Read Seven Ways We Lie for Free Online Page A

tock,
cuckoo
, crazy.
    Crazy, because I hear notes in the silence,
    gentle baritone notes,
    and no matter how fast I play,
    how far my fingers stretch,
    how purely the vibrato resonates,
    I cannot overwhelm the remembered sound.
    The bow trembles in my right hand,
    and under my left, my pizzicato slips.
    Start again. Again. Over again
.
    Those two, trying so hard, they cannot know.
    Those two, they will never guess.
    Every day I have sat like stone at a slab of polished pine,
    back-straight/legs-crossed/elbows-in/eyes-down,
    dodging questions and hiding from warm voices.
    It’s been months since I could speak truthfully to those two—
    months since I could speak at all without fear tightening my tongue,
    and still they call our house a home.
    I am displaced. A watery weight, shifting,
    my cup dribbling over.
    How have I measured these seven days alone?—in breaths, blinks, heartbeats?
    With numbers, with questions?
    No:
    with tweezers, I think,
    plucking time out from sensitive skin.
    Second after stinging second.
    I devour my meal in silence.
    Last Saturday, I devoured noise and light and the motion of agitated bodies.
    I drank with purpose, drank violently,
    drank myself to the floorboards.
    Last Saturday, I forgot how to feel alone. How to feel.
    I forgot clumsy fingers and maple necks,
    heartstrings and gut strings,
    warm sheets and crisp papers.
    I forgot the beginning and the end.
Da Capo al Fine
.
    (Hold on until the weekend, Juniper—
    you can forget it all again.)

FROM WHERE I’M SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM, I CAN hear the rattle of keys. Finally. That’s got to be Kat.
    I flip my textbook shut and walk into the kitchen, hitting the light switch. A chipped lamp sitting on the counter flickers to life, illuminating our wooden table. Our bare fridge is framed by a square gray rug. This house sort of looks as if it took interior-design tips from the little-known “prisons” section of
Better Homes and Gardens
. I ache for drooping pumpkins and trios of pinecones, the decorations our Novembers used to wear when Mom was around. Not even three years ago, but it feels like a different lifetime.
    â€œHey, where were you?” I ask as Kat shuts the door. “I called you, like, three times.”
    â€œI know.” She kicks off her shoes beside the fridge.
    â€œDude, you’ve been out of rehearsal for nearly an hour.”
    â€œI know,” she repeats. “Thanks for the update, helicopter sister.”
    The unwanted nickname hits me right in the pet peeve. I try to muster patience. “Dad’s working until eleven, so he said not to be loud when he comes home. He needs a good night’s sleep, so . . . I don’t know. Use headphones, if you’re gonna game.”
    Kat trudges toward the staircase. I talk faster, calling after her. “And I made dinner. And also, there were two new messages about you skipping class, so can we talk abo—”
    She starts up the stairs.
    â€œJesus Christ, Kat,” I say. “Could you—”
    She turns. “What?”
    When I get a good look at her face, my angry thoughts stop swirling. My sister looks exhausted. Her neck-length blond hair is bedraggled and tangled. It’s brittle from too many home-brewed bleach treatments, but her roots have started to grow out dark. The circles under her eyes glare like wine stains on white cloth. Her lips are thin and bitten.
    â€œAre you okay?” is all I say. It comes out timid.
    She half smiles. It looks an awful lot like a sneer. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “And how was
your
day, honey?”
    Hurt bursts in me like a bitter grape. She strides upstairs.
    What is her problem? Doesn’t she see how hard I’m trying?
    Nothing works with her anymore. For hours, Kat locks herself in her room with her best friends: BioShock, Mass Effect, and Half-Life 2. I hear shooting through the walls. Amazing, how loud her laptop gets.
    It’s not my