The Darkest Lie (23 page)

I don't go to school. I don't draw. I don't even do my dad's laundry. Gram's on her trip to Vegas, and my dad floats between his job, the cemetery, and the den. If he notices there's no dinner on the table, he doesn't complain. For once, I can't bring myself to care. I lie around in my pajamas and eat cereal out of the box and take that bath I wanted.

But I don't cry. Somehow, it seems indulgent to cry when I brought this on myself.

After the first day, Alisara calls. I don't answer. The second morning, a stuffed dog with floppy ears and ridiculous spots arrives at my house. A balloon tied to his wrist proclaims, “Fly away with me.”

I read the message from Alisara—“Call me!!!”—and hug the puppy close. My chest burns. It's like the unshed tears are piling up. As they cram tighter, their temperature increases. At some point, the tears will boil over. But not yet.

I send Alisara a quick text to thank her, but I don't call. The moment she hears my voice, she'll come over and take up vigil by my bedside. But I don't deserve that. Nobody died. The only thing I'm mourning is my own stupidity.

The only time I rouse myself is to call Liam at the hotline. I leave a message at the administrative number, telling him to assign my shifts to somebody else. He calls me back immediately.

“I'm leaving the hotline,” I say, my voice echoing back at me, dull and colorless.

For a moment, all I hear is the honk-honk-honk of the crazy geese on the lake. “Did something happen?” Liam asks quietly.

“Yes.” My voice cracks, and colors begin to leak back in. Except they're the colors nobody wants. Mud-puddle browns and rainy-day grays. The crayons that remain pristine in the box while every other stick is used-up and broken. “I almost accused someone of something really bad. But I was wrong. My judgment was off. I have no business counseling other people. I'm really sorry, Liam. I thought I could do this, but I can't. It would be better for everyone if I stopped involving myself in other people's lives.”

“I'm here for you, CeCe,” he says. “If you ever need to talk, if you need anything at all, just say the word. Let me help you. Please.”

It's tempting, so tempting. Liam isn't Sam. He doesn't make me laugh the way Sam does. He doesn't electrify a room with his passion and personality. But maybe that's good. I was never able to show Sam the darker parts of myself, not the way I could with Liam. I was afraid he wouldn't accept me. I thought he was too good.

Turns out, Sam's goodness was nothing but a lie. Nothing but one more deception to add to my collection of betrayals.

Liam hasn't lied to me. I appreciate his kindness and understanding so much. Maybe someday, I'll be able to show him how much. But at the moment, I'm just too worn down to trust anyone else.

“Not today,” I say. “I need to be by myself. When I'm ready for company, you'll be the first to know. But right now, I just . . . can't.”

He gives me his personal cell number, and I dutifully jot it down.

And then I go to bed. And I stay there. Because with my last act—quitting the hotline—my texter has won. He got exactly what he wanted. Me, back in my turtle shell. Where I belong.

* * *

On the third day, Gram comes home. She bursts into my room, shopping bags in her hands and pockets bulging with casino chips. I haven't brushed my hair for days. Empty cereal boxes lay strewn across the carpet, and my shades are drawn tighter than the curtains inside a hearse.

“Good lord, girl!” she says. “I haven't even been gone a week. Did something die in here?”

I shake my head and clutch the spotted dog closer to my body.

“Where's your father?” She drops the bags and strides around the room, snapping open the shades. The late evening sun streams through the window, and I squint. “Have you seen him today?”

I don't answer, but she doesn't expect me to. This is our pattern, after all. She asks questions; I nod and pretend she cares. And then we can both go away believing she's done her duty.

“I've got something for you.” She empties her pockets and holds out two handfuls of casino chips. “It was a good week, CeCe. A real good week. You can add these to your bank account.”

For some reason, the pile of chips is my undoing. I launch myself at Gram and burst into tears.

“CeCe, I . . .” The chips spill onto my bed. She doesn't embrace me, exactly, but I can feel her hands hovering above me, as if she's not sure what to do with them. Finally, they land, butterfly-light, in the middle of my back.

That tentative touch releases the words I've been hoarding. “I can't do this anymore,” I sob. “I tried to do what's right, but I don't know who to trust. I don't know who's telling the truth. I don't know anything anymore.”

She strokes my hair more certainly. “We can only do our best, child.”

“But my best isn't good enough. I screwed up so badly, Gram. I almost ruined someone's life.”

“But you didn't, did you?”

“No,” I whisper. “I almost accused someone falsely. But I didn't. I realized my mistake before it was too late.”

“It happens, child. I almost ruined someone's life, too. But we have to keep striving forward, because there's always the chance we'll rectify our past.”

I lift my head. Her designer blouse is splotchy with my tears. “What do you mean? Whose life did you ruin?”

