The Darkest Lie (4 page)

“Watch out!” a Rollerblader yells the next morning.

His arms flail, his legs wobble, and he's heading straight in my direction. I dive away from the metal bicycle racks to prevent myself from being bisected like an insect against a car grille.

Too bad blader dude has the same idea.

Oomph. The breath whooshes out of me, and we fall onto the grass. Instead of smacking onto the ground, however, my head lands against something warm and firm and cupped against my scalp. His hand.

“Oh god, I'm so sorry,” he moans. “Are you okay?”

There's something familiar about his voice. Something sweet and oddly comforting. And then there's the fact that he had enough presence of mind to protect my head as we dropped . . .

He rolls off me and removes his helmet and sunglasses.

Ah. Sam.

“I didn't break any bones, did I?” His hands hover over my torso, as if he wants to check me for injuries. God help me, I kinda want him to check me for injuries.

I sit up gingerly. “I'm fine. Just a little, um, floored, I guess. What are you doing?”

He plops beside me and pulls off his Rollerblades. He's not wearing his glasses today, but he makes up for the nerd factor with an abundance of safety gear. Kneepads, elbow pads, wrist guards, mesh gloves. He's even wearing a protective headband underneath his helmet.

“These things are way harder than they look.” He holds out one of his skates. “Have you ever tried?”

I shake my head. His arms are inches from mine, his fingers a hair's width away on top of the Rollerblade. The early morning rays slide over the high school's cinder blocks, and the front lawn is deserted. It's strangely romantic, like we're secret lovers meeting for a sunrise rendezvous.

And maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.

“You see, I'm doing an internship at the
Lakewood Sun,
” he explains. “They have me writing articles on the school beat. The first one's due on Monday, and if I do a good job, they'll move me up the ranks.”

“What's your first assignment? Pedestrian run over by a Rollerblader?”

He grimaces, and his hand moves a few inches, so his fingers brush against my skin.

The most inexplicable chills travel up my spine, as though someone's blowing lightly on my neck. Silly, really, but I can't help it. Back when my mom was alive, casual touches were the norm. She would constantly ruffle my hair, kiss my cheeks, pull me into an impromptu hug. My dad's much more restrained in his affections, and I guess I am, too. It's like my mom was the sun coaxing us to bloom, and now that she's gone, we've shriveled back into tightly furled buds again.

“I really am sorry,” he says. “I have to admit, I was hoping to run into you today, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind.”

I flush. I thought about him, too. In between questions about my mom and what I might find at the hotline, I thought about his cinnamon freckles and wire-rimmed glasses. I wondered if his pants would be too short today—yes—and if he would talk to me—double yes.

I clear my throat. “You were telling me about your first assignment?”

“Yeah,” he says despairingly, stretching out on the grass. “Innovative ways students commute to school. If the article is as boring as it sounds, they'll probably fire me to cut down on costs. And I don't even get paid.”

I giggle. “Oh, come on. I'm sure you'll come up with some unique angle. Students do parkour on the way to school, maybe.”

“You mean that crazy sport where they vault up walls and jump off roofs? Please. I almost killed myself Rollerblading.”

I take in the scrapes next to his safety pads, which also gives me an excuse to check out his body. Well-toned arms, sculpted chest. And something more. A dark greenish bruise blossoms on his upper arm. Several days old and clearly not a result of this morning's activity.

“What happened here?” I ask, gesturing to his arm.

“Oh, um.” He tugs on his short sleeve, attempting to cover up the bruise. “Nothing. An accident in the weight room. If you haven't already figured, I'm the world's biggest klutz.”

“But then how ... ?” I start to say and clamp my mouth shut. He's definitely built. Anybody with eyes can see that. But I'm not about to blurt it out.

He grins, as though he can read my mind. “How am I so fit? I run a lot and lift weights. Neither requires much coordination, so I don't have to worry about tripping over my own feet.”

“But doesn't it bother you? Being so, um ...” I rack my brain for an inoffensive word. “Uncoordinated?”

“It used to. I know this is hard to believe, but when I was a kid, I was the ultimate nerd.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down until I laugh. “You know the type. Chubby. Coke-bottle lenses. Last kid picked in gym class. I would spend hours reading mysteries and solving any puzzle I could get my hands on. But I wouldn't have it any other way. My childhood made me realize what I truly want to do with my life.”

“An investigative journalist?” I ask.

“How'd you guess?” He blinks, and a slow, you-really-get-me smile spreads across his face. The glimpse of something darker, something more troubled, passes like a cloud from in front of the sun.

Not everyone has a secret,
I chide myself.
Sometimes, a bruise is just a bruise
.

Except when it's not.

A rusty station wagon rattles into the parking space in front of us, and I jump. Somehow, the parking lot's half-full, and students are beginning to troop around us on the lawn.

“We'd better get to class,” I say.

Sam slings the Rollerblades over his shoulder, and we walk toward the building. “Boring's okay for this piece, but I've got to kick it up a notch for my next assignment,” he says. “I'm applying for the Winkelhake scholarship. A full ride to the university of your choice, for a student who intends to pursue journalism. It's the only way I'll be able to afford college, and I need a kick-ass article for my portfolio.”

