Liars, Inc. (2 page)

October 21st

About six weeks earlier . . .

THE TRUTH IS, IT ALL
started the day I tried to get detention. I tended to be late a lot and occasionally fell asleep in class, so I usually got it without much effort. Not that week, though. It was Friday, fourth period, when my girlfriend, Parvati Amos, strutted by my desk in a shiny black-and-red dress that looked like a sexy superhero costume.

“I didn't see your name on the list for tomorrow,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. Parvati was an office assistant during third period. Between that and writing for the school newspaper, the girl knew everything about everyone.

“Working on it.” I had already tried being late to algebra and swearing in Spanish class. For some reason, all my
teachers were in a charitable mood that week. Or else they were just too lazy to fill out the paperwork for a detention.

Parvati leaned in as she slid into the chair behind me, just close enough for me to catch a whiff of her vanilla perfume. “Work harder.” She was wearing a scarf made out of a bright orange-and-red fabric with gold embroidery. I wondered if she'd taken scissors to one of her fancy saris. She liked pushing the limits with her parents.

I glanced around the room, as if the solution to my problem might lie between the row of pastel file cabinets and the bulletin board featuring cartoon drawings of famous figures from American literature. If I didn't get assigned Saturday hours, my parents would assign me an even crueler punishment—babysitting my three younger sisters. Not only would I end up covered in glitter pen and strained peas, I'd miss my weekly rendezvous with Parvati.

Her dad had forbidden her to see me, but we quickly figured out a way around that. Every Saturday I went to detention and she went to newspaper club. What our parents didn't know was that these activities only took two hours, instead of four. That gave Parvati and me two uninterrupted hours of alone time every weekend. Two hours that I didn't want to miss.

The tinny chorus of Boyz Be Bad's unfortunate hit, “Doll
Baby,” interrupted my train of thought.

My English teacher, Ms. Erickson, glared at the class over the tops of her pointy glasses. “Whose cell phone is that? Please bring it to my desk.”

“It's mine,” I blurted out. Around the room, I heard snickers and giggles. There was no way I, Max Cantrell, boy voted most likely to drop out of school and become a roadie for the all-girl hard-core band Kittens of Mass Destruction, had a Boyz Be Bad ringtone. But Ms. Erickson didn't know that.

I slid out of my seat and started making my way to the front. My eyes skimmed across the rows of students, trying to figure out who it was that owed me big-time.

“Max. Now.” Erickson gave me the evil eye. She held out her hand, wiggled her crimson fingernails.

“Coming,” I muttered, shuffling the rest of the way up to her desk. I slipped my cell phone out of the center pocket of my hoodie, double-checked to make sure it was turned off, and slid it in the general direction of Erickson's outstretched talons.

She grabbed my phone and made a big show of depositing it into the top drawer of her desk. “You can come get it after school,” she said. “You can pick up your detention slip then as well.”

Score. I gave her what I hoped was a look of apathy tinged
with frustration and then headed back to my desk.

Parvati tapped me on the shoulder. “Smooth,” she whispered.

I peeked back at her. “You have no idea.”

She winked. “Oh, but I do.”

Resting my head on my desk, I let Erickson's nasal voice fade into the background. I played with the shark's tooth pendant I wore on a leather cord around my neck, poking the sharp point into the fleshy pad of my fingertip. The necklace was a gift from my real dad. It wasn't really my style, but it was all I had left from him and I only took it off to shower and surf. He had been an oceanography professor at UCLA and found the tooth when he was scuba diving during a research trip.

Hands went up around me—Erickson must have asked a question. I focused my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt. She called on Parvati, who rattled off the definition of “irony.” What was ironic was that I had to get in trouble to have the thing I wanted most in the world—time with my girlfriend.

I didn't blame her parents for wanting her to stay away from me. She was smart and rich and pretty, and I was none of those things. We both joked that she had only started dating me to piss them off, but sometimes I wondered if it was true. I was decent-looking, tall and thin, with messy brown hair that managed to look cool even right when I rolled out
of bed, but I wasn't the kind of guy that girls drew hearts around in the yearbook.

