Liar Liar (2 page)

I hurried to my locker after school. Some guys wanted to hang out, but I couldn't. I knew my dad was waiting outside to drive me to my acting class.

Dad isn't thrilled about my acting lessons. But Jerry Nadler, my teacher, is an old friend of Dad's. And Jerry says I have talent. He says I look like a young Tom Cruise. And he thinks my crooked smile will make people remember me.

I know I don't have much chance of being a big movie star. A lot of movie stars come to my house, and they're really awesome people. But I wouldn't mind maybe acting in some commercials and making a lot of money.

I started to toss stuff into my locker. But then I stopped and let out a groan. A brown envelope stuck out from the pile of books on the floor. My dad had asked me to mail it for him two days ago, but I forgot.

I'll mail it tomorrow, I decided. I slammed the locker shut and clicked the combination lock. I saw Cindy waving to me down the hall. But I shouted that I was late.

“Where are you going?” she called.

“Uh … got to help my mom do some charity work,” I called back. “Collecting candles for the homeless!”

Why did I say that?

Why didn't I just tell her the truth? Sometimes I don't know why I make up these stories. I guess I do it because I can!

I flashed her a thumbs-up and made my way out the front door.

Dad's black Mercedes was parked right across the street. It was a sunny day, bright blue skies, hot as summer even though it was late autumn. The sun made the car sparkle like a big, black jewel.

“Yo yo yo!” Dad greeted me. “What up, Ross? What up, dude?” He thinks it's funny to talk really dumb, ancient rap talk. Mom says if we just ignore it, maybe he'll stop.

“Hi, Dad,” I said. I slid onto the black leather passenger seat. “Ow.” It was burning hot from the sun.

Dad checked himself out in the rearview mirror. He patted down the sides of his hair.

Dad is very young looking, and he's proud of it. He has straight brown hair and dark gray eyes, just like me. I see him check out his hair every time he passes a mirror, making sure he isn't losing any.

He's always tanned. He says it's part of the job. He always wears the same thing—black pants and a black T-shirt under an open sports jacket. He says it's the company uniform. Just like the black Mercedes is the company car.

Dad is always making fun of the movie business. But I know he loves being a studio big shot.

He checked the mirror again, then pulled the car away from the curb. I leaned forward and turned the air-conditioning to high.

“I've got to stop at the Universe Films lot and see a producer I'm trying to sign up,” Dad said. “Then I'll take you to Jerry. How are you and Jerry getting along? Is he teaching you anything?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's good. We've mainly been reading scripts. You know. Out loud.”

Dad snickered. “You ready for your screen test?”

I laughed, too. “Not yet.”

The car phone rang. He pressed the phone button on the steering wheel and talked to his secretary about some budget mixups.

Palm trees rolled past us on both sides. Dad turned to me. “You mailed that envelope, right? It had very important contracts inside.”

“Yeah. I mailed it,” I said. A white lie. I knew I'd mail it tomorrow.

“Whew. That's good.” Dad sighed. “If it's late, they'll nail my hide to the wall.”

“No problem,” I replied.

“I've been out of the 'hood, on location so long, we haven't had a chance to rap much,” Dad said. “How's school?”

“Great!” I told him. “Miss Douglas said today I'll probably make the honor roll.”

“Hey—all right!” Dad slapped me a high five and nearly drove off the road.

The phone rang again. Dad talked until we pulled into the Universe lot. The guard waved us through.

I'd been here with him before. We drove past the long, low white buildings until Dad found a parking space.

He ushered me into a big room that looked more like a living room than an office. It had two long, red leather couches, facing each other on a thick, white pile carpet, red drapes that matched the couches, three TV sets, a black-and-chrome bar, and bookshelves all around.

No desk.

“This is Mort's office,” Dad said. “You wait here. I'll only be five minutes. This is really important to me. I've got to sign Mort on the dotted line.”

He gestured to the tall shelves cluttered with framed photos, award statues, plaques, vases, and other junk. “Look around. But be careful, Ross. Don't touch anything. Mort is a nut about his collections. He goes berserk if he finds a fingerprint on anything!”

“No problem,” I said.

“I've got to get this guy on my side,” Dad said. Then he vanished out the door.

I settled onto one of the red couches. I sank about two feet into the cushion! It was the softest couch I'd ever sat on in my life!

After a minute or two I got bored. I walked over to the shelves and began to check out all of the photos and awards.

I saw a framed photo of Mort and the President of the United States, grinning together on a golf course. It was signed by the President.

And there were dozens of other photos of Mort with movie stars and important-looking people.

One shelf held a knight's helmet and a gleaming silver sword. Probably props from a movie.

The next shelf was filled with award statuettes and plaques. I stopped in front of a familiar gold statue. An Academy Award! An Oscar!

I rubbed my hand over its smooth, shiny head. I realized I'd never touched an Oscar before.

“Totally cool!” I said out loud.

I couldn't stop myself. I had to hold it. I had to see how heavy it was, and what it felt like to actually hold an Oscar in my hand.

It was a lot heavier than I thought. I gripped it tightly in both hands. It was so smooth. The gold gleamed under the ceiling lights.

