Little Red Lies Read Online Free

the girls, a few discreet chest-pattings to show throbbing hearts. The boys stare at us in wonder. One of them snickers.
    “Turn to act 3, scene 1 in
Hamlet
, please,” Mr. Tompkins says in a warm baritone.
    When we finally move slowly to our next class, Ruthie says, “He’s beyond handsome. He’s an utter dreamboat.”
    Hazel Carrington screams, “He’s way more than a dreamboat,” and quickly plasters both hands over her mouth, afraid he might have heard.
    I just keep walking. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “I know his type. He puts on a dreamboat act when you meet him,but once you get to know him, he has as much charm as a cardboard box.”
    “Oh, pipe down,” Ruthie says.
    I shrug. To me, he’s only a supply teacher, a supply play director who will never see in me the hugely talented actress I know I can be.
    Ruthie says, “Those Clark Gable eyes. They really grab me.”
    Overhearing, another girl says, “More like Gregory Peck. It’s that jaw.”
    “Come on, Rachel,” Ruthie says. “Admit he reminds you of a movie star.”
    “He reminds me of a great big question mark.”
    “Huh?”
    “Besides a cute face, what’s he got?”
    “Sex appeal,” Ruthie says, and everyone hoots with laughter as we file into our next class.
    “Girls, girls!” Miss Fiddler says. “Control the noise.”
    A week later in English, daydreaming, I catch myself gazing at Mr. Tompkins. He has very fine hands. You might even say artistic hands. And his shoulders are … I sit up straight and turn to act 4. Let the other girls go all soft and swoony. I have better things on my mind—my romantic play about war for one, which, for all the trouble I’m taking with it, refuses to fall into place.
    Each day after school, Mr. Tompkins—or Tommy, aseveryone soon nicknames him—is surrounded by a gaggle of girls with questions about homework and tests. Not me, though. I observe from the doorway. A good-looking man like this is bound to be conceited, and I can’t stand that in a person, especially in an adult, young as he may be. I do have a question, though, which I long to ask. By the end of the week, the queue for a private audience is considerably shorter, consisting primarily of Hazel Carrington, Ruthie Pritchard, and one or two other girls smitten with love. I join them.
    I get right to the point. No woman-of-the-world smile, no eyelash-batting. “Are we still doing the school play?”
    “Yes,” he says, giving me the full benefit of his even white teeth and dark serious eyes. “We’ll resume rehearsals at the end of next week, once I’ve had a chance to study it.”
    After school the next Friday, play practice, once again, is in full swing. To give him credit, Mr. Tompkins manages pretty well for someone coming to it cold. Sometimes, though, he seems lost in thought, especially when he watches Hazel Carrington, the lead, going through her paces.
    Hazel must notice because she has to be prompted many more times than usual. This irks me. If I were lucky enough to be in the play, I’d have my lines memorized, as well as everyone else’s, by the second rehearsal.
    I give Hazel her line. “Try paying attention,” I add, sounding a bit surly.
    Mr. Tompkins turns to me with his Clark Gable eyes and says, “You’re a hard-hearted woman.”
    “Huh?” I say, like the stunned bunny I am. No one has ever called me a woman. No one has ever said I was hard-hearted. “Sorry.” Maybe I should have said it to Hazel.
    “No, you’re good. You should have been the director.”
    I’m all red and flustered. Hazel is madly searching for her line, but I haven’t been paying attention, so someone else calls it out. Finally, the world starts up again.
    Ruthie and I walk home together after rehearsal. This April weather is iffy—sun one minute, rain the next, turning my hair into something like a pot scrubber. The overhead clouds look threatening, but we poke along anyway, gabbing about the play practice.
    “Hazel may be