She sighs and removes her chunky gold earrings. Without the baubles, her earlobes look long, stretched-out. Old. “It can be hard to attribute the way a person turns out to any one event, but I see life as a string of dominoes. A single tile can set off a chain of events that leads to the present. I believe I was that tile for your father.

“You've heard me say I'm not cut out for children. I thought my big mistake was deciding to keep the baby.” She rubs her ears, as if erasing the red marks can rewind the years of her life. “But I know now that wasn't the mistake. My mistake was not raising him properly. If I'd been a better parent, maybe he would've had a clearer idea how to handle you. Maybe he would've understood he needed to keep a piece of his heart intact, if not for himself, then for his teenage daughter. Instead, he completely fell apart when your mother passed.”

My eyes strain against my swollen eyelids. “It's not his fault, Gram. He loved her. We all did.”

“And I don't want you to think for one second I'm belittling their love. It was, and still is, beautiful to see.” She attempts—and fails—to finger-comb my bramble of hair. “But she's gone now, and you're still here. You need him, not the other way around. That's why I moved here. Sure, it disrupted my career. It meant living in this nowhere town in the sticks. But it was my shot to make up, in a small way, for my failures with your father. I may not be doing such a bang-up job, but I'm trying, CeCe. By god, I'm trying.”

“Oh, Gram.” I move toward her, and this time, she lifts her arms immediately to embrace me.

“And my next job,” she says, “is to make you go to school tomorrow.”

I stiffen, and she laughs. “Don't act so shocked. Your father may not know how to talk to you, but he does notice when you skip school three days in a row. He's trying, too, the best way he knows how.”

“I don't want to go. I can't face . . . him,” I mumble into her shoulder. But even as I say the words, I'm not sure who I mean. Mr. Willoughby. Or Sam. Maybe both. The article comes out tomorrow. Whatever information Sam decides to print will be laid out for the world to see. And I have Mr. Willoughby for first period. I wouldn't mind never meeting his eyes, ever again.

“It's always a boy, isn't it? Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. Maybe someday, I'll be able to confide in her. Someday, it won't hurt so much and I'll be able to tell her everything. But not now.

“Well, I'm sorry, kiddo.” She kisses my forehead, something she never does because it wrecks her lipstick. “Life's not easy, but you still have to live it. Maybe, like me, you'll get the chance to fix your mistakes. But that's not going to happen if you stay in bed.”

She pulls me to my feet. “Come on. Alisara called me with your assignments, and the janitor's waiting at school to let you into your locker.”

I gape at her. “You want me to do my homework while I'm in the middle of a crisis?”

She gives me the fierce don't-mess-with-me look she usually saves for the poker tables. “I certainly do. And while you're at it, here.” She pulls a manila folder out of one of her shopping bags.

I take the folder. “What is it?”

“An application to Parsons.” The words drift through the air like perfume, scenting and changing everything. “Your father printed it out during one of his sleepless nights. He wants you to apply, CeCe. He wants you to continue living, with or without him.” She pauses. “With or without your mother.”

The janitor meets me at the back entrance of the school. I catch a whiff of beer on his breath, and he sports a full week's scruff on his chin. He's the same janitor who came running when the sophomore found my mother's body. The same one who covered her with a blanket and called the police. He's never acknowledged me in any way, but ever since my mother's death, the floor in front of my locker is always so slick and shiny that I nearly slip.

He does a double-take when he sees me and then covers his surprise with a scowl.

“It's a good thing I live around the corner,” he grumbles as he unlocks the door. “I hope your little ‘emergency' is worth pulling me out of the recliner.”

I wince. “Sorry. It's not really an emergency. My Gram can be a bit dramatic.”

He grunts. “Shoulda told me that before I left.” But then he holds the door open—and keeps holding it until I'm all the way inside the dim lobby. “You want me to come in with you?” he asks, his voice gentle now. “Awful dark in here.”

“No, no. I'll be fine. You go back to your recliner. I'll just grab my stuff and go.”

He lingers, his hand propping open the door. “Okay, then. If you need anything . . . call. The door will lock behind you.”

The door closes, and I swallow hard. The janitor's right. It is dark in here. And the corridors look different at night. The banners stretched across the ceiling have morphed into indecipherable shadows, and each corner hides a potential threat.

It even smells different. The lemony chemical scent of industrial cleaners masks the regular stench of sweat and body odor. The sterility of it bothers me. It's like someone tried to wipe out the student population—and didn't quite succeed.

I rub my arms and make my way down the hallway. This is the second time in a week I've been on school property after hours. Only this time, I'm inside the building. Alone.

