An Excerpt from THE LIAR'S DIARY

1

There was so much talk about the new music teacher before she arrivedthat her coming was almost anticlimactic. However, I would soon learnthat Ali Mather never allowed herself to be upstaged--not even by herown advance publicity. The very first day of classes she wrinkled hernose when a student called her Mrs. Mather. ?Please,? she said. ?Callme Ali.? Well, you can bet our principal, Simon Murphy, straightenedher out on that one. On the second day of school, the words MRS. MATHERappeared in huge block letters across her blackboard. Smilingironically, Ali corrected herself: the students were to call her ?Mrs.Mather? as Mr. Murphy requested. By the end of her little speech,however, it was obvious that in the us-against-them atmosphere thatfrequently permeated the school, Ali was one of them. Even if they didhave to call her Mrs. Mather.
As the school secretary, I was thefirst one to see her on opening day. She had to be pushing forty, butshe zipped past the front desk with such energy that I almost mistookher for a student. Maybe it was the hair that flowed over her shouldersin undulant waves, or the jeans she was sporting in defiance of thedress code. But mostly, I think it was that zest--a spirit thatpractically gave off sparks as she sailed down the hallway.
?Wonderful morning, isn?t it?? she called out, smiling.
?Yes, lovely,? I said. I came out from behind my desk, wondering whatkind of person had the audacity to name a day that was cloudy and fartoo humid to be trapped in school ?wonderful.?
Avery Small, thejanitor who was usually too hung over to mutter more than a hello,stepped out of the supply closet and leaned on his broom. ?Sure is alovely day,? he called after Ali, a smile breaking new ground on hisface. ?Finest one I?ve seen in a while.? There was no mistaking hislascivious tone--or the gaze that was fixed distinctly on her ass.
?Don?t you have some work to do?? I said acidly. ?A puddle of vomit toclean up or something?? But Ali just looked over her shoulder andflashed her most brilliant smile. The woman was nothing, if notgenerous.
Avery grumbled as he walked away with his broom.Meanwhile, I stood in the foyer and watched the new teacher like I washypnotized. Her violin case swayed provocatively to the rhythm of herwalk. It was a battered old thing--hardly what I expected aprofessional musician to carry. It reminded me of the nicked cases thekids toted to school on Wednesdays when strings lessons were taught.But it wasn?t those students I was thinking about as I stared at thatviolin case swinging like a metronome in time with Ali?s personalrhythm. No, something about the sight of it had tapped into a deeperplace for me. What had almost become a forbidden place.
I closed myeyes and saw my brother loping through the house, swinging his ownweathered violin case. ?Hey J.J., you home?? he?d call as soon as hegot in, thumping on my bedroom door. How long had it been since anyonecalled me J.J., my family?s pet name for me?
Without warning, myeyes filled with tears. What was I doing? It was the first day ofschool, for goodness sake! I straightened myself up, and wiped my face,wondering where on earth that had come from. My brother had been deadfor twenty-four years--and I rarely thought about him anymore. Or aboutmy parents who had died shortly thereafter. Oh, I missed them and all,but there was nothing to be accomplished by dwelling on the past. Myhusband, Gavin, had taught me that.
Abruptly, Ali Mather stopped,turned around and looked directly at me--almost as if she?d read mymind. I must have been imagining it, but her eyes seemed to reflect myown sadness and confusion. But above all, those eyes regarded me withan almost uncanny understanding. Once again, I fought the ridiculousimpulse to burst into tears right there in the school building .Fortunately, the music teacher turned away and resumed her walk to theclassroom before I totally humiliated myself.
Still, for somereason I couldn?t explain, I felt shaken. For the rest of the day,every time I glanced down the hallway where Ali had disappeared, I sawmy brother walking through the house with his violin, trailed by mymother?s voice, ?One hour of practice, Jimmy; that?s all I ask.?
How many afternoons had she spent harping on him to practice? If onlyshe?d known how soon he would have gone, how soon they all would be,maybe she would have left him alone. I sighed deeply.
As soon as Ihad finished logging the absentees from the attendance sheets onto thecomputer, I found an excuse to go into the file where the applicationswere kept. The first thing I learned about our new music teacher wasthat ?Ali? was really plain old Alice. Alice Christine Mather. AGE:forty-six. Forty-six! I admit, I had to look at her date of birth atleast three times before I believed it. I even crosschecked it with thedates of her high school and college graduations. But there was nomistake. Ali was forty-six--nine years older than me.
Under MARITALSTATUS, she?d penciled in ?separated?--as though that were subject tochange at any moment. I knew all about her husband from the gossip thatdrifted through our small town with the momentum of a nasty virus. Halfthe women in town believed Ali had personally stolen George Mather fromthem. You?d never know it to look at him now, but when he practiced lawon Main Street, Ali?s husband had ignited dozens of fantasies as hecoasted through the streets in his dark suits, his eyes a deepturbulent blue. With an air of distraction and hawk like nose, Ali?shusband was never conventionally good looking, but he was that rarestof specimens: a truly good man. People said his skill in the courtroomwas exceeded only by a compassion that extended to victim and accusedalike.
All the fantasies about our brooding home town lawyerabruptly ended when a beautiful violinist careened into town to play aconcert at Howell College, and scooped up our most eligible bachelor.After he married Ali, George underwent a dramatic change. One day inthe courtroom he abruptly turned on his own client, saying he would nolonger represent people who were obviously guilty. Then, he niftilybanked a shot that landed his brief case in the trash can, and walkedout of the courtroom, freer than any newly exonerated defendant.
When George decided to go back to school to get a graduate degree inphilosophy, ducking into classrooms in the rumpled suits that hadlooked so dashing in the courtroom, the longing he had once excitedturned to pity. Those who thought they knew George Mather were sure whowas to blame for his new, erratic behavior: his artsy wife, theviolinist who traveled so much she was rarely seen in town.
Undercontact person, Ali had not listed her devoted husband, but JackButterfield, another familiar name in Bridgeway. Handsome JackButterfield owned the Saab dealership and was believed to have charmedmore women into buying cars they didn?t want than anyone in the state.Also ?separated? if I remembered correctly. In describing theirrelationship, Ali had written ?Close personal friend.?
I was stillcontemplating those provocative words when Simon Murphy walked in. Iquickly returned the file, slamming the metal drawer shut so fast Ialmost snagged a recently manicured fingernail. Fortunately, Simon?snot the suspicious type. The only thing on his mind was the coffee,which for the first time in eight years, I had forgotten to make. As Ifilled the coffee machine, I chided myself for the risk I?d taken.Really, there was no need to poke through the files--not when gossipwas as cheap and plentiful as the rubbery pizza in the cafeteria.

