I told my first lie when I was five years old. It was a silly thing. I'd pulled the last pint of chocolate fudge ice cream from the freezer and stuffed my face. When my mother asked where it disappeared to, I opened my sticky, fudge-covered lips and told her I didn't know.
The lies grew over the years. "Does this dress look nice?" Of course. "Did you throw a baseball through the garage window?" Maybe, but I'll tell you otherwise. "Why is your homework late?" Well, you see, my house caught fire last night...
I tried to stop; I really did. Like when my classmates laughed upon discovering I liked Maddie Johnson from sixth grade English. Instead of denying it, I shrugged and said Maddie had a lisp that made her spit in your eye every time she talked – which was true, despite being cruel. When I found out I'd made Maddie cry, I felt so horrible that I avoided her for the rest of middle school. My tactic progressed to bored indifference after that.
"Hey, Leo, do you like so-and-so?" Ehh...I don't know. "Do you want to watch that new superhero flick?" Maybe. "What major are you picking in college?" Not sure.
I wished I could say I wanted to be a photographer, but my mother didn't think that was a viable career choice. She liked marketing managers. Likely because she was one. She was so overbearing that I wouldn't put it past her to hide out in some bushes on campus, armed with binoculars and a thermos of green tea, spying on me to ensure I made it to class on time.
"Leo! I ironed your socks for you!"
And there she was. Mom. Shouting from her home office, where she multitasked every minute of every day. She folded clothes while negotiating client contracts with the same vibrant enthusiasm that normal people exuded when winning the lottery.
"Thanks, Ma." I didn't have the heart to tell her that no sane person scrubbed footwear with an iron.
"And put some pants on, Leonard."
"Ma!" I hated when she used my full name. I gestured to my legs, which were covered in my favorite pair of plaid boxer shorts. "I'm decent."
"Hardly. I told Mia you'd drive her to the library. She needs something for a homework assignment." Mom picked up her desk phone, balancing the receiver between her shoulder and her ear. "Steven," she barked. "Pull up the Wisenhower contract. They're complaining about clause four again." She turned her attention back to me. "Oh, and honey? Put on a coat. It's a bit nippy outside."
"Whatever." I grabbed the car keys and dug through the laundry basket in search of jeans and a sweater.
"And Leo? Don't let Mia pick out a vampire book. Last time she read one, she asked a boy in her class to bite her."
I grunted – my usual noncommittal gesture whenever Mom went off on a tirade.
"And I'm making your favorite pot roast for dinner, so don't be late." She rolled her eyes at her phone. "No, Steven, no pot roast for you. No! Clause four, you loon! Not clause three!" Her gaze swiveled to me again. I felt like I was watching a tennis match. "I'll make sure to cut up your potatoes just the way you like." I'd been capable of cutting my own food since I was four, but try telling her that. Feigning indifference was easiest. It got me out of the house, no questions asked.
Shutting Mom's door softly behind me, I went searching for my sister. She was usually relatively easy to find. At thirteen years old, Mia Clark's hobbies consisted mainly of screaming over the latest "dreamy" teen actors and screaming even louder over the latest "dreamy" teen boy bands.
"Mia's in the car," Dad said. He was kneeling in the living room, up to his elbows in couch cushions. I paused in the doorway, watching his forehead glisten with sweat as he huffed and puffed and practically tore the house apart. "Your mother hid my remote again." He tossed a cushion across the room, where it landed in the fireplace. "Baseball starts in ten" – a second cushion followed the first – "minutes!" Two pillows brought up the rear.
"Well..." I shrugged. "That sucks."
"Would it kill you, Leo, to care about your old man's problems for once? Pittsburgh's making it to the World Series this year, mark my words."
I reached for the front door. "Consider them marked, Dad."
"Want to watch the game when you get back?"
"Ehh..." I could see the hope in his eyes. (Or maybe that was just joy over finally locating the remote lodged inside a potted plant.) "I'll pass. See you later."
As soon as I got in the car, Mia was all over me. She gripped my elbow as I backed out of the driveway, causing me to swerve and almost mow down the neighbor's cat. "Leo! Leo, we're going to the library, right?"
"Nope. We're going to hell."
