Lies My Girlfriend Told Me (17 page)

Checking up is more like it. And of course Liana wouldn’t call on our home phone. I reassure Dad that all the knives were sharpened with no bloodshed.

He says, “We’ll be home in the morning, but we switched to an earlier flight.”

Why? What if Liana comes again? “Stay another night if you want,” I tell him. “Stay two nights.”

“We could never do that. We miss you too much.”

Is he serious? It’s only been a day and a half. You’d think they’d want to get away more often. I can’t even remember the last vacation they took alone.

Out of nowhere, he goes, “We’re really proud of you, Alix.”

For finally being the sister I always should’ve been? A lump forms in my throat.

“Alix?”

“Ethan just woke up. I better see if he needs a bottle or something.” I mumble a quick good-bye. Ethan’s glued to the TV and I think, Great. Now I’ve planted the seed for a couch potato.

As if he read my mind, he whines like he’s hungry. I warm a bottle and cradle him in my arms on the sofa, singing softly as he suckles. The first song that comes to mind is “Born This Way,” by Lady Gaga. He seems to like it because he grins and claps his hands. I wonder what Liana’s doing now. If she’s attracted to me as much as I am to her. What’ll happen next, if anything?

I should call or text her. Ask point-blank.

I’m so sure. Like middle school:
Do you like me?

Ethan’s bottle rolls off my foot and I blink back to the present. He’s sound asleep. I turn off the TV and gingerly lift him up, draping him over my shoulder without a towel. If he spits up, all this milky goo will run down my back.

I don’t even care.

My cell chirps upstairs and I want so badly to take two stairs at a time, but I know it would jar Ethan awake.

After I tuck him in and kiss him, I tiptoe to my room.

A text message from her:

I’m sorry if I went too far today

I text back:

No. I am

It takes her a long time to reply and I think the conversation’s over. Another text arrives:

We need to stop apologizing. It was the same with she-who-shall-not-be-named. I was always apologizing for something, always feeling bad or inadequate

I text immediately:

Me too!

All these memories come surging back. She hated my clothes; she told me I should lose weight, exercise more. She didn’t like my taste in music and movies. She resented the fact that I had to eat dinner with my family, and spend weekends doing chores or homework. Any time I wasn’t available was like a personal affront.

Liana texts:

She’d show up at my school and expect me to just take off. I couldn’t do that. I had cheerleading, and a job. Then she’d accuse me of not loving her enough

I text:

That sounds familiar

Except unlike Liana, I did give up my life for her. I gave up everything.

Liana texts:

How’s it going with Ethan?

Good. Great. He woke up and I got him back to sleep. You wove some kind of magical spell on him and now he loves me

She texts:

He’s always loved you

I read that line again and realize I’ve always loved him. And I’ll always have his back.

I had fun today, she texts. I always have fun with you

Me too

Que tengas dulces sueños. That means sleep well

U 2. That means you too

LOL

After we disconnect, I lie in the dark and gaze up into the dark, feeling slightly intoxicated. Something—a flickering light—bounces off the ceiling. It’s Swanee’s cell in my bag. The glow-in-the-dark decal on the case is starting to fade. A final memory sears my brain. Something she said a few days before I decided I was ready. We were in her car, parked behind Safeway, and I almost, almost let her go all the way. When I pushed her off at the last second, she said, “For fuck’s sake, Alix. I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t had sex by the time they were seventeen.”

Liar liar liar.

I straggle out of bed, kick the bag with the cell into my closet, and shut the door.

Chapter 19

Mom and Dad walk in around noon, as Ethan’s finishing up breakfast/lunch. There’s baby cereal splattered all over Ethan and me, the table, and the walls. I was hoping to have a chance to swab the deck before they got home.

Ethan squeals and reaches up for Mom. She takes him, giving him belly spuds. He giggles his head off.

I say, “I know it’s a mess—”

“You done good, kiddo,” Dad cuts in. “Thanks for stepping up.” He gives me a little squeeze around the shoulders.

Actual physical contact. I begin rinsing out a sponge at the sink to wipe down the walls.

“Don’t worry about this.” Mom waves me off. She tells Ethan, “Say
ma-ma
.”

Dad murmurs in my ear, “I told her Ethan said
da-da
first and now she’s jealous as hell.”

Whoa. My parents rarely curse.

I leave the sponge on the counter and ask, “Can I go out for a while?”

Mom says, “Sure. And thank you again, Alix.”

I can’t grab my hoodie from the front closet fast enough.

At the first stop sign, I text Liana:

We’re on

She texts back:

YAY
. Meet at our regular?

I beat her to the McDonald’s. The smell is too tempting, so I begin to slam down my cheeseburger deluxe and fries before she arrives. I ordered her favorite combo, and as she scoots into the booth, she says, “Ooh, I could kiss you.”

Do it, I think.

Our eyes meet and the electricity sends a shock wave through my body. She inhales a ginormous bite of burger and garbles, “What you want to do today?”

“I don’t know. Have sex in your car?”

She snorts and kicks me under the table. “There’s this event in Boulder where you go around to a bunch of artists’ studios and watch them work. Does that sound like good times?”

“It sounds awesome.”

“It’s free, too.”

She pulls out a brochure and we pore over it. There are potters and painters and glassblowers. A map of all the studios is included. We decide to take my car, but Liana doesn’t feel comfortable leaving hers in the parking lot at McDonald’s, so she asks if I’ll follow her home.

