Liar. Part 24

It was the last time I ever saw him.

AFTER.

Brandon hasn't told on me; he avoids me. But he doesn't avoid Erin. He hara.s.ses her whenever he can. Erin, who he never looked at twice and didn't give a d.a.m.n about before she ran away. Or after she ran away, for that matter, when we all thought she was dead like Zach.

It's only now that she's back in school and her boyfriend is in jail in Florida that he's giving her lots of quality Brandon attention. Because now she's prey. She twitches, looks around, checks all possible exits. She's always ready to run, to cower, to hide. She exudes the prey scent: fear.

Brandon thinks because she's prey, she's easy. She's someone he can take. He's probably right.

Lucky Erin.

I want to prove him wrong. I don't like to think of Brandon and me having anything in common. I'm the predator, not him. I can teach him that. I will teach him that.

I wish dogs would take Brandon. I think about how I can arrange it. I can make him prey.

Instead I make it a habit to be in Erin's vicinity as much as I can. Brandon doesn't say a word if I'm there. He can't even look me in the eye.

He's scared of me.

He should be.

AFTER.

The week after the funeral I eat lunch with Sarah and Tayshawn most every day. We don't talk about what I want us to talk about. We don't talk about Zach or what happened to him either. I don't tell them anything about the white boy or what I have to do.

On Thursday after school we meet at Sarah's place. Supposedly to study. I am hoping not.

Her dad is working late and her mom's away at some lawyer conference. Turns out Sarah lives a few blocks from my place, but her building is s.h.i.+ny and new. There's a doorman. He sits behind marble and writes down my name and checks my school ID. I've never been in a doorman building before.

He hands back the ID and tells me that Miss Was.h.i.+ngton is expecting me.

"Okay," I say.

"Eighteenth floor," he tells me, pointing to the bank of elevators.

"What apartment number?" I ask.

"Eighteenth floor," he repeats. "That's the number."

The elevator opens up to Tayshawn. We're standing in a room that's bigger than my kitchen. It's lined with racks for shoes.

"You have to take your shoes off," Tayshawn tells me. He points to where his are already resting on a rack. "Pretty weird, huh?"

"Yeah." I slip off my sneakers and put them beside his, looking up at him, smiling. I've always liked Tayshawn; he's the only one at the school who's always been nice to me.

Tayshawn holds his hand out to help me up. I take it and feel a jolt of intense longing.

I kiss him lightly, my lips on his. I lean into it, easing onto my toes so our lips stay aligned. My mouth opens a little, so does his. We're kissing for real.

The feel of it is strong. I grab hold of him, grip his biceps to keep from falling.

He pulls away but I don't want to stop. He pushes me off. The heat is still on me, so intense my legs shake. I have to steel every muscle to keep from throwing myself at him again.

"Sorry," I mumble.

We're here at Sarah's to study together. I'm not sure I can. I thought Tayshawn felt that way, too. He's not shaking.

"Wow, girl," he says, showing me his palms. "Slow down."

I look away. There's sweat on my upper lip. I don't know what to say. Zach would have responded. Zach would have exploded with me.

"This way," Tayshawn says, opening the door, careful not to touch me.

It's the biggest apartment I've ever seen. We're standing in a living room that's as big as an entire floor of my building. Everything is clean and s.h.i.+ny. The couches are made out of real leather. A television takes up a whole wall.

I walk toward the gla.s.s walls that look down on Astor Place. Beyond I can see both the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. To my right, I can see all the way to Brooklyn.

Tayshawn mock punches me, and even that light touch of knuckles on my bare shoulder is enough . . . I cough. He looks down at his hand, as if he didn't know what he was doing.

"You're staring," he says at last. "You never seen a rich person's place before?"

"Nope," I say. "I thought Zach's place was big."

Tayshawn laughs.

He thinks I'm joking.

"Where's Sarah?"

"Here," she says, from behind us. "Welcome."

She sounds like a hostess at a party. Or at least how I imagine one would sound. She looks like one, too, even barefoot. Her pretty black curls spill down her back.

I knew Sarah was better off than me. I didn't realize just how much.

I am looking at her mouth. I am thinking about kissing her.

"You bring your books?" she asks. I tap my backpack. We're there to study bio. It's the only cla.s.s Sarah isn't acing.

She leads the way into her bedroom. The room is huge and has a view of the Woolworth Building. With binoculars you could probably see the Statue of Liberty. There's a teddy bear and a floppy giraffe on the bed. Compared to the acres of stuffed toys I was expecting it's not too bad. The room's painted blue and white, not pink.

The door to the closet is open. It's not a closet so much as another room. Outside of a department store it contains more clothes than I've ever seen before.

She leads us into a room on the other side of the closet. Her study, I guess. There's a desk, a couch, chairs, a stereo, and lots and lots and lots of books. I didn't realize one person could own so many.

Sarah's bedroom is made up of three different rooms. My entire apartment is made up of four.

"I know," Sarah says. "It's a bit much, isn't it?"

She sits on the couch and crosses her legs. Her skirt rides up a little so that I can see her knees. They're smooth, not ashy like mine. She probably bathes in milk or something. She makes me feel gangly, awkward, ugly. But I still want to kiss her. I wonder why either of them wanted to kiss me. If they do anymore.

