The Darkest Lie (11 page)

Somewhere in the building, a door must have opened. The posters on the floor fly into the air, whirling as if caught in a tornado. The janitor leaps off the stepladder and grabs the papers.

Caught in a tornado. That's exactly how I feel—swept up, turned upside down, holding on for dear life. Or what's left of it, anyway.

“That's not me,” I say to Mackenzie, my voice as hollow as the rest of me. The janitor looks at us, and then, as if recognizing my face, hurriedly climbs the ladder. “I mean, that's my yearbook picture, but that's not my body.”

I step forward, because that's what you're supposed to do when you make a strong declaration. But my knees give out, and I stumble.

My archenemy catches me, the metal of her rings biting into my elbows. “I know. It's obvious someone Photoshopped your head onto the original image. Just be glad everyone's been staring at your mom's picture all weekend. I don't think anybody thinks it's actually you.”

“Photoshop,” I whisper, my mind following the rest of me into the tornado.

“Exactly.” She lets go of me. “Wasn't that what the new guy was ranting about at the bonfire? Putting your mom's face on some other body? Maybe he did it.”

“No.” Not Sam. We're partners now. On the same team. There's no way he could've done this to me. “It was probably Justin. He's pissed at me for embarrassing him at the bonfire. This is his revenge.”

“Impossible. Justin's not even in town. He's at a retreat with the wrestling team this week, in preparation for the collegiate season.”

I stare at her. “But I saw him. Just now, going around the corner.”

She shakes her head and grins slyly. “No way. I saw him off myself, with an extra kiss for luck.”

So Mackenzie and Justin are a couple now? More likely, given Mackenzie's continued obsession with Tommy, they're just hooking up. I suppose it doesn't surprise me. They're only my two favorite people in the world.

“He could've had help,” I say, wondering if I'm going crazy. If I'm seeing things—and people—that aren't there. “Maybe it was you.”

“Now you're really grasping.” She shoves a poster into my hands. “Everyone knows I can barely turn on a computer. I wouldn't have any idea how to do this.”

I crumble up the paper, even though I'll never be able to destroy them all.

“You just don't want it to be Sam,” she says accusingly. “You're crushing on High-Water Freak, and you can't bear the thought that it's probably him.”

“It's not Sam.”

She continues as if I haven't spoken. “Who could be out to get you?”

Justin Blake. It has to be. He's the only enemy I have. But even as I think the words, I know it's not true. I have another enemy now: my mysterious texter.
Mind your own business,
he or she said.
Or you're next.

Could Justin be sending me these text messages? But his harassment was always personal and always about me. Why should he care if I'm digging into the past?

Unless he knows something I don't. Something Tommy was desperate to tell me. Something I deserved to know.

“Be careful who you fall in love with, CeCe.” Mackenzie's voice softens in a way I've never heard. “I fell in love with Tommy, and look what happened to me.”

She yanks down a poster with so much force the paper tears in half. The janitor shoots her a nervous look and slides his stepladder down the hall. She grabs another one and repeats the process. Rip, rip, rip. Slash, slash, slash.
That's me,
I want to remind her.
Not Tommy.

I move next to her, with the intention of helping. But the face from my yearbook picture looms over me. My smile is forced, my eyes shuttered. I had gone straight to the photo session from gym class, where Justin had wrapped a rope around his waist, waggling the extra length at me. “Come and get it, CeCe,” he whispered across the aisle. “You know you want me.”

And now, that same face is sitting on top of a naked body. My mother's very voluptuous, very provocative body.

“Mackenzie, I . . .” I clap a hand over my mouth, not sure which one's coming first, the tears or the vomit. Not sure which I'd prefer.

“Um, ew,” she says. “Get out of here before you puke on my Manolo Blahnik sandals. These are real snakeskin, you know.”

She doesn't have to tell me twice. I race back to the restrooms. Only this time, I don't know when I'll be brave enough to come out again.

* * *

The first text comes while my head is hanging over the toilet.

I ignore the ping at first. Not hard when you're staring at the concave interior of a toilet bowl. But the phone pings again, insistently, so I rock back onto the linoleum and swipe the sweaty hair off my forehead.

Maybe it's a concerned message from Alisara. Or an annoyed “get your butt out here and help me” missive from Mackenzie. Or words of support from Sam or Liam. I'd be happy to hear from either right now.

But deep down in the pit of my stomach, I know it's none of those things. Because I haven't heard from my mysterious texter since Friday night, and he'll want to know what I think of his latest masterpiece. Or maybe it's a she. An adult or a kid. It could be anybody, really. I tried every “reverse phone lookup” search on the Internet, and the most information I could find was that the number was linked to a disposable cell phone.

