Seven Ways We Lie by Riley Redgate

in class,” Mr. García says.
    â€œYeah,” I say, getting out. “Thanks for the lift.”
    â€œSure.”
    I shut his door and head inside, already aching to collapse into bed.

IT’S 10:00 PM ON A THURSDAY, SO OF COURSE MY PARENTS are yelling at each other down the hall in the kitchen, and I have more homework than I want to admit, so of course I’m dicking around on the Internet. There’s a point where procrastination turns into resignation that you will never do what you need to do, and I hit that point, like, two hours ago, after opening a Word document in a short-lived fit of optimism. At this point, anything I write will seem like one hundred percent bullshit when I read it over tomorrow morning, so is this even worth it? Signs point to no.
    The voices down the hall rise to a cracking point.
    â€œWe never should have left St. Louis!” my mom yells. “I would have stayed with my family, stayed near my parents, but no, you wanted to—”
    â€œOh,
I
wanted to? Who was it who—”
    Sighing, I get up to block the gap under my door. My clothes, strewn across the floor like storm debris, tend to come in handy at this time of night. I kick a couple of hoodies against the crack as a makeshift silencer, glancing back at my bed. Russell lies asleep between the sheets, his thumb lodged deep in his mouth. If hewakes up, I’m going to kill my parents. They’re not even trying to keep it down these days.
    I sit back down, put my headphones on, and open Spotify, twisting the volume up. Avril Lavigne belts out some inhuman high note over my dad’s muffled voice. I will guard my Spotify page into the afterlife, because if anyone saw it, I would probably resurrect from shame. I have this thing for whiny pop-rock, lots of Nickelback and Avril and latter-day Weezer, and it’s morbidly embarrassing, but it can’t be cured, not by my mom’s classic rock or Burke’s hipster Bon Iver shit. Besides, nothing’s better for drowning out an argument than Avril Lavigne yell-singing about how much of a crazy bitch she is, which, like, I guess if that’s how you want to describe yourself, go for it.
    A red notification pops up at the top of my Facebook page, announcing a message from Olivia. My stomach does acrobatics, and my brain aches as if someone’s slammed a block of wood against my forehead. Jesus, crushes are so humiliating.
    Hey, Matt
,
    Following up for the project thing. We should probably meet over the weekend to practice the actual presentation, sort out who’s going to say what. I can get supplies for a poster or something. Go ahead and call me at 476-880-1323—we’ll sort it out faster that way
.
    Also, here’s a link to read
Inferno
online—www.bartleby.com/20/101.html
    Olivia
    Without thinking, I take a joint from my drawer. My fingers move like rubber, thick and clumsy, as I open my window andlight up. The first hit mellows in my lungs for a moment before I exhale into the night wind, leaning out to keep the smoke away from Russ. It’s not long before I feel it: the world engulfing me in its arms. Guitar chords ring deep in my headphones, every note dissipating out into its own rich, vibrating melody.
    When I’m sufficiently stoned, I grab my phone, tap in Olivia’s number, and hit call. As it rings, I pause the music, sinking onto my desk chair, and the quiet presses in. Voices rise and fall outside my door, lapping against my awareness in gentle waves. My eyes fix on the trail of smoke twining from the joint out through the window, and Olivia’s phone rings and rings, and it occurs to me that maybe 10:00 PM is a little late to call somebody I don’t know—should I have waited, talked to her tomorrow in class?
    The line connects. “Hey, it’s Olivia,” she says, her bright, quick voice as awake as if it’s early morning. I say, “Hey, Matt here.”
    â€œYeah, I