Liar

  2000 Francine Pascal

  A horn blast tore through the air.

  Sam snapped his head around. His feet became jelly. He hadn’t looked before he’d rushed into the street. He heard the tires screeching and perceived only a massive blur, framed by the dark gray drabness of the winter landscape. He knew it was a car, though, and that it was going too fast to stop in time. In seeming slow motion the blur consumed his entire field of vision … drowning out all other sights and sounds until there was nothing.

  He was about to ask himself a question, but he never had the chance.

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  LIAR

  FRANCINE PASCAL

  SIMON PULSE

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

  To Taryn Adler

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Simon Pulse printing May 2002

  Text copyright © 2000 by Francine Pascal

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Produced by 17th Street Productions,

  an Alloy, Inc. company

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  New York, NY 10001

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  For information address 17th Street Productions, 151 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10001.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  ISBN: 0-671-03951-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-671-03951-6

  eISBN-13: 978-0-743-43414-0

  GAIA

  I read somewhere once that there are four stages of grief. Or maybe five. I can’t remember. Which is kind of strange because I have a great memory. Photographic, in fact. All the shitty things that have ever happened to me are permanently burned into my mind, like a continuous movie. And it’s not a movie you would want to pay eight bucks for, either—no heroes or happy endings, just a lot of sadness and destruction.

  Anyway, the first stage is denial. That’s one I can understand. In fact, it’s probably the reason why I don’t remember the stages of grief in the first place—because for a while there, I didn’t want to believe that grief even existed. If I can’t feel fear, then why should I feel grief? I mean, it makes sense, right? I don’t even have to deny fear. It just doesn’t exist. Things are much easier to deal with if they don’t exist.

  The next stage is anger. (I think.) That’s also another one that makes perfect sense to me. For example, when I finally realized that my friend Mary Moss was truly gone, that she was never coming back, ever—I got pissed.

  So I went on a little mission. I decided to murder somebody.

  That somebody was Skizz, the asshole coke dealer who ended Mary’s life. Luckily, another somebody beat me to it. Barely. Skizz died in front of my eyes.

  Even more luckily, I was reborn.

  I know that sounds really lame and cheesy, but it’s true. I realized that by going on this mission—by thinking of nothing else except murdering a scumbag whose life isn’t worth the coke he sells—I was losing the one person I have left. Ed Fargo.

  This isn’t an exaggeration, by the way. I’m not being melodramatic. Ed is the only person I have left in the world.

  I know what you’re thinking. Don’t I have anyone?

  What about my mom, for instance? Nope. Gone.

  My dad? Also gone. Missing in action the night Mom died.

  George, my guardian of the moment? Nice, sweet, sincere—but not really there for me.

  Ella, the evil bitch who happens to be George’s coguardian? Best not to go there.

  Which brings me to Sam. Sam Moon, the guy who haunts me, the guy I obsess over; the boy goes out with Heather Gannis…. Okay, it’s best not to go there, either. But for a brief moment I thought Sam and I had made a breakthrough. That is, until he showed up at my door, took one look at the Wicked Witch of the West Village (Ella, in case you haven’t guessed), then bolted. Not that I can blame him for running away from her. Still, it was kind of weird. And I’ve only seen him once since. I basically told him to screw off.

  Of course, that was when I was still in the “anger” stage.

  I’m pretty sure the last stage of grief is acceptance. Which is where I am now. I accept that Mary’s dead. I accept that Sam Moon and I will never happen. I accept that my life sucks, that danger stalks me like a psychotic villain, that I’ll live the rest of my life with no friends except a guy without feeling in his legs.

  I guess that means I’m fully recovered, right?

  gaia’s problem

  A little Charles Manson and a little Mother Teresa …

  The Beauty of Ed

  GAIA STARED BLANKLY AT THE book on her desk. She almost laughed. What was she thinking? Did she really believe she would spend Friday evening in this lame little bedroom and actually read? Maybe she was finally pulling herself together after the trauma of Mary’s death—but still, normalcy came in stages. It came in baby steps. And reading The Great Gatsby in the Nivens’ house felt like a giant step clear into somebody else’s 1ife.

  Besides, nobody did homework on Fridays. Not even the ultranormal. Not even studious people like … well, like Sam Moon. Not even if The Great Gatsby was the great work of literature everyone said it was.

  Time to bolt. Bolting was a specialty of hers.

  Gaia sighed and brushed a few tangled strands of blond hair out of her face, then pushed herself away from the desk. Part of the problem was that Ella was home, and even though Gaia had avoided her (Ella was locked in her bedroom, listening to some horrid Celine Dion CD), the knowledge that they were under the same roof was enough to make Gaia want to puke.

