The Darkest Lie (10 page)

The air turns solid, and no matter how much I gasp and pant, I can't draw a proper breath. I want to run and scream. I want to shout to the world that they have it all wrong. My mother wasn't a slut. She was a victim. She was wronged.

But I still don't have any proof. I still don't have a clear picture of what happened. So I do the only thing I can do: I hit the “print” button.

The call entry is not directed at me. I don't even know what the message means. But dammit, these are my mother's words, and I won't take them for granted, ever again.

I tuck the printout into the front pocket of my backpack, but snippets of the entry continue to circle my brain.

Dear god, it's happened again. Again.
Again
.

What's happened? I'm guessing it has something to do with Lil's explicit photographs and her own. But was my mother involved with an older man, too? Was she also coerced into posing for explicit photos?

At the end of my shift, I gather up my car keys, iced tea, and extra sweatshirt and sling my backpack over my shoulders. I'm just about to leave when Liam comes into the room.

“Oh, hi.” My voice is stiff. I don't mean it to be, but I can't help it. Yesterday, he treated me like he didn't know me. Like we never had a connection. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, come on, CeCe. Don't be mad.” He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, as sheepish as a kid caught sneaking TV past his bedtime. “I'm sorry about yesterday. I shouldn't have been so . . . abrupt.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Abrupt? You couldn't have gotten rid of us fast enough. It's like we were these annoying little gnats disrupting your day.”

“Not
you
. Him. I don't like that guy. Asking all these questions, trying to peer into drawers. He was just so nosy.”

“That's his job! Sam's an intern for the
Lakewood Sun,
and he's writing an article about the hotline.”

“Well, this is my job.” Liam squares his shoulders. Not for the first time, I notice how his muscles stretch out the thermal fabric of his shirt. “I have a duty to protect the privacy of my counselors, and I'm not going to let some bozo come in here and jeopardize it.”

I soften. “I appreciate that. Truly. But that's not Sam's intention, I promise.” Even as I say the words, however, I wonder. Sam threatened to broadcast the call counselor list in order to get a tour of the hotline. What else would he be willing to do to get his story?

“At any rate, I'm sorry.” Liam takes a step closer to me, and the air between us comes alive. Kind of like when I thought somebody was watching me, but different. Better. “I have something for you that I hope will make up for yesterday. A present, you could say.”

Before I can respond, the door squeaks, and a junior boy named Stanley walks into the cabin. He's got the school record for the fastest one-hundred-meter dash, and he's the call counselor for the next shift.

Liam and I say “hello” and “good-bye” to Stan, and then we amble out of the cabin. Outside, the sky shines blue and clear, and a slight breeze keeps the temperature from being too hot. In the distance, I hear the faint song of geese honking. The perfect fall afternoon—bright, sunny, beautiful.

Once upon a time, I believed that nothing could go wrong when the sun kissed your skin just so and the leaves seemed to laugh as they fell from the trees. Now I know better. My mother died on a day just like this one. So instead of tilting up my face to catch the rays, I scan the sky for rain clouds. I've experienced how quickly the weather can change. How absolutely your world can turn inside out.

“How about a drive out to East Rock?” Liam asks as we approach his orange car. “I could show you my favorite spot to sit and think.”

“So long as I get my present,” I say, smiling because both the day and Liam deserve it. It's neither of their faults what shadows lurk in my past.

We drive east out of the town limits, heading toward the hill where families like to go to barbecue and hike. I sneak looks at him, picking up on details I missed when we first met. Like the deliberate, thoughtful way he moves. Or the way his lips quirk, as though he's always laughing. Or the chain hanging around his neck, with a pendant that displays an ancient-looking symbol with wavy swirls and dots. All of these things suggest he's way more than the popular jock I'd initially dismissed.

Eventually, we pull into a clearing at the foot of the hill, a good distance from the picnic tables and well-populated trails my mom, dad, and I used to frequent not even a year ago. Back when we were still a family.

“Come on.” Liam turns off the ignition. “It's a short hike from here, but the view is worth it.”

He takes a package wrapped in brown paper out of his backpack and sticks it in the pocket of his hoodie, the same one I was wearing the other night. My present, I assume. It's about the size of a small stuffed animal. All of a sudden, curiosity hums through me.

“Can't you give it to me now?” I eye the bulge in his hoodie.

“I could.” He walks to my side of the car and opens the door. “But I think I'm going to make you wait.”

I stick my lower lip out. “That's mean.”

“Actually, it's selfish.” He holds out his hand and helps me out of the car. “I want to remember your face when you open it. And I want the backdrop to be as beautiful as you are.”

I flush. A line. It has to be. Someone as good-looking as Liam probably has dozens of lines stashed in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. Yet, when he looks at me like that, I believe he means every single word.