I didn?t have to wait long to satisfy my curiosity. That day in thelounge, I took my usual seat with the shop teacher, Brian Shagaury. Ourtable was in a quiet corner, away from the gossips. We both hated theway students were labeled troublemakers or slackers before they evenhad a chance. I was particularly uncomfortable whenever I heard astudent berated. I couldn?t help wondering what they said about my son,Jamie, when I wasn?t around.
?Air pollution alert,? Brian said,when I slid into the chair across from him with my tray. It was ourcode for the slander that passed as benign chit chat in the lounge. Itwas soon obvious that the subject was none other than Ali Mather, whowas taking her lunch on the lawn just outside the window. Beside her,Adam Belzner, one of the brightest students in the school and a giftedmusician himself, lounged on the grass, listening with rapt attention.He must have said something particularly amusing because Ali threw herhead back and laughed, causing her reddish gold hair to shimmer. Ithought of how grey the morning had been earlier, and wondered if thesun had come out just because Ali Mather ordered it.
?Look at herin those jeans. Has she ever heard of a dress code?? Eleanor Whitfeildhuffed. She had been teaching Algebra for longer than anyone couldremember, and the students joked that she?d worn the same three knitdresses ever since she?d taught their parents. ?She might have at leastput on something presentable for the first day of school.?
That?swhen Nora Bell appeared in the doorway in her white cafeteria uniform.Though she rarely ventured into the teacher?s lounge, she seemed topossess a homing device that alerted her to the sound ofgossip--particularly about the music teacher. Ali lived across thestreet from her, and Nora considered herself the world?s leadingauthority on her neighbor?s life.
?Look out, it?s the CEO of GossipIncorporated,? Brian announced since my back was to the door. I laughedat our name for Nora Bell, but Brian was already up, emptying hisunfinished lunch into the trash. ?I just lost my appetite. Wanna go outfor a cigarette??
?Don?t tempt me,? I said. ?I?m trying to quit.?Prompted by my husband?s incessant nagging, I was always trying to dropmy noxious pack-a-day addiction. And always failing. Brian who knew allabout my doomed efforts, cast me a skeptical glance before he headedtoward Ali?s picnic ground. I was not about to admit that for once, Iwas curious about what Nora had to say.
?Why should she care aboutthe dress code? It?s not like she needs the job,? Nora said, picking acrumb from her blouse. ?George Mather still supports her--and verywell, too. Why just last week, she told me she wasn?t taking the jobfor money. She?s doing it because she likes to work with young people.?
Nora might as well have tossed a match into the room. ?If she doesn?tneed the money, she can have the checks sent to my address,? thehistory teacher said. It was well known that Tom Boyle had recentlygone through a divorce and was having trouble making his child supportpayments.
?She likes working with adolescents? We?ll see how long that lasts,? Eleanor Whitfield added to much laughter.
?Poor George Mather,? Nora said, steering the subject back to Ali?spersonal life. ?All those brains and he can?t see what a fool he is. Hestill shows up at her house regularly at seven p.m. for a walk and acup of coffee--that is, if his wife doesn?t have a date.?
Well,that was enough for me. I thought about the kindness I?d seen in hereyes in the hallway--and that swinging violin case. If sides were beingdrawn up, the decision was easy: I was on Ali?s side. The petty gossipswere still clucking and giggling in the lounge as I slipped out to lookfor Brian.
From that day on, whenever she loped past my desk makingone of her cheery pronouncements about the splendor of the day, Ismiled. And when I heard that Ali broke another rule, or heard herlaughing in the hallway with a student, I cheered inwardly. Good forher, I thought to myself, following her down the hallway with my eyes.Good for her.
As for Ali, the only time she noticed my existencewas when she passed the desk, calling out one of her ebullient morninggreetings. She never stopped and asked me to copy handouts or researchsomething on the computer like the other teachers did. And even whenshe did eat in the lounge, Ali blithely ignored the groups whoclustered together around formica tables, complaining about troublemaking students, or aides who weren?t doing their jobs. Ali neverattempted to penetrate the well established circles like most newcomersdid. Instead, she cheerfully greeted everyone, then buried herself inone of the books from her back pack--usually novels with unfamiliartitles. Occasionally, she took out a book covered in a rich red silkand wrote in it quietly in her corner. She?d write a bit, then chewmeditatively on the end of her pen before going back to it. I enviedher ability to tune out the murmurings of the lunch room.
?What?sthat--her diary?? Tom Boyle asked one day, watching Ali write. ?Ithought that stuff was for thirteen year old girls--?
?Apparently, you never heard of Anais Nin? Or The Journals of Sylvia Plath, maybe?? I said--more sharply than I intended.
?Whoa, don?t get so defensive!? Tom said, holding up his hand like a stop sign. ?She a relative or something??
I didn?t answer, but the question lingered. Why did an insult against awoman I barely know feel so personal? Because she played the violinlike Jimmy had? Because she?d smiled kindly at me on the first day ofschool? Was I that desperate for any sign of friendship? Suddenly Ifelt queasy. I took my tray and emptied my lunch into the trashuneaten. I knew Tom Boyle was watching me, but I didn?t care.

