The Darkest Lie (12 page)

My brain shoots into overdrive. Why am I spying on him? Hmmm, good question.

“I'm not?” I say weakly.

Instead of responding, Sam tilts his head and examines my position on the ground, where I'm clearly hiding from someone.

The smell of fresh potting soil perfumes the air, and above us, a bird or some other creature rustles in the leaves. The woman on the motorcycle honks twice—short, light, and friendly—and then drives off.

“You know, CeCe,” he says. “If there's something you're curious about, just ask.”

“Okay, then.” I get to my feet with as much dignity as possible. Which, considering the dirt and dried leaves covering my butt, probably isn't much. “Who was that woman?” I ask and then flush. Now he's going to think I'm really crushing on him. And maybe I am. But he doesn't have to know that.

“Principal Winters isn't keen to have motorcycles on school grounds,” I blabber. “Because, you know, of the fatal accidents and all. And he asked me to tell him if I saw any around. That's why I want to know about the woman. I don't want you to get in trouble. Because we're partners and all.”

Sweat gathers on my forehead. That's about the flimsiest excuse I've ever heard. There's no way he's going to fall for it.

Instead of calling me on the lie, however, he takes a step closer, so that we're both shaded under the tree. “That was my mother.”

My jaw drops. His mother? Oh god. His
mother
. So mysterious texter was kinda right—and also completely, totally off-base. “Oh wow. She, um, doesn't look like a mom.”

“Neither did yours.”

Touché. His mom looks like a biker chick, mine looked like a pinup model—so I guess we're even.

“Why is she picking you up two blocks from the school?” I ask.

“Oh, um . . .” He fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie. “You know how I let Bri have the car most days? Some afternoons, I go to the
Lakewood Sun
office, and that's a little far, even for my scooter. I don't have many friends I can bum a ride from. And I don't want to wear out my welcome with the ones I do have.” He moves his shoulders. “My mom's more than happy to give me a ride, but I don't really want to advertise that in front of the whole school.”

I stare. “But you don't care what other people think. I mean, you stood up to Mackenzie on your very first day, when she was harassing that poor girl with the flyers. You wear pants that are way too short . . .”

“I don't care very much what other people think,” he corrects. “But when they look at you and laugh, it always hurts. No matter how thick your skin is.” He rubs the back of his neck. A yellow leaf flutters by his ear, and for a moment, he looks just like a portrait. My fingers itch for my sketch pad, so I can record this moment and keep it forever.

“People don't laugh at you,” I say. “They're intrigued. The rest of us are carbon copies of each another. Even Mackenzie Myers is a more expensive version of the same old thing.”

“Not you,” he says.

Maybe not anymore. But before my mom's scandal, I fit right in with the Raleighs of Lakewood High. I wore the same clothes, had the same pastimes. Only my mom's suicide made me different.

Up until this moment, I would've said being a carbon copy was a good thing. You don't get made fun of when you're the same as everybody else. But now, with his dark eyes looking into mine, I'm not so sure. Is there a way to be different without being ridiculed?

We walk back to school, our pace slow and meandering. The late afternoon sun slants through the trees, decorating Sam's face with dappled light. The air feels crackly and crisp, and colorful leaves litter the sidewalk.

I suddenly feel bad—more than bad—for not trusting him. It's one thing to keep information from Principal Winters. But this is Sam. My partner and ally. No matter what he threatened to Mr. Willoughby, he hasn't spilled about me being a call counselor yet. And I have a feeling, deep down, that he won't.

Besides, what the posters today have shown me is that my mysterious texter is smart. He—or she—knows right where to strike to make me hurt most. If I'm going to even the playing field, I need Sam on my side.

I take a deep breath and tell Sam everything—about the doctored hotline flyers, the misdialed calls, and the text messages I received. I even tell him about Lil and the last sentence in my mom's call log,
Oh dear god, it's happened again.

I don't have to mention the posters with my Photoshopped head. The way the rumor gale was blowing today, he'd have to be oblivious not to have heard. And newspaper intern Sam is anything but oblivious.

“Do you have a phone number for Lil?” Sam asks. “We need to talk to her again. Maybe your mom told her something.”

I shake my head. “We don't trace a phone number unless we feel the caller is at immediate risk for suicide. We'll just have to wait and see if she calls back.”

“You wait,” he says. “I'll do my own digging.”

I open my mouth to argue, but this is what I signed up for when I became his partner. He's supposed to dig. He's supposed to uncover the truth about my mom's death.

And that's what I want, too. It just feels weird to give him explicit permission to rifle through the pieces of my mom's life.

