Free Little Black Lies by Tish Cohen

head out into the hall in search of a water fountain. Cold water on my face, that’s what I need right now. As I march down the corridor, I hear footsteps keeping pace with me. I spin around to find myself staring at Carling Burnack. It’s the same thing every time I see her. I get a thrill. A jolt. Like I’ve spotted a celebrity.
    She walks toward me, her hips swinging with the kind of confidence I’ve never had. “You’re some kind of new girl, aren’t you, London?” When I don’t answer, she laughs. “That’s okay. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother defending myself either.” She reaches out and pulls the stretchy fabric from my thigh, then lets it go with a snap. “Not if I was wearing the evidence.”
    â€œIt’s not what it looks like. I was in the changing room and …”
    â€œLose the sob story, London. I don’t want to hear it. Besides, I’d rather be friends with a thief than a liar.”

chapter 9
burn baby burn
    At one point on the bus ride home, I actually press my fist into my lips so I don’t throw up. Could it have gone worse? Carling Burnack knows what I did. She could do anything with this knowledge. Anything. Turn me in, blackmail me, tell the other kids.
    Then again, she did say something about being friends.
    I stopped by the Lost and Found before leaving the school. My plan was to find Mrs. Pelletier and tell her what happened. Explain that I had no choice but to leave the changing room in my tights. But Mrs. Pelletier is so kind and so trusting it hurts. As soon as I told her I lost my skirt, she made some joke that misplacing my skirt is proof I’ve assimilated. She looked almost proud of me as she led me into the closet. How could I tell her I stole from the school when she was being so good to me? While she thinks I’m a decent person?
    I took the coward’s way out. Made sure to stand a few steps back so she couldn’t smell the newness of the yoga pants. Believe me when I say, no pants on earth have ever smelled this pristine. It was making me dizzy. I choked back my guilt, popped another skirt in my bag, thanked her, and hopped on a bus.
    Our apartment building has a climate all its own—not unlike the inside of a casket that’s been underground for a few years. The air, what little of it exists, is so dark and dense you have to gnaw on it, soften it, before every breath. It’s foggy with dust and dander, so much so that I’ve taken to waving my hands in front of my face as I walk, to clear myself a path.
    The foyer is lined in bare brick with nothing more to dress the walls than a handwritten poster reading NO PeT. Absolute NO EXePtion . And whatever effort the owners didn’t put into ventilation and signage, they made up for with a peculiar choice on the floor. Below my feet, the buckling wooden floorboards are coated in chipped pink paint so thick it could be dried-up frosting.
    Still reeking of guilt and factory-fresh Lycra, I trudge to the bottom of the narrow wooden staircase and start the long, airless climb to the fourth floor.
    Halfway up the second set of stairs, I detect the peppery sweetness of weed wafting out from under someone’s third-floor door. All three entryways on this floor are unpainted wood, and there’s a sickly tree in a plastic pot beside 3B that may or may not be dying of secondhand smoke. I slow down in front of each door on Cannabis Row, trying to determine who’s doing the dirty deed, but cannot detect any difference. Maybe the smell’s coming from all three.
    I slow as I pass 3C because the door is cracked open just enough that I can peek inside. From what I can see the place is nearly empty but for a wooden futon with rumpled pillows and bedding, two overturned milk crates functioning as a coffee table, and a sheet nailed to the window frame.
    Suddenly a guy in surfer shorts and a South Park T-shirt appears. His skin is pasty, and