As we drive through Greeley, I note it’s kind of a juxtaposition of farming community/cow town and cool college campus. The University of Northern Colorado is spread
between plots of land with buildings of diverse architectural styles. Students are out playing Frisbee or walking to or from dorms.

When Liana swerves to a curb, I pull in behind her. She locks her car door and heads back to me. “Come meet my family,” she says.

I glance at her house. It’s a two-story redbrick bungalow. The kind of house I’d like to own someday.

“If my mom starts praying on her rosary beads, just make the sign of the cross and say, ‘And with your spirit. Amen.’ ”

Is she kidding? I practice to myself as we head up the walk. She opens the door and an older man greets us. “Papá,” Liana says. “This is Alix.”

“Hello, Alix.” He extends his hand. “Liana’s told us everything about you.”

I widen my eyes at Liana. Like what?

She smacks his arm. “Stop it.”

His hand is so large it envelops mine. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Let me go grab a jacket in case it gets chilly,” Liana says, leaving me alone with her father.

He says, “Sit,” indicating a well-worn sofa. I sink into it. He plops into a leather recliner across from me, leans back, and folds his hands over his middle. He has thick curly hair that’s going gray at the temples, and a mustache. “Tell me about yourself.”

I gulp. What does he want to know?

“How do you know Liana?” he asks.

“Um, we’re just friends.”

He smiles as if he reads more into that than I intended. Or not.

I add, “I don’t go to her school.”

“No?” He arches his bushy eyebrows. “Where do you go?”

“Arvada,” I say.

“That’s a long way from here.”

“My parents just got back from Texas.” Wait. Did he ask about them? Have I answered all of his questions?

“So they travel a lot?”

“Hardly ever.”

Liana returns. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Thank God, I think. Another minute and I’d be volunteering my life story.

We walk back to my car and Liana says, “Did he ask you if we were sleeping together?”

“What?”

She laughs. “You should’ve told him you were on the Pill and not to worry.”

The artists run the gamut. Boulder’s known to be eclectic by nature, and a lot of the artists look like they stepped out of a time machine from the hippie era. But they all have one thing in common: their passion for their work.

As Liana and I stand and watch a glassblower create a delicate vase, I can feel the artist’s joy at creating something from nothing. All of her pieces are twisted twice at the neck, which must be her trademark look.

My gaze drifts to a shelf where a collection of glass swans
are displayed. My lunch threatens to reappear. I see Liana looking, too, and she says, “Let’s get out of here.”

We visit about six pottery studios, where I’m amazed at how a glob of clay can be thrown on a potter’s wheel and shaped into a perfect bowl or plate or cup.

This one artist uses recycled junk to make centerpieces and candle sconces. They’re original and beautiful.

The last studio on our list is a jeweler. It’s within walking distance, and without even thinking about it, Liana and I intertwine our fingers. She smiles and says, “Are you having a good time?”

“The best,” I reply.

Her fingers tighten.

A bell over the door to the jeweler’s studio tinkles when we enter. Four jewelers share the space. One makes silver-and-turquoise earrings, bracelets, and rings. They’re gorgeous, but too conventional for me. The jewelry that really captures my attention is in a glass display case. All the pieces are copper. The jeweler behind the counter sits at a wooden table, pounding out copper he’s cut into geometric shapes to blowtorch together in layers. “Hi,” he says to me. “If there’s anything you want, it’s all on sale.”

“Thanks.” Even the sale prices would set my Visa limit back two months.

He asks me, “Where did you get your earrings? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Liana twists her arm through mine and says, “She made them herself.”

He gives me a nod of approval. “If you ever want to rent out studio space here, let me know.”

Is he serious? No way does my caliber of work compare to these professionals’.

Outside the studio, Liana says, “You want me to ask him how much it costs for a space?”

“No. It’s only a hobby. I’m not that good.”

She makes a face at me. “You underestimate yourself. I bet you could make a living at your art.”

No one’s ever called it art. We head back to my car and Liana asks, “What are you planning to do after you graduate?”

I’ve been avoiding thinking about it. “I don’t know. Be a nanny?” At that moment, my cell rings. The sound of my parents reminding me I’m nowhere near old enough to make my own life decisions.

It’s Dad. “Where are you?” he asks.

“In Boulder.”

“Boulder! Doing what?”

I almost say, Practicing free love. “Taking this tour of artists’ studios.”

“Are you alone?”

I gesture to Liana, like, Poke a stick in my eye.

She laughs.

“No,” I tell him.

“Are you with Betheny?”

“No.”

“Is it okay to ask who you are with?”

Why does it matter to him? “I’m with my friend Liana.” Becoming more than a friend.

Dad asks, “Will you be home for dinner?”

I have to be, don’t I? I check my watch and it’s after three. That should be plenty of time. “Yeah.”

“You can ask your friend to come, too, if you want.”

I don’t think I’m ready to thrust Liana into the Van Pelt pit.

Liana and I continue to the car and I unlock the doors with the key fob. I expect her to get in, but instead she snakes her arms around my waist, pulls me to her, and kisses me. I feel my bag clunk to the ground and my knees go weak. We might’ve stayed like that for hours if someone hadn’t driven up next to us and honked.

We both climb into the Prius, look at each other, and laugh.

A crazy, out-of-nowhere laugh.

That night Liana texts me:

Best. Day. Ever

I text back:

What’s better than best?

We text for a while, until I hear Mom’s beeper go off. It’s after midnight and I know she must be exhausted.

Liana texts:

Thanks for accepting my friend request

It reminds me that I need to send her my class schedule.

I text:

School night. You better get your dulces sueños in