Kody Keplinger: Lying Out Loud

ME:No … I get it, actually.

And I did. I knew Ryder didn’t like Hamilton — everyone knew that — but I’d never really thought about it from his perspective. Being pulled out of a place where you were happy, where you had friends, couldn’t be easy. I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d be if I’d been forced to move somewhere hundreds of miles from Hamilton. From Amy.

I’d probably be kind of an asshole, too.

RYDER:So, yes. That’s why I’m not asking my mom for help. I’ve barely spoken to her since we got here in August. Petty, I know.

ME:You’re seventeen. I think you’re allowed to be petty. Especially about something like this.

ME:But why can’t you go back? Live with your dad?

Again, Ryder took a while to write his answer.

RYDER:I asked. Before we left, I asked to stay. But my mom wouldn’t let me.

ME:Why?

RYDER:I have no idea. Because she’s selfish? Because she wants to punish my dad by keeping me away? Not that she has any right to punish him. She’s the one who left. She’s the one who asked for the divorce. Dad doesn’t want it. He still hasn’t signed the papers.

ME:Do you think they might get back together?

RYDER:That would be difficult with her being a few states away and all.

RYDER:I don’t know. And lately, I can never get ahold of my dad. His secretary always says he’s busy, and he doesn’t answer his cell. I know he’s got a lot going on in Washington, but …

RYDER:Okay, I know this isn’t the cool thing to say, but I miss him.

ME:I’m sorry, Ryder.

RYDER:I don’t want you to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry. Except maybe my mom.

I pulled up Google and tried to find a picture of Ryder and his family. I figured it wouldn’t be hard since his dad was in Congress. They probably had plenty of photos from the campaign trail.

Within a minute, I’d found one. In the picture, Ryder was standing between his parents. His dad was older than I expected. Or maybe he just looked old because of stress. I knew politicians supposedly aged quickly. His hair was gray but well kept. He had Ryder’s bright green eyes and a charismatic smile that could definitely win a vote or two. On Ryder’s other side was his mom, a very pretty black woman in a perfectly tailored suit. She was tall — taller than her husband — and while her eyes were darker than Ryder’s, they had the same shape, large and striking.

And in the middle was Ryder, dressed in a suit very similar to his dad’s. His hair was a little longer then, but not too much. What I couldn’t help noticing, though, was his smile. It was huge and genuine and … so happy. I’d never seen the boy from my class smile like that before. I didn’t know he could.

ME:I could help you Parent Trap them if you like?

RYDER:What?

ME:The Parent Trap ?

RYDER:Sorry. Still lost.

ME:Oh. My. God.

ME:You’re kidding, right?

ME:THE PARENT TRAP? Twin girls meet for the first time at summer camp and scheme to reunite their parents? The remake starred pre-train-wreck Lindsay Lohan?

ME:YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN THE FREAKING PARENT TRAP????

RYDER:I have not, but does this really warrant cyber-shouting?

ME:YES!!!!!!

RYDER:Okay.

ME:I weep for your childhood.

I spent the next twenty minutes explaining the plot of The Parent Trap to him, complete with YouTube clips from both the original film and the remake. When I was done, Ryder informed me that it didn’t sound like that great of a movie, and I told him to, with all due respect, shove it.

But we kept IMing after that. About other movies (he was totally into indie art-house flicks, the more subtitles the better, which is, frankly, disgusting) and books (we both struggled with Shakespeare and hated Nathaniel Hawthorne with equal passion) and just … random stuff.

ME:Okay, deep dark secret time. I am a wannabe grunge rocker.

RYDER:Seriously?

ME:Seriously. I don’t play any instruments. I can’t sing to save my life. But I guess that didn’t stop Courtney Love. And I have a lot of secret angst.

ME:If I could pull off flannel, I’d wear it every day.

RYDER:I think you’d look cute in flannel.

I blushed, then realized I was blushing and immediately felt disgusted with myself.

RYDER:So what are you secretly angsty about?

RYDER:If I can ask.

ME:Mostly my mom.

RYDER:This seems to be a running theme this evening.

ME:She is … flaky. To say the least. Unreliable. Truthfully, sometimes I think she wishes she never had me. Sometimes I think she pretends she didn’t.

The second I sent that message, I regretted it. It was way more than I’d planned to share. It was too honest. Too much. Too close.

I didn’t talk about my mom. Not in detail. Not even with Amy. I was the queen of glossing over things. Of turning small truths into big lies.

But now Ryder Cross, of all people, knew one of my darkest secrets. Or, at least, a tiny piece of it. I felt uncomfortable, suddenly, and I was eternally grateful that he couldn’t see me. That even though I’d shared too much, I could at least hide behind this computer screen.

RYDER:Wow. That does sound like inspiration for a grunge album.

RYDER:I won’t push you to talk about it, but obviously I understand complicated family situations, so if you ever want to share, I’m here to listen.

ME:Thank you.

We chatted for a little while longer, mostly about his favorite band — Goats Vote for Melons, which I’d never heard of, despite his fears that they were becoming too “mainstream.”

ME:God, you are such a hipster.

RYDER:Ugh. I’m NOT a hipster.

ME:Exactly what a hipster would say.

He sent me the smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Very mature and all. Then he wrote:

RYDER:I should probably go. It’s late.

RYDER:Whoa — look out your window.

ME:Both creepy and cryptic, but all right.

I glanced up and gasped, startled. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to peek over the trees. I looked at the clock and was stunned to see that it was nearly six in the morning.

I’d been IMing with Ryder all night.

ME:Wow.

RYDER:I know.

ME:I had no idea we were on here this long.

RYDER:Me either.

ME:I should get to bed.

RYDER:Me, too. But I really liked “talking” to you.

ME:I liked “talking” to you, too.

And, weirdly, I had.

ME:Let’s do this again sometime.

RYDER:I’d like that.

ME:Okay, well … good night. Or, good morning?

RYDER:LOL. Good morning, Amy.

I frowned, reading his message again.

Amy?

I was about to write back, to correct him, but he’d already logged off. I figured maybe it was just a typo, a mistake. We were both sleep deprived, after all. But as I was about to log out, a terrible realization hit me.