We enter a thicket of trees, where there is a barely visible trail—a path that was created by the tread of feet rather than a machine, with the worst of the bramble shoved to the side. Liam goes first, so that he can hold back low-hanging branches while I pass. I'm wearing torn jeans and dirty sneakers, an old sweatshirt and a loose ponytail, but I feel cherished. Special. I haven't felt this way since I was folded in my mom's arms.

We slowly make our way up, up, up. And then the man-made trail opens into a creek next to the hillside. A thin but constant stream of water runs down the rock wall.

My mouth falls open. “Is that a waterfall?”

“Yep.” Liam beams. “It might be the world's smallest waterfall, but it's the only one I know of in all of Lakewood. Sometimes it's a trickle, and sometimes it's a stream, but it's always here. What do you think?”

“It's perfect,” I say. Just like the sun peeking through a gap in the leaves. Just like—I'm beginning to suspect—the boy in front of me.

And then he takes the package out of his hoodie and hands it to me, and I forget everything else.

Carefully, so I don't rip the brown paper, I unwrap the present. It's a snow globe. Three figurines are inside. The mom and grandma are drinking hot cocoa with their arms linked, while the little girl builds a snowman.

My eyes widen, and it's like someone turned up the volume on my heartbeat. I feel and hear it everywhere—in my ears, at my throat, on my chest. I gave this snow globe to my mother when I was eight years old. On the anniversary of my grandma's death, I caught her sobbing in her bedroom after she thought I was asleep. The next day, I broke open my cupcake bank and asked my dad to take me to the corner store, where I bought the snow globe.

“I don't want you to be sad anymore,” I'd said to my mom when I gave her the globe. “I know you miss your mom, but I want you to know she's still here with you, the way you're with me. You see.” I'd pointed to the mom and grandma under the snow. “You'll always be together, no matter what.”

I haven't seen—nor thought about—this globe in years. If pressed, I would've guessed it was somewhere in the back of my mom's old closet.

“Where . . . where did you get this?” I ask Liam, my heart tight, my mouth dry. All the moisture must have fled to build up in a wet, hot pressure behind my eyes.

“It was in your mother's box,” he says slowly. “The one wrapped in the wallpaper. After our tour yesterday, I went to Mr. Willoughby's house to help him sort through the boxes, and I saw this. Your mom used to keep it on her desk at the hotline, so I knew it was important to her. I stuffed it in my bag when Mr. W. wasn't looking.”

I hug the globe to my chest and blink, blink, blink. There's so much heat inside me, so much condensation that's about to burst into a storm. If only my eight-year-old words were true. If only this globe meant that my mother were with me still.

“Was there anything else in the box?” I manage to say.

“Just a bunch of papers. Hotline documents you wouldn't care about.” He twists his hands together, as if suddenly unsure. “Was this the right thing to do?”

“Yes. A thousand times yes.” The globe digs into my chest, cold and hard. And yet, I don't let go. I don't ever want to let go again. “This is the best thing you could've done for me. Thank you.”

He stares at the tiny waterfall. The sun hits the water just right, and all of sudden, it looks like rays of diamonds are cascading down the rocks. “It belongs with you, not in some moldy old box. Your love for your mother is evident. Even I can see that, and I never even had a mom.” There's a harshness in his voice that might be pain or sorrow. Maybe both.

I'm not sure what to say. Not sure what to do. So I put my hand on his arm, wanting him to feel a fraction of the comfort that his present gave to me.

He looks at my hand for a long moment. “Clearly, I had a biological mother. But she only stayed long enough to give birth to me before taking off. She never wanted a baby, but my dad did. He wanted someone to whom he could pass his life's lessons, a son who wouldn't make the same mistakes he did.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Of course, that meant I was never good enough for him. He died considering me to be a disappointment.”

“Oh, Liam.” I tighten my grip on his arm. “No matter what he may have thought, you're not a disappointment. Not to me, and not to all the people you help at the hotline.” I lick my lips. “You're . . . you're a hero. For giving me back this snow globe. For being a good friend.”

“I'm trying,” he says softly. “I'm trying, in the aftermath of losing my dad, to find myself. But sometimes, the grief is just so large it eats away at everything else. And I can barely remember my name, much less figure out who I'm supposed to be.”

“Yes,” I say, sliding my hand down his arm until our fingers intertwine. “I know exactly what you mean.”

And we stand like that, holding hands, watching the droplets sparkle in the world's smallest waterfall, until the sun drops below the trees.

The next morning, I hunch in a toilet stall, drawing on a piece of paper as if my life depended on it. I thought I could do this. I thought, after everything I've been through, after spending a magical afternoon with Liam by the waterfall, I'd have the strength to face the student body this Monday morning.

