One Tiny Lie A Novel

a few mediocre grades in my first year. It’s nothing.”
    I grit my teeth. It’s not nothing! I want to scream. It’s my first bad grade. Ever. And it’s in one of my best subjects! By the tightness in my chest, I’m beginning to suspect that I’m having a mild coronary at the age of eighteen.
    “You’ll do better next time, Livie. You’re smart.”
    Sucking my bottom lip, I nod into the phone. “Yeah, okay.”
    “Feel better?”
    No . “Sure. Thanks, Connor.”
    “Okay, good.” The phone muffles and I hear Connor shouting to someone on his end. “Need a ride? Yeah . . .” Coming back to me, he says, “I’ve got to go. We have an extra practice today. Coach threatened anyone who’s late with a ten-mile run in the rain.”
    “Okay.”
    “Talk to you later, Liv.” The phone clicks.
    I do not feel better. Not at all. In fact, I somehow feel worse.
    I head back to my dorm room with my head down, fighting the tears as the lump in my throat grows. Connor has that automatic confidence in me—like everyone else does. Doesn’t he understand that this almost-D is a big deal for me? What if I can’t do better? What if this is the beginning of the end?
    By the time I make it to my room, I don’t care who sees my tearstained face. I know I could call Dr. Stayner, but he’ll make this about my parents and I don’t want to hear his autopilot theories today. I should call Kacey, but . . . I can’t. After all she did to help get me here, I don’t want to disappoint her.
    So I rely on the only thing that I can right now—Reagan’s fresh tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream in the freezer compartment of our mini fridge. My pity party is complete once I change into my pajamas, pull my hair back, and crawl under my covers to stare at the wretched paper lying on the floor. I consider setting it on fire, but I’ve heard that the smoke alarms are super-sensitive.
    There are two more tubs waiting for me when this is done. I’ve decided I’m going to eat myself to death. I’m halfway through the first tub within five minutes—Reagan’s going to kill me—when someone knocks on my door.
    I ignore it. Anyone I might want to talk to is at rowing practice. I almost shout, “Go away!” but then the person will know I’m here. So I keep quiet by licking the tablespoon in my hand. The knocking doesn’t stop, though. It keeps going and going and going until I’m sure that Dr. Stayner is outside, delivering on his committal promise early.
    With a groan, I roll out of bed and stagger over, spoon in mouth and tub in hand, to throw the door open.
    It’s Ashton.
    My mouth falls opens and my spoon flies out. He’s got fast reflexes, though, and manages to catch it before it hits the ground.
    “What are you doing here?” I note his track pants and shirt. He’s supposed to be at practice.
    Stepping around me and into my room, he murmurs with a meaningful look at the tub in my hand, “Keeping you from gaining your frosh fifteen .”
    I close the door behind me. “Don’t you have practice?”
    “Yeah. What are you doing?”
    Dragging my feet back toward my bed, I mumble, “I’m eating ice cream in my pajamas in bed. In the dark. Clearly.”
    Ashton walks over to turn a small desk lamp on, casting a soft, cozy glow to the room. “Connor said you were freaking out about your midterm?”
    His words bring me back to reality and my bottom lip begins to wobble. I can’t even bring myself to say it. So I simply point at the thing on the floor and let the hideous letter speak for itself.
    He leans down to pick it up and my breath hitches, staring blatantly at his ass. I don’t care if he catches me doing it. I may as well add “pervert” underneath “failure” on the list of things that define me.
    “Shit, I thought you were supposed to be some super-genius, Irish.”
    That does it. The tears start streaming down my cheeks in earnest and I can’t control them.
    “Oh, God. Livie, I’m kidding! Jeez!” Tucking the paper under his arm, two large hands reach up to grab my chin, both thumbs working to gently brush the tears away. “You really do cry a lot.”
    “You should go,” I sob, knowing I’m about to break into ugly-cry mode and I’d rather be buried alive than let Ashton see that.
    “Whoa!” Two viselike grips settle on my shoulders. “Hold it. I’m not missing practice so you can kick me out. Come here.” He pries the tub of ice cream out of my hand and places it on