One of Us Is Lying (One of Us is Lying, #1)

by Karen M. McManus

wish I could match her enthusiasm, but at some point between detention and calculus I lost all interest in Evan Neiman. Maybe it’s posttraumatic stress from the Simon situation, but right now I can’t remember what attracted me in the first place. Not that I was ever head over heels. Mostly I thought Evan and I had potential to be a solid couple until graduation, at which point we’d break up amicably and head to our different colleges. Which I realize is pretty uninspiring, but so is high school dating. For me, anyway.

“I hope you doused yourself in Lysol after getting off his motorcycle,” Kate adds. “He’s a total man-whore.” I glare at her. “You realize it’s sexist to say man-whore, right? If you have to use the term you should at least be gender-neutral about it.” “Whatever,” Kate says dismissively. “Point is, he’s a walking STD.”

Dad considers it a stroke of luck that he fell off a ladder during a roofing job a few years ago, while he was still a functioning alcoholic. He got a workman’s comp settlement and wound up disabled enough to collect social security, which is like winning the lottery for a guy like him. Now he can drink without interruption while the checks roll in.

Which is how I came to my part-time job, and why I spent four hours after school today distributing plastic bags full of painkillers around San Diego County. Obviously not something I should be doing, especially since I was picked up for dealing weed over the summer and I’m on probation. But nothing else pays as well and takes so little effort.

Then my mother went totally off her meds and started getting into other mind-altering substances. Yeah, I’m the asshole who deals drugs after they wrecked his mother. But to be clear: I don’t sell anything except weed and painkillers. My mother would’ve been fine if she’d stayed away from cocaine.

He has a baseball game on, which I turn off because (a) I hate baseball and (b) it reminds me of Cooper Clay, which reminds

me of Simon Kelleher and that whole sick scene in detention. I’d never liked the kid, but that was horrible. And Cooper was almost as useless as the blond girl when you come right down to it. Bronwyn was the only one who did anything except babble like an idiot.

got the idea for killing Simon while watching Dateline. I’d been thinking about it for a while, obviously. That’s not the kind of thing you pluck out of thin air. But the how of getting away with it always stopped me. I don’t kid myself that I’m a criminal mastermind. And I’m much too good-looking for prison. On the show, a guy killed his wife. Standard Dateline stuff, right? It’s always the husband. But turns out lots of people were happy to see her gone. She’d gotten a coworker fired, screwed over people on city council, and had an affair with a friend’s husband. She was a nightmare, basically. The guy on Dateline wasn’t too bright. Hired someone to murder his wife and the cell phone records were easy to trace. But before those came out he had a decent smoke screen because of all the other suspects. That’s the kind of person you can get away with killing: someone everybody else wants dead. Let’s face it: everyone at Bayview High hated Simon. I was just the only one with enough guts to do something about it. You’re welcome.

“This time next year, you’ll be at Yale. What do you think you’ll do there on a Friday night? Frat party?” I roll my eyes at her. “Right, because you get a personality transplant along with your acceptance letter. Anyway, I still have to get in.”

“It’s complicated. Marriage is way harder than anyone tells you. Be thankful you don’t have to make life decisions yet.” Her mouth tightens. “Don’t let Mom get in your ear and twist everything. Just enjoy being seventeen.” I can’t. I’m too afraid it’s all going to be ruined. That it’s already ruined.

“Big jump in a short time,” Josh observes, and for a second the statement hangs in the air between us like a question. Then he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, keep it up, son. Nice to have a local boy on our radar. Makes my job easy. Less travel.” He flashes a smile, nods good-bye to my dad and Luis, and takes off.

Time to clarify a few things. Simon had a severe peanut allergy—so why not stick a Planters into his sandwich and be done with it? I’d been watching Simon Kelleher for months. Everything he ate was wrapped in an inch of cellophane. He carried that goddamn water bottle everywhere and it was all he drank. But he couldn’t go ten minutes without swigging from that bottle. I figured if it wasn’t there, he’d default to plain old tap water. So yeah, I took it. I spent a long time figuring out where I could slip peanut oil into one of Simon’s drinks. Someplace contained, without a water fountain. Mr. Avery’s detention seemed like the ideal spot. I did feel bad watching Simon die. I’m not a sociopath. In that moment, as he turned that horrible color and fought for air—if I could have stopped it, I would have. I couldn’t, though. Because, you see, I’d taken his EpiPen. And every last one in the nurse’s office.

First time this app has ever featured good-girl BR, possessor of school’s most perfect academic record. Except she didn’t get that A in chemistry through plain old hard work, unless that’s how you define stealing tests from Mr. C’s Google Drive. Someone call Yale…. On the opposite end of the spectrum, our favorite criminal NM’s back to doing what he does best: making sure the entire school is as high as it wants to be. Pretty sure that’s a probation violation there, N. MLB plus CC equals a whole lot of green next June, right? Seems inevitable Bayview’s southpaw will make a splash in the major leagues…but don’t they have some pretty strict antijuicing rules? Because CC’s performance was most definitely enhanced during showcase season. AP and JR are the perfect couple. Homecoming princess and star running back, in love for three years straight. Except for that intimate detour A took over the summer with TF at his beach house. Even more awkward now that the guys are friends. Think they compare notes?