Holding it around the middle, I raised it high over my head. “Thank you!” I shouted to an imaginary audience. “Thank you for this award! I love it and I really deserve it!”

I raised the statuette higher—

—and it slipped from my hand.

I fumbled for it. Made a wild stab.

Missed.

And watched it crash to the floor.

It made such a heavy thud as it landed on its side. And then a horrible
craaaack!
I knew I'd never forget that sick sound.

I dropped to my knees to pick it up.

“Please be okay…. Please be okay!”

No. It wasn't okay.

The Oscar's round head had broken off.

I held the statue's body in one hand, the head in the other.

And then, still on my knees, I heard the rapid click of footsteps.

Someone was stepping into the office!

I froze in panic. My heart raced in my chest. I could hear the rasp of my rapid breaths.

I dived to the couch and frantically stuffed the Oscar—both pieces of it—under the couch.

I glanced up to see Dad enter the room. “Ross? What are you doing down on the floor?”

“Oh. I … dropped my chewing gum,” I said. “But I got it back.” I climbed shakily to my feet.

Dad eyed me curiously. “I thought I heard a crash in here. Is everything okay?”

I shrugged. “A crash? I didn't hear anything.”

He studied me for a long moment. “Well … what did you do with the chewing gum?”

“Swallowed it,” I said.

That struck him as funny. He laughed. “It went great with Mort. I think I won him over. Come on. Let's get you to Jerry's. You're late.”

My knees were still shaking as we walked to the car. That was such a close one, I thought. But I should be okay now.

Of course, I was wrong.

We got home just before dinnertime. Hannah, our cook, was already bringing dishes to the table. Dad went into the den to make some phone calls.

I dropped my backpack in my room. Then turned to see my eight-year-old brother, Jake, walk in. “Hey—Jake the Snake!” I greeted him. I raised my hand. “Give me six!”

“I don't have six fingers!” Jake whined. “And stop calling me that!”

“Okay. How about Jake the Jerk?”

“Don't call me that, either!” My little brother is the Whining King of Beverly Hills.

You've probably already guessed that we don't get along. The problem is, Jake and I just don't have anything in common. He doesn't have a sense of humor. He isn't fast thinking.

He doesn't even look like me. He looks like Mom's side of the family—curly, carrot-colored hair, pale white skin, green eyes, a narrow rat face with his front teeth poking out.

“Hey, Rat Face!” I said. “What are you doing in my room?”

“I want my comic books back,” he whined. Jake has a huge collection of Japanese comic books.

“Comic books? I don't read comic books,” I said.

“You borrowed them!” Jake cried. “You borrowed them last week. You said you'd return them!”

“I never borrowed any comic books. Get lost,” I said.

Why do I torture Jake like that? I don't know. I had the comic books in my bottom desk drawer. I could just hand them back to him. But I wanted to make him work for them.

He deserves it. He's such a whiner. And he never helps me out.

Last week I wanted to go hang out with some guys at the Planet Hollywood over on Wilshire. I begged Jake to tell Mom and Dad that I went to Sharma's house to study chemistry.

But he wouldn't do it. “I can't tell a lie!” he said.

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Because it's not right.”

That's why I enjoy torturing him.

“I know where the comics are,” he said. He dived past me and pulled open the bottom desk drawer. “There!”

I started to protest when I heard Dad's voice from downstairs. “Ross—get down here!”

Uh-oh. He sounded angry. Really angry.

I picked up the stack of comics and heaved them at Jake. Then I slowly made my way downstairs. “You called me?” I asked in a tiny voice.

Dad had his cell phone gripped tightly in one hand. “I have Mort on the phone,” he said, scowling at me. “Mort says he changed his mind about working with me. He found the broken Oscar.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oscar? What Oscar?”

“Ross, I told you not to touch anything. I told you what a nut Mort is about his stuff. He found the Oscar pieces shoved under the couch.”

“But … I sat on the couch the whole time,” I said, my heart leaping around in my chest, my mouth suddenly dry. “I never saw any Oscar.”

Dad said something into the phone, then clicked it off. He glared angrily at me. “You were the only one in the office.”

“No,” I replied. “Actually, a cleaning lady came in. Uh … two cleaning ladies, and I saw them dusting the shelves. I—”

Mom came in, carrying a load of shopping bags. “What's going on?”

“Ross is standing here, dissing me. He's lying to my face,” Dad said, shaking his head. “Lying to my face!”

Mom sighed and let the bags drop to the carpet. “Ross,” she whispered. “You're making up stories again?”

“No—” I started.

“Punish him!” Jake cried from the top of the stairs. “Punish him!”

“This is serious, Ross,” Dad said, rolling the cell phone in his hand. “Very serious. You may have just lost me millions of dollars. You do have to be punished for this.”

“Cut off his hand!” Jake shouted.

Mom gasped. “Jake! Where did you get a horrible idea like that?”

“It's what they do to liars,” Jake said. “In some country somewhere. I learned it in school. Cut off his hand!”

Mom shook her head. “Well, we're not going to do that.”

“No, we're not,” Dad said. “We're going to do something much worse.”

“You're grounded,” Dad said.

He slapped the cell phone against his palm as if it was a policeman's club. “You've got to stop being so dishonest all the time.”