Lying Out Loud

“I’m sick of this, So

She had, that was true. But I’d kind of figured she was blowing smoke. She’d threatened to fire Grady, one of my coworkers, a thousand times, but he was still here. I’d honestly thought it was impossible to get fired from Cindependent.

“On top of that, you come in here looking like crap. Look at you, So

“I’m sorry, Glenda. My car broke down and my phone isn’t working. I was trying to get help, but then it started raining —”

“Stop. Your lies don’t even sound believable anymore.”

“But I’m not lying!” Not this time, anyway.

“Why should I believe you?” Glenda asked.

I couldn’t think of an answer. In the year I’d been working at Cindependent, I’d lied to her countless times. Yes, I did clean the gum off the bottom of the seats in theater two…. No, I didn’t spit in that asshole’s soda…. I’m late because my grandfather had a heart attack — don’t worry, he’s fine now! She really had no reason to believe a word I said.

“I’m done, So

“But I …” And again, I actually told the truth. “I really need the money. Right now more than ever.”

Her face softened, but only a little. “Then maybe you’ll be more responsible at your next job.” And with that, she turned and headed to her office.

I had to borrow Grady’s phone to call Amy. It had a thin coat of butter on the keypad, and I kept it about an inch from my face to avoid cross contamination. Amy hadn’t even gotten to Hamilton yet, so she just turned around and headed back to the theater to pick me up.

I waited outside, in the rain. I knew if I waited inside, I’d just end up punching the popcorn machine. Not because I’d gotten fired. Who needed some shitty job at a movie theater? I mean, I did, but that was beside the point. No, it wasn’t getting fired — it was everything. Everything with my mom and my phone and my car and my awful day and my awful life.

Yes, I was a whining, teenage cliché. And, according to Amy, I had a flair for the dramatic, so there was a slight chance that, had I stayed in the theater, I may have made matters worse by pouring a Cherry Slushie on Glenda’s head. It was, after all, something I’d fantasized about doing since I’d been hired.

But I still had my dignity — dented though it may have been — and I refused to give in to my wrathful adolescent urges.

“You okay?” Amy asked when I climbed into the Lexus a few minutes later.

It was a testament to how much she loved me that she let me get into her fancy car — twice now — while I was sopping wet. She hadn’t even cringed.

“Swell,” I said. “Just swell. Let’s get out of here. Please.”

“Good night, girls,” Mrs. Rush said, poking her head into Amy’s bedroom later that night. “We’re headed to bed.”

“Night, Mom,” Amy said.

“Good night, Mrs. Rush.”

She smiled at us, then slipped back out of the room.

It was just past eleven, and despite being dry once again, snug in some frog-patterned pajamas Amy had lent me, I was still in an awful mood. Amy was doing her best to comfort me, seemingly unaware that I was a lost cause.

“What about Giova

“Bre

“Ew. Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know, but I’d rather not find out.” I flopped backward onto her bed. “Besides, my dry wit — charming as I know you find it — isn’t always appreciated by the general public. Which does not bode well for me when it comes to tips.”

“That’s true.”

I glared at her. “You were supposed to disagree with me.”

“Oh, I mean … people love you, So

“Too late now,” I said. “Jump ship while you can.”

“You’ll find another job,” she assured me. “My mom will go help you with your car in the morning, and you can use my phone until yours is fixed. No one but Wesley ever calls me anyway. Besides you, but you’re always here, so …”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re being very sweet, and it’s appreciated. But right now, I think I’d rather just wallow.”

Amy sighed. “All right.”

I buried my face in her pillow and listened as she stood up and walked across the room. I heard her laptop booting up at her desk. I figured she was doing homework until …

“Um, So

I kept my face in the pillow. “I’ve told you before — if it’s a Nigerian prince offering to wire you millions of dollars, don’t send him your bank account information.”

“It’s not that. Ryder Cross e-mailed me.”

Now I sat up. “What did he say?”

I was across the room, peering over her shoulder, before she could answer.

Hey, Amy —

It was really nice talking to you this afternoon in the parking lot. I’m just sorry the awful weather and your friend’s schedule cut our conversation short.

I snorted. “‘Your friend’? Like he doesn’t know my name. And what conversation? You were barely talking to him.”

“Keep reading,” she said.

But I’d really like to keep talking to you. Maybe we could get di

“Oh my God,” I said, unable to even read the last little bit of the e-mail. “He asked you out.”

“I know. I don’t even know why he would.”

“Because you’re gorgeous? That part is obvious.”

She blushed.

“Less obvious,” I said, “is why he thinks he has a chance. Amy, you have to reply to him. You have to say you’ll do it.”

“What? I don’t want to go out with Ryder.”

“You won’t. You’ll just say you will. Just to tease him a bit.”

“I can’t do that,” Amy said. “It’s too mean.”

“Then I’ll do it. Move over.”

“So

“Please,” I begged. “I’ve had an awful day and fucking with Ryder’s head will make me feel so much better.”

“I thought you were wallowing?”

“Being mean is so much more fun than wallowing. And he’s such an asshole. You know it, too. He deserves some torture after the way he’s talked about Hamilton and everyone who lives here. Let me pick on him a little bit. Please?”

She chewed on her bottom lip. Amy was anything but mean. Even to people she hated, she was always incredibly polite and respectful. It was u

But if anyone could convince her, it was me. So

“Fine,” she said, scooting over so we could squeeze together on the chair. “But only because I know it will cheer you up … and because he really is awful. Maybe this will get him to leave me alone.”

“That’s my girl.”

I hit the REPLY button and started to compose my masterpiece, reading it aloud as I typed each sentence.

“Hello, hottie.”

“Oh God,” Amy squeaked. “I’m already feeling weird about this.”

“I’d love to keep talking to you.” I read it to her in a slow, sexy voice. “But not at a restaurant. My room is much more comfortable. And the only thing I want to be eating is whipped cream off your chest, lover boy.”

“So

“Why not?”

“He’ll think I’m some sort of freak.”

“That’s the point. He’ll be creeped out — and perhaps slightly turned on, though he’d never admit it — by your over-the-top e-mail and too embarrassed to ever speak to you again.”

“But what if he tells other people about this e-mail?”

“Who would he tell? No one can stand him. He doesn’t have friends.”