Wicked Lies by Nancy Bush;Lisa Jackson

Author:Nancy Bush;Lisa Jackson [Jackson, Nancy Bush;Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780758252203
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2011-02-15T19:34:20+00:00

CHAPTER 25

Thirteen-year-old Mike Ferguson stretched his neck as far as he could without lifting the heels of his boots off the floor, pushing the top of his head to the ruler placed on his crown. His gaze was glued to the TV set across the bedroom, which was nearly obscured by the baseball jacket he’d tossed across the room that had gotten hung up on the shelf above. One sleeve dangled across a portion of the screen, which was airing the evening news. “How tall?” he demanded, never moving his eyes.

“Five foot six,” his brother James said in a bored voice.

“Bullshit.” He put his finger to the top of his head and twisted away, holding his place. “Five-eight!” he yelled.

“Whatever, Mikey. You’re still a dwarf.” James was six foot one and growing.

“It’s Michael,” he said, as he always did when his brother tried to stick him with that same nickname. He’d grown five inches since he’d become a local celebrity a few years ago. No more was he Little Mikey Ferguson. Now, he was thirteen and a half, which was almost fourteen, and his face had lost its baby fat, and girls were starting to act stupid around him, which made his head swell even while he pretended he didn’t notice.

Now Mike glanced to the left and the mirror mounted on his chest of drawers and smoothed his hair across his forehead, Justin Bieber style.

“God, you’re stupid,” James declared, groaning. It felt like he could ralph right here and now—ralph being his new favorite word (lots better than puke or upchuck or vomit or the really lame “tossed his cookies”). And because he was nearly three years older than Mikey, James definitely wanted to ralph when his mind even brushed on the idea that his little brother might be considered hot.

He had a gag reaction just thinking about it, and he made a bunch of disgusting sounds in front of both Mikey and Woofy Larson, James’s best bro since his last best bro, Kyle Baskin, and his family had moved to California. But Mikey had moved from absorption in the TV and his own face to his cell phone, where he was texting like mad.

Woofy ran a hand through his mop of red hair and asked, “Who ya texting?”

“It’s not a text. It’s a tweet. Channel Seven.” Mike’s thumbs moved rapidly across the tiny keyboard.

James said, “Mikey’s a butt-face.”

“That would be Michael’s a butt-face,” Mike said, looking up.

“Fuckin’ A,” Woofy said, impressed.

“Why are you on Twitter?” James demanded. “Get off that.” He made a grab for the phone, which Mike deflected with a sharp turn.

“You sound like Mom.” Mike, unfazed, turned back to his phone.

“It’s all you do!”

“Yeah, like you don’t use your phone twenty-four-seven.”

James kicked at a soccer ball that was lying on the bedroom floor and sent it crashing into the wall. It rebounded, hit the shade of Mike’s bedside lamp, sent it spinning to the floor, where the bulb promptly made a fitz sound and popped, sending shards of glass out like tiny shrapnel.

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