So I don't. “Your mother must think I'm a total freak, skulking around like that,” I say instead, changing the subject.

“Actually, she'd like to invite you over for dinner tomorrow. She wants to meet you properly.”

“Oh.” I scuff my shoe against the fallen leaves. I've never met a boy's parents before. I mean, sure, I grew up with these kids. Most of the moms worked on the PTA with my mom, and a lot of the dads coached our soccer games. But I've never been invited for
dinner.
“Will your dad be there?”

He doesn't say anything for half a block, and I realize how little I know about him. I made the gut decision to trust him, but I don't know why his family moved to Lakewood. I don't even know if his parents are still together.

“No, he won't be joining us,” Sam finally says when we arrive at the parking lot. “My parents are separated. He still drops in every once in a while, but for the most part, we're trying to keep our lives detached.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Don't be.” His voice is as sharp and cold as icicles. “My father's drunk most of the time and always mean. He's been beating up my mom since I was a little kid. And she's refused to call the cops for just as long.”

A rock forms in my throat. “Oh.”

He turns to me, his eyes glazed. “I told you once that I liked to work out. You didn't ask, but I know it seems strange. A guy like me shouldn't care about muscles. But I started lifting weights a couple years ago, when I was fifteen. I tried to stop my dad from going after my mom, but he tossed me aside like a paper bag. I swore right then and there that the next time he comes after my mom, I'll be ready.”

“Is that how you got the bruise?” I lift my hand in the air next to his arm, where his bruise has faded. I want to touch his skin. My fingers ache with the wanting. But ever since he told me he wanted to kiss me at the bonfire, he hasn't made a single move. I don't know if the timing hasn't been right. I don't know if he was put off by Liam.

Maybe he's simply changed his mind.

“Yeah, that's how I got the bruise,” he says, rubbing his bicep. “We've gotten into a few scuffles, but nothing major. I think he realizes I'm big enough now that neither of us would escape a full-out fight without major injuries. But one of these days, he'll be so drunk it won't matter.”

I curl my fingers into a fist. “I don't want you to get hurt, Sam.”

“So long as my mom and sister are safe. That's all I ask.”

We arrive at my car. A few students linger in the parking lot, and I can't resist any longer. I bring my hand to cup his cheek, and he covers it with his own hand. The warmth spreads through me like the sun seeping into a stone.

“Bullies think they're all powerful, but they're not,” he whispers. “They derive their power from others being weak. They count on us not standing up for ourselves. Not standing up for each other. But the second we fight back, they lose their power.”

“Is that why you helped the girl with the striped tights?” I ask. “Why you want to be an investigative reporter? So you can stand up for the vulnerable?”

He steps closer, and the tips of his sneakers bump into mine. I never thought of canvas and synthetic material as good conductors. But the heat zips through me with the speed of an electric current. “I couldn't do anything for my mom for a long time. And I never want to feel that helpless again.” He takes another step, and now my shoes are nestled in between his. “I don't want anyone else to feel like that, either. Least of all you.”

I look up, and his glasses, his freckles, his mouth are looming above me. And they're getting nearer. And nearer.

My heart tries to punch a hole in my chest, and my breath gets stuck in my windpipe. This is it. The kiss I've been waiting for. I don't know if he actually dreamed about the kiss, but I certainly did.

I close my eyes and lift my lips . . .

And then a horn blares right next to me.

The Mustang pulls out of the parking space and speeds out of the lot. The air whooshes out of me. I count at least five people in the parking lot. More than I thought. Closer than I thought. They're not looking at us, at least not anymore, but they could be.

I try to curve my lips into a smile. “There's a lot of people here.” My voice is thick and cloudy, like honey that's crystallized in the bottle. “Come on. I'll take you to the
Lakewood Sun
.”

He clasps my hand and pulls it to his chest. “I don't care about those other people.”

“Yeah. But I do.”

“Why, CeCe? Why does it matter?”

I wish I had an answer for him. But then, I wish a lot of things. I wish I could back him into the car and press my lips against his. I wish I could say to hell with everyone and what they think. I wish my mom hadn't died.

“You shouldn't care what people think, CeCe. The only person who can make their opinions matter is you.” When I don't respond, his hand tightens on mine. “Is this about that guy, Liam? The one who let you borrow his hoodie?”

“No, of course not.” Images flash through my mind—a trickling waterfall, a snow globe with three figures inside, and a boy who smiled at me like I was the only girl in the world. I held Liam's hand, but we didn't kiss. We didn't cross any other lines. “Liam and I are just friends.” At this moment, I believe that it's true.

