Little Black Lies Read Free Page A

notebooks. Fully aware of how very geeky I am for even having this thought, I fantasize about winning a shopping spree inside this cupboard. I have a big weird thing for fresh, unmarked notebooks.
    As she walks toward a closet with double doors, I lean against a tall wooden filing cabinet. It comes up to my shoulders and is so ancient the top edges of the four drawers are worn down like the edge of a pillow. I realize too late my sweater is caught on a splinter in the ancient wood, and as I work to free the green wool, I notice tarnished brass squares hold labels that announce each drawer’s contents, from AHS EXAMS — FRESHMEN at the bottom to AHS EXAMS — SENIORS at the top. Strange, this small cabinet contains the key to so many students’ futures. Do well, you’re golden. Flunk and, well, bye-bye, Harvard.
    Mrs. Pelletier yanks open a set of narrow locker doors. Inside are dozens of plaid skirts, gray trousers, navy vests of all sizes—some fraying at the seams, some brand-new. White shirts sway in the draft from the air vent overhead. Two cartons sit on a shelf, one labeled KNEESOCKS , the other labeled TIGHTS . She points at the boxes and asks which I prefer. Desperate for a bit of warmth, I shrug. “Tights, I guess.”
    â€œLucky for you, the students of Anton High are fairly careless with their belongings,” Mrs. Pelletier says, handing me a folded pile of black Lycra. “And their parents rarely take the time to label, so our Lost and Found is something of a free-for-all. Of course, everything is laundered before it’s hung in the closet.”
    I nod to show her I would expect nothing less.
    â€œIt gives you a great stockpile to choose from.” She admires the orderly clothing. “One of my children came in last week and helped organize the closet.”
    â€œDo your kids go to the school?” I ask.
    â€œMy youngest, Daria. She graduated last year and is just starting at Columbia.”
    â€œDid she take her uniform from the Lost and Found?”
    â€œOh, heavens, no. This closet is only for proven financial cases. Recent immigrants, struggling fam—” She stops and looks at me, her expression now one of mild horror. “Anyone who needs the help.”
    A prickly silence follows, during which I pray that the floor will buckle and swell, crack open along the seams of the tiny porcelain tiles, and, with a mighty belch, suck me inside. Mrs. Pelletier didn’t mean to degrade me. But that only makes it worse.
    â€œSara, there’s something I’d like to speak to you about. Not many staff members’ children have even attempted the entrance exam, so it’s fairly unusual for us to have a family member on campus. This is a competitive school and we have a policy in place to discourage favoritism. If one of our staff knows a coworker’s child is a student, he or she is not to divulge it to the other teachers. Whether or not you choose to tell the students is your own choice. Okay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    Another silent funk settles over us. I point toward the uniforms. “I’m pretty sure I’m a size six.”
    â€œGreat. Let’s see what we can find.” She runs her finger along the clothing rack, eventually pulling out the following:
    One plaid skirt (looks brand-new)
    Two white blouses (both with puckered collars)
    A navy vest (looks itchy)
    One pair of hideous black leather shoes (Doc Marten is stomping in his grave)
    Holding the skirt up to me, she clucks her approval. “Looks about right. Go ahead and try everything on. If it fits, we’ll be able to get you to class before attendance is called.” She heads out the door. “Call me if you need anything.”
    She closes the door and, ignoring the rule about cell phones, I pull out my phone and turn it on long enough to send my best friend, Mandy—who is probably standing at her new locker at Finmory High right about now—a text