Maybe Ali, too, had heard some snide comments about her diary. Or shewas concerned that a curious student might read it. For whateverreason, she stopped bringing it to school. And of course, even that wasfodder for the bored lunchroom crowd.
?Guess someone finally toldher that X rated literature isn?t allowed in a school building,? MarnieLovejoy said with particular glee. Marnie taught social studies, anduntil Ali came along to supplant her , she had been a hot topic in theteacher?s lounge. Her desperate quest for a husband. The short skirtsshe wore despite her heavy legs. The way she was always there to?comfort? Tom Boyle when he talked about his divorce.
People teasedme that she had a thing for my husband, too. Ever since he?d set herbadly fractured arm a few years earlier, she?d been raving about thehandsome orthopedic surgeon who had ?saved? it. She?d never found me, alowly secretary, worth talking to until she realized I was Dr. Cross?swife. Since then, she couldn?t be friendlier. She?d even been treatingme to her lumpish attempts at baking. Heavy coffee cakes that sat inyour stomach for days, chocolate chip cookies that were burned on thebottom.
?Tell Dr. Cross, Marnie sent them,? she?d say with a wink.I always told her that Gavin loved them--though in truth, my healthconscious husband regarded coffee cake the way most of us think of ratpoison.
At our quiet table, Brian Shagaury spoke to me in a lowvoice. ?Good thing Ali started leaving that diary at home. Imagine ifone of these sharks got their hands on it? It would be headlines in theBridgeway Patriot.?
As for me, I wasn?t at all interested in whatthe music teacher wrote in her diary. It might have been something asbenign as musical scores for all I knew. What fascinated me were thebooks she read. After she left, I scrawled down the titles in thenotepad I kept in my pocketbook. I, too, was a hungry reader. Idevoured over a hundred books a year, sometimes reading until the earlyhours of the morning. I read until I forgot whatever troubling incidenthad occurred in my household that day, or until the book fell from myhand--whichever came first. But the books Ali read were different. Notonly were many of them set in exotic locales, they took me deeper intothe landscape of the human heart than I?d ever been. Frankly, some ofthem, particularly those that probed unhappy families, made meuncomfortable. Still, I kept reading.
On one occasion, Ali spotted one of the books she?d unknowingly ?recommended? on the table where I?d left my things.
?Who?s reading this?? she asked, as she slid in the chair opposite mine.
When she found it was me, she even nodded--as if she weren?t surprised. ?Isn?t it wonderful?? she asked.
I felt secretly pleased by the glances that were exchanged when peoplesaw us sitting together, talking about a book we both loved. Theconversation didn?t last long before we each returned to our reading,but a bond that went beyond books was formed that day. When one of theteachers made a particularly disparaging remark about a student, Alilooked over her book cover and caught my eye. The anger flashing inhers was clear, and I?m sure she saw a clear response in mine.