I turn a corner, trying to muffle my footsteps. It's as quiet as a tomb, and the slightest noise is magnified tenfold. I hold my breath, the way I do when I first enter a cemetery, as if too violent an exhale will wake the sleeping corpses.

Maybe I should stop being so morbid.

A slight breeze blows against my neck. A breeze? Inside the school? Wrapping my arms around myself, I scan the area, looking for the source.

Ah. There. I walk through the open door of the girls' bathroom. The highest window has been cranked.

That window's
never
open. It's too high, too inconveniently located. Plus, the weather's getting chilly, as we dive more deeply into fall. Did the janitor leave it open to air out the school? Or is there an intruder inside the school?

The hair stands at the back of my neck, and every nerve comes to life. I'm being ridiculous, of course. The window could be open for any number of reasons, none of which have to do with breaking and entering.

I climb on the radiator and shut the window. And then I force myself to start walking down the hallway again. I haven't gone ten steps when I hear a tap and then a shuffle. I pause. Did my shoe slap too loudly against the floor? Nope, there it is again. That's not me.

Someone else is here.

My heart launches into my throat, and I look wildly around the hallway. My muscles bunch, in anticipation of a sprint, but the problem is, I can't tell from which direction the sound is coming. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn't know where.

It's a teacher,
I tell myself firmly.
They must have their own keys to the building. Maybe Mrs. Hopkins is hanging up posters for the fall musical. I should give her a hand, as long as I'm here.

But even as I think the words, I know, at the very core of my being, that it's not Mrs. Hopkins.

Tap. Shuffle. Slap.

There it is again. I take off, as quickly and quietly as I can. Down the hall, left at the corner, toward the senior locker corridor. Toward the front entrance of the school. Toward freedom.

Get to my locker. Get my homework. Get out of here. Fast.

I'm almost at the senior corridor when I realize a light is blazing, while the rest of the school is dimly lit with emergency lights.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Whoever the intruder is, I've run straight to him.

I press myself against the wall, my breathing quick and shallow and frenzied. Now what? Do I run back the way I came? Is there another way out of this school?

Slowly, I ease down the hall, away from the senior corridor. But then I hear it again.

Tap. Shuffle. Slap.

I freeze. I recognize those sounds. A footstep. The shuffle of papers. A slap against the wall with a piece of tape.

What on earth is the intruder doing? Every muscle in my body begs me to run, but I can't leave now. I need to see. Oh dear god, I need to see.

I take a deep breath. Count to three. And peek around the corner.

A decidedly female figure tapes a flyer to the wall. She wears black clothes and a ski mask, looking remarkably like Sam and I did almost a week ago. Dozens of papers line the hallway, like moths preparing for flight.

The acid spurts up my throat, and all my fear morphs to anger. Not this. Not again.

I grit my teeth and grab the paper closest to me.

Sure enough, it's another picture with my head on it. Only the body I'm on isn't just nude. This time, it's doing grotesque sexual acts with a dog.

My rage grows wings and breathes fire. “HEY! What are you doing?”

The masked figure takes one look at me, drops a sheaf of papers, and runs.

I sprint after her. I slide on the scattered papers, but I don't go down. The figure's got a head start, but I ran track in middle school. I'm a little out of practice, but adrenaline takes the place of muscle training, and I run faster than ever.

We tear down the hall. She dashes out the double-glass doors. The door swings and begins to close. I slap my hands against the glass, forcing it open again.

My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I refuse to notice. We're outside now. I whip my head around, searching for the fleeing figure, but there are too many shadows. Maybe Sam was onto something with the black clothes, after all.

There! The figure scampers through the parking lot, giving up her advantage. Stupid. No cars to weave between. No obstacles to hide behind. Just a wide expanse of open space. I've got her now.

I pour on a burst of speed and begin to close the gap.

Twenty feet.

She looks over her shoulder, which takes time, energy. I stare straight ahead, slamming one foot in front of the other.

Fifteen feet.

She's slowing. I can feel it. I can almost taste it. Sweat—grueling, salty, and harsh.

Ten feet.

Where is she going? Her car? Out of the corner of my eye, a silver bullet of a vehicle gleams in the moonlight. She'll never make it. I won't let her.

Five feet.

It's like fishing in a barrel now. I've got her on a hook; it's only a matter of reeling her in.

Four, three, two . . .

OOOOFF.

I crash into her body, and we go flying across the pavement. Even though I'm on top, the breath's knocked out of me as we hit the ground, hard. My bare arms skid across the parking lot, tearing up my skin. My knees join the bloody slide, rubbing bone against asphalt.

Still, I don't think. I don't feel. A split second after we stop, I straddle the figure and yank off the ski mask.

And look right into the eyes of Mackenzie Myers.