White Lies

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“Where’s Astrid?” asks Rod. 

“She’s in the restroom,” I tell him. Astrid is always late. I don’t like lying to our boss, but I did it for her once, and now it’s hard to stop. That’s the problem with white lies. 

Kit and I unload a pallet of running shoe boxes for the sidewalk sale. The smell of new rubber escapes from the open boxes. 

“So, did you do that survey from class?” asks Kit.

His brown eyes flick towards me. I can’t make eye contact because I’ll start wondering what his heartbeat sounds like and what kissing him will taste like.

“You won’t guess what it recommended.” 

“A writer,” offers Kit. 

“Nope—a phlebotomist.”

“What’s that?” Kit snorts, and his curls bounce on his head. 

“The person who extracts your blood at the lab.”

“But you’re afraid of blood.”

“I know.”

“What’s the other one?”

“A pastor.”

Kit laughs. “But you don’t believe in God.”

“Should I start? Maybe they’ll help me figure out my life,” I say. 

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The low afternoon sun beats down on us. I fold some t-shirts. Ahead of me, Astrid and Kit do the same at their rack. She rests a hand on Kit’s back. He leans down to kiss her neck. 

“Lena, you’re sweating profusely,” says Astrid as they walk towards me. She points at stains growing in the pits of my shirt. 

“Not nice. She’s been out here all day,” says Kit. 

Astrid points down the street. “Only a few weeks before we get to leave this all behind. Well, Kit and I are getting out of here. You know the deadline to accept your spot in the English program is Sunday, or else—what’s that saying? You use it or lose it,” says Astrid, in between giggles. 

Astrid says there’s nothing to like about being from a small place; this is a beat-up town with no jobs and no future.

Kit tosses a towel from a pile of sale items, and it lands over my face. He gives me a nudge as they pass me. 

“You’ll need to dry off if you want a ride to the barn party tonight.”

“Hey guys, wait up for me,” I say, chasing after them like they are my dreams, and I’m their kill-joy sidekick called reality. 

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“Send it. We’re the tiniest of cogs in the wheel of this world. Our decisions won’t change a thing,” says Astrid. She draws a thick wing of eyeliner. I re-read and re-word the draft email on my computer screen. The idea of quitting my job sours my stomach.

She pauses and looks me up and down. “You have no chance of attracting anyone in that outfit.” 

Astrid rubs many people the wrong way, but I barely come close enough to others for our arms to touch. That’s why we’re friends. 

 “I’m not trying to attract anyone,” I tell her. 

“Maybe you should be. When we move to Toronto, we can be anyone. I’ve been thinking about that.” She brushes a stroke of shimmering shadow over her eyelids, creating little holographic orbs that shine like big-city lights.

“Really?” My voice cracks. 

“I bet there’s going to be a philosophy major on our floor in the dorms. He’s going to ask me questions like, ‘what’s your passion in life?’ It won’t work out because I’ll realize that he doesn’t believe in capitalism or something like that.” 

“So—,” I start.

Astrid interrupts me. “I should break up with Kit, right?”   

I take a breath. I could tell Astrid how I feel about Kit or that I don’t want to move away. 

“I shouldn’t be rash,” she finishes.

“Yea, that’s all,” I say flatly. 

I point to her makeup bag. “So, is there anything in there for me?” 

She pulls out a small container of petroleum jelly.

“It’s going to be dewy, like morning grass. Close your eyes.”

Astrid dips her finger into the pot and sweeps a thin layer across the tops of my cheekbones. 

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” says Astrid. Her voice fades with distance. She’s by my computer when it dings with the swooshing sound of an outgoing email.

“I sent it.” Astrid closes my laptop. 

Kit’s pickup truck rumbles outside. The music cuts out with the engine. 

“Let’s go, buttercup,” says Astrid, fake cheerfulness in her voice. I push past her and run down the stairs. I slam the front door, and then I get into the back seat of the truck and slam that door too. 

“Are you okay?” asks Kit from the driver’s seat. He hands me a tissue. “You have something on your face.”

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We pull into the gravel driveway—rocks crunch beneath the wheels. Astrid smiles at me, but I keep all the muscles in my face still. Kit’s eyes catch mine through the rearview mirror, and my mind traces the outline of his lips. 

“Tell him what you did.” 

“I helped you along,” Astrid says flippantly. 

Outside the barn door, a bonfire begins to crackle. A couple of people start to gather around it. I picture Astrid’s hair getting ignited. The fleeting confidence of rage fills my chest.

“Astrid wants to break up with you.” The words fall out of my mouth like a waterfall: gushing, pulsing and overflowing.

“What?” Kit looks at Astrid. His pretty eyes are soft with hurt. 

“And while I’m telling the truth, I’m staying here next year if I can get my job back. And Kit, when I look at you, I want to run my fingers through your hair.”  

Kit’s eyes widen. My shouting stops. Up ahead, the barn glows from the lights strung through the beams and bustles from the sound of people laughing and bottles clinking.

The sky is rust-colored, with wisps of night clouds decorating overhead. As I walk, a balmy wind makes my dress billow out around my legs and leaves tiny goosebumps on the backs of my arms. 

I feel breathless, high on the chemicals from all the yelling, and intoxicated by the idea of infinite possibility. 

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Alyssa Giuliani received a post-graduate certificate in creative writing from Humber College. She currently lives in Toronto, ON.

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