Parvati was gorgeous, though, with skin the color of almonds and eyes so dark that her irises receded into her pupils. She had hacked her waist-length, inky black hair to just above her shoulders at the end of the summer. Sometimes I pretended to miss it—I mean, long hair is totally hot—but the shorter cut fit her feisty personality. She refused to be the half-Indian Barbie her mother wanted her to be.

I imagined burying my face in what was left of her hair, tracing her pillowy lips with my fingers, inhaling the scent of her vanilla perfume. My brain wanted to take things further. Parvati and I hadn't had sex in almost a month, since the Colonel caught us in the family hot tub, called me a despicable little shit, and told me if I ever came back he would kill me. Slowly.

The bell rang and I sat up with a start. Lunch. Parvati was deep in conversation with the girl sitting next to her. “Newspaper stuff,” she mouthed, scribbling something in the sticker-covered mini-notebook she carried everywhere with her.

“I'll save you a chair,” I said. It was our little joke. Half the school would have killed for our seats in the cafeteria, but no one ever took them. You needed an invitation to sit with the Vista Palisades All-Stars, at the long table right in
the middle of the caf. We sat there because we were friends with the school MVP, the football team's star running back—Preston DeWitt.

I grabbed my books and headed for the hallway. I had barely made it out the door when I felt a hand clamp down on my arm. I looked down. Red fingernails. I turned, expecting to see Ms. Erickson, thinking maybe somehow she had figured out I lied about my phone. But it was Cassie Rhodes, first-team all-American breaststroke champion. (At least that's what her T-shirt said.)

I pulled loose from Cassie's formidable grip and gave her a look. I didn't think she'd ever spoken to me before.

“Max, right?” she said.

“Yeah. So?” I looked down at her arm again. She had the muscles of a marine. I knew swimming was good exercise, but damn.

“How much do you want?”

I glanced up, thinking maybe I could figure out what she was talking about by her expression. No luck. “What do you mean?”

“For taking my detention.”

Oh. That. I imagined Parvati and me parked at the beach overlook, our hands all over each other. If Cassie only knew.

She pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and slipped it into my fingers. “I would have missed our semifinal meet.
You totally saved us. I never would have guessed you were a girls' swimming fan.”

“Yeah, well, go team, you know?” I slid the folded bill into the pocket of my hoodie. “Thanks.” I hadn't given a surfing lesson since September, so money was tight. Besides, Cassie could afford it.

She leaned over and gave me a half hug. She smelled like a whole freaking garden of flowers. I hoped Parvati wasn't lingering nearby watching this. She could be a little jealous sometimes.

“Talk to you later.” I sneezed. Pretty sure I'm allergic to flowers.

“For sure.” Cassie flashed a smile that could've been the “after” picture in a tooth whitening commercial. The fluorescent lights reflected off her shiny lip gloss, the whole effect nearly blinding me.

I turned away and strolled down to the cafeteria, thinking about the best way to spend twenty bucks. Grabbing the least toxic-looking things from the hot lunch line—a chicken sandwich, a basket of limp french fries, and a chocolate chip cookie—I headed toward my seat.

Parvati and Preston were already at the table. So were a few guys from the football team, some guy from the tennis team who'd won a couple matches at Junior Wimbledon, and pom-pom captain, Astrid Covington, and her friends. None
of them even looked up when I sat down. They were used to having me there, Preston's outcast playmate. They probably thought I was his drug dealer or something.

I actually met him the way I meet most people—through surfing. He'd signed up for a lesson at my parents' boardwalk shop. When he showed up on the beach, wearing high-end surfing clothes and carrying a thousand-dollar board, I planned on hating him. Obviously he was just another rich kid padding his extracurricular résumé. He'd take one lesson, check surfing off his badass to-do list, and then run back to the country club.

But Preston was legit. We stayed out for five hours on our first day. He went from struggling to pop up on his board to going after his own waves. A few lessons later, Pres was almost as good as me, and we'd hung out together ever since.

“So you and Swimfan. What was that about?” Parvati's voice was light, but her eyes were slitty. She had obviously seen me with Cassie.

