Every Single Lie by Rachel Vincent

Author:Rachel Vincent
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781547605248
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

“Hey, what kind of pizza do you want?” I ask as I lean around the doorway into Landry’s room. She’s on her stomach on her bed, propped on both elbows with an algebra textbook in front of her. But she hasn’t even opened it yet. She’s on her phone.

“Caramelized pears, gorgonzola cheese, and prosciutto.”

I roll my eyes at her. “Little Caesars pretty much has pepperoni and sausage. Bacon, if you call ahead.”

“Well, you weren’t very specific about where you were going.”

I step into her room and lean against the wall, which puts me close enough to reach out and touch her. Landry’s room used to be the laundry room, which means there’s just enough space for a twin bed, a nightstand made of repurposed wooden crates, and her narrow chest of drawers. No closet.

She and I shared a room until three years ago, when my mom decided every thirteen-year-old—me, at the time—should have a little space of her own. So my dad converted the laundry room into a bedroom for Landry and moved her into it. She was thrilled, even though her bed sits too close to the floor, because it used to be the top half of our set of bunk beds.

Dad was so pleased with his own work, and with how much she loved it, that he bought a metal sign that said “Laundry Room” and painted an artful slash through the letter U, then he added an apostrophe-S. Turning “Laundry Room” into “Landry’s Room.” He strung a pink ribbon through holes punched in the top corners and hung it from a nail on her door.

That sign still hangs there today, and it rattles against the wood anytime she opens or closes her door.

Our washer and dryer now stand in one corner of the kitchen.

“You know there’s no place near here that serves gor . . . ​ gouda cheese—”

“Gorgonzola.”

“—on pizza, Lan.”

In fact, the only place to get any pizza in Clifford is the Pizza Hut satellite location, inside the gas station on the highway access road. I’m going to have to drive to Daley just to get Little Caesars, which I volunteered to do because after watching Penn get his cheek swabbed by a cop, our little sister retreated to her room and declared tonight one of her two “nights off.” Not that I can blame her.

“So again . . . Pepperoni or sausage?”

“Like it matters.” She rolls onto her back, scrolling through something on her phone, using her algebra book as the world’s least comfortable pillow.

“Landry. What’s wrong with you? Pick a damn protein.” When she doesn’t answer, I lean forward and snatch her phone.

“Hey!”

“You can have it back when you—” I glance at the screen, and a sick feeling churns in my stomach. She’s on a third-party app that lets people who don’t have Twitter accounts read through someone’s feed.

Landry’s reading my @ replies. Post after post calling me everything from a #babykiller to a hell-bound whore. No wonder she looks like she’s ready to hide from the entire world.

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