound okay?”

  I flinched from the prick of one of Ruth’s daggers. “Are we still going to go for lunch?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Not today. Let’s make it a dinner the night we get the shoes. It’s not a big deal.” She didn’t look me in the eye, just bent over to gather up our purses.

  It’s impossible to focus in pre-law with the Petting Pool looming less than an hour away. I’m equally torn between excitement and dread. But mostly I’m still reeling from Carling Burnack’s sudden interest in me.

  Mr. Kazinski stands at the front of the class, his sneer so prominent it nearly cripples his entire left side—from his bent leg and cocked hip all the way up to his sunken shoulder and hooked mouth. He dabs at his nose with a balled-up tissue as Carling, from where she sits in the front row with Sloane, looks on. “Today we’ll be discussing an area of law I happen to be very familiar with—divorce. You’ve probably heard by now that more than half of marriages end in divorce; I’m sure more than half of you are living it. Each case is different, but many follow this timeworn pattern. Boy meets Girl. There’s so much lust in the air no one can think straight. Girl convinces Boy what he’s inhaling is actually love, and Boy pops the question he will ultimately live to regret.”

  Bored, I flip open my notebook, pull out a pencil, and start scrawling my name in long, sausagelike letters. If there’s one subject that will ruin me, it’s this one. We had a quiz last week and I might have gotten the lowest mark in the class, B-minus. When the girl who sits beside me caught sight of my test, she inched her desk farther away from me as if mediocrity were a disease and she was determined to stay clear of the aura of contagion.

  “Wedding plans and square footage of starter homes keep everyone nicely preoccupied for a few years and then the babies arrive—and let me tell you, the babies arrive squalling and bawling like nothing you’ve ever heard. What is shocking is how much you love them in spite of it. A few years pass, then a few more, and one day you notice the air has grown too thin. Both love and lust are gone for Boy and Girl. So is most of Boy’s lush head of hair, but that’s another lawsuit for another day.” The class laughs as Mr. Kazinski rubs his shiny head.

  Carling, seated way up front, puts up her hand. “Did either Boy or Girl sign a prenup? Because as long as both parties had independent legal advice, the divorce should be fairly straightforward.”

  The teacher grins, pointing at her. “Ahh, at least one of you is going into this life prepared. Miss Burnack, you scored higher than anyone in the class on our quiz last week.”

  It’s as if she’s climbed into another body and zipped herself in, the way she blushes, sits up tall, and squeezes her mouth into a confident smile. This class is good for her. Not only are there no escalator handrails to tempt her, but her intellect actually shines here and it’s pretty clear she is proud of herself.

  “Tell us,” says Mr. Kazinski, “do you see yourself choosing law as a profession?”

  The sweetness drains from her face and she slides down in her seat. “No.”

  If Mr. Kazinski is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He folds his arms and leans against the dusty chalkboard. “So now our pair is ready to divorce. Boy and Girl are both teachers. Prenup or no prenup, they started broke and will end broke. What we’re going to discuss
here is something not help up in prenuptial agreements—custody of the wailing wee ones. And this is where the law gets good and discriminatory. The mother, in this case, Girl, usually gets more rights when it comes to the children. What the courts call ‘shared custody’ really means Boy sees his babies Tuesday and Thursday evenings and every other weekend.”

  I look away from him. Divorce and custody are not things I want to think about today or any other day. I was born in the wrong era. The nineteenth century must have rocked. Most people parked themselves in a marriage and stayed there, no matter what. I stare at the clouds piling up outside the window and wonder if it’s too late to transfer to European history.

  Mr. Kazinski continues, “In other words, no matter how God-fearing, law-abiding, carpool-committed, or willing to battle nightly bogeymen the father may be, the mother gets dibs when it comes to the kids. The courts never really consider the umbilical cord to be fully severed, and, as such, are extremely reluctant to separate a mother from her child. It is the belief of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts that a child needs her mother, and so, mother and child should rarely be apart.”

  My pen clatters to the floor and I make no move to pick it up. I can’t. This information has thumped me so hard in the stomach I can barely catch my breath. A child needing a mother is so basic, so natural, so crucial there are state-manufactured laws to ensure it. Lawyers and judges and government workers and teachers—and now even students in this class—know it. Why doesn’t my own mother?

  “I assume you’ve all read your required chapters,” he says, walking to the blackboard to pick up a piece of chalk. “Miss Black, can you tell the class how long Boy and Girl have to be separated before the state will grant them their divorce?”

  I open my mouth and answer with absolutely no idea what I’m saying.

  chapter 13

  the petting pool

  I’m not in the best frame of mind after pre-law. My legs have that same bendy-straw feeling they had the day after my mom left, and there’s a greenish-blackish stink wrapped around my shoulders that snaps and growls to let people know they should keep their distance. If my own mother can’t be near me, why should anyone else?