Preston sat at the head of the table where he could see everyone and be part of the All-Stars' conversations when he so desired. “Yeah, what
was
that about, Maximus?” He swiped at his phone with one finger and then angled it in my direction. Pres had an obsession with recording people. At school. At parties. In the football locker room. He definitely had some boundary issues. “The lovers are fighting,”
he intoned. “Let's hear what the guilty party has to say.”

“Get that thing out of my face.” I grabbed for Preston's phone. He didn't even know what had happened. He was just trying to stir up shit as usual. With his shiny blond hair and green V-neck sweater, he looked more like a golf pro than a shit-disturber, but looks could be deceiving.

“Is this your first fight?” He turned the phone toward Parvati. “You guys might want this moment captured for posterity.”

Parvati faked like she was going to karate chop Pres in the throat. Still grinning, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

She turned back to me. “Let me guess. That was Cassie's phone playing Boyz Be Crap.”

“Yep. Apparently the fate of the Vista Palisades girls' swim team has now been secured, since yours truly took her detention.”

“Ah,” Parvati said, nodding. “What's the opposite of collateral damage?”

“Collateral benefits?” Preston suggested. He was half listening to us and half listening to one of the football players talk about next week's game.

I pulled the twenty out of my pocket and snapped it open in front of them. “Speaking of benefits.”

“No way. She paid you?” Parvati's eyes widened. “Who
knew lying could be so lucrative?”

“Lawyers,” Preston said.

Parvati smirked. Her mom was a defense attorney. “And politicians,” she shot back. Preston's dad was a U.S. senator.

Sometimes hanging out with them felt like being miscast in a prime-time teen drama—one where everyone else was rich. My parents, Darla and Ben, owned a souvenir shop called The Triple S. Sun, sand, and surf. Mostly we sold hermit crabs and five-dollar T-shirts.

I peeled the bun from the top of my chicken sandwich and squirted a couple packets of mayonnaise on top of a translucent tomato slice that had seen better days. Even smothered in goo, the sandwich still managed to be dry enough to make me gag.

Parvati's eyes scanned the caf, a pen poised over the mini-notebook balanced on her lap. She wrote a gossip column for the
Vista Palisades High Gazette
and was always jotting down seemingly random observations.

“Maybe you should join the twenty-first century,” Preston said. “Use a tablet or a laptop like a legit reporter.”

“I have a laptop,” she said, “but the battery is fried.” She scribbled something down and then looked up, her gaze locking on to something over my shoulder. Before I could even ask what she was looking at, I felt fingers tap me on the arm.

“Max?”

I craned my neck to see who was talking. Amy Westerfield stood behind me in her silver-and-blue cheerleading uniform, awkwardly transferring her weight from one foot to the other.

Parvati stared at Amy like she was an endangered species that wanted to eat out of my hand.

“Yeah?” I said, expecting another grateful thank-you for preventing a swimming catastrophe of epic proportions.

Amy leaned over close to me, resting her forearms on the table. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have a proposition for you.”

THE DAY WAS TURNING MORE
surreal by the minute. On a normal day, no girl besides Parvati even spoke to me, and now I'd been approached by school royalty twice in an hour. “Oh?” I said, taking extra care not to let my gaze drop below the neckline of Amy's cheerleading outfit.

She fished around in her purse, pulled out a permission slip for the senior civics field trip to Coronado Naval Base, and slapped it down in front of me. “My parents wouldn't sign this. I'm grounded and they don't want me to have a whole day away from school with Quinn. Ten bucks if you help me out.”

Quinn was Amy's meathead jock boyfriend. Even though I had nothing in common with either of them, I knew how bad it sucked to be banned from your significant other.

“Why not just sign it yourself?” I asked.

“Because I'd get caught. And suspended. And kicked off the squad. And grounded for a jillion years.” She pulled a pen from her purse.

“What makes you think I can do a better job than you?” My eyes flicked across the table at Parvati. She was chewing on one of my french fries, watching the proceedings with what seemed like mild interest.

Amy shrugged. “Because you don't write in big, bubbly letters?”