I'm pretty sure it's because of Zach.

"How rich are your parents?" I ask, knowing I shouldn't.

"Not that rich," she says. She shrugs. "I mean, they're above average."

Neither me nor Tayshawn says anything.

"Okay, a lot above average but I wouldn't say rich, you know?"

"d.a.m.n," I say. "What did you think when you saw my place?"

The walls of our apartment haven't been repainted since before I was born, the paint flakes and chips off. We don't have a living or dining room, the pipes clang so loudly in winter sometimes it's hard to sleep, the hot water shuts off randomly, and water from the upstairs apartment's bathroom seeps through the ceiling even though the super's fixed it a hundred times.

Sarah blushes. "I didn't think anything. I mean, not that I thought nothing. I . . . your place is lovely. It's-"

"s.h.i.+t," I finish for her. "You don't even have to compare it to this place to see that."

"It's not my fault we're rich," Sarah says.

"It's not our fault we aren't," Tayshawn replies, mocking both of us. Though mostly Sarah, I think.

"I'm sorry," I say. Though I'm not. "I didn't realize."

"I'm still me," Sarah says. "With or without money."

I doubt that, but I don't tell her so. Her being rich makes understanding her easier. The way she acts, the way she talks, how she's always dressed right-the dress she wore to the funeral was definitely not borrowed from her mother. She might be scared of some things, and girly and all, but there's a certainty about her. She knows she's going to college. She doesn't need a scholars.h.i.+p or student loans. She doesn't worry about any of that.

She's not a wolf either. She's not going to wind up living the rest of her life on a c.r.a.ppy farm without electricity or hope. Suddenly I want to hurt her.

"Can I use the bathroom?" I ask.

She points to a door I hadn't noticed. I close it behind me.

Her bathroom is four times the size of my bedroom.

HISTORY OF ME.

You're wondering why I lie, aren't you?

The shrinks and counselors I've seen over the years have had a million theories, but they boil down to just two: 1) Resentment.

Of my brother. (Who I made up.) Of people with more money than me. (Which is almost everyone. Not just Sarah.) Of people with less hair than me. (When I was a hairy little girl. Before the change came.) Of people who are smarter than me. (Which doesn't leave many to resent, does it?) 2) Anger.

At all of the above.

Plus at my parents for loving my imaginary brother more than me. At my father for pa.s.sing on the family illness. (And various other reasons only shrinks and counselors would come up with.) Also at all my teachers and all the students.

Really, according to the shrinks, I am angry at everyone ever. Especially them.

I am all anger and resentment all the time.

Not one of them has ever suggested that maybe I lie because the world is better the way I tell it.

AFTER.

When I come out of the bathroom Sarah is still sitting on the couch and Tayshawn is in a chair opposite her. As far away as he can manage.

"Nice bathroom," I say. I don't know where to sit. The empty chair is too close to Tayshawn and I can't sit on the couch next to Sarah. I don't want them to think that I want us to do what we did after-during-the funeral. Even though that's exactly what I want. I sit down on the floor. The carpet is soft as fur.

"You don't have to sit there," Sarah says. She pats the couch next to her.

"That's okay," I say. Neither of them is flushed or sweating. They don't have the same fever I do. Is it because I'm a wolf and they're human? Humans don't rut whenever and wherever they want to. But we did before, in the cave in Inwood. What's different now?

Tayshawn coughs. "We all miss Zach," he says.

I turn to stare at him. For once I hadn't been thinking about Zach.

"Yes," Sarah says.

I realize that the only time I haven't missed Zach is when the three of us are together. I look at Tayshawn, legs wide, elbows resting on his knees. On the wall behind him is a framed photo of Sarah as a child. Sarah is cross-legged on the couch, bouncing her fingers on the armrest.

"There's no bringing him back," Sarah says. It's one of those sentences that's been said a hundred times before. I don't know what it means.

"If we did he'd be a weird-a.s.s zombie freak," Tayshawn says. He's smiling but it's not very convincing.

"Ha," Sarah says. Her laugh is less convincing than his smile.

I want to tell them about the white boy and what I have to do. I want to kiss them.

I cross my legs the opposite way to Sarah. I should remind them that we're supposed to be studying. I don't want to be studying.

Sarah and Tayshawn exchange a look and I wonder again if they are seeing each other without me. Tayshawn pushed me away when I kissed him. Maybe because they are together and he was too embarra.s.sed to tell me. On Sunday I left first. Did they keep kissing?

Them together is natural. They look good. It makes sense, too: Zach's girl winding up with Zach's best friend.

"Nothing's ever going to be . . ." Sarah trails off. "I miss him."

"We all do," Tayshawn says.

"Micah?" Sarah asks. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Tayshawn says. "You're kind of bouncing there."

"Huh?" I ask, before I realize that I'm crouched down on my heels rocking back and forth. "Sorry." I can't say I just want us to make out again, can I? "It's weird being here. With you two. If Zach weren't dead I wouldn't be. Here, I mean."

"It's true," Tayshawn says. "I've never been here before."