Liar Read Online Free PDF Page B

talking boxing. Dad told Isaiah about his career as a lightweight. Lightweight was right, but only if you left out the boxing part. Dad liked to say that he was “averse to violence.” As far as I knew he’d never hit anyone. Not even me. Though, trust me, he’d wanted to.
    â€œI got out before it was too late,” Isaiah said. “Wanted to keep a few of my original smarts.” He tapped his left temple to demonstrate there was still something in there. “I can add up and read and I know who the president is. That’s a lot better than some of the brothers I went through with.”
    Dad nodded wisely.
    â€œDad got out after his nose was smashed up,” I said, and Isaiah peered at Dad’s nose in the rearview mirror. The crooked lump in the middle came courtesy of his oldest cousin, Cal, up on the farm. Or, at least, that was the story I’d heard most often.
    Dad nodded again. “ ’Course,” he said, “I was never going to be a contender. Nose was broke in my fifth bout.”
    â€œYou did right,” Isaiah said. “Look at you now! Riding around in a limousine.”
    Dad laughed. “Just reviewing it.”
    â€œGood enough,” Isaiah said.
    Next morning at school without saying anything directly I let it be known that my dad was a man to be reckoned with. By the end of the day it was Micah’s dad, the arms dealer.
    I neither confirmed nor denied.

    AFTER
    The police interview all the seniors. The art room becomes the inquisition room. I am one of the first they call. I wonder why. I am a Wilkins so it can’t be alphabetical.
    When the officer says my name I stand up and walk slowly out of English. Everyone looks at me. The teacher, too. I lift my chin a little higher, threading my way through the desks, trying to close my ears to the whispers, but my hearing is too good.
    They talk about me and Zach. Disbelief echoes around the room and follows me out into the hall. How could he? With her ?
    I hate English. Even when no one is whispering about me.
    The police officer smiles at me. “I’m Officer Lewis.”
    â€œMicah,” I say, even though she already knows that since she asked for me by name. I wonder if she heard the whispers.
    â€œThe art room is this way,” she tells me, making it even. I told her something she knew, now she’s telling me something I know.
    She’s shorter than me. She looks young. Like she could still be in high school. Her uniform is neat and she has a gun in a leather holster on her side. I wonder if she’s ever fired it.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she says. “One of your teachers, Ms. Yayeko Shoji, will be there. We just want to ask a few questions. You might be able to help us find out what happened to Zachary.”
    â€œDo you have any ideas at all?” I ask her. “Was he really murdered? Everyone’s saying so.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I can’t answer that. The investigation is ongoing,” she says, still smiling. “Was he a good friend of yours? It’s hard when someone you care about dies.”
    â€œNo,” I say, feeling weightless for a moment. I skid on a tile. The officer puts her arm out to steady me. “Slippery,” I say. “He wasn’t a friend of mine. It’s weird. You know . . . someone you’ve seen around.”
    She pats my shoulder. “I understand,” she says.
    I hope she doesn’t, and follow her along the empty hall into the art room.

    AFTER
    â€œThis is Micah Wilkins,” Officer Lewis says.
    Two men nod. One of them, tall and thin, is leaning up against the wall. His elbow rests against someone’s painting of a cow exploding. At least, that’s what it looks like. The other man is sitting in a chair that’s too small for him. It looks as if it might collapse under his weight. He’s much fatter and more gray than the man standing. Neither of them wears a uniform and if