  She stood up and stretched, peering out the window. It was cold and dark—but that had never stopped her from going out before. Maybe she’d go to the park and try to hustle a chess game. Or maybe she’d swing by Ed’s and see if he wanted to see a movie. She grinned. That sounded perfect, actually. Ed would definitely be up for something. He hated being stuck in his bedroom almost as much as Gaia hated—

  “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  What the hell?

  Gaia whirled around, her blue eyes smoldering.

  Ella was standing in the open doorway—decked out, as usual, as if she were going to model at a teen fashion show. Today’s outfit consisted of a tight baby T-shirt that wouldn’t fit a dwarf, black leather miniskirt, and boots. And her red hair was in pigtails. Freaking pigtails. It was almost funny.


  “Don’t you knock?” Gaia asked.

  Ella stared back at her blankly. “Not in my own house,” she replied.

  Toucé, Gaia thought. That was classic Ella. Always reminding Gaia of her place. Always making sure Gaia knew who was in charge. And this was Ella’s house. Not Gaia’s. It never would be. At least that was something they could agree on.

  “So what do you want?” Gaia demanded impatiently, turning toward her closet.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about your friend,” Ella repeated. Her tone was colorless, without emotion. “You know. The one who died.”

  Gaia froze. She scowled. Sorry about your friend? Please. Ella didn’t give a shit about anyone but herself. And she sure as hell had never offered any kind of sympathy toward Gaia before.

  “What do you really want, Ella?” Gaia asked, looking her directly in the eye.

  “I told you,” Ella replied.

  “You’re … sorry,” Gaia stated dubiously.

  Ella’s face darkened. “Look, just forget it. I …” She bit her lip, hesitating. Finally she shook her head. “Forget it,” she said again. “This isn’t going to work.” She turned and strode down the steps.

  A moment later Ella’s bedroom door slammed.

  Gaia’s jaw fell open. In all the months she’d been stuck in this freakish house, that was by far the most bizarre encounter she’d ever had. And disquieting, too—much more so than any of their arguments. That’s because their arguments made sense. Even when Gaia had smacked Ella in the face a couple of months ago, there had been some kind of logic involved. Ella had said something particularly loathsome. Therefore Gaia had found herself throwing a punch. A led to B, which led to C. Gaia had regretted hitting her; she’d promised it would never happen again—but Ella had provoked the incident. It hadn’t come out of nowhere.

  Not like this.

  So. That posed a very disturbing question.

  Could it be that Ella actually meant what she said? That she was sorry about Mary?

  No. Gaia shook her head. Of course not. This was the woman who treated Gaia like dirt … who was using her unsuspecting husband for some sinister purpose Gaia had yet to determine—but that probably involved embezzlement and sleazy affairs with one or more men. Ella was evil. Plain and simple. This was just another manifestation of Ella’s multiple personality disorder: slipping from mask to mask without ever revealing her true face.

  Still, what had she meant by “This isn’t going to work”? It sounded like the kind of thing that somebody would say if they were trying to mend a relationship. But she and Ella didn’t have a relationship of any kind. At all.

  Gaia took a deep breath. She took two quick steps across her room and picked up the phone, then punched in Ed’s number.

  After two rings he picked up. “Hello?”

  Ed’s voice could always make Gaia smile. It was so open, so friendly—but with an edge, too.

  “Hey, Ed,” she whispered.

  “Hey, I think we’ve got a psychic connection,” Ed remarked dryly.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I was just about to call you. My new wheelchair came today while we were at school. I wanted to show it off. It’s radical, I’m talking state-of-the-art. Power steering. It goes from zero to sixty in four hours. Faster down a flight of subway steps, of course.”

  Gaia wanted to give Ed credit for being funny, but she couldn’t muster a laugh. “Sounds good,” she mumbled. “Actually I was … um, I was just calling to see if you wanted to go see a movie. Or rent one, maybe.”

  “Sure.” There was a pause. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said automatically. But then she frowned. In the past she would have shrugged off Ed’s questions or told him to mind his own business. But after the events of the past week—after she’d nearly killed Ed and destroyed his wheelchair on the aforementioned subway steps—she was determined not to hide from him anymore. He was her one friend, so she might as well treat him like one.

  “Nothing’s wrong?” Ed prodded.

  She flopped down on her bed, twirling the phone cord in her fingers. It took a few seconds to get the words out. “Actually, there is something wrong.”

  “What’s that?” Ed’s voice registered both surprise and happiness. Not that there was something wrong, but that Gaia was telling him so.

  “Ella.”

  “Something new?” Ed asked.

  “She told me she’s sorry about Mary.”

  Ed was silent. “And that is bad because …?”

  “Come on, Ed. I would have felt better if she’d punched me in the face. I’m comfortable with our mutual hatred. Her pretending to care really gave me the creeps.”

  Ed fell silent again.

  “Hello? Ed?”

  “Maybe she is sorry” he suggested.

  Gaia rolled her eyes. “Believe me, she isn’t. The woman is completely evil.”

