Liar. Part 11

They really believe I could have killed Zach. I move my head-something that's half nod and half shake. They take it as a yes.

"Why didn't you tell us last time that you knew him outside of school?" Stein asks.

"It was a secret. I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"I'm sure," Detective Rodriguez says, "that Zach wouldn't have meant the police."

Well, he's dead, isn't he? None of his wishes mean anything now. My promises are as dead as he is. I still don't want to talk about him. Not with them.

Detective Stein is leaning across the kitchen table, staring at me. It's creepy. I wish the table was wider. I wish the kitchen was bigger, too. Or that there was a living room. Instead of it being Mom and Dad's bedroom and where we watch TV.

"What did you do together outside of school?" Stein asks, in a tone of voice that implies we must have been doing something he didn't approve of.

I look at my mom. She squeezes my hand tighter. Dad nods and smiles.

"We ran," I say. "Training. I like to run."

"She's very fast," my dad says, sounding proud.

"Where did you run?" Rodriguez asks.

"Central Park mostly."

"When did you last see him?"

"Friday night."

"You ran at night?" Rodriguez says, as if that's unusual.

"Lots of people do," Dad says, in a tone that says he thinks Rodriguez is stupid and from the sticks. It's one of Dad's favorite tones. Stein briefly transfers his glare from me to Dad. But then he's back to glaring at me. I want to tell him he's not getting to me but that would probably prove to him that he is.

"So you ran together? You didn't chat or go get a malted?" Stein asks.

"We ran," I say. I wonder what a malted is. I know it doesn't matter. I don't want to think about them believing I killed Zach.

"What time did you stop running that night?"

"I'm not sure," I say. "Maybe 9:00 or 9:30?"

"Was it any different from your normal running sessions?" Rodriguez asks.

"No," I say. "We stretched. We practiced sprints. Then we did distance. A bit more than ten miles."

"Ten miles?" Stein asks. "What time did you start?"

"Must've been by 8:30."

"You started your ten-mile run at 8:30 and were done by 9:30? What? You're running six-minute miles?" he asks. He thinks I'm lying. I never lie about running.

Six minutes? I am tempted to tell him that I go sub-five all the time. But Dad hates it when I show off. Besides, if they know how fast I run maybe that will make them suspect me more. "We were running for a long time," I say.

"I told you she's good, didn't I?" Dad says.

"We were building up to twenty-six," I add.

"That's the length of a marathon," Dad explains, to show them how stupid he thinks they are. "Twenty-six miles, 385 yards." He is not helping me.

"When you were done training that night," Rodriguez says, "what did you do?"

"Went home."

"Did you go home together?"

"No," I say, even though we did. "He lives-lived-in Inwood and I'm all the way down here."

"And that's the last time you saw him?" Rodriguez asks.

"Yes."

"Did he seem upset?" Rodriguez asks, trying to sound concerned.

"No."

"Did he say he was going to meet with anyone?"

"No. He said he was going home." Didn't just say it. I ran with him every step of the way from the park to Inwood.

"Did he ever tell you he was afraid of anyone?" Stein wants to know.

"No. Never. I don't think he was afraid of anything."

"Or anyone?"

I shake my head. He wasn't even afraid of me, which made him different from almost everyone else at school. Most of them are too scared to look me in the eye. It's like they think my lies are contagious. Or that looking at me will turn them into as big a weirdo as I am.

"What was his frame of mind when you last saw him?" Rodriguez asks.

Frame of mind? I want to mock him, but he is a policeman who thinks I might have killed Zach. "He was tired. Beat. But he seemed happy. I didn't think it would be the last time I'd ever see him." I have to concentrate to keep my voice steady. I can't cry in front of them.

"Was it the last time?"

"Yes," I said. "Like I told you."

"We have an account from another student who says you saw him late Sat.u.r.day night. Or rather, early Sunday morning."

Sarah. Had to be. Why had I lied to her about that? Because I wanted her to feel bad, wanted her to think I was the last one who kissed him, not her.

"No. You can ask Mom and Dad. I was here all of that Sat.u.r.day. Sunday, too."

Rodriguez turned to Dad.

"Yes," Dad says. Mom nods. "Micah was grounded that weekend."

"Why?" Rodriguez asks.

Dad pauses. Mom and Dad look at each other. "No," my mom says. "It is not for us to say."

They grounded me because they caught me kissing Zach. One of their many rules for me is no dating until after high school. There'll be no such rule for Jordan; he doesn't have the family illness.

"It is a private matter. For the family only," Mom says.

