Kody Keplinger: Lying Out Loud

“Fine,” she said, scooting over so we could squeeze together on the chair. “But only because I know it will cheer you up … and because he really is awful. Maybe this will get him to leave me alone.”

“That’s my girl.”

I hit the REPLY button and started to compose my masterpiece, reading it aloud as I typed each sentence.

“Hello, hottie.”

“Oh God,” Amy squeaked. “I’m already feeling weird about this.”

“I’d love to keep talking to you.” I read it to her in a slow, sexy voice. “But not at a restaurant. My room is much more comfortable. And the only thing I want to be eating is whipped cream off your chest, lover boy.”

“Sonny!” Amy cried. “You can’t say that!”

“Why not?”

“He’ll think I’m some sort of freak.”

“That’s the point. He’ll be creeped out — and perhaps slightly turned on, though he’d never admit it — by your over-the-top e-mail and too embarrassed to ever speak to you again.”

“But what if he tells other people about this e-mail?”

“Who would he tell? No one can stand him. He doesn’t have friends.”

She sighed, which I took as permission to continue.

“You mentioned my friend in your e-mail. Sonny would also like to be present for this ‘conversation.’ She loves to watch me fool around with guys. Though recently, I found some creepy voodoo dolls of the guys I’ve been hooking up with in her drawer. And, come to think of it, a few of them have had some serious accidents. I hope the possibility of a few broken bones doesn’t scare you off.”

This time, she giggled. Just a little.

“I have to say, Ryder, I’m so glad you e-mailed me. I’ve had my eye on you since you got here. I tried to play it cool, but secretly, I’ve been building a shrine to you in my closet for months. It’s nothing special — just a few pictures I took of you on my phone while you weren’t looking and a life-size sculpture I made of you using garbage and gum I scraped out from under your desk.”

“Oh, that’s so gross!” Amy gasped. “Ew.”

I continued, “I can’t wait to show you my work of art. I know you’ll appreciate it. So it’s a date. Friday night. I’m going to blow your mind, Ryder. You have no idea. Love (because that’s what I am, in love with you), Amy.”

I sat back and admired my brilliant prose. Beside me, Amy was giggling, but she also looked a bit nervous.

“You can’t really send that, you know,” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s cool. I got it out of my system. But you’ve got to admit — it’s a pretty epic love letter.”

“Sure,” Amy said.

“I’m saving it,” I told her. “You’re going to want to look back on this one day when I’m some sort of famous poet … or criminal mastermind being hunted by the authorities. Whichever comes first. It’ll be worth something.”

I leaned forward and moved to click the SAVE button, but Amy’s elbow bumped mine by accident, and my hand slipped. Instead of SAVE, I clicked SEND.

“Uh-oh.”

Amy saw it at the same time I did. Her eyes went wide and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “What just happened?”

I clicked over to drafts, hoping to see the e-mail there, safe and sound. But no. “It sent,” I said.

“No, no, no!” Amy looked horrified. “Oh my God.”

“Well … he’ll never ask you out again?” I offered. “Ugh. I’m sorry. That really wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

“I know. I bumped you.” She bit at her pinkie nail. “This is awful. I can’t believe we sent that. It’s so mean and … There’s no way of, like, getting it back, right?”

“That’s not exactly how the Internet works.”

“Ugh.” She buried her face in her hands. “I hope he doesn’t read it.”

“He might not,” I said. “He might realize too late that asking you out was a mistake and he doesn’t have a chance in hell, so he won’t read the e-mail. He’ll save himself from the heartache. There’s actually a good chance of that.”

Amy looked skeptical.

“I’m serious,” I said.

But I was just saying that to make Amy feel better. I knew he’d read it. He’d be an idiot not to. I just hoped he didn’t forward it to anyone. If someone teased Amy about this, I’d never forgive myself.

I wasn’t convincing her, though. I could tell she felt awful, and I wished that I’d just wallowed earlier.

“I should send him an apology e-mail,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m the one who wrote the stupid thing. I’ll e-mail the apology.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” I would hate every second of it, but I’d do it for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m tired, too. Practically falling asleep as we speak.”

It wasn’t the last lie I’d tell that night.

I pretended to sleep until Amy started snoring. It really was astonishing that someone so adorable could make such a horrific noise. It was about ten times louder than her speaking voice, and it came from deep in her throat. Amy wasn’t usually a mouth-breather, but at night? Jesus.

It used to keep me up when we were little. We’d have sleepovers, and I’d stay up all night, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I got so used to the demon that possessed Amy’s body at night that it became a sort of rhythmic, guttural lullaby.

Not tonight, though. Tonight I was wide-awake.

Slowly, I crawled across the huge bed and climbed over Amy. She kept snoring. Once she started, there was no stopping her until someone shook her awake the next morning. She took being a heavy sleeper to a whole new level.

Even so, I found myself tiptoeing across the carpet toward her desk. I picked up her laptop and slipped out the door and down the hall.

The Rushes’ house was ridiculous. Three floors, giant bathrooms, ginormous walk-in closets — Wesley’s room even had a freaking balcony. But my favorite, favorite room in the Rush house was the recreation room. It was just down the hall from Amy’s room, and it was every teenager’s dream. There was a pool table; huge, comfy couches; and, as of Amy’s seventeenth birthday, an old-fashioned pinball machine. But the best part was, hardly anyone knew it was here.

I’d been to a few parties at the Rush house — usually thrown by Wesley when he was home from college — and no one ever seemed to find this room. With the door shut, it was easy to mistake it for just another bedroom. Which made it the perfect little hideaway when you wanted a break from the rowdy youths. Or, you know, when you wanted to make out.

The only time I’d ever found the rec room occupied during a party was this year, on the Fourth of July, when I caught Casey Blythe, a former Hamilton High cheerleader, sucking face with her boyfriend, this nerdy kid named Toby Tucker. But Casey was best friends with Wesley’s girlfriend, so she had inside intel on where all the best places to fool around in the Rush house were.

Other than that little incident, no one ever seemed to come into the rec room besides me and Amy. We hung out in here sometimes, when we didn’t have homework to do. I’d play a game of pool against myself while Amy utterly destroyed on the pinball machine.

Tonight, though, it was just me. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo game of pool, so instead I got cozy on one of the couches and propped open Amy’s laptop. I had a paper due in English, and I figured I might as well get started on it while the productivity booster known as insomnia stuck around.

I’d just opened a new Word document when I heard a small ping and frowned. Then there was a second ping . The same sound, but somehow more insistent.