Seven Ways We Lie by Riley Redgate Read Free Book Online Page A

her out of this spiral, and somebody has to. It’s not as if I enjoy chasing her down, trying to get her to go to classes and shit. It shouldn’t be my job.
    I trudge down the hall into my room and collapse on my bed, tugging out my phone. Cmon sexy, please? says Dan’s latest.
    After a second, I realize that I’m actually considering it. Why? There’s no guarantee it wouldn’t get leaked, and my reputation sure as hell doesn’t need helping along.
    As I reread his texts, a weird yearning builds behind my sternum. It’s sort of sad, but beside Andrea’s glare, Claire’s judgment, and my sister’s scorn, this invitation seems welcoming. The persistence is obnoxious, but it at least reminds me that my presence doesn’t repulse everyone the way it apparently does my sister.
    I don’t send pictures , I text back, after a long minute. Please don’t send me that sort of thing.
    I turn over, exhausted.

TOWELING MY HAIR, I SCAN MY BEDROOM SHELVES again, nurturing the hope that I might have missed something. Of course not, though. I have every book counted: thirty-seven on the shelves by the door, eighteen on the shelf above my mirror, and another sixty-six in the bookcase under my loft bed. As of this afternoon, I’ve read every book twice, except
Physics of the Impossible
, which I never planned on rereading. Not my cup of tea; it’s clearly targeted at people who like science fiction.
    I don’t know why people find sci-fi so fascinating. Some of it has a glaring lack of common sense. The inescapable trope of a future world where flying cars have replaced all other modes of transportation? Yes, excellent. Have these authors ever given a single thought to acrophobia? Just a thought, of course, but for the millions of people with a paralyzing fear of heights, flying cars might be a tiny bit
absolutely terrifying
. But no; authors never seem to care about the acrophobics of the world.
    â€œValentine?” calls my mother. “Are you still in the shower?”
    â€œIf I were, I wouldn’t be able to hear you,” I reply, hanging up my towel.
    â€œDinner, smart aleck.”
    I pull on a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. My mother places a plate before me, and as she settles at the other end of the table, I brace myself for the usual mindless onslaught of
How was your day? Learn anything new? Make any friends?
One of the many downsides of having a guidance counselor for a mother: her endless enthusiasm for small talk.
    But the only thing she says is, “Your dad’s still at the lab.”
    â€œYes, I gathered that,” I say blankly. “From his absence.”
    She says nothing else. Suspicious, I sip my water and peer at her over the edge of my glass. Her head is bowed, her honey-brown bangs drooping over her eyes. She stares at her fork, stirring the mashed potatoes rather than doing anything productive with them.
    I’m not impressed. She’s always telling
me
to eat my food instead of rearranging it.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” I guess.
    She looks up at me and smiles quickly. “No, nothing.”
    â€œOkay . . .”
    â€œJust . . . the assembly.”
    â€œAh. That.” I take a bite and put down my fork. “What about it?”
    â€œSomething like this happening at Paloma.” She shakes her head. “I hope they figure it all out soon. The presentation upset me a bit.”
    â€œWhy?”
    She leans an elbow on the table, giving me an unusually wry smile. “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
    â€œNot happening,” I mutter, returning to my food. “Anyway, I thought the whole presentation was straightforward. No use being preoccupied over it.”
    Hypocritical of me to say, maybe, given that I can’t stop thinking about the assembly. But that’s because my message triggered this whole ordeal.
    Two weeks ago, I stayed after school, waiting for a ride