Obviously, the best approach to landing Tina as my girlfriend would be to study the way generals plan military maneuvers. I would utilize foresight, bravery, skill, careful timing, reconnaissance missions and the support of staunch allies to show her that I was the best possible boyfriend for her.
“What are the primary components of a good military campaign?” I asked my reflection, because I’d read about a general who talked to himself in the mirror to get psyched for battle.
“Go with what you know, use what you have, play to your strengths,” I answered.
This was going to be a cinch. All I’d have to do was make sure Tina knew how amazing I was—without being conceited. Piece of cake, because I’m funny (I’ve always cracked myself up) and smart (I’ve never made a big deal about my 3.769 GPA) and popular (I wasn’t sure she particularly liked my friends, but I had a ton of good buddies and figured that had to be a strong recommendation to a girl).
What girl wouldn’t want to date a guy like that?
It’s not that I thought highly of myself, it’s that I really am a great guy. I’d never thought about it before, but once I looked at the evidence, it was obvious.
And if by some small chance all of that didn’t work, I’d fall back on what I do best—I would lie.
That is, in military terminology, I would employ subterfuge.
But this was, I felt certain, the one situation where lies wouldn’t be necessary. The truth was plenty good enough: I had what it took to be her boyfriend. I just knew it.
I didn’t mind saying it (mostly because there was no one else in my room who would): “I’m a freaking genius sometimes. I really am.”
3. A GOOD LIE BEGINS WITH AN ELEMENT OF THE TRUTH
I was still lying on my bed, thinking that even her name was gorgeous—Katrina Marina Zabinski—and sounded like music (kah-TREE-nah mah-REE-nah zah-BIN-skee), when I heard a car pull into the driveway. My sister, Sarah, was dropping our brother, Daniel, off after hockey practice. I jumped up to run downstairs and ask her to take me to the mall with her, since I was going to need new clothes to impress Tina.
My mom was working late, like she always is; my dad was on one of his business trips, like he always is; and even Auntie Buzz, who lives in the apartment above our garage, wasn’t home yet, and I’d been counting on Sarah for a lift.
But before I could take a step, the car zoomed back down the driveway.
I’m fourteen. Daniel’s fifteen. Sarah’s sixteen. We were born exactly thirteen months apart from each other.
Daniel had his learner’s permit, which burned me, but Sarah had her driver’s license, which killed Daniel. We also had Auntie Buzz’s old car, which ticked us all off. We spent a lot of time on the driveway screaming at each other.
That wasn’t the plan. The plan was that Auntie Buzz would go green by not having a car and we would save the Earth by carpooling. She’d showed us the scooter she’d bought and told us about the power walking she’d do to and from work and asked me to help her read the bus schedule. What wound up happening, though, was that Auntie Buzz, who owned a decorating business, drove her work van (which got terrible gas mileage, so where the green part came in, I’ll never know) and we became the new owners of a rusted-out piece of junk that caused more problems than it solved.
When Auntie Buzz gave us the car, she’d handed us each a key. She wanted to be fair, though she didn’t seem to care about being legal, since she was giving two unlicensed kids keys to a car they couldn’t drive. Then she said, “Now, remember, you have to share.”
Sarah’s definition of share was that she drove our/her car everywhere she wanted, whenever she wanted, and made us beg for rides. “I’m the only legal driver,” she kept pointing out, “and besides, you and Daniel never chip in for gas.”
Daniel’s and my definition of share was that, because we were part owners, she should have driven us everywhere we wanted to go, every time we wanted to go anywhere. Daniel jingled his keys at her and said, “We represent a two-thirds majority,” while I reminded her, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
To be honest, I don’t know what Auntie Buzz was thinking, giving three teenagers a car in the first place, but she only sees the positives of a situation, none of the negatives.
Things went from bad to worse at the beginning of the school year because my brother and sister were both in high school and I was stuck in that yawning chasm of nothingness, middle school. “And our school starts twenty minutes earlier than yours,” they said, “which means you can’t ride to school with us.”
The “so there” was implied.
After our parents refused to intervene—“Your car, your solution,” they said—I asked Auntie Buzz to mediate. I wasn’t happy with her decision.
“You live close enough to easily walk to school, and high school kids have so many more activities, and it’s just so nice to see the two older kids finally spending time together.” She must have felt very King Solomon–esque, or, come to think of it, the very opposite of King Solomon, since everyone got something when he laid down the law.
So Sarah and Daniel drove to school together every morning, making a fast-food drive-thru breakfast run along the way. I walked and ate granola bars.
And then this: Sarah leaving with the car like I didn’t even exist, as if there might not be someplace I needed to go in the afternoon.
Daniel and Sarah had ignored me once too often.
I had to make them see my point of view. Talking it out hadn’t helped, screaming it out hadn’t worked; it was time to take action.
I sat thinking about them for a little while. About their weaknesses. And how I might pit one against the other to my advantage with a few teeny, tiny little lies.
I smiled finally and then went to the kitchen for my favorite snack: a banana dipped in melted chocolate chips. Because creativity, my art teacher always says, must be nourished. Okeydokey.
Daniel came into the kitchen after his shower, grunted hello at me and grabbed a soda and a bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips.
“Where’s Sarah?” I asked as I peeled my second banana. I concentrated on looking innocent, which is harder than you’d think, and I wished I’d practiced that in the mirror too.
“She said something about shoe shopping.” He crunched and slurped his answer.
“That’s weird”—I paused to lick my finger—“because she was whining all last week about being flat broke. Girls, go figure.”
Daniel just kept wolfing down chips. I could tell he was going to need a nudge to see things clearly. Or, at least, from my point of view.
I shook my head. “She seems to have a lot of new clothes all of a sudden. Where does she get all that money, anyway? I hope”—I forced a completely fake laugh that anyone older than five days would have recognized as phony—“she hasn’t been stealing.”
He did a complete and perfect double take. Then he looked at me with huge, shocked eyes. Daniel’s primary character flaw is that he’s gullible.
“Nah. I don’t … stealing?” He was thinking hard, and I hoped he was calculating the cost of Sarah’s wardrobe and the price of gas.
Sarah works like a beast of burden: She’s got a part-time job at the hospital; she babysits a couple of times a week; she occasionally works for Auntie Buzz; and she charges her friends to do their hair and makeup for weekend parties and dates. Our sister is a mogul-in-training and only complains about being broke because she loves to sound dramatic and put-upon.
But Daniel isn’t aware of these facts. He doesn’t particularly notice things, not if they aren’t in a hockey rink or a computer game; he’s not stupid, he’s just not observant.