Guess not. I spent five minutes giving myself a pep talk in the parking lot. I even came in the school's back doors to minimize contact with the other students. Yet, I beelined for the restroom the moment I crossed the threshold.

The snow globe is at the bottom of my backpack. I wish it could be enough to give me the confidence to walk into school with my head held high. But the printout of my mom's words is also tucked in the front pouch.
Oh dear god, it's happened again.

Damn right it's happening again. Of course,
this
wasn't what she was talking about. Walking into school for the first time after a major scandal. A moment of absolute silence when all eyes descend on you. And then, the whisper-scurry-whisper of the gossip mill cranking its sails. But the feeling underlying her words matches mine: stark terror.

The final bell rings. I'm officially late. My hand relaxes on the pencil, and I stash the drawing in my backpack. At least now, there won't be anyone in the halls to look at me.

I move to the sink, wetting a paper towel and pressing it to my forehead. Rivulets of water slide down my face and drip onto my black tank top. I check the damage in the mirror. Not quite as ugly as streams of black mascara, but close.

The door bangs open, and Mackenzie Myers bursts inside, sparkling like the waterfall I saw yesterday. Jewelry winks from every part of her body—her fingers, wrists, ears, and neck. If I lift her shirt, I'll probably find a belly ring.

“Oh.” Her mouth forms a cartoon circle. “You saw, huh?”

I dry my face with a paper towel. “Saw what?”

“Nothing.” For the first time since kindergarten, when she insisted on playing Goldilocks and forgot her lines, Mackenzie looks like she wants to flee. Instead, she crosses to the mirror and reapplies her lipstick. “I hear you're trying to get in touch with Tommy.”

I flush. Did she talk to him? Or overhear Alisara's amateur sleuthing? Late last night, after I shook the snow globe for the hundredth time and relived my afternoon with Liam for the thousandth, I'd asked Alisara to find out what party he's attending next.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “He won't take my calls. Any other ideas?”

Her hand slips, and the lipstick paints a bloody red line across her cheek. “Like I'd tell you. Why do you want to talk to him?”

“None of your business.”

“Like hell. If you ask him about your mom, if you start digging into the past, sooner or later, it's going to come out—”

She stops and scrubs at the smear on her cheek.

“What's going to come out, Mackenzie?”

She shakes her head. “Bottom line, you don't need to talk to him. Leave the past alone.”

I keep patting my face, although it's long since dried. Mind your own business. Leave the past alone. Different words. Same message. Could Mackenzie be my mysterious texter? “What's my phone number?”

“What?” She shuffles back a couple steps. “Who cares?”

“I'm serious.” I run my eyes over her outfit, trying to figure out where she might hide a cell in those skin-tight pants. “Let me see your phone.”

“Um, no, weirdo. I was going to help you take down the posters because they're blocking our flyers for the literacy auction. But not if you're going to act like a freak show.”

“Posters? What posters?”

My heart taps in my chest, a steady drumbeat that begins to crescendo. Does she mean more hotline flyers doctored with my phone number? She couldn't mean another topless photo of my mom . . . could she?

“I guess you really haven't seen them. Lucky me, I get to be the first to witness your reaction.” She shoves her beauty tools into a makeup bag and crosses to the door. “Coming?”

Taking a deep breath, I follow her out. How bad can it be? I mean, the entire school's already gossiping about my mom. What's one more photo?

We walk down the hallway, and I catch a glimpse of a red-faced, beefy guy rounding the corner. My neck and shoulders tighten, to the point where they might lock up. There's no way that's Justin Blake. He graduated. He has no business here anymore. It's probably just some kid who looks like him. I'm safe here.

And yet, no matter how many times I repeat those lines to myself, I know it's not true. Justin Blake is here, in my high school once again.

I shiver and try to summon the relaxation techniques I learned from the yoga classes to which my mom used to drag me. But who am I kidding? Those techniques have never been a match for Justin.

We reach the corridor in front of the art room, a lightly trafficked wing of the school.

My heart stops. Hundreds of copies of my mom's bare breasts are plastered on every available surface, from the tiled walls to the bulletin boards. A few are even fluttering from the ceiling.

A janitor stands on a stepladder, taking down the flyers. A large pile already lies on the floor next to the ladder.

“There's a copy stuffed into every locker, too,” Mackenzie says helpfully.

I ignore her. Because the photos aren't an exact reproduction of the image Justin was waving Friday night. Even from a distance, I can tell something's different.

I rip a poster off the nearest wall. An anchor lodges at the pit of my stomach, dragging it lower, lower, and even lower still. There's no doubt it's the same picture. But that's not my mother's head on top of the body.

It's mine.