One Perfect Lie Read online

  There were moans, giggles, and chatter as the students rose by their desks, some reluctantly. Evan stood up quickly, and Jordan rose, hunched, without making eye contact with Chris.

  “This unit, we’re going to write our own Constitution and our own Bill of Rights. We’re going to set up the government we would like and then we’re going to set limitations on that government. So you need to decide if you want to write our Constitution or our Bill of Rights. Regardless of whatever political party you might be, or your parents might be, I want you to think about this for yourself.”

  A few students smiled and started talking among themselves.

  “Don’t do what your friends do. Pretend you were one of the founding fathers. Would you have been one of the people to set up the government or one of the ones to limit government? I’ll give you a moment to decide. Close your eyes and think for yourself.”

  The students closed their eyes, giggling. Evan obeyed, and Jordan bowed his head as if it were a moment of silence. Raz closed one eye, then the other, making faces.

  “Okay, the people who want to write the Constitution, walk toward the wall where the door is, with your eyes closed. And the people who want to write the Bill of Rights, walk to the side where the windows are. But don’t open your eyes.”

  The class burst into chatter, and Sarah called out, “How can we walk with our eyes closed? We can’t see! We’ll bump into the desks!”

  “Just do it, Sarah!” Evan called back. “You’re not going to die. If you bump into something, go around it.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t let you hurt yourself.” Chris watched as the students took hesitant steps, walking with their arms outstretched, jostling each other, bumping into desks and backpacks, chattering and laughing. He kept an eye on Evan, Jordan, and Raz, as they were choosing sides.

  “Keep your eyes closed!” Chris called to them. “Constitution or Bill of Rights? Up to you, people!”

  There was more giggling, and one of the girls almost ended up walking out the door, but after a few minutes, the students sorted themselves into their noisy sides.

  “Okay, everybody open your eyes!” Chris said, having accomplished his mission.

  Chapter Four

  Chris entered the faculty lounge with his lunch tray, looking for an empty seat. Teachers sat eating at tables of fake-wood veneer with blue bucket chairs. Their animated chatter filled the air, which smelled like an outlet perfume and tomato soup. The lounge was windowless, ringed by oak cabinetry and builder’s-grade appliances, with walls painted Musketeer blue. An old blue couch sat against one wall underneath a mirror, and the far wall held a watercooler with backup water bottles.

  Chris headed for a table that still had empty chairs, and one or two teachers flashed him friendly smiles, undoubtedly having gotten the memo with the subject line, Give CHRIS BRENNAN a Warm Central Valley Welcome! He’d met some of them in the cafeteria, when they’d introduced themselves and told him that the double-decker grilled cheese was on the menu, evidently a cause for celebration. Chris didn’t know if it was harder to fake being a teacher or being jazzed about a sandwich.

  There was a table with a few empty seats, at which sat two female teachers in shirtdresses, one with short brown hair and one with long. The one with short hair motioned to him. “Come here!” she called out, smiling. “Join us!”

  “We don’t bite!” she added.

  Chris forced a chuckle, setting down his tray. “Thanks. I’m Chris Brennan. Great to meet you.”

  “Great to meet you, too. I’m Sue Deion, I teach Calculus.” Sue gestured to her friend. “And this is Linda McClusky. She teaches Spanish.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Linda.” Chris sat down, going through his mental Rolodex. He’d researched Linda McClusky because she also taught eleventh grade. She lived in Bottsburg with her husband, Hugh, a piano teacher, and ran the Central Valley Players, which was performing Annie in May. Chris would miss the production.

  Sue asked, “So what are you teaching, Chris?”

  “Government.” Chris took a bite of his grilled cheese, served on a Styrofoam plate with a cup of tomato soup, canned peaches, and red Jell-O with Cool Whip.

  “Oh, here comes trouble!” Linda looked up at two male teachers approaching them with a female teacher, and Chris recognized the woman from his research because she was a drop-dead-gorgeous brunette, her great body shown to advantage in a trim black dress with black suede boots. Her name was Courtney Wheeler and she taught French, coached Cheer Club, and was married to a mortgage banker named Doug.