Ali didn?t frequent the lunch room that often however. Perhaps shesensed that aside from Brian and me, no one particularly welcomed herpresence. On the few occasions when she attempted to join theconversation, her remarks only served to further alienate hercolleagues. One afternoon when a substitute English teacher wascomplaining about the high cost of a repair job she?d done recently onher SUV, Ali unexpectedly looked up from her book, pulled off herreading glasses, and let her views on automobiles in general be known.She had let her license lapse more than fifteen years earlier, shesaid, and never missed it. ?If you ask me, cars are destroying America.It?s not just the pollution and the depleting resources--they?ve madeus fat and lazy.? After her little speech, she got up and rinsed hercoffee cup at the sink before giving us a view of her well toned buttas she flounced out of the lunch room
There was a moment of stunnedsilence before the substitute cracked, ?I don?t know about the rest ofyou fat, lazy people, but I?m having another brownie.?
Okay, maybeAli did sound a little self-righteous, but the woman had a point. I wasabout to speak up and say as much when I noticed that seated acrossfrom me, Brian was more than annoyed. He was downright angry. When hiseyes met mine, I knew right then and there that something was going onbetween him and Ali. Oh, it was nothing I could have proven. It wasjust one of those things you know.
As the weeks passed, I watchedmy friend for signs that I was wrong. But Brian began to avoid thelounge and grew increasingly evasive with me. When other teachersnoticed him loitering outside Ali?s room, or spotted the two of themsharing some tea on the lawn, they, too, began to nurture suspicions.But for me, all it took was one glance to know that Alice ChristineMather had garnered herself another ?close personal friend.?