“I did research on him,” Sam says, a note of jealousy in his voice. One I've never heard before, and one—dare I say it?—that makes me smile. “You know he's a little strange, right? Keeps to himself a lot. All he does is go to the community college and work at the hotline.”

“I don't want to talk about Liam.” I tell myself it's not because I feel guilty. I tell myself it's because I want to focus on right here, right now. And so I spread my palm against Sam's chest. His heart thump-thump-thumps against my hand. “I want to talk about us. And I want you to know that you can always bum a ride off me. Not just today, but whenever you need one.”

“I will.” He grins, and my insides flip-flop.

Because we both know that I'm not just talking about bumming rides. What I'm referring to, exactly, I'm not sure. But I can't wait to find out.

After I drop Sam off, my stomach's all glowy and melty, kind of like the time I ate the chocolate topped with edible gold flakes Gram brought back from a Kansas City casino.

Unfortunately, the feeling only lasts about two seconds.

The “suspense” tone on my phone sounds as I'm driving home. I clench my teeth and ignore it. Since the flyers with my phone number have been taken down, I've received fewer unknown calls, but they're still coming. They're still either misdi-als or a breathing so heavy it makes my stomach curl. Nothing has been said other than “wrong number”—but it's almost more ominous that way. My imagination fills in the blanks with a dozen different potential threats.

That's probably what my texter intends.

I think about what Sam said about bullies. My texter counts on me crawling back into my shell. Quitting the hotline. Doing anything and everything he or she asks because I'm terrified of what will happen next.

But there's my mom to think about. And Lil. My mom helped her leave a guy who exploited her. What if there are others like her?

Oh god, it's happened again
.

I can't walk away. Not when I can make a difference. I haven't been able to stand up for myself recently. But maybe for others, for Lil and girls like her, I can be a little bit brave.

When I arrive home, Dad and Gram are sitting in the kitchen. Both of them, in the middle of the afternoon, drinking tea out of two of Gram's gambling mugs. This can't be good.

As soon as she sees me, Gram stands and takes her mug to the sink. “Don't lose your temper,” she says to both of us. “Remember, in poker as in life, when you lose your head, you lose your money.”

She leaves the room, and I try to smile. “For lunch, I had a pita pocket with hummus and some carrot sticks?” I say hopefully.

My dad doesn't laugh, much less excuse me from the conversation. “Principal Winters called. I left a room half-painted so I could come home and talk to you. When were you going to tell me about your mom's topless photo?”

I sink into the wicker chair across from him, and he picks up his mug, which features a group of dogs playing poker. A pink, polka-dotted book that looks vaguely familiar sits on the table in front of him.

“When was I supposed to tell you?” I mutter. “You spent the entire weekend in the den or at the cemetery. I never got the chance.”

“That's an excuse. You could've found time. But you never planned to tell me, did you? Just like the posters that were put up at school today. If Principal Winters hadn't called me, I never would've known about those, either.”

“I didn't think you would care.” My eyes burn, but I'm not going to cry, dammit. Not when I'm stating a fact. Not when I'm saying something we both already know.

He winces, as if the poker-playing dogs have urinated in his tea. “Your mother was the one who always handled these things.”

And she did. Whether it was explaining where babies come from, or mopping up my tears because the boy I liked asked another girl to the school dance, it was my mother who sat by my bedside. My mother who listened to my feelings and offered advice.

“Well, she's not here anymore, is she?” The words come out harsher than I intend.

He thunks his mug down on the polka-dot cover, and I remember all of a sudden what the book is. My baby keepsake journal. Except it's more than that. Because my mother continued to tuck bits of paper into it over the years. My first drawings, report cards, essays I wrote in school.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask.

“Oh.” He pushes the book away, red tingeing his cheeks. “I . . . I don't have any idea how to do this. Raise a teenaged girl by myself. And your Gram said she always researches the other players to figure out her best move.” He lifts his shoulders. “I guess I was trying to understand who you are.”

“From a baby book?” I don't know whether to laugh or cry. “Dad, these are just stats. A few random photos. You can't get to know me any more than you can learn about a baseball star from his playing cards.”

“This is all I have.” His voice is stark, honest—and helpless. As helpless as I feel when I think about my texter. As helpless as we've both been since my mother left us.

The knowledge my dad is looking for is built from years of conversations, thousands of small moments. Something he can't hope to replicate now. So where does that leave him? Where does it leave us?

“You wrote a report in the first grade.” He traces his hand along the binding, not looking at me. “You were supposed to write about one of your heroes, and you chose me. Do you remember?”

