Page 79 of An Academy for Liars

“He called me a whore and I hit him,” said Lennon, and she realized this was the only part of her fight with Ian that she really cared about. “When he said it, it felt so…pointed, I guess? He could’ve called me almost anything else and I wouldn’t have cared.”

“But you did care about that one word, specifically. Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if it provokes you to violence.”

Lennon narrowed her eyes. “Look, am I in trouble?”

“Not with me,” said Dante.

“Then why can’t we just let it go? We fought; it’s over—”

“But the memory isn’t. And come morning everyone will be discussing the blow thatyouthrew to begin the fight. You made him look weak, and now he has a target on his back that can only be removed by putting you firmly in your place. Which is exactly what he’ll attempt to do before the semester’s end. That’s why you need to be ready. And not just for him, but for everyone who is beginning to grasp what I’ve known since the day we first met.”

“And what is that?”

“You’re dangerous.”

Dante was one of many men who’d said this to her. The first timeshe’d heard it, she was thirteen, and walking home from school. A man had winked at her and said just that—“Well, aren’t you dangerous”—and men had been saying that to her ever since. When they saiddangerous, Lennon knew they meant she was jailbait, a guilty pleasure, a potential homewrecker, someone who could derail their life. But Dante said it differently, without smugness or innuendo. When he called her dangerous, it was stated like a simple fact. Her eyes were hazel. Her hair was curly. And she was dangerous. It was as simple as that, and yet Lennon found that she liked the way he said it, so much so that she almost wanted to ask him to say it again, just so she could watch his lips move around the words.

Dante didn’t make her call any elevators that evening. Per his instructions, she left his office, with the tooth in the cup of brandy, and went straight to the infirmary. A talented persuasionist, Dr. Nave was able to refit the roots of the tooth and constrict her gums tightly around it, both stopping the bleeding and holding the tooth roughly in place. It would’ve been almost agonizing, but he numbed her mind to the pain of the procedure, kept her comfortable.

“Ice it and stick to soft foods for the next few days,” he said, sounding exasperated. She could tell he’d seen more of her than he would’ve liked between her overdose months before and now this.

Upon being discharged, Lennon stepped out of the infirmary and collided almost immediately with Blaine. On that night, she wore a cocktail dress, riding up high. Her makeup was smeared and running, like she’d had a good cry and tried to clean herself up with a wad of toilet paper but had given up halfway through.

“What the hell happened to your face?” said Blaine. “Are you okay?”

“Ian and I fought. With fists. What about you?”

Blaine blinked rapidly, picked a crusty bit of mascara from the inner corner of her eye, and flicked it away. “Boy trouble.”

It was as close as she’d come to confirming Lennon’s long suspicion that she was conducting a secret affair with someone that she couldn’t, or didn’t want to, claim. More than once, Lennon had considered the possibility that she was involved with one of her professors. A married one, maybe. But if that was the case, she wondered why Blaine had never confided in her. Surely she knew her secret would be safe. After all, Lennon had divulged to her in detail about her not-relationship with Dante, had even told her about their near kiss. And Blaine had nodded and listened and comforted her through it all, while never breathing a word about her own romantic situation.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Lennon asked as they stepped outside. She was surprised by the urgency behind her own words. She’d meant to be casual, but it landed more like a need than a want. As if she were asking Blaine to jump her car or give her a last-minute ride to the airport.

“That depends,” said Blaine. “Where do you want to go?”

“Down to River Street, maybe?”

As a rule, students of Drayton were not permitted to go beyond the bounds of the school. But the members of Logos had special privileges. Their elevator could take them to a number of locations, including several within Savannah’s historic downtown. Of course, Lennon could’ve called her own elevator. But she was drained after her spar with Ian. Tonight she craved the ease of a quick trip and a drink strong enough to ease her worries, take the edge off the pain of her throbbing tooth.

“You want to get into trouble,” said Blaine, looking equal parts delighted and aghast. “What? Fighting with Ian wasn’t enough?”

Lennon shrugged. “I’d rather be drunk than sober tonight.”

“We can get drunk on campus.”

“Sure we can,” said Lennon. “But it won’t be half as fun.”

They decided to go to one of those tourist-trap bars on the riverfront that served oversized daiquiris in light-up cups. Despite the fact that it was freezing outside, Blaine persuaded a man to buy her some god-awful tequila slushy that stained her mouth a monstrous blue, and then followed that up with several rounds of shots, goading Lennon to drink along with her. Which she did, with some reluctance. She wanted to get a little drunk, not totally wasted, but she downed two shots anyway.

“Attagirl,” said Blaine, and she stamped a fat, wet kiss to the apple of Lennon’s cheek.

Sometimes, when she was around Blaine, Lennon got the distinct impression that they were playing at closeness. Pretending to be honest with each other, to be the sort of confidant that they needed in order to survive the constant stress and bewilderment that was their time at Drayton. But the truth was that Lennon knew very little about Blaine, and not for lack of trying. Whenever she attempted closeness—real closeness—Blaine held her just apart. She dodged questions artfully, wriggled her way out of vulnerability. With Blaine, Lennon never quite knew what she would get. It was part of her charm, and Blaine knew it.

“No one does coke anymore,” said Blaine, looking suddenly disappointed and very sad. “My ex-husband always got the best coke. That was one thing he was good for. He could be in a new city for less than an hour and he’d find the right dealer, at the right price. It was a real talent. Maybe his only talent.”

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