“Fine.” I grabbed the pen from her hand. “What's your dad's name?”

Parvati slapped her hand on top of mine. “Twenty bucks,” she said.

“
Fifty
bucks,” Preston said with a languid smile.

“Preston!” Amy looked a little offended.

“What?” He adjusted the gold band of a watch that cost more than my car. “I'm a businessman.”

A mass of wrinkles formed across Amy's normally smooth bronze forehead. “I don't have that kind of cash on me.”

“No worries. Max here'll take an IOU,” Preston said. “If you don't pay he'll just have an attack of conscience and confess his little deed.”

“I will?” I looked back and forth between Preston and Parvati.

“You will,” Parvati assured me. She arched a thick black eyebrow at Amy. “Name?”

“Tom. Tom Westerfield.” Amy's tan skin was starting to turn blotchy and red in places. I wondered if she was that nervous about forging a permission slip or if she was just mad at being taken for fifty bucks.

She coached me on the signature and I practiced a couple times on a napkin. When she nodded her approval I scrawled the name on the form and handed it back to her.

“Thanks, Max,” she chirped, slipping the permission slip back inside her purse. “It'll totally be worth it.” A couple of other girls in blue and silver waved at her from across the cafeteria, and she practically skipped over to their table.

The bell rang, and most of the guys from the football team got up as a group. They all had fifth-period gym. “You coming?” Our center, a guy named Nate, looked straight through me to Preston.

“Catch up with you guys in a minute,” Pres said.

Nate grunted and turned to follow the others. They lumbered off like a herd of buffalo.

“Let me know if any of your football buddies need their permission slips signed,” I told him. “I'm seeing serious business opportunities here.”

“Sounds fun. Almost like old times, eh, Parv?” Preston said. “Like our shenanigans at Bristol Academy. Too bad you
weren't there too, Max. Parvati and I ruled that school.” He smiled to himself. “Good times, good times.”

Parvati gave him a dark look. “Yeah, except those ‘good times' got us expelled, and these little fibs have the potential to make us cold, hard cash. She gestured around the table with one hand. “Liars, Inc. All of your duplicitous needs serviced by Max et al.”

“Et al.?” I glanced back and forth between the two of them.

“Us, obviously.” Parvati's skin was glowing the way it did after a major hookup session.

“You two are both loaded,” I protested. “And college bound. Why would you want to help with an unethical and possibly illegal business?”

“My parents have been stingy lately,” Preston said. “And as you know, I have expensive vices.”

He was referring to his gambling habit. He bet on everything: online poker, college basketball, women's tennis. Once he told me he won fifty bucks on the outcome of a minor military skirmish in the Middle East.

“It'd be a good training exercise for me,” Parvati added.

I snorted. Her main goal in life was to work for the CIA, and if there was one thing she did not need any training in, it was how to lie. When the Colonel caught us in the hot tub, she turned on the tears in five seconds, telling her dad that nothing had happened, that we were just kissing. And the
hilarious thing is, he seemed to believe it, even though our clothes were strewn across the deck.

“Fine,” I said. “If you two want in, then you're in charge of drumming up more clientele.”

“Word of mouth seems to be working so far,” Parvati said. “What is that? Seventy bucks in an hour? Not bad.”

“I'll spread the word a little,” Preston added. “Liars, Inc., huh? Could be just what we need to liven up our senior year.” He slid his chair back from the table. Parvati and I followed his lead. The three of us dumped our trays.

Pres thumped his right fist twice against his chest. “Be good, you two.” He headed toward the gym.

Parvati and I turned down the main hallway where all of the seniors had their lockers. “So I'll see you tomorrow around ten,” she said with a wink.

“Meet you by my car. Same as usual.”

“We'll talk more about our new business venture.” Her voice lowered to a growl and her eyes practically smoldered, like the idea of running a mini–crime empire with Preston and me really turned her on.

“Okay.” I wasn't convinced that anything was really going to come of it, but I'd talk about the new Boyz Be Bad album or the vegan-friendly cafeteria choices if it was going to make her keep looking at me like that.