Taking a deep breath, I bring the screen to my nose and read:

Beautiful, asshole. A real piece of art. I'm thinking of including it in my portfolio for Parsons, if I ever apply.

But he's not finished.

The walls feel too tight. The stall's open at the top and bottom, but I can't draw enough air. I lurch to my feet, and the toilets, sinks, and mirrors bleed together.

At that moment, the intercom in the hallway blares: “Cecilia Brooks, if you are in this building, please report to the main office at once. I repeat, Cecilia Brooks, report to the main office.”

I press my hands to my temples. I can't stay here, anyway. I came for privacy, but I'm not alone anymore. My mysterious texter has found me.

I make my way to the main office. The halls are empty. Not even a glimpse of the janitor or the flyers.

When I enter the office, Ms. Hughes, our school secretary, is typing on a keyboard with the tips of her French manicure. “Cecilia!” Her nails slip into the crevices between the keys. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Bob's finally gotten all the posters down. There's a bunch of sticky tape all over the place, but it's clear now.” She clucks her tongue. “My word, I've worked at this school ten years, and I never would've thought I'd see child pornography plastering our hallways. Principal Winters is in a meeting, but he wants you to wait right here until we can call the police and get this straightened out.”

My pulse jumps. No. Not the police. They didn't help my mother, and they aren't going to help me. On top of everything else, I don't think I can handle their relentless interrogation and condescension today. I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask? I just want to curl into a ball and be miserable all by myself.

“You don't have to call the police,” I manage to say. That's it. Don't sound devastated or destroyed. This kind of thing happens all the time. At least, to people like me. “The picture's fake. You see, they just put my head on another photo. So it's not child porn. It's just a prank. Nothing more.”

She frowns. “Are you sure?”

I sigh. “Ms. Hughes, I think I would know if I posed for that photo. Besides, all you have to do is look at the neck. The lines don't match up.”

She slips on a pair of glasses and squints at a copy she just happens to have at her desk. Oh dear lord. These posters are everywhere. The linoleum tile might as well open up and swallow me now.

“I can see what you mean,” she says finally. “I guess we don't need to get the police involved. At least not yet.”

Oh, thank goodness—

“But Principal Winters will still want to see you after school,” she continues, before the relief can fully settle on my shoulders. “To discuss what you know about the posters.”

“I don't know
anything
—”

She blinks. “You're not under investigation, hon. But whoever did this has violated our student code of conduct, and we need to get to the bottom of it so we can take the proper disciplinary measures.”

Now? You're going to take action now? What about last year, when Tommy Farrow's pals whispered obscenities under their breath every time I walked past? Why didn't you do anything then?

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. Clearly, they couldn't address an issue they didn't know about—and I never made a single report. I'm not sure why. There are plenty of people at this school—my mom's former colleagues, my old teachers—who would leap to my defense. But hearing the whispered innuendos made me feel dirty enough. The thought of repeating the words out loud, of having them written down in my file, is more than I can bear.

“You poor dear. What a morning.” She pats her white-blond hair, wrapped in its usual bun, and offers me a purple lollipop. “Here. I know you seniors think you're too sophisticated for a sweet treat, but I say you could always use a pick-me-up, no matter how old you are.”

“No thanks, Ms. Hughes. My stomach's a little unsettled.” I can't imagine why.

She fusses over me for a few more minutes and then signs my tardy slip with a flower-tipped pen. Forcing a smile on my face, I thank her. I haven't gone five steps from the main office when my phone pings again.

And forget about my mom's secrets? Pretend I never took that phone call from Lil? Not a chance.

I wander back to the art room corridor. As Ms. Hughes warned, tape litters the walls, and strips of paper gather in the corners, casualties from Mackenzie's assault. A freshman girl takes one look at me and tucks her chin deep into her textbooks, as if nudity were a disease.

I lift my phone and text back:

Long minutes pass. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Did I make matters worse? Maybe I shouldn't have responded. Maybe harassers are like terrorists, and you're never supposed to engage them. Maybe all I've done is provoke him. It's got to be a “him,” right? Probably Justin Blake. But then, Mackenzie's face drifts into my vision, and I'm not so sure....

And then, my phone pings again.

And then, an instant later:
I'm surprised at you, Cecilia, associating with this boy. What will people think?

Every hair on my arms stands up. I hadn't heard anything about Sam's older woman, but this isn't some random harasser. Is Justin Blake perceptive enough to see my deepest fear?
What will people think?