Stein and Rodriguez don't look convinced or impressed. "We can continue this at the station. Sounds like we might have to interview all three of you."

"Fine," Dad says. "Micah stole money from my wallet and then lied when I asked her about it."

Great, I think, now Dad's lying about my lying and calling me a thief. That will really help. Mom shoots him a soul-chilling glare. "Isaiah," she mutters.

"How do you know she did it?"

"I saw her," Dad says. "We wanted to see what she would say when we said the money was missing."

"So you both agree that your daughter is a liar?"

Well, they walked into that one.

"Sometimes," Dad says, as if it's no big deal. "Aren't most kids? We're trying to teach her better. Hence the grounding."

"Have you been telling us the truth today, Micah?" Stein asks.

"Yes, sir," I say. "I have."

"Because if we find out you've been lying, the consequences will be much worse than being grounded for the weekend. Do you understand?"

I nod. "Yes, I understand."

Rodriguez coughs. "I suspect we'll be talking to you again," he says. "In the meantime, if you think of anything else-no matter how small-let us know." Rodriguez leans over to hand me his card. I put it on the table, staring at it. Maybe they don't suspect me after all?

Stein stands up and bangs his head on Dad's bicycle. He swears.

Dad looks down and Mom bites her lip. Rodriguez smiles briefly. I'm the only one who's not tempted to laugh.

AFTER.

"I'm sick," I tell my dad, who's slipped into my room to see why I haven't gotten up yet. I've been holding an ice pack in my hands and overheating my face by holding it too close to the radiator. The sheets and comforter are pulled up to my chin. I'm hot and cold and sweaty.

I can't face school. I bet they all know that the cops were here. The rumors about me and Zach and what I did to him are getting out of control. Today I can't deal with the whispers.

"Sweetheart," Dad says, sitting down on the bed, "I know it's all been a shock. You need to take time off. Go upstate."

I have an urge to tell him how bad it is at school. To beg him to let me finish the school year at home. Stay in my room and send in my a.s.signments. But I'm afraid he'll pack me off to the Greats. No finis.h.i.+ng the school year, no college. Just the farm for the rest of my life.

Faking sick is my compromise. I want to have a legitimate absence from school. Maybe I can fake a serious illness long enough not to have to go back and yet still finish the school year.

"Dad," I say, weakly, worried I'm trying too hard. It's hard to fake regular sick when you've almost never had a cold or flu. Only the family illness. "I'm really sick."

He puts his hand on my forehead. "You do feel a bit hot. Is your throat sore?"

I nod. It feels like it's full of razor blades, but not the way he means.

"Give me your hand."

I do.

"Cold! Clammy, too. That can't be good. Maybe I should take you to a doctor?"

I look at him. Dad knows how I feel about doctors. There have been way too many in my life.

"Okay, not a doctor. But if you're still like this when your mom gets home you might have to. I'll get you some water. What do you want for breakfast? Scrambled eggs okay?"

I nod. For once I'm glad he works from home.

He stands up. "Did you take your pill?"

I don't groan, just nod weakly. When he closes the door behind him, I pull the covers up over my head, close my eyes, and fall asleep.

Sometimes I can be very still.

BEFORE.

"Why'd you tell that lie about being born messed up?" Zach asked me, his mouth tickling my ear.

We were at his place, curled together on his bed. His parents were out of town visiting family. The window was wide-open and we could hear all the traffic noises from the street seven stories below. Sometimes even s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation from people walking by. I hear people talking all the time at my place, but I figured that was 'cause we're only on the fourth floor. Seven stories ought to bring some quiet with it. Especially here in Inwood, so much less congested than downtown.

"C'mon, Micah, why'd you lie like that?"

"Wasn't a lie," I told him, turning so that our faces were barely an inch apart. "I was born messed up." I was tempted to tell him about the hair. I was tempted to tell him the truth.

Zach leaned up on his elbow, looked at me straight. His eyebrows unmoving. His mouth still, like he didn't approve, but wasn't going to show it.

I leaned up, too. "My parents don't like to admit that I was born funny. They're the liars, not me."

"Born with boy parts and girl parts?" He stared at me, trying to read my face. "You know that's gross, right? If I believed you there's no way-"

"Really?" I asked, shocked. "It would change how you think about me?"

I don't know why I was surprised. I was brought up my whole life on the belief that telling people the truth leads to disaster. I've done it, too. Told the truth and watched everyone freak out.

"Are you kidding me?" Zach said, moving a little farther away from me. "Bad enough that you're a liar without thinking about you being all messed up down there." He shuddered.