Gary Paulsen: Liar, Liar

“Uh-huh.”

“Like I said, why don’t you take this home and—”

I cut her off. “No, I don’t need to do that; let’s pick number, um, seven. Yeah, that looks like a great idea.”

“The analysis of data collected during the most recent national census about the underserved population and how they interact with and regard the government services structure, especially pertaining to the link between educational grants and future acts of public service?”

I really should have read her summaries, but it was too late. The analysis of the something census and how the something interacts with something as it pertains to something it was.

She beamed when I nodded, and I knew that I’d somehow chosen right even though I didn’t know what the peewadden she was talking about, and I was sure, if I’d tried, really hard and for a very long time , I could not have come up with a more butt-numbing topic.

JonPaul and Jay D. came over, grinning.

“We got a beauteous subject, Kev; Crosby laughed at first, but then he signed off on it.”

“What are you doing?”

“Exploring the possibility of a link between the World Series and voter turnout in presidential elections,” Jay D. said proudly.

“You know, like, if an AL team wins, does that mean more Democrats will show up at the polls, or,” JonPaul explained, “will Republican voting habits change if the NL team wins?”

“That’s not about the government, you moron. And it doesn’t even make sense.”

“It has to do with the executive branch; we’re golden,” JonPaul said.

“You’re just jealous because we’re going to spend a week cutting and pasting World Series highlights into a PowerPoint presentation,” Jay D. said, smirking. “What’re you doing?”

I studied the floor and mumbled, “The analysis of how something about the census something interacts with the something and pertains to something.”

They snorted, punched my arm and left me with Katie, who had been rereading her notes and probably hadn’t even noticed JonPaul and Jay D.

“You don’t look so good, Kevin.”

“I …” I would rather die than work with you on this monkey butt of a project, is what I wanted to say. But I heard myself saying, “Look, Katie, it’s probably not fair that you got stuck with me, because I have … some medical issues that might prevent me from, er, living up to my part of the project. It’s just too soon to tell—we’re waiting on test results and some studies in Germany that have to be concluded.”

“Really?” She looked intrigued, which was new, because Katie usually walks around with this distracted expression on her face, like she’s busy figuring the square root of the prime number closest to the gross national product. “I’m fascinated by medical mysteries.”

“Well, that’s what this is, all right. No one can figure out what’s going on. We’ve been to an endocrinologist, a cardiologist, a neurologist, an osteopath, a Reiki practitioner, an energy healer, a physical therapist and a physiatrist, because they”—I paused meaningfully—“specialize in chronic pain management.”

She gasped. I’d had no idea until that very moment what a great audience Katie Knowles was.

Note to self: Katie is smarter than a NASA computer, but wuh-hay too trusting for her own good. Excellent.

I was feeling pretty lucky right then that JonPaul is a total hypochondriac who’s always worried that he’s coming down with something rare and dangerous. I could rattle off the names of all those different kinds of doctors like I was a fourth-year medical student because we spend a lot of time entering his alleged physical ailments in medical website search engines.

Katie leaned forward, and I whispered the many problems I’d been suffering, which had led to the diagnosis of chronic, degenerative, relapsing-remitting inflammobetigoitis. “It started with night sweats, which caused the dehydration. Then I developed mood swings, hair loss and cotton mouth. And, of course, there’s the sensitivity to light, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, dry skin, loss of appetite and frequent thirst, which were worrisome. But all that wasn’t nearly as bad as the muscle aches, migraines, gastric reflux, bleeding gums and mild to moderate confusion when fatigued.”

I figured all this was icky enough to make Katie want to keep her distance but not so bad that she’d wonder why I wasn’t in the hospital. Or quarantined.

She looked horrified. “Oh, you poor brave thing.”

I nodded sadly and tried to look brave. Brave and wan.

“I’d, well, you know, I’d wondered about you. That maybe something was amiss,” Katie said sympathetically.

Oh, you had, had you? But before I could blow my cover by sputtering something defensive, Katie saved me. Boy, did she save me.

“Look: I can handle the project for both of us.”

I opened my mouth to pretend to talk her out of her selfless offer, but she raised her hand to shush me. “You were lucky to get paired up with me, because I don’t know anyone else in class able to cope with this much responsibility on their own.”

I could tell that Katie was actually relieved that she wouldn’t have to work with anyone else, and I silently congratulated myself on my gift of saying the right thing to the right person. Without knowing it, I must have sensed that she’d rather work alone. Even if it was because her partner was chronically ill and that meant she’d have to share credit.

I’m a very intuitive guy.

“Are you even strong enough to be in school?” She peered anxiously over her glasses.

“Uh-huh. My medical team says that keeping things as normal as possible—while avoiding stress—is the best treatment.”

“That makes sense.” After looking behind her, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Does anyone else know about your condition?”

“No. I haven’t felt … comfortable enough to share this. But there’s something about you; you’re a really good listener, and a person feels like he can confide in you.”

She squeezed my hand, clearly believing that my random symptoms weren’t contagious. “Don’t worry; I won’t say a word. You just concentrate on getting better. I’ll do the legwork and you can help with the revisions and fact-checking, okay?”

“That sounds amazing, Katie, thanks.”

With a conspiratorial wink, she headed off to her next class.

Suh-weet! I’d essentially be proofreading—checking for errors and making suggestions about work that had already been done on behalf of “our team.”

Look, I just wanted to get assigned to a different partner. Is it my fault that Katie volunteered to do the whole dang project? I think not.

Once again, my lie had created a win-win situation—I didn’t have to work with Katie, and Katie didn’t have to work with anyone.

And what was wrong with that?

The only people I don’t lie to are girls, but that’s because I almost never talk to them and it’s hard to lie when your lips aren’t moving.

Katie doesn’t count. Not. A. Real. Girl.

My older brother, Daniel, says I’ll outgrow thinking that girls are complicated and really emotional. My guess is that he’s lying to me. But I never thought much about it one way or the other.

Until I was walking down the hall just after my talk with Katie, on my way to my locker, happy about how things had turned out.

Then I turned the corner in the upstairs hall on my way to lunch and fell in love.

Just. Like. That.

Tina Zabinski was standing by the drinking fountain with some of her friends, laughing. I heard her laugh and my heart gave this crazy lurch, and my breathing did a stop-start thing, and I got sweaty, and did other stuff we learned about in Family Life, stuff that marks the moment a male’s physical maturation begins. I’d never been so glad to be carrying a math book.