Kody Keplinger - Lying Out Loud

“You barely know me,” I said.

But that wasn’t true. Ryder knew me better than most people did. He saw more of me than I’d let anyone see. He just didn’t know it.

“I know that you make me laugh,” he said. “I know that you think faster on your feet than anyone else I’ve ever met. I know that you use SAT words in everyday conversation.”

“So do you,” I said. “Only I do it to be cute and funny. You do it because you’re a prep-school snob.”

“I know that you named your car because you love it, even though it’s a piece of junk,” he continued. “I know that your real name is Sonya.”

“What? Who told you? I’ll kill them.”

He laughed. “I know that you’re smart. And witty. And incredible.”

Incredible.

It wasn’t the first time he’d used that word to describe me. Before Christmas, he’d called the person behind the IMs and texts “incredible.” He thought it was Amy, sure, but those were my words. I was the one he thought was incredible.

“Well, um … did you know I’m also a serial killer?”

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Anytime things get serious or sentimental, you deflect with humor,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess because I’m nervous.”

He smirked. “I make you nervous?”

And, despite my better judgment, I told the truth.

“Very.”

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and I suddenly remembered that text message conversation back in November, where we’d admitted to making each other nervous. For a second, I thought he might figure it out. Might realize that it had been me all along.

I held my breath, not sure if I wanted him to figure it out or not.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He gave my hand a little tug, and I fell into his lap. And then, even though I’d tried to avoid it — sort of — we were making out again.

I still hadn’t gotten the hang of this whole kissing thing. I wasn’t always sure what to do with my hands or which way to tilt my head. We bumped noses more than once, but Ryder just laughed, like my clumsy kissing skills were more adorable than annoying.

With his hands in my hair and his tongue sliding into my mouth, I made a decision.

I wasn’t going to tell him the truth.

He liked me. He was totally over Amy, and he wanted to be with me. He thought I was incredible.

Part of me still wanted to compare myself to Amy. How could Ryder go from wanting someone as beautiful as her to someone like me? She was gorgeous and rich, and I was … average. And definitely not rich.

But that wasn’t how he looked at me. Or how he treated me.

Maybe Wesley was right. Maybe comparing myself was a waste of time, and Ryder saw me as more than just the moderately attractive, somewhat obnoxious best friend.

My plan — though it had taken months — had worked.

This was what I’d wanted. What I’d been hoping for all along.

I wasn’t going to tell him.

He didn’t need to know.

After a while, the necessity of breathing drove us apart. But only long enough for Ryder to ask:

“I was wondering: Do you want to go out this weekend? On a real date?”

“Maybe,” I said, my nose touching his. “What were you thinking?”

“Dinner and a movie?”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “Oh, actually, there’s this new romantic comedy that just opened. I think Rachel McAdams is in it.”

Ryder wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“You don’t like Rachel McAdams?” I asked, appalled. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not her,” he said. “I just … don’t really like mainstream Hollywood films. I was thinking that we could go see that new Korean film that just opened at Cindependent.”

“Oh my God,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Everything you just said is so wrong.”

But that didn’t stop me from kissing him again.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Ryder lately,” Amy said. She was sitting on her bed, watching as I applied a little bit of lipstick in the vanity mirror. “Where are you guys going tonight?”

“A movie,” I said.

It was the next Saturday, a week since our first kiss, and it had been one of the most blissful weeks of my life. Suddenly, I was glad to be unemployed. We’d spent almost every afternoon together — sometimes doing homework at the library, sometimes making out in his bedroom — doing whatever we felt like that day. We were always either laughing or arguing, which usually led to laughing.

Yes, my life, for once, was awesome.

Even if he had won the movie debate.

“It’s a Korean film,” I told Amy as I put the cap back on the lipstick — a lipstick I’d stolen from her, actually. “And you know how I feel about subtitles. Ugh. I’m sort of hoping we can be normal and just make out in the back of the theater. Knowing Ryder, though, he’ll likely think that’s far too pedestrian.”

