“What I suggest,” Lia said, “is that we spend the next three hours and twenty-seven minutes doing our best impressions of actual teenagers.” She flopped down on the couch between Dean and me. “Who wants to play Two Truths and a Lie?”
“I have been kicked out of no fewer than four boarding schools.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows, his tone giving no hint whatsoever as to whether or not what he was saying was true. “My favorite movie is Homeward Bound.”
Isn’t that the one with the lost pets trying to find their way home? I thought.
“And,” Michael finished elaborately, “I’m thoroughly considering going into Redding’s room tonight while he’s sleeping and shaving my initials into his head.”
Three statements. Two of them were true. One was a lie.
“Number three,” Dean said darkly. “The lie is number three.”
Michael couldn’t quite manage a roguish smile with a fat lip, but he made his best attempt.
Lia, who was sprawled on her stomach on the carpet, propped herself up on her elbows. “How many boarding schools have you gotten kicked out of?” she asked.
Michael gave Dean a moment to process the fact that the deception detector had zeroed in on his first statement as the lie. “Three,” he told Lia.
“Slacker,” she opined.
“It’s not my fault Sterling and Briggs haven’t kicked me out yet.” Michael ran a thumb along the edge of his split lip, an odd sheen in his eyes. “Clearly, I’m a liability. They’re smart people. Expulsion number four is only a matter of time.”
Better to make someone reject you, I thought, understanding more than I wanted to, than to let them do it on their own.
“Homeward Bound?” Dean gave Michael a look. “Really?”
“What can I say?” Michael replied. “I’m a sucker for warmhearted puppies and kitties.”
“That seems statistically unlikely,” Sloane said. She stared at Michael for several seconds, then shrugged. “My turn.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “The average litter size for a beagle is seven puppies.” Sloane paused, then offered up a second statement. “The word spatula is derived from the Greek word spathe, meaning broad, flat blade.”
Sloane didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of the game, but she knew that she was supposed to say two true statements and one false one. She twisted one hand into the other in her lap. Even if her truths hadn’t been obvious, it was clear she was preparing to lie. “The man who owns this casino,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, “is not my father.”
Sloane had spent her entire life keeping this secret. She’d told me. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the others—but she could lie. Badly, obviously, in a game devoted to spotting lies.
I could feel the others brimming with questions, but no one said a single word.
“You have to guess.” Sloane swallowed, then looked up from her lap. “You have to. Those are the rules.”
Michael poked Sloane’s foot with his. “Is it the one about the beagles?”
“No,” Sloane said. “No, it is not.”
“We know.” Dean’s voice was as gentle as I’d ever heard it. “We know which one the lie is, Sloane.”
Sloane let out a long breath. “Based on my calculations, now would be an appropriate time for someone to hug me.”
Beside her, Dean opened his arms, and Sloane melted into them.
“Raise your hand if you didn’t realize Dean was a hugger,” Michael said, raising his own hand. Lia snorted.
“This hug is now completed.” Sloane pulled back from Dean. “Two Truths and a Lie. Someone else go,” she said fiercely.
I obliged. “I’ve never been hypnotized.” True. “I’m double-jointed.” Lie. I thought of Sloane, baring her heart. “The authorities found a body they think is my mother.”
Sloane had come clean with the others. I owed them the same—even if Dean and Lia already knew.
“I’ve never seen any physical indication that you possess hypermobility,” Sloane said. Her hands stilled in her lap. “Oh.” The realization that I’d been telling the truth about the body washed over her, and she hesitated. “Based on my calculations…” she started to say, and then she just launched herself at me.
We might as well start calling this game Two Truths, a Lie, and a Hug, I thought, but something about the physical contact threatened the wall I’d put up in my mind, the one that stood between me and the dark place.
“My turn again.” Michael met my eyes. I waited for him to say something—something true, something real. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he told me. True. He turned to Sloane. “I’d be happy to punch your father, should the occasion arise.” True. Then he leaned back on the heels of his hands. “And I’ve magnanimously decided against shaving my initials into Dean’s head.”
Dean glowered at Michael. “I swear to God, Townsend, if you—”