I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. My classmates already think the worst. My reputation has hit rock bottom. Can it sink any lower?

Apparently.

When I walk into my next-period classroom, every head swivels to stare at me. No, not
me
. Not my eyes, not my face. Twenty-two pairs of eyes bore into my chest.

Even Mr. Swift, the photography instructor and my study hall teacher, gives me a sympathetic look before holding out his hand for my tardy pass.

I pass it over, the bile rising up my throat. So even my teachers have seen—or at least heard about—the poster.

I hunch my shoulders and hurry to my seat, breathing deeply through my mouth. The ceiling fan whirls overhead, but it does nothing to cool my flushed neck, cheeks, and eyes. I've been disintegrating, little by little, and this might be the last puff of air that scatters my ashes to the winds.

Ping.

“Cecilia, I'm only trying to help,” Principal Winters says, tapping his fingers together. “But I can't do that if you don't tell me everything you know.”

I can't take my eyes from his hands. Blunt-cut nails. A faded circle of white where his wedding ring used to be. Fingers long, lean, and powerful, just like the rest of him. If you like the type.

I guess his ex-wife, our former school nurse, didn't.

Officially, she was let go because of budget cuts. Unofficially, the entire school knew she was sleeping around on her husband. My mom's affair may have been the biggest scandal to hit Lakewood High, but it certainly wasn't the first.

“I already told you.” I shift in the hard chair. It matches the mahogany decor of the rest of the office, but I'm certain this piece of furniture's only here to make students squirm. “I have no idea who's behind the photos.”

Oh, I have some idea. Clearly, my texter had something to do with it. But if I share that with Principal Winters, he'll make me stop volunteering at the hotline.

And I can't do that, not when I'm on the verge of getting answers to questions I didn't even know to ask until last week. Questions I should've had from the beginning—but didn't.

Principal Winters wrinkles his nose, as if the smell of leather is finally getting to him. The whole office reeks of it. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a special cologne made so he could bathe in the stuff.

Abruptly, he stands and strides to the bookcase. He faces the bound volumes—leather, of course—as though he were gazing out the window.

“I care about all my students,” he says. “But I feel a special responsibility toward you, Cecilia. I remember when you used to come in during your mom's work hour after school. You were such a serious child, quiet, always with your nose in a book. Your mother said it didn't make sense to hire a babysitter for only an hour, but I could tell she just liked having you around. She could never walk by you without stroking your hair or squeezing your arm.”

Hot, stinging liquid rises inside me, flooding my throat and pushing against my eyes. I blink and look down. See, this is another reason why I never reported the harassment. Because then I'd have to listen to a well-meaning authority figure reminisce about my mom.

“She was also totally absent-minded, did you know that?” I say. “One time, she came to school wearing one navy pump and one black pump. Another time, she burned the sleeve of her blouse because she was daydreaming and had to keep on her jacket all day.”

These stories are supposed to cut Principal Winters down. To show him my mom wasn't some paragon to put on a pedestal. The circumstances of her death prove that. And yet, the memory of the iron-shaped mark on her white silk blouse makes me want to cry even more.

He studies me. I struggle to sit still, but the chair, dammit! It practically begs me to wiggle.

“I want you to know, you're not alone,” he says. “Tabitha was very much a part of the family here at Lakewood High, and we look out for one another. When Tommy Farrow came forward with his accusation, I didn't automatically condemn your mother. Did you know that? She told me there was more to the story, and I believed her. We were about to start an investigation into Tommy's claims, but one day later, Tabitha was dead. Out of respect for your father, we felt there was no point in bringing the detail of her philandering to light.

“But don't think for a moment that we've forgotten you. I've had my eye on you these last few months, Cecilia. So even when you think you're alone, even when you think no one's watching, we are.”

A shiver skates across my spine. I know he means his words to be comforting. But after the too-intimate messages from my mysterious texter? I don't like the idea of anybody watching me.

The books loom over me, the stink of leather threatening to suffocate me. “Can I go now?”

We look at each other. I could be staring into a mirror. His eyes are as raw and weary as my own. The eyes of someone who's lived through scandal.

“Yes, we're done here.” He chews the inside of his cheek, as if debating whether to continue. “But please let me know if you learn anything regarding the posters. I give you my word we'll take care of you. Just like we took care of your mother.”

* * *

I wade down the hallway as if I'm moving through a murky swamp. A group of girls with bulky kneepads dash into the gym, and a couple makes out by the lockers. At least, I think they're making out. I can't see the girl's upper body, which has disappeared inside the locker, but what else could they be doing, with their pelvises pressed together?