  “Abe, Rick, Courtney, come here!” Sue motioned them over.

  Chris shifted his attention to one of the male teachers, who was Abe Yomes, nicknamed Mr. Y. Abe was a tall, reedy African-American who taught Language Arts in eleventh grade, which was why Chris had researched him. Abe had on a trim checked shirt, pressed khakis, and polished loafers. He was gay and lived in town with his partner, Jamie Renette, who owned Renette Realty.

  “I’m Abe Yomes, the famous Mr. Y, and you must be the new kid.” Abe grinned as he set his tray on the table.

  “Pleased to meet you, Abe. Chris Brennan.” Chris reached across the table, and Abe shook his hand, with a smile.

  “Welcome to Stepford. My partner Jamie’s a Realtor, in case you decide to buy.” Abe’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement behind his hip rimless glasses. “I see you’re drinking the Kool-Aid—I mean, eating the grilled cheese. These people, they’re a cult. I tell them, the grilled cheese sucks out loud. The fact that it’s a double-decker only makes it twice as gummy. I speak truth to power, and by power I mean the cafeteria ladies.”

  “Good to know.” Chris chuckled, genuinely.

  “Chris, meet Rick Pannerman, our resident hippie. He was born to teach Art. Actually he was born to be Picasso, but somebody else got the job.” Abe gestured to the other male teacher, who was bald and chubby, with bright blue eyes and a smile buried in his long grayish beard. He dressed in a worn flannel shirt and jeans.

  “Chris, good to see ya,” Rick said, extending a meaty hand. “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys.”

  “Ha!” Chris smiled, and so did Abe.

  “That’s what he calls our table. Now you’re one of us freaks. Gooble-gobble.” Abe pulled out a chair as Courtney came walking over with her tray. “Last but not least, this lovely creature is Courtney Wheeler. She’s married to Doug The Lug, the world’s most boring white guy, and that’s saying something.”

  “Abe, hush.” Courtney sat down, smiling.

  Abe pushed her chair in with a flourish. “Courtney is my bestie, and Prince Harry is my spirit animal. Don’t you think we look alike, he and I?”

  Courtney answered slyly, “Well, you both breathe oxygen.”

  “Not true. Oxygen breathes him.” Abe sat down, focusing again on Chris. “So welcome, Central Valley virgin. What do you teach again?”

  “Government and Criminal Justice,” Chris answered, finishing the first half of his sandwich.

  “I teach Language Arts, playing to type. I’m sensitive, yet curiously strong, the Altoids of teachers. Where’re you from?”

  “Wyoming.”

  “Wait. Whaaaat? Wyoming?” Abe’s eyes flew open behind his rimless glasses. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  Courtney burst into laughter. “Oh my God!”

  Rick grinned in a goofy way. “Ha! What are the chances?”

  Chris didn’t like the way they said it. “Why? Have you been there?”

  “Been there?” Abe repeated, his lips still parting in delight. “I grew up there! It was my childhood home! We left when I was nine but my parents moved back there, they liked it so much!”

  “Really?” Chris arranged his face into a delighted mask. “What a coincidence.”

  “I know, right?” Abe bubbled with enthusiasm. “I’m adopted, hello. My dad was a real outdoorsman. Wyoming born and bred. He was on the Game and Fish Commission—fun fact, Wyoming is one of the few states that have a
Game and Fish Commission, as opposed to a Fish and Game Commission. Anyway, my dad taught me to hunt and fish. We ate fresh elk burgers for dinner! You know how many elk are up there, and mule deer, bison, grizzlies…”

  “Don’t I know it,” Chris said, though he didn’t.

  “Whereabouts in Wyoming are you from?” Abe leaned over, ignoring his lunch.

  “Well, I’m not really from Wyoming—”

  “I thought you said you were.”

  Courtney blinked. “Meanwhile Abe is being rude as usual, asking a million questions and not letting you eat.”

  Abe recoiled. “I’m not being rude. I never met anybody else from Wyoming out here. It’s amazing!” He returned his attention to Chris. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just got excited. I’m an excitable boy. You get that, right?”