"Wait, what? Because Suzie Samuels said that Mrs. Benedict changed the due date for our book report and we have to write five pages for Friday and I still don't have a novel picked out. I'm thinking something with fairies. Or elves. What do you think?" When I didn't reply, she lunged for my arm again. I almost ran a stop sign, and a car sitting at the intersection honked. "Leo!"
"Shhh! I'm training myself to block out the sound of your voice."
Here was the thing: I actually liked my family. I just didn't want them to know I liked them. If they knew, they would expect things from me. They would want chores completed on time, good grades in school, birthday cards, flowers on Mother's Day, a steak dinner on Father's Day, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to measure up to their expectations. What if I bought the wrong gift or the card wasn't heartfelt enough or – ugh! Pretending not to care was safer. Having feelings was for saps.
The library was a nightmare. Mia picked up every single book on the shelves, smiled at the cover, read the synopsis aloud in a chipper voice that I naïvely assumed to mean she thought the book was a winner, then she frowned and wrinkled her nose and put the book down. Rinse and repeat. After she completed her ritual with book number twenty – or was it thirty? – I was ready to lock myself in the bathroom, shove my head in the toilet, and inhale.
"How about this?" Mia showed me a cover featuring a rickety house and an ominous full moon. Mom had said no vampires. This definitely looked like a vampire book. But I didn't care. Caring would only prolong the torture.
"It's okay, I guess."
Mia rolled her eyes, replaced the book, and then it was time to poke around the shelves some more. A minute later, she emerged with a paperback showcasing a raunchy, half-naked cowboy.
"That's fine too."
"Yeah right. Mrs. Benedict would fail me. Leo, don't you have an opinion about anything?"
"Guess not." Liar. I had loads of opinions. I was just afraid of being told that those opinions were wrong.
Mia rounded the stacks, passing the travel and leisure section and coming to a stop in science fiction and fantasy. I stood on my tip-toes, wondering where the cookbooks were. I needed to salivate over a picture of a hamburger. Stat.
"This one?" Mia asked. "And be honest."
I leaned over her shoulder. The book looked ancient, like some kind of medieval relic. There was no photo on the cover, just a few brown stains that may or may not have been blood, as well as fine golden letters spelling out airytales. I suspected the F had run away – and for good reason.
A shiver crept up my spine. I couldn't figure out why, but I really wished she would put the book down.
"Looks great, Mia." Another lie. "Let's go."
"Wait! I don't even know what it's about!"
"Well, then read it and you'll learn." I reached for her arm and started pulling her down the aisle.
"But, but...Leo! Hey! You're hurting me! Just give me one second to –"
The book fell from her hands, landing open on the floor. Mia reached down to retrieve it. I moved to stop her, struck with a sudden desire to sprint out to the car.
The tip of Mia's index finger touched the words on the page.
And time stopped.
People tend to overuse that expression: Time stopped. Like in movies, when the main characters lock eyes in a grocery store or whatever and then later they claim that the moment they saw each other time stopped. Or when a man falls asleep at the wheel and drifts into oncoming traffic and time stopped. Time can't stop. It can't speed up either. Time just...is. Or that's what I thought.
But that evening, time did stop. It shut right down. The books disappeared. The air around me lit on fire. For a moment I couldn't see, like someone set off a flashbulb inside my pupils.
Then time did the impossible again: It sped back up. The air cleared. The heat vanished. I had this weird pins and needles feeling in my limbs, but Mia's hand was still there, crammed between my fingers. And the library...was gone.
I shook my head, trying to clear my fuzzy thoughts. I thought about pinching the crook of my elbow, but that seemed a bit extreme. And yet...how had we ended up downtown?
The sun was setting, throwing shadows across the familiar Pittsburgh skyline. Reflections of bridges and tall buildings glinted in the river. The water churned, splashing against the hull of the – hang on. I looked up, taking in the skull and crossbones flag flying from a wooden mast high above my head. This time, I really did pinch myself. Or I tried to. Two very important things were wrong with this picture.
1. Since when was there a pirate ship on the Ohio River?
2. Since when were my fingers made of...wood?
I wasn't on drugs, was I? I'd never taken drugs before. Well, actually there was that teeny-weeny bit of weed after homecoming last year, but that barely counted. I took one hit, then puked in a bush. But this...this was something else.