I shake my head.

“We'd found a family of rabbits in our backyard, and one of them had a hurt paw. I built a house for them out of scraps of wood and wrapped gauze around the rabbit's foot. I even jiggered up a feeding system. It made quite an impression on you.” He taps the book. “It's all in here.”

Now that he mentions it, I do remember the rabbits. “Yeah. So?”

He looks up, his eyes glossy. I can see the reflection of the chandelier in their sheen. “It's been a long time since anybody's considered me a hero, at anything. Especially you. I was thinking. . .” He stops, as if he has to peel the words from his throat. “I was thinking, if your mother were still alive, she wouldn't be proud of me.”

“Oh Dad.” I swallow, and swallow again, but no matter what I do, I can't push away the lump. Like Gram, I've been gambling, too. Betting the lump remains benign. But one day, when I least expect, it'll turn malignant. “She wouldn't be proud of me, either.”

For not standing up for myself against the bullies. For allowing rage to blot out seventeen years of her love. But most of all, for not being a good daughter.

Sure, I cook my dad dinner. I do his laundry. But I haven't done a damn thing to ease his pain. I know it's hard for him to talk about his emotions. I know his way of showing he cares is asking me if I've eaten.

But do I make things easier for him? Do I ever initiate conversation, volunteer any details about my day? No. I just wait, closemouthed, for his lead, and when he doesn't take it, I feel justified in feeling sorry for myself.

My mother wouldn't have approved. She wouldn't have approved at all.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Mom's photo.” I lick my lips, hesitating. “Did you . . . know about it before?”

“No,” he whispers. “This was the first I ever heard of its existence.”

“Not a fun way to find out, is it?”

“I've gotten better news.” A strained expression flits across his face, and he leans forward. He's trying. We both are. “How was school? Principal Winters told me about the Photoshopped image. Were the kids . . . mean?”

“No meaner than usual.”

“CeCe . . .”

I hold my breath. “Yes, Dad?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Not the words I want to hear. The words I haven't heard since my mother died.
I love you, CeCe.
So simple. So easy. And yet, it's too much, too soon. My dad presses his lips together.

“The school says they're going to look into the posters,” he finally says. “They're going to figure out who's behind this. In the meantime, Gram's taking me to her poker game tonight. She says it's better than me sitting in the den, counting the carpet fibers. Will you be okay on your own?”

I nod. In her own way, Gram is trying, too.

“What will you eat?” he asks, and I know no matter how far we get, he will always ask me that question. But that's okay. Because it's much better that he's here, asking me something, than not being here at all.

“We have some leftover enchiladas. I'll heat up a plate.”

He leaves the room. I hear him and Gram talking, collecting their things, putting on their shoes. A few minutes later, they call “good-bye” to me and go out the front door.

I continue to sit at the table, swirling the tea bag in my dad's mug.
Explore something that you normally overlook in your daily life,
the Parsons Challenge instructed.

I thought the obvious “thing” was memories of my mother. But those memories aren't so much overlooked as deliberately ignored. What I've overlooked in the last few months—what I've
forgotten
—is the girl I used to be. The one who displayed her artwork bravely. The one who never would've allowed Mackenzie to bully the striped-tights girl. The one of whom my mother would've been proud.

It's a good thing I'm not applying to Parsons. How on earth would I explore that in a set of drawings?

But even as I think it, I get some ideas. I pull the snow globe out of my backpack and put it on the table in front of me, so I can look at it as I work. I grab a pen and the closest drawing surface—a paper towel—and start scribbling.

I'm on my third idea and third paper towel when my phone pings.

No. I don't want to look at it. Not now. Not ever again.

I shove the phone under the pink, polka-dotted keepsake book, but it pings again. I turn back to my paper towel, but I can't concentrate.

The edge of my phone sticks out under the book, teasing me, taunting me.
You know you want to read the message,
it seems to say.
You know you—

I snatch up the phone. Nothing good can come out of this text, but I have to see. I have to know how bad it is.

Except it's not a written message this time, but an attached photo.

A girl cradles a phone against her ear, her hair swept in a ponytail. One hand wraps the spiral phone cord around her finger, while the other fiddles with the collar of a raggedy sweatshirt. A very familiar sweatshirt.

It's a counselor working at the crisis hotline. More precisely, it's me. Taken yesterday, during my Sunday shift. When I thought I was alone.

The chill begins in my stomach and spreads outward, until my limbs feel as brittle as icicles. One hard slap, and I'll shatter to pieces.

I can't believe it. Someone actually is watching me.