  “Mmmm,” he said equivocally.

  “What, mmmm?” Gaia asked, frowning. If she was going to be open and honest, the least Ed could do was agree with everything she said.

  “Listen to me, Gaia,” Ed said. “Nobody’s completely evil.”

  “Oh, no?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, I guess there’s Charles Manson. But ninety-nine-point-nine percent of people aren’t completely anything. See, it’s like … you’ve got Charles Manson on one side of the spectrum and Mother Teresa on the other. The rest of us are in between. Aside from a very few extremes, nobody’s all good or all bad.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a philosopher, Ed.”

  “Being in a wheelchair makes a person philosophical,” he replied. His tone wasn’t self-pitying; it was matter-of-fact. That was one of the things Gaia loved about Ed most: He never let people feel sorry for him because of his accident. He took people’s pity and threw it right back in their teeth.

  “So you’re saying that everybody’s got a little Manson and a little Mother Teresa inside them?” Gaia asked.

  “Exactly,” Ed stated confidently.

  “I’d say Ella’s snuggled up pretty close to Charles Manson,” Gaia theorized.

  “Maybe Ella is mostly Manson,” he agreed. “But today she let her pinprick of Mother Teresa shine through.”

  Yeah, right. As much as Gaia wanted to tell Ed that he was full of crap, she laughed instead. That was the beauty of Ed. He could take any asinine theory and improve a person’s mood with it.

  “So are we gonna rent a movie or what?” Gaia asked cheerfully.

  “Sure. Meet me at the Blockbuster by Thirteenth and Broadway.”

  “Yup.”

  “And maybe after that we can go to Alice Underground and buy me a blazer.”

  “Why would we want to do that?” Gaia asked.

  “Because I need to wear a jacket and tie to an engagement party.”

  Gaia picked at her thumbnail. “Who’s getting engaged?”

  “My sister. She’s marrying a guy named Blane.”

  Gaia sat up on the bed. “Your sister? Really?” she asked, genuinely surprised. Ed hardly ever talked about his sister. Gaia got the feeling the mysterious other Fargo sibling didn’t take many opportunities to hang around Ed.

  “Yeah. Blane.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah, so I’ll see you at Blockbuster in twenty minutes,” Ed said.

  “You got it.” Gaia hung up the phone. She sat on her bed for a few seconds, staring into space.

  Amazing. She couldn’t even remember why Ella had freaked her out so much. Maybe Ella was letting her Mother Teresa shine through.

  Sure. And maybe Gaia would end up marrying a guy named Blane, too. It was great to be back in the denial stage again.

  Two to Tango

  SAM MOON EXHALED DEEPLY, WATCHING his breath billow in the frigid January air. He’d been freezing his ass off in the alley by Gaia’s brownstone for almost half an hour, and his toes were beginning to burn. H
e stomped his boots on the pavement to get the circulation going. But all that did was rattle his bones—

  “Whoa!”

  His legs went out from under him. All of a sudden he was slipping wildly out of control. His overcoat flapped like a cape. His arms flailed. He lunged for a nearby railing to steady himself, just barely keeping balance, and hoisted himself to his feet.

  A scowl crossed his face.

  Jesus. His lungs heaved. He ran his frozen fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head, then glanced down at the ground. He couldn’t even see any ice—just a layer of glistening blackness over the concrete slabs of the sidewalk. Great. Even the sidewalk seemed to be laying a trap for him.

  Traps. He shook his head and glanced up at Gaia’s front door. He knew all about them. All about deception. Oh, yes. A sickening queasiness began to gnaw at his insides. The last time he’d opened that door, he’d felt like he’d walked into the biggest trap of his life….

  “No,” he whispered out loud.

  That image was so clearly etched into his mind: the image of Gaia’s foster mother, standing just inside the doorway, smiling seductively at him over Gaia’s shoulder. Just thinking about her made him want to vomit. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be seduced by her. He couldn’t believe she would want to seduce him. He couldn’t believe she’d continued to hound him with e-mails and calls and all the rest of it….

  But the most nauseating part was that the blame didn’t fall solely on her. No. He was to blame, too. After all, their sordid encounter fit the stupid cliché, didn’t it? It takes two to tango. He’d slept with Ella willingly. He’d allowed her to sweet-talk him at that bar, to dance … to take his mind and body to some other place. Of course, at the time he’d had no idea that she was Gaia’s legal guardian—but still, he’d consciously cheated on his girlfriend. His beautiful, unsuspecting girlfriend. The one he should love but couldn’t.

  For a moment Sam’s mind changed gears. That very beautiful unsuspecting girlfriend may or may not have cheated on him. That was partly why he’d been at the bar in the first place. Bullshit, he growled at himself impatiently. Heather wasn’t the cause of his torment. Gaia was. Gaia always was.