Little Black Lies by Tish Cohen

It could get infected.”
    I nod stupidly and he pulls a small zippered case from a bag. “I’m team captain in rugby,” he explains. “Coach Hudson’s favorite player gets to haul the first-aid kit to and from practice.” He squirts disinfectant on his finger and rubs it on my wound, then holds up a Band-Aid as a question. Again, I nod, watching his face as he presses it to my skin.
    In South America, army ants are actually used as sutures. Doctors squeeze the gaping wound shut and deposit ants along the gash. In defense, each ant grabs hold of the edges of skin with its mandibles, or jaws, and locks it into place. Doctors then slice off the head, leaving the mandibles in place to secure the cut until healed. I’m not saying I’d lop off this guy’s head, but if his squared-off jaw were to clamp down on my flesh, I’m pretty sure I’d heal in half the time.
    â€œI’m Leo Reiser. I’m a senior. You’re the new eleventh grader, aren’t you?” he asks. “The one from England?”
    If I stand here in the street and don’t correct him, does that make me a liar? Because what’s the alternative? Saying no, I’m the eleventh grader from L un don, the only town in North America that doesn’t track high-school graduates because the number would be too embarrassingly low?
    For the first time in my life, I thank my dad for never allowing me to have a Web presence. With no Facebook page, no MySpace account, Sara Black from Lundon, Massachusetts, is virtually untraceable. I shrug. “I’m the one.”
    A storm front rolls across his face as he stuffs the medical kit in his bag. “My neighbor’s British. He’s a prick.” Without so much as a backward glance, as if he’d never seen me or my bleeding palm, he spins around and strides away.
    I’m wrecked by his remark and I’m not even British. I trudge up the stairs of our building, trying to think up the perfect comeback that I’ll never use. As usual, I have nothing.
    I trudge up the stairs and see Carling’s dreadlocked chauffeur smoking a cigarette in his doorway, as if he’s chilling on his sleepy suburban veranda, drinking a refreshing iced tea and watching the world go by. As it is, his refreshment of choice is a cigarette, and all he has to look at is me. He acknowledges me by raising his eyebrows as I pass. I wave and continue upstairs.
    When I’m partway up, he calls out, “Hey, does your boyfriend drive that sky blue VW?”
    Is he kidding? I stop and peer down at him. “That’s not my boyfriend, it’s my dad .”
    He half laughs, half coughs. “Sorry. You never know these days. I’m Noah.”
    â€œSara.”
    â€œJust let your dad know I used to have a van just like his and I miss it. If he needs someone to help out, hand him tools and all that, I’d love to have a look at that engine. I’ll knock on your door later and introduce myself to him.”
    I nod.
    Noah flicks ashes onto the landing and I continue up the stairs.
    I hate the sound of human lips sucking on cigarettes—legal or otherwise. My mother smoked incessantly. Like most smokers, she was addicted. I always suspected, given the choice between her own daughter and a pack of smokes, that she’d take the Benson & Hedges. Like most things in life, it was a case of simple mathematical probability that was proven when she boarded that plane at Logan International Airport with only one of us on board.
    She certainly chose other things over me. That night in early June, when the smell of toxic chicken had finally faded away—or annihilated my remaining nasal membranes—I lay in my bed, stomach rumbling, pretending to reread my current favorite book, What Every Girl (Except Me) Knows , about a girl who grows up without a mother—how was I to know what would follow?—under the covers, with a flashlight whose batteries