They’ve been drumming the same message into me since kindergarten: Work hard, do your best, and the rest will follow. And it always had, until chemistry.

Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, slipping the keys from the ignition and turning to face me. “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?” I think back to the claustrophobic little room at the police station, my parents on either side of me as Detective Mendoza lobbed questions like grenades. Were you competitive with Simon? Have you ever been to his house? Did you know he was writing a post about you? Did you have any reason, beyond this, to dislike or resent Simon? My parents said I didn’t have to respond to any of his questions, but I did answer that one. No, I said then. “No,” I say now, meeting my father’s eyes. If he knows I’m lying, he doesn’t show it.

“Nate. I won’t ask if what I saw on that site is true. That’s a conversation for you and a lawyer if it ever comes to that. But you need to understand something. If, from this day forward, you deal drugs in any way, shape, or form—I can’t help you. Nobody can. This is no joke. You’re dealing with a potential capital offense. There are four kids involved in this investigation and every single one of them except you is backed by parents who are materially comfortable and present in their children’s lives. If not outright wealthy and influential. You’re the obvious outlier and scapegoat. Am I making myself clear?” Jesus. She’s not pulling any punches. “Yeah.” I got it. I’d been thinking about it all the way home.

I take her phone, heart pounding, and read the exact same words Detective Mendoza showed me on Sunday after Simon’s funeral. First time this app has ever featured good-girl BR, possessor of school’s most perfect academic record… It’s all there. Simon’s unpublished entries for each of us, with an added note at the bottom: Did you think I was joking about killing Simon? Read it and weep, kids. Everyone in detention with Simon last week had an extraspecial reason for wanting him gone. Exhibit A: the posts above, which he was about to publish on About That. Now here’s your assignment: connect the dots. Is everybody in it together, or is somebody pulling strings? Who’s the puppet master and who’s the puppet? I’ll give you a hint to get you started: everyone’s lying. GO!

Down the hallway, past homecoming posters that are three weeks old now. Our planning committee is slacking, which would inspire more disdain if I weren’t on it.

glance at him and he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Are you guys all right?” My words come out in a rush, surprising me. I’m not sure what I intended to say, but that wasn’t it. “This is unreal. That they—suspect us.” “It was an accident,” Addy says immediately. Not like she’s positive, though. More like she’s testing a theory.

“Lots of people hated Simon,” Addy says. From the hard set of her jaw, she’s one of them. “He ruined plenty of lives. You guys remember Aiden Wu? In our class, transferred sophomore year?” I’m the only one who nods, so Addy turns her gaze on me. “My sister knows his sister from college. Aiden didn’t transfer for the hell of it. He had a breakdown after Simon posted about his cross-dressing.”

Cooper jumps in hastily, like he’s worried she’s going to go off on a rant. “That’s what Leah Jackson said at the memorial

service. I ran into her under the bleachers. She said we were all hypocrites for treating him like some kind of martyr.”

“Not just any peanut oil,” Addy says, and we all turn to her. “It would have to be cold-pressed for a person with allergies to react to it. The gourmet type, basically.” Nate stares at her, brow creased. “How would you know that?” Addy shrugs. “I saw it on the Food Network once.”

When Leah started sliding off the rails, she asked me if I’d misled Simon on purpose. I hadn’t but still felt guilty, especially once she slit her wrists. Nothing was the same for her after Simon started his campaign against her.

finally say—tentatively, because after spending days with lawyers it feels wrong to state anything like an actual fact—“I didn’t do what they say, Nonny. I didn’t use steroids and I didn’t hurt Simon.” “Well, for goodness’ sake, Cooper.” Nonny brushes impatiently at her hospital blanket. “You don’t have to tell me that.” I swallow hard. Somehow, the fact that Nonny accepts my word without question makes me feel guilty.

“How’s Keely handling all this?” “Like a vine. Clingy,”

If it ever came out that I’d actually done something to Simon, plenty of people would hate me. But there’d also be people who’d make excuses for me, and say there must be more to my story than just getting accused of using steroids. The thing is, they’d be right.

I take care of my business—false alarm—and wash my hands, staring at my tired eyes and surprisingly

bouncy hair. No matter how awful the rest of my life is, my hair still manages to look good.

The Mikhail Powers Investigates site has thousands of comments about the Bayview Four. (Kind of a dull name, by the way. Would’ve expected better from a top-ranked newsmagazine.) Some call for jail time. Some rail about how spoiled and entitled kids are today, and how this is another example of that. It’s a great story: four good-looking, high-profile students all being investigated for murder. And nobody’s what they seem. The pressure’s on now, Bayview Police. Maybe you should be looking a little closer at Simon’s old entries. You might find some interesting hints about the Bayview Four. Just saying.

She’ll surprise you one day with how pretty she is. My mother used to say that about Bronwyn.

