The Liar
Chapter Ten

Splashing her face with water cold enough to have barreled down from the Arctic for the sole purpose of invading her house’s plumbing, Michele rubbed at her unfocused, nearsighted eyes, desperate to banish the cloying lethargy of sleep before she rushed out the door. Numbed face buried in the palms of wet hands, she groaned miserably, feeling like her head was cocooned in three layers of saran wrap.

The people who praised the rejuvenating powers of a good, long sleep were crackpots, she decided darkly. A body could function surprisingly well—magnificently, even—on a couple of hours shy of the minimum eight. “Too little” sleep could render a mind sharp, muscles responsive, and give a little extra time to exercise both.

But when you were dumb enough to skip happily along the Sleepy-Time Road, you found yourself screwed over to all hell the following day. Dragging monstrous, invisible weights behind you all day, you couldn’t quite get the hang of that “walking” thing, and your brain was about as useful as oatmeal.

It may as well have been oatmeal, mused Michele in a detached, too-tired way, after walking into a closed door. Maybe little fairies had fluttered into her ears and done a switch around. Brains and congealed oatmeal were roughly the same color and consistency.

When her train of thought rolled off the tracks and began to trot after the idea of small blonde zombie-fairies in togas and top hats flitting about capriciously, eating brains, she shook her head hard enough for whiplash to be a serious concern. “Coffee time now,” she announced, child-like, her oatmeal-brain not quite able to produce a full sentence.

Stumbling out into the kitchen, she discovered that both of her parents were already gone, their workaholic natures too strong to allow them to be home for very long. She shrugged, used to their hands-off approach to her life, and started digging through the pantry. When she turned, box of cereal securely in hand, she nearly dropped it, a shocked yelp escaping from her throat.

In the intervening seconds between now and her last look at the kitchen, the Liar had managed to seat himself at the table, a blue sneaker on one knee. His green eyes were locked onto a worn paperback that was held open by one hand. A cup of coffee rested at his elbow and his green jacket was slung over the back of the chair.

“Good morning,” he finally greeted her, looking up. The perfectly neutral expression on his face seemed to say that she had been very rude in not saying hello first, because of course he’d been in the room the entire time. “Pleasant dreams?”

“No dreams at all,” she said succinctly, reaching for a bowl. “I don’t dream very much.”

“How awful!” he exclaimed, book momentarily forgotten. “Maybe that’s why you’re a writer, though,” he mused, tapping the tip of his nose with one of his pianist fingers. “There are some people like that. They seem to dream rarely—seem being key, here. The dreams are forgotten to the conscious mind, but I’ve always thought that they infected the mind at a deeper level, spurring a need to create, to give them conscious form.” Laughing, he gestured with his free hand in a way that suggested self-deprecation. “Then again, that might be so much bullshit.” A grin remained on his angular features, and he tugged at the collar his t-shirt, the Awake and Dreaming slogan subtly underscoring his earlier words.

“That might be it,” she conceded, pouring milk into the bowl. “And even if it isn’t, it’s certainly a pretty turn of philosophy. Even if you don’t actually have a psychology background to make you at all credible.”

“Facts,” he began, twisting his inflection to render the word base, “really mean very little. The only things that have meaning are the things that have meaning assigned to them. Everything is subjective, based on culture and conflict and the idiocy of the masses.”

“I take it that’s why you’re reading a novel rather than a newspaper?” she observed, already a quarter through her cereal, the flakes polished off as he ranted.

“Yes, of course.” He smiled like a fox. “Would you really expect anything less of me?”

“Well, when you talk about your purpose and activities, you always say “writers”. Not fiction writers, but writers,” she noted, taking another bite.

“It’s implied,” he muttered, sulkily. “Good nonfiction hides its lies carefully, sheltering them behind a wall of construct culture. Good fiction flaunts its lies with a charming grin and its handsome face makes you believe every word. I find nonfiction insipid and boring.” He leaned back in his chair, gesturing expansively while really moving very little. “But, ah, fiction, that’s something. That’s the power and the emotion and the fire.”

“So if you went to a journalists’ convention, you’d get lynched by a mob.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, laughing as he raked his fingers back through his hair. “But I’m old—you’re supposed to indulge my prejudices.”

“And I suppose Marcus indulges you,” she said, wishing that the imposing angel were here to take some of the brunt of the Liar’s eccentricity.

His expression became immediately serious. “No. Not once upon a time, and certainly not now. Marcus has a deep hatred of prejudice. We’re talking about a guy who works for some mafia in Eastern Europe, killing people on contract. As much as we pretend at civility, we’re really all barbarians with little regard for life. But prejudice? It’s one of the very few things that can make Marcus angry.”

A smile suddenly broke back onto his face. “Right now, though, he is passed out on the couch of that apartment he rented, battling a hangover. He handles his liquor like a stoic, and he’s seven feet tall and built like an oak, but damn, alcohol hits him hard the next morning.” The Liar laughed happily, seeming to delight in Marcus’ plight. It was the kind of cruelty one would display with only the best and oldest of friends.

“So,” he continued, beginning to change the subject, “when are you off to school?”

“In about ten minutes,” she told him, hoping he would go find something to do for the rest of the day. Having him follow her around in his immaculate but slightly askew formal wear was one of the most bizarre and draining things that had ever happened to her.

Then again, everything about him was bizarre and draining. He ate away at her energy like some sub-species of vampire.

Too bad he wouldn’t be reduced to dust by the sun.

“You’re thinking murderous thinks again,” he admonished her, shaking a finger at her, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Haven’t we already had the discussion about how that’s really not so very nice?” He pulled a hurt face, trying to look like a puppy she had just kicked.

She ignored it. “And you’ll remember how that talk ended, then.”

“So mean,” he sighed, flopping backwards and almost tipping his chair back enough to topple it. After a moment, he asked, “So, am I allowed to visit you at school today?”

“How about no,” she told him flatly, glaring over the rims of her half-moon glasses. “Yesterday was a disaster—I think my English teacher’s going to skewer me.”

“That pansy? Nah.” The Liar snorted.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But just because it wasn’t a disaster doesn’t mean that today wouldn’t be,” she pointed out. “I can’t just keep bringing you along with me everywhere I go.”

“Do you always think like that?” he wanted to know, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, hands clasped next to his jaw. “You can do just about anything. And disasters are ridiculously fun.”

“For you, maybe.”

“You’re missing out,” he told her, spreading his hands, eyebrows raised and eyes closed.

“I’m sure I am.” She rolled her eyes.

“No need to take that tone with me.” He hunched his shoulders. “Fine, I’ll just go, then. I’ll catch up later after school. Meet me at that café place we went to on Monday.” The Liar shot to his feet, as if something had suddenly caught his attention with urgent immediacy, and he ran out the door.

The only sign he’d ever been there was his coat, draped over the back of the chair, and the half-finished cup of coffee.

Shrugging, she pulled his jacket on over her plain t-shirt and dropped his fedora, which he still had not managed to wrest back from her, onto her head. With a smile, she walked out the front door, taking her time, unlike her manic breakfast companion. Shaking her head, she locked the door behind her.