  “I understand, no apology’s necessary.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Abe glanced at Courtney triumphantly. “See, henny? Boyfriend and I speak the same language, though he doesn’t have an accent.” Abe turned back to Chris. “You don’t have an accent. You must’ve lost it.”

  “I guess I did—”

  “Right, you lose it. I lost mine. Can you imagine looking like me and sounding like a ranch hand? We’re talking major cognitive dissonance.”

  Courtney rolled her lovely eyes. “Abe, you had the double-shot again, didn’t you?”

  Rick turned to Chris with an apologetic look. “We got a Starbucks in town, and Abe lives there. Buckle up.”

  Abe ignored them, turning back to Chris. “Anyway so are you from Wyoming or not?”

  “No, I’m from the Midwest but I went to Northwest College in—”

  “Cody! Of course! My dad’s alma mater! In the Bighorn basin!”

  “You know Northwest College, too?” Chris was kicking himself. This was a problem.

  Courtney interjected, “Abe loves Wyoming. He even dragged us all out there to see it. Pretty, but really? Boring.”

  Rick shrugged. “I didn’t think it was boring. Sachi wants us to retire there. All that natural beauty.”

  “Hold on a sec, I got snaps!” Abe slid his iPhone from his back pocket and started touching the screen.

  Chris turned to Courtney to change the subject. “So Courtney, what do you teach?” he asked, though he already knew.

  “French.” Courtney smiled. “I started here five years ago, after I got married.”

  “Look!” Abe interrupted, holding up his phone across the table, showing a photo of a rock formation around a body of water. “This must bring back memories, doesn’t it?”

  Chris plastered on a startled smile of recognition. “Man, that’s great!”

  Abe turned the picture around. “It looks like a lake, but it’s not. I had my first kiss there—with a woman and a man! Tell ’em what it is, Chris! Everybody went there to make out, didn’t they? That’s what my dad said.”

  “Not me, I was a good boy. I studied hard so I could grow up, become a teacher, and eat double-decker grilled cheese.” Chris took a bite of his sandwich, then acted as if he’d gotten food stuck in his throat. Suddenly he pushed away from the table, fake-choking, letting his expression reflect mild alarm, between hairball and Heimlich.

  Rick’s blue eyes went wide. “Chris, are you choking?”

  “Oh no, drink something!” Courtney jumped up with a water bottle and hurried to his side.

  “Chris!” Abe rushed around the table and whacked Chris on the back as Rick, Sue, and Linda came rushing over.

  Chris doubled over, fake-choking as heads began to turn. Each teacher’s face registered concern, then fear. He kept it up while Abe, Sue, and Linda clustered around him, calling “Oh no!” “He’s choking!” “Do the Heimlich maneuver!” “Call 911!”

  “It’s okay, I guess it went down the wrong pipe.” Chris acted as if he’d swallowed his sandwich, fake-gasping. The last thing he wanted was someone to call 911, bringing the police. They could start asking questions, which could ruin everything.

  “My God!” Abe frowned with regret. “So sorry, I should have let you eat!”

  “Not your fault, Abe. It was the sandwich.”

  “Let’s sue the district,” Abe shot back. Rick and Courtney laughed, and the other teachers broke into relieved smiles, then went back to their tables.

  Chris smiled, but he knew that the Wyoming questions wouldn’t go away forever. Abe would want to reminisce and compare notes.

  Which presented a problem that he needed to solve.

  Chapter Five

  Heather Larkin stood by the entrance to the Lafayette Room, scanning the tables in her station, four eights in the left corner. The luncheon was for the Auxiliary Committee of Blakemore Medical Center, and fifty-two well-dressed women had been served their appetizer, mixed-greens salad with goat cheese crumbles, beet shavings, and walnuts.

  Everything was going smoothly, and the room looked perfect. It was storming outside, but indirect light poured from Palladian windows and the occasional clap of thunder didn’t disturb the chatter and laughter. The lights were low, emanating from tasteful brass sconces on the ivory damask walls, which matched the ivory tablecloths and slipcovered chairs. White tulips filled the centerpieces on each table, and the air smelled like costly perfume and raspberry vinaigrette dressing.