News flash: LV’s end-of-the-year party isn’t a charity event. Just so we’re clear. You’d be excused for thinking so, though, with frosh attendance at an all-time high. Regular readers (and if you’re not one, what the hell is wrong with you?) know I try to cut the kids some slack. Children are our future and all that. But let me do a little PSA for one new (and fleeting, I’m gonna guess) arrival to the social scene: MR, who doesn’t seem to realize SC is out of her league. He’s not in the market for a puppy, kid. Stop with the following. It’s pathetic. And, guys, don’t give me that poor-little-thing-had-cancer crap. Not anymore. M can put on her big-girl panties like anyone else and learn a few basic rules: 1. Varsity basketball players with cheerleader girlfriends are OFF THE MARKET. I shouldn’t have to explain this, but apparently I do.

beers are too many when you’re a lightweight, because it leads to: 3. The worst display of awkward kitchen table dancing I’ve ever seen. Seriously, M. Never again. 4. If that one beer makes you throw up, try not to do it in your hosts’ washing machine. That’s just rude. Let’s card at the door from now on, okay, LV? At first it’s funny, but then it’s just sad.

“Later.” Kris hesitates a fraction of a second, then leans forward and pulls me roughly toward him, pressing his lips against mine. I close my eyes and the world around me fades,

like it always does, when I slide my hands into his hair and kiss him back.

“The first seven years of the Joshua tree’s life, it’s just a vertical stem. No branches,” she told me while we were hiking. “It takes years before it blooms. And every branching stem stops growing after it blossoms, so you’ve got this complex system of dead areas and new growth.” I used to think about that, sometimes, when I wondered what parts of her might still be alive.

“Well.” I’m quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether I’m about to make a giant mistake. Probably, but I plow ahead anyway. “I’d like to try. If you want to. Not because we’re thrown together in this weird situation and I think you’re hot, although I do. But because you’re smart, and funny, and you do the right thing more often than you give yourself credit for. I like your horrible taste in movies and the way you never sugarcoat anything and the fact that you have an actual lizard. I’d be proud to be your girlfriend, even in a nonofficial capacity while we’re, you know, being investigated for murder. Plus, I can’t go more than a few minutes without wanting to kiss you, so—there’s that.”

Honestly, I don’t care what we do. I just want to stay wrapped around him for as long as possible, fighting sleep and forgetting about the rest of the world.

I hand over the carton and picture myself answering his question honestly. Hung out with Kris, the guy I’m in love with. Yeah, Pop, I said guy. No, Pop, I’m not kidding. He’s a premed freshman at UCSD who does modeling on the side. Total catch. You’d like him.

He’s the kind of good old boy who calls gay people “fags” and thinks we spend all our time hitting on straight guys. The one time we saw a news story about the gay baseball player, he snorted in disgust and said, Normal guys shouldn’t have to deal with that crap in the locker room.

hadn’t let myself think about that since Simon died; how the last time I’d talked to him, I acted like a jerk because I couldn’t deal with who I was. And the worst part is, even after all this—I still can’t.

Everybody wants a piece of Bayview southpaw CC and he’s finally been tempted. He’s stepping out on the beauteous KS with a hot German underwear model. What guy wouldn’t, right? Except the new love interest models boxers and briefs, not bras and thongs. Sorry, K, but you can’t compete when you play for the wrong team.

Disclosing information about sexual orientation violates constitutional rights to privacy. That’s what Mary says, and she’s threatened to involve the American Civil Liberties Union if the police make Simon’s post about me public. Which would fall into the category of Too Little, Way Too Late.

I almost laugh. Pop loves Cooperstown. He loves when I strike out the side and get attention from flashy scouts, and when my name scrolls across the bottom of ESPN. But me? He doesn’t even know me.

I need to tell Kris what’s happening, but I don’t dare text him. I should go to his apartment and explain in person. Another conversation that’ll kill some part of me. Kris has been out since junior high. His parents are both artists and it was never a big deal. They were pretty much like, Yeah, we knew. What took you so long? He’s never pressured me, but sneaking around isn’t how he wants to live.

So I focus on Nonny. “Simon. Somehow. Found out. That.” God. I’ve run out of filler words. Nonny taps her cane on the floor like she wants to help me along. “I’m gay.”

Cooper stares at me, taking in the whole picture—messy hair that’s spiking oddly because I didn’t take the time to blow-dry it, so-so skin from all the stress, faded T-shirt featuring some band Ashton used to like, because we’re seriously behind on laundry—before he replies, “I’m gay.”

“Simon found out I’m seeing someone. A guy. He was gonna post it on About That with everyone else’s entries. It got switched out and replaced with a fake entry about me using steroids. I didn’t switch it,” he adds hastily. “But they think I did. So they’re looking into me hard-core now, which means the whole school will know pretty soon. I guess I wanted to…tell somebody myself.”

“Kind of a long story, but—yeah. Turns out she was a drug addict living in some kind of commune, but she’s back now. And sober, supposedly. Oh, and Bronwyn got called into the police station because of a creepy post Simon wrote about her sister sophomore year. Bronwyn told him to drop dead in the comments section, so…you know. That looks kinda bad now.”