Little Blue Lies by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page B

religion anti-tennis?”
    â€œWhy are you here?”
    â€œTennis,” he says, holding up the equipment to prove it. “Like I told you.”
    And Malcolm is a man of truth. He says precisely what he means, usually at great volume, and often even when you wish he would be less straightforward.
    â€œRight,” I say, “but why now? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
    â€œThat’s because I didn’t know you got dumped. Sorry about that, by the way.”
    â€œThanks. Who told you?”
    â€œYour dad.”
    Grrr.
    â€œThanks, Dad!” I call out.
    â€œYour mother put me up to it,” he calls back. From the garage. Waxing his car is a sacred.
    â€œThanks, Mom!” I call out.
    â€œYou don’t have to yell,” Malcolm says, pointing at the floor below with a racket held like a machine gun. “She’s right there at the window.”
    I hear a Shush so loud, it makes the rosebushes in the garden rustle.
    â€œFine,” I say. “If everybody wants me to play tennis, I’ll play tennis.”
    I am just pushing away from my window when I see Malcolm nod repeatedly and grin toward that downstairs window, and my mother loud-whispers, “Yes!”
    Have I gotten this pathetic?
    â€œIn a word, yes,” Malcolm says as we head down the streettoward the public courts. We could play at Dad’s club, but the local courts are closer, quieter, and not infested with little rocket-propelled-snots who’ve been taking lessons since they were two and stare up at their own radar-gun readings for twenty seconds every time they serve an ace. Yes, radar guns.
    â€œIt was a rhetorical question, Malcolm. The kind that not only does not demand an answer but, if you are a good friend, doesn’t even suggest one.”
    â€œOr, to look at it another way, if you’re a really, really good friend, and honest, you are duty-bound to provide one.”
    â€œOkay, so if you are that level of friend, how did you let me get this pathetic?”
    â€œEasy. You dumped me.”
    â€œWhat? I never dumped you. Anyway, that doesn’t even make sense. Guys don’t dump each other. They just . . . are, or not.”
    â€œNo, you dumped me, Hamlet. You dumped all sub-Junie life-forms once you guys connected. And now that you are dumped, with me being me and nature abhorring a vacuum, I am attempting to fill the probably unfillable space that was occupied by the exquisite Junie Blue. By the way, for the record, you did very well for yourself there, while it lasted. Even though I still don’t appreciate being dumped.”
    â€œYou were not—”
    â€œIf a guy has to be dumped for somebody, it’s almost anhonor to be dumped for the likes of the lovely Ms. Blue.”
    It’s kind of a nice thing for him to say. It kind of hurts to be reminded.
    â€œWell, thanks. I guess.”
    â€œCan I ask her out?”
    â€œSure,” I say brightly. “Can I kill you?”
    â€œOh, I see. A skill you picked up hanging around the Blue household?”
    â€œWhat, Ronny? He’s no killer.”
    â€œNo, he’s not. He’s also not such a bad guy, actually.”
    â€œHe’s not . . . Compared to what? And where did you come up with that?”
    We have arrived at the courts, and as I figured, they are all ours. They are only a couple of blocks from the beach, and are cracked asphalt. But I feel like I know every crack, and so it’s almost a plus.
    â€œI played tennis with him once,” Malcolm says as he slips his racket out of its case and flips me the other one. He saunters to his end of the court as if he has just said nothing particularly interesting.
    I stand, staring at him, even though I know, intellectually, I should be walking to the other end of the court. But, really.
    â€œYou played tennis, with Ronny frickin’ Blue.”
    He has opened the can of balls, two-toned yellow and