Ifelt almost personally betrayed. Brian Shagaury was the only teacher Ireally liked. We not only ate lunch together, but he frequentlylingered at the office, telling me stories about his three smallchildren, or about his personal passion: the metal sculptures he did inhis garage on weekends. I was also grateful for the sensitive way hehandled students who were shop phobic--like Jamie. What was worse, Ihad hoped that Ali and I might become friends. But since this thing hadbegun with Brian, she seemed to be avoiding all the schoolpersonnel--even me.
I worked hard to convince myself that both thelunch room gossips and my own instincts were wrong. For one thing, whywould Ali want him? She already had a husband and a boyfriend, forgoodness sake. And at only thirty-one, Brian was far too young for her.But then, I thought of all the reasons I had been drawn to Brian: hissensitivity, the sense that he didn?t quite belong in the chaotic highschool building, his quiet good looks. He was almost the perfect foilfor the self-dramatizing violinist.
To make matters worse, I alsoknew Brian?s wife. Before her third child was born, Beth Shagaury hadoccasionally subbed at the school, and we still ran into each other allthe time. The Shagaury kids were much younger than Jamie, but Beth andI frequently saw each other on the soccer field between games. We alsoseemed to be on the same shopping schedule. On Saturday afternoons, Ifrequently encountered her in the aisles at the Shop n? Save. Shelooked tired and harassed as she tried to steer her two active boysthrough the store, while the baby, a boy of about nine months, reachedfor things on the shelves from his perch on her hip.
After thatlook from Brian in the lunch room, I studied his wife more carefullythe next time I saw her in the store, comparing her to her unknownrival. Beth wore her dark hair in a short, low maintenance cut and herface was utterly devoid of make up. But then she had the kind ofnatural good looks that really didn?t require a lot of cosmetics.Blemish free with good color and well defined eyes, she probablypossessed more natural beauty than Ali ever had. But what good waslustrous hair and strong cheekbones to a woman whose forehead wascreased in a perpetual frown, who lived in baggy jeans and sweatshirtsand probably crawled into bed smelling like baby carrots?
Watchingher innocently selecting apples in the produce section, I wondered howshe would take it when she found out her husband was involved with awoman who was almost old enough to be her mother.
Almost as if sheknew I was thinking about her, Beth looked up at me. Immediately, Ithought of how Brian?s expression had ignited when Ali passed the twoof us in the hallway. ?All done for the day?? she had asked Brian. Itwas the most ordinary of questions, but something in the tone of hervoice made it sound flirty. Exciting even. As if the day was suddenlybrimming with possibilities that hadn?t existed before Ali strutteddown that hallway. In response, Brian followed after her like one ofthe besotted school boys who trailed her around the building,. ?Talk toyou later, Jeanne,? he called back to me, almost as an afterthought.
Interrupting my thoughts, Beth flicked me a quick wave, and went backto her apples, obviously hoping to avoid the perfunctory conversationwe usually had on Saturday mornings. How?s Jamie? Ready for soccerseason? The baby sure is getting big. Yes, into everything, as you cansee...Well, have a good weekend.
On this particular day, however, Ifelt a rush of shame--as if my insight into what was going on betweenher husband and the music teacher made me somehow complicit. I turnedabruptly into the next aisle and consulted my grocery list. At thebottom of my note paper, Jamie had added a few items of his own,written in his cramped childish scrawl: half capitalized, half not.PotAtOe chips. HOSteSS dEviL doGS. mInT CHoclatE CHip ice Cream. PeanutbuTTer Cups. Tacked onto the end was a plaintive, PLeese, MOM! Justreading the list, a familiar churning sensation entered my stomach. Iwasn?t sure what annoyed me most: the childish handwriting, themisspelling and irregular capitalization, or the request for more junkfood when he knew he was supposed to be on a diet.
At sixteen,Jamie was at least fifty pounds overweight. And despite my best effortsto follow the pediatrician?s advice, I just couldn?t seem to keep himaway from the sweets and fat laden snacks he craved. Even if I didn?tgive in to his demands, even if I came home with nothing but fruit andcarrot sticks, I knew I would find the same mountain of candy wrappers,soda cans, and potato chip bags in the back of his closet and under hisbed. But despite these signs of forbidden foods, and my curiosity aboutwhere he got the money to buy them, I never confronted Jamie with whatI found. Somehow I felt his endless hunger for the things thosepackages contained was a shameful secret between us, as much my faultas it was his.
Defeated, I threw a package of peanut butter cupsinto my cart, wondering why I bothered. Why any of us did. From thenext aisle, I could hear Beth Shagaury?s voice, telling her oldest tograb a box of strawberry cereal bars. Thinking of all the effort shemade at family life, only to have her husband stolen away by a womanwho probably didn?t even want him, I tossed a pack of candy bars thatJamie hadn?t requested into my cart. Abandoning my list, the cautiousmenu plans that were careful to include the four food groups, I filledmy cart haphazardly, eager to get out of the store.
By the time Igot to my car, I was shaking. What?s wrong with you? I asked myself, asI loaded the plastic bags into the car. You have no proof thatanything?s going on between Ali and Brian. And even if it is, what?s itto you? But deep down it wasn?t the sight of poor Beth, dragging herkids through the store while her husband sat around mooning over themusic teacher. It was Jamie. It was my own family, my own home, a placewhere everything appeared to be in place, under control, but wherenothing was. Not really.

AVAILABLE FROM PLUME AND BRILLIANCE AUDIO January 29, 2008

Patry Francis, Books Correspondent:

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