BAM!

I crash into someone, and my stuff goes flying. Notebooks, pens, my snow globe, and the contents of my lunch rain down on us like a violent hailstorm.

“Oh god, I'm sorry!” a girl wails. “I've been wanting to meet you, but my brother's going to kill me if he finds out it happened like this.”

I press a hand against my forehead. When my vision clears, I see wild black hair, a cute, upturned nose, and a smattering of freckles. Sam's freckles.

“Briony?” I guess.

She grins, showing me nearly every one of her straight, white teeth. “Sam's told you about me?”

“A little.”

“Well, he talks about you all the time. You'd think we didn't have girls at our old school or something.”

I sink to my knees and pick up the snow globe. Thank god the glass hasn't cracked. I give it a shake and watch the flakes fall down on the grandmother, mother, and daughter once again.

I haven't seen Sam all day, since I missed first period. More importantly, I haven't seen him since my topless photos were plastered across the corridor. He's not going to judge me. At least, I don't think. But my texter's words drift through my mind, and I wonder how well I really know Sam.

“What does Sam say?” I stick the snow globe back into my backpack, where it will be safe. “That we're working together on his hotline article?”

“He mentioned that. But mostly, he talks about how he'd like to see your drawings. Apparently, you used to win a whole bunch of contests? He said he found mentions of them in back issues of the
Lakewood Sun,
but then, news of your artwork just ... stopped.”

The notebook slides from my fingers. Sam knows about my drawings? My artwork has disappeared from my public life so completely I doubt even Alisara remembers I used to spend all my spare time hunched over a piece of paper.

Before, I had a thick skin when it came to my art. I put my heart into every piece of work and flung it out there for the public to judge.
This is me
, my artwork screamed.
Make of it what you will
.

Ha. So earnest and idealistic, it makes me want to puke. That was before I knew what real judgment was like. Before I had to suffer through Justin Blake's innuendos every morning. Before photos of “my” naked breasts waved from the ceiling.

Briony collects the rest of my possessions. An apple from my lunch, which rolled under the water fountain. Some Post-it notes in a far-flung spot down the hall. And even my cell phone, which flew around the corner.

By the time she returns, I've arranged my face into a blank canvas. “Does Sam always research his friends so thoroughly?”

“No,” she says, handing me the phone, apple, and Post-it notes. “Just the ones he likes.”

“And, uh, what about motorcycles? Does he often ride off with friends on motorcycles?”

She gives me a mystified look. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I flush and thrust the apple at her. “Here. Do you want to eat this? It's only a little bit bruised.”

“Sure. I missed lunch today.” She takes a huge bite. “Oh, and if you're looking for my brother, he just left. You should be able to catch him if you hurry.”

I thank her and walk away, although I have no intention of catching him. Unless “catching” is code for “stalking.”

I burst out the front door and see Sam loping across the parking lot, a backpack slung over his shoulder. I count to ten and follow at a safe distance.

He's my partner,
I remind myself.
We're a team.
I trusted him enough to tell him I'm volunteering at the hotline. Maybe I should trust him with this. And yet . . . if he's involved with an older woman? I need to know.

He weaves through the cars to the far side of the lot. Once, he glances over his shoulder. The sun glints off his glasses, and I drop onto the pavement behind a beat-up VW Bug, scraping my palms.

This is it. He saw me. How am I going to explain what I'm doing?

But seconds pass, and nobody comes. Cautiously, I peek over the hood of the Bug. The cream paint curls back in ribbons and flakes off where I brush against the car. From the next parking spot, Howie Dorment from physics class stares at me. Any other time, I would've fretted over what he must think. Now, I'm too busy keeping track of Sam as he disappears behind a tree.

I scoot out from behind the car. Sam reappears and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He walks a block away from school. And then two blocks. Is he going to walk all the way home? Am I going to follow him that far?

Just as I'm about to abandon my tail, a motorcycle roars up. Bleached blond hair flows underneath the helmet, and the rider is clad entirely in black leather. I can't tell her age, but no student at Lakewood High dresses like that.

The adrenaline flees my body, and I duck behind a tree, my arms and shoulders drooping. So my texter was right. Deep down, I didn't really believe it. Never imagined Sam could be another Tommy Farrow. But the evidence is right here in front of me.

Sam picks up the second helmet, but instead of putting it on, he leans over and whispers something in the woman's ear. She says something back. He nods and looks directly at my tree. No, not the tree. At
me
.

And then he walks over to where I'm crouching. “CeCe? Why are you spying on me?”