Call Me A Liar [Book 1] (Justin Bieber Love Story / Fan Fiction)

5

Boxing is twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays.

I'm sure to tell Patrick he owes me big time for taking up a few hours of my Friday nights. He tells me he'll take one of my weekly chores off my list as repayment. I agree to it, but I know I'll cave and continue to do my share.

Birdie and I plan to switch off on days we drive the boys to practice. She will take Tuesdays, and I will take Fridays. Whoever is driving, we all still plan to go together no matter what.

"This must be really good for them," Birdie looks down as she files her nails.

"What do you mean?" I ask, watching Patrick work with RJ on a blue gym mat nearly twenty yards away.

It's the following Tuesday now. Patrick's first real day of boxing.

I'm a lot less nervous this time going into Linford, but I'm certainly still on edge. When you're told your entire life to avoid something because it isn't safe, you're going to be wary of it. Maybe a little curious, but wary. But I can truthfully say that I have never been curious about Linford.

She shrugs, readjusting the way she sits on the plastic bleachers that look over the gym. "They both probably have more pent up rage than they know what to do with. I mean, they're both teenage boys with strict parents who are constantly telling them what to do and what they think is best for them. I kind of wish I did this five years ago."

"Could you imagine the two of us boxing? Birdie, I don't think we'd last ten seconds."

"Speak for yourself," she nudges my arm.

I roll my eyes.

"It's just nice to see them doing something they want to do instead of golf or chess or fucking debate club," she scoffs. "How the fuck is golf going to help your future? If anything, it just makes you look like a pretentious shit-wad."

Birdie's fired up today. It happens every now and again where she's just completely on edge without warning, but I don't question it. Jack likes to joke and say that she's on her period. Birdie and I never let that slide, and we tell him he can't talk about women's reproductive parts until he's been inside of one. Pre-birth not included. It always shuts him up.

I'm no doctor, but I sometimes wish Birdie would talk to someone. I know she doesn't open up to me about everything, and I know it's got to be hard to contain something so traumatic deep inside of you. But again, I don't push her. I never would.

Instead of feeding into her outburst, I allow her to cool down for a moment while allowing my eyes to scan over the open floor below us.

There's two boxing rings on either side of the floor, one more obviously taken care of than the other. The one on the far side of the gym is nearly pristine — it looks almost untouched as the other is a bit more tattered and current in use by two participants.

I begin to watch them— not knowing the first thing about boxing, of course— and I can immediately see what Birdie means about this being good for our brothers. To get your anger out on another person safely and without any repercussions, it must be nice. A relief, even. Had I done this when I was fifteen, I may have turned out a lot different than I am now.

There's a young fair skinned man with bright red hair in the ring wearing bright yellow athletic shorts and black shiny boxing gloves. His skin looks wet under the fluorescent lights that hang above him and his opponent— an olive skinned man with golden blonde hair that sloppily hangs over his forehead. It's slightly dampened with sweat along with the rest of his body, which is nearly perfect as he moves in circles around the ring. He looks so focused, so in tune with every little move he makes. And although he's there to fight, he looks calm and collected. Like he's meant to be there.

"Thats Justin and Michael," Birdie pulls my attention away from the two fighting.

While she has my attention mentally, my eyes are still on the two men. "Who's who?"

"Michael's the redhead," she starts, shoving her nail file into her bag. "Justin's the one you're staring at."

"I'm not staring," I turn to her.

"Not anymore," she smirks. "I knew you were going to think he was cute."

I shake my head, looking back to them. "I never said that."

"Jane. You're kidding. I've known you my entire life, so I think I can tell when you've got a hard-on for someone," she leans back against the wall behind us.

"You're senile."

"He's one of the coaches," she ignores my comment. "But I know he competes too. He's pretty good, I guess."

"Hm," is all I say before returning my attention back to my little brother who looks like he's having the time of his life hitting a punching bag.

I smile.

Practice ends 4:30 that afternoon, which gives us all enough time to get back home before dinner to our parents' house without them questioning our whereabouts. As long as we're promptly at the dinner table by five o'clock, little to no questions are asked.

I'm sure to remind Patrick to play it cool and if mom and dad ask, to just tell them we were at Birdie and Jack's.

And when they do inevitably ask us, he looks to me with wide eyes. I roll mine and proceed to show him how it's done.

"We were at Birdie's," I stab my fork into a green bean on my plate.

My dad scoffs, wiping his mouth with his cloth napkin.

Yes, you read that right. A cloth napkin on a Tuesday night. For whatever reason, my parents insist on doing the absolute most at all times. It's like they think one of their pretentious friends will unexpectedly drop by and be horrified at the sight of us using paper napkins or plates or plastic cutlery.

It's never happened, and it never will.

I'm almost jealous of the state of ignorance they live in together. If my biggest concern in life was that someone would see me using anything less than a cloth napkin, I'd say I was pretty lucky.

The craziest part of it all is that our family isn't overly wealthy enough to be acting this way. Sure, I'd say we're more well off than others, but we're not the Hiltons.

We live in a development neighborhood in Redlake. People aren't knocking on our door asking for autographs.

"The Phan's should just adopt the two of you at this point," he says dryly before sipping on a glass of wine.

I've heard this joke from him before. Many times, actually. It's one of the few things he ever says to either of us, because he doesn't really know us all that well. He only knows a few key things that will make him look good in front of his colleagues, but nothing more than that. If it can't get him notoriety, he doesn't seem to care.

While my mother is cold and calculated, she at least knows me and my brother. She spent more time with us than he ever did, anyways.

Patrick and I just laugh at my father's joke and move on. It's always easier that way.