I laughed and turned to face her, but Amy only gave a small smile.

“What about you?” I asked. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Probably finishing up a few college applications.”

“You party animal,” I teased.

She laughed. “Well, I’m almost done. I’ve already mailed off my applications for Brown, Cornell, and Dartmouth. I’m hoping to get the others in the mail by Monday. What about you?”

“What about me what?” I asked.

“Have your applications yet?”

“Um, yeah,” I lied. “Most of them.” I turned back to the mirror, checking my outfit one more time, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do after graduation, or how I was going to tell Amy that college wasn’t an option.

Honestly, I couldn’t believe she thought it was.

“Good,” she said. “Because there’s not much time left. Where did you apply?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, tugging on the hem of my sweater. It was the one that the Rushes had given me for Christmas. “Mostly the same places as you.”

“Great,” she said. “We’ll definitely get into at least a couple of the same schools. Wouldn’t it be great if we could be roommates? I’m not sure if I could share a dorm room with anyone else.”

“I know what you mean.”

“We should go shopping soon,” Amy suggested. “We could go ahead and pick out some stuff for our future dorm room. I was thinking we could decorate the room in green and —”

“That sounds great,” I said, even though every word she said was killing me. “But I better get going. I have to pick Ryder up in a few minutes.”

“Why isn’t he picking you up?” Amy asked.

“Got to challenge those gender norms,” I said. “Also, if I have to see a foreign film, he has to be seen riding around in Gert.”

“I guess that seems fair.”

“Have fun with your applications,” I said, grabbing my purse and heading for the door. “Don’t wait up, darling.”

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice was quiet as I headed out the bedroom door. “You have fun, too.”

I may have begun my relationship with Ryder with limited kissing experience, but I was most certainly making up for lost time.

For the next few weeks, Ryder and I could hardly keep our hands off each other. We were making out in his car, in mine, at his house — occasionally in the hallways at school. Sitting behind him in AP history was torturous, because all I wanted to do was lean forward and press my lips into his neck.

I had a feeling Mr. Buckley wouldn’t take too kindly to that.

There was only one thing that could distract us from kissing when we were alone together.

“We’re not making out to a Goats Vote for Melons song,” I said, turning my head so that Ryder’s lips hit my jaw instead of my mouth.

We were horizontal in Gert’s backseat, parked out beneath some trees on Lyndway Hill. Ryder’s car may have been fancier (and cleaner), but Gert boasted a larger backseat. Victory for Gert.

He groaned and sat up a little, propping himself on his elbows. “What’s wrong with Goats Vote for Melons?”

“It’s not sexy. We need to get some Boyz II Men playing up in here.”

“Who?”

“Ugh. I’m surrounded by uncultured idiots.”

“Funny. I often feel the same way.”

I shoved at his shoulders, forcing him up and off me. He moved too quickly, though, and his head slammed into Gert’s roof. “Ow!”

“Serves you right,” I said as I reached for his iPod. “Let’s see. What else do we have on here? Hipster band, hipster band, hipster band … Oh, grunge. That’s a nice change.”

Next to me, Ryder seemed to deflate slightly. For a minute, I was confused; then I realized that, to him, I wasn’t the grunge girl. Amy was. That was her music, and she was the reason he’d given it a chance.

Part of me wanted to correct him on this. To tell some story about how I was the one who loved grunge and had pulled Amy into it. But really, Amy was the last thing I wanted to talk about right now.

So I cleared my throat and went back to skimming through the songs on his iPod. Eventually, I gave up on finding anything decent and selected “Of Lions and Robots,” the only GVM song I didn’t hate.

Ryder, having regained his composure, gently removed the iPod from my hand and tossed it into the front seat, out of reach.

“Make you a deal,” he said, kissing just beneath my ear. “I’ll add some better make-out music to my collection, if you drop it for the moment….” His lips traveled down my neck, sending chills up my spine.

“Fine,” I said, as if this was some great sacrifice on my part.