Lie for Me by Romily Bernard Read Free Book Online

could use it, but that’s another stupid thought, one that actually makes me laugh. I gather my dirty laundry and hers; dumping all of it into a basket I can take to the coin Laundromat, and I’m counting quarters I found in the couch when my phone beeps with a text message:
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    You have anything for me?
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    I don’t recognize the number, but it isn’t hard to figure out who’s on the other end: Carson. I have zero idea what to say.
    I guess I could tell him how Wick flipped her lid about the Tessa Waye stuff, but it feels like I’m sharing something kind of private, and that’s stupid considering I took a job that involved getting into the private details of her life. Besides, if I don’t tell him about her wig-out, what am I going to tell him? How I thought Wick’s eyes were blue, but they’re not?
    If my guy card wasn’t already on its way to being revoked, that would seal the deal. It’s true though. I realize it as soon as I think it. Yeah, her eyes are light-colored, but it’s some shade between pale gray and pale blue.
    Almost colorless.
    If I were to draw them . . . I’m not sure how I’d do it. I scowl, typing a quick reply:
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    nothing to report. she freaked about Tessa Waye’s suicide and went to the nurse’s office
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    I mash send before I stop myself. This feels weird and it shouldn’t. I have never felt bad about any other job before. It’s just that: a job. It shouldn’t be any different with her.
    So why does it feel like it already is?
    Another beep. Carson’s reply:
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    Get me more
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    I roll my eyes. I would do that how exactly? I start to pocket the phone and stop, my thumb curving over the keypad. What if I called her? I have Wick’s cell number, got it when we worked on a lab project together. I could text her. Yeah, we’re not really friends, but we’re more than acquaintances. I could pretend I’m concerned.
    It wouldn’t really be pretending though, would it?
    I dig through my desk until I find the notebook I wrote her number in. Yeah, I keep all my class notebooks. I’d keep all my textbooks if they let me, and yes, I recognize that makes me a loser. There’s just something reassuring about being able to run your hands over all the stuff you learned or—in the case of woodworking class—should have learned. It’s proof you’re moving forward.
    I know exactly where Wick’s number is: sophomore-year Computer Science. It’s at the top of a sheet dated in September. Mrs. Lowe was talking about modeling data. Wick and I had a project together at the time and exchanged numbers.
    I copy her cell into my phone, save it. Problem is, the number Wick had for me doesn’t match the number to Carson’s loaner phone so I have to spend a few minutes on Spoofcard’s site, making sure my number will show up right in her Caller ID.
    Gives me just enough time to think about what I’m doing and, because part of me feels like I shouldn’t do this and because, again, that’s hugely stupid, I type:
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    r u ok?
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    And wait.
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    My mom comes home around nine. She smells like cigarettes and cologne, and even if I hadn’t heard Vic’s truck in the driveway, I would’ve known she had been with him.
    â€œWill!” Mom bursts through the door and flings her arms around me. I’m several inches taller than she is now and it’s weird to feel her snuggle into my sternum, like nothing fits right anymore.
    â€œI feel so much better,” she says.
    â€œThat’s good.” I pat her shoulder and tell myself, Do not ask. Do not ask . Do not— “You were out? With Vic?”
    Dammit .
    â€œDon’t be like that.” She stands up straight and glares at me, pushing shaggy hair from her eyes. The strap on her purple sundress has fallen down and she doesn’t notice how her bra is hanging out. “You