Wooden fingers, wooden toes. I ran my tongue across my bottom lip, wincing when something pricked me. A splinter?
This was a serious LSD-level trip.
"Mia?" I squeezed her hand. "Does my face look funny to you?"
She stared at me, mouth gaping.
"We're still in the library, right?" I asked.
When she shook her head no, my stomach plummeted.
Just as she was about to speak, a pair of hands darted out, seized her shoulders, and pulled her back.
"Leo!"
"Mia!" I tried leaping after her, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. They got tangled up beneath me and I crashed down, smacking my chin on the deck of the ship.
Mia's kidnapper laughed. He was joined by several men and women wearing knee-length leather jackets and ripped trousers. Some had teeth missing; others pulled pistols from their belts.
"The princess is found!" The captain (judging by his stupid floppy hat) threw his hands in the air. His crew followed suit.
"Princess!"
"We're going to be rich!"
"Rich!" they echoed.
"Whoa! Hey, that's my sister! She's not a princess!" I tried to stand, but a stumpy man darted forward and wrapped rope around my chest, tying me to the mast. "Hey! Who do you think you are?"
The captain grinned, showing off two golden teeth. "My apologies. We're often inconsiderate when treasure is involved. I'm Sal, and these" – he swept out his arms – "are the Pirates of Pittsborough!"
"You mean Pittsburgh?"
"Nope, never heard of it. Sounds like a vile place. You'll find that Pittsborough" – he rolled his tongue around the final syllable – "is far nicer."
I struggled to wrap my head around his words. This place – Pittsborough – looked nearly identical to the city I called home. Same buildings, same three rivers. The only major differences were that my body resembled a tree trunk in this city, and Pittsburgh had the Pirates baseball team while Pittsborough just had...real pirates.
If my arms weren't tied up, I would have pinched myself again.
I glanced across the deck to Mia. She was being held in place by two women, and she was shaking. She caught my eye and mouthed, "Help!"
"Look, man," I told Sal. "You have to let her go. She's..." My brain told me to say that my sister was young, innocent, only thirteen. All logical pleas. But at the last second, my mouth did a one-eighty and spit out, "She's annoying! Mia's a pain, and I guarantee you don't want her any more than I do!"
Yikes. How did that happen? I mean, it was true, but I didn't want to confess it.
"Oh, dear," said Sal. He frowned at Mia's watery eyes. "The truth hurts, yes?"
"Mia! I'm sorry! I didn't mean –" My voice got lodged in my throat. I couldn't speak, and somehow I knew it was because to continue speaking would be to lie.
Mia gave me a dirty look. "I can be a princess," she told Sal.
"Princess!" the crew repeated, stomping their feet.
"Stop it," I said. "I don't know who you're looking for, but Mia's nowhere near royalty." Crap. Bring on the word vomit. "She picks her nose at the dinner table and leaves hairballs in the shower and burps the alphabet backwards. Frankly, she's disgusting."
I liked my sister just fine, but that was the truth. She was gross. But I never shared my opinions regarding her habits. Indifference was easiest. Indifference didn't hurt people; it didn't make Mia cry.
"On the contrary, she looks exactly like our princess." Sal showed me a photograph of a girl with Mia's blonde hair and brown eyes. "We'll take her to the Queen and she'll decide. Toodle-loo!"
The crew piled into row boats attached to the side of the ship. Mia followed, her head held high. I desperately called out to her.
She ignored me.
Sal and I were the last two on board. I jiggled my wrists in their restraints. "Aren't you going to make me walk the plank?"
He smirked. Underneath the dark beard and matted mess of hair, he slightly resembled my father. "Sorry, wooden boy. If you jump, you'll float. An easy escape." He stroked his mustache. Why did the evil guys always have mustaches? Hitler, my statistics teacher, this guy... Sal swung his legs over the side of the ship and started his descent. "I think it would be more villainous to let you starve instead. Although with any luck the dragons will eat you first."
"Wait, what?" I yelled. Sal's honking laughter was the only reply I received. "Hey! Your mustache belongs in a porno!" The words burst forth before I could stop them. "And your coat makes you look like a flasher. Are you wearing underwear under there?"
I tried to squash down the little voice inside of me, the one demanding the truth that no one wanted to hear. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't lie.