  Heather kept an eye on her tables, since it was a club rule that members shouldn’t have to wait for service. She wondered if they knew how many eyes were on them, waiting on them so they didn’t have to wait. Waiters. Waitresses. It was even in the job name.

  Heather’s makeup was light, and she’d pulled her straight, brown hair back into a low ponytail. She had on her uniform, a mint-green dirndl with a drawstring bodice intended to show her cleavage to golfers on their third Long Island Iced Tea. She hated the uniform and the required shoes, which were white with a stacked heel. But she picked her battles, and her uniform wasn’t one of them.

  She had waitressed at the Central Valley Country Club for fifteen years and was excellent at her job. But lately she’d been wondering if she’d gotten too good at waiting. Patience was a virtue, but there were limits. She wondered if a decade of waiting on people had trained her to wait for things to happen, rather than making them happen, or to meet other people’s needs instead of her own, like an expert codependent.

  Still Heather was lucky to have the job, especially as a single mother. There were cost-of-living increases, pooled tips at Christmas, plus full benefits that she and her son Jordan were eligible for. Jordan was a junior in high school, hopefully heading for college on a baseball scholarship. But what was she heading for? She only had two years of college because she quit when she’d gotten pregnant. Still, she never thought of her son as a mistake. Marrying his father was the mistake. Divorcing him corrected the mistake.

  Heather scanned the tables. The women looked so nice with their highlights freshly done, and they had on pastel pantsuits with cute cropped jackets, undoubtedly bought at the mall. Club members didn’t shop at the outlets, so they didn’t have to hide the Sharpie mark on an irregular or the pulled thread of a defective garment. Heather had stopped wanting to be them, but would have settled for being somebody who wore her own clothes to work. She wanted a desk and chair, so she could sit down. She wanted a job that went somewhere, with a brass nameplate with her full name, instead of a name tag, HEATHER.

  “Heather,” said a voice behind her, and Heather came out of her reverie, turning. It was Emily, the new Food & Beverage Manager. Emily was still in her twenties, but her heavy makeup made her look hard and her short brown hair was stiff with product. She had on a mint-green polo shirt with khakis, the uniform upgrade for management employees.

  “Yes?”

  “I need you to stay until six tonight. The luncheon is going to run late because they’re going to do the silent auction and raffles after the speeches.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. Like I said, I’d like to be home for Jordan.” Heather picked her battles, and this was the one sh
e’d picked. Her regular shift was breakfast and lunch, from 6:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. That would get her home so she could make dinner and they could have a meal together. It had never been a problem with her old boss Mike, and Heather had assumed that a female boss would be even more understanding. But nobody could knife a woman like another woman.

  “I need you to stay.” Emily pursed her lips, shiny with pink lip gloss.

  “Can’t Suzanne?”

  “I’m not asking Suzanne. I’m asking you.”

  “Can’t you ask her? She doesn’t have kids.” Heather reflexively scanned the tables but nobody needed anything.

  “Your kid is in high school.” Emily’s blue eyes glittered.

  “So?” Heather didn’t explain that in one year, Jordan would be gone, off to college. Everything felt like the last time. “You said you’d accommodate—”

  “I said I’d accommodate you if I can.”

  “But you’re not trying to accommodate me. You didn’t ask Suzanne—”

  “Heather, if you value your job, you will do what I ask, when I ask it.” Emily glanced around the dining room.

  “What’s that mean? You fire me if I say no?”

  “Yes.” Emily met her eyes directly. “When I took over, I was given carte blanche to do what needed to be done. You can take the job or leave it. Your choice.”

  Heather felt the blood drain from her face. She had heard the rumors that new management had been hired to cut catering costs. If Emily was looking for reason to fire her, Heather couldn’t give her one. “Okay, I’ll stay until six,” she said quickly. Suddenly she noticed one of the women lifting an empty glass to signal a refill. “I’d better go.”

  “Hurry,” Emily snapped. “You should’ve seen that earlier. Don’t you know who that is? That’s Mindy Kostis. She’s sponsoring the luncheon.”

  “Okay, on it.” Heather recognized the name because Jordan was on the baseball team with Evan Kostis, Mindy’s son.

  “Whatever. Go, go, go.”