“Have you received your next assignment?”

“Yeah, and it's got potential. They want me to do a feature article on the crisis hotline. Apparently, somebody committed suicide there last year, and we just passed the six-month anniversary. Do you know anything about it?”

My skin forms sheets of ice, my blood turns to snow. Could this have been his agenda all along? Feigning interest in me so he can pump me for information?

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I say, my words as stiff as my back. The last thing I need is for him to interview my dad on his conspiracy theories. As if our family needs to be any more humiliated in this town.

“No problem. I'll keep asking around, spend some quality time in the library. Gotta admit, that's more my speed than Rollerblading. At least, I can't hurt myself, right?” He smiles again, and dammit, it makes me want to believe all sorts of things. That he's too new in town to have heard the gossip. That his only agenda in getting to know me is me.

“I'm going to find a hook to this story,” he vows. “One no one's heard before. The article's due in a little under three weeks, and it's going to be so good, that scholarship will be as good as mine.”

And with his words, I know it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he used to be chubby; it doesn't matter if he has more courage and compassion than anyone else at this school. It doesn't matter if he's the first person to capture my interest since my mom died.

Unless I want my personal life splashed across the front page of the
Lakewood Sun,
I need to stay away from Sam Davidson.

“Hello. Crisis hotline,” I say. One week and three training sessions later, I'm finally answering calls myself.

Although not yet on my own. Liam Kessler, twenty-year-old college sophomore and hotline coordinator, sits next to me, a headset over his ears so he can listen in on my conversations. He's worked at the hotline for two years now, and when my mom died, he took over her job. Since he's still a student, however, he reports to Mr. Willoughby, who serves as the hotline's faculty supervisor.

“Can I talk to you?” the young man on the line says.

“Sure.” I reach over and close the blinds. The hotline is located at a cabin along the lake. Outside, dusk falls like sooty snow, but I'm not naive enough to think the only nocturnal animals that could be watching are the geese on the water. “That's what I'm here for.”

“It's a little embarrassing,” the caller says, and I hear a screech that sounds suspiciously like a zipper.

My fingers tighten on the headset. Could it be . . . ? No. Liam said it happens occasionally, but now, on my very first shift? What are the chances?

“I can't get it up when I'm with my girlfriend,” the caller continues, and his voice is definitely huskier now. Breathing hard. Oh boy. “Could you role-play with me? Do you do that here?”

What I'd really like to do is fling the phone out the window. But I've had training on this—and my instructor's sitting right next to me. I take a deep breath. “I'm sorry. That isn't the purpose of the hotline.”

“But how can I get better if no one will help me?” His voice escalates to a groan. “Please. I'm almost there. Just keep talking!”

Grunt, grunt, grunt. Moan. Moan. Mo-ooan.

Oh. Dear. God.

“I need to terminate this call now. Thanks for calling,” I choke out and disconnect the line.

I hunch over, not looking at Liam. The taunts from the boys have toned down this year, but I can't ignore the sexual exploitation like it doesn't matter. Each time is like a fresh animal sniffing around my wounds, threatening to split them wide open again.

When I finally work up the courage to look up, Liam's shoulders are shaking with laughter. “I can't believe you thanked him for calling.”

In spite of myself, the corners of my lips twitch. Because this time, it's not about me. I'm an anonymous voice on the line, and if there's a violation, it's directed at every counselor at the hotline.

“The training manual suggested we could let a sex caller finish doing . . . um, what he's doing. And then proceed with the call as normal,” I say haltingly. “But I can't do that.”

“You're not expected to,” Liam says, sobering up. “That's only one option for dealing with a sex caller. You are never under any obligation to let yourself be used. Do you understand?”

I nod. His tone might be soothing, but my stomach always feels tight when he's around. Liam's exactly the kind of guy I normally avoid. Tall and blond, with dimples and a strong cleft chin. The type who's born knowing how to talk to parents. Who's popular with the girls in high school. The very same type who dreams up the cruelest sexual taunts.

The label “DILF” came from one such Liam-type. The nickname “Blow Job Brooks” came from another.

“What you did was perfectly fine,” Liam continues.
He didn't call you those names,
I remind myself.
He only looks like the ones who did.
“As a call counselor, your job is to encourage the caller in crisis to come up with his own solution. This guy wasn't allowing you to do that.”

Caller in crisis. When he says it with that Midwest twang, it sounds just like “Cahla in crisis.” Or maybe: “Celia in crisis.” And he would be right.

Because I'm in crisis, too. I've been in crisis for the last six months. From the time I was a little girl, my mother promised me I wouldn't have to do this alone. Life is hard, she said, but she would be by my side every step of the way, helping me navigate the trickiest turns. But she's gone now. I'm lost.

And I have no idea how to find my way back again.

“CeCe, forgive me for saying this, but are you sure you want to volunteer here? You're doing a great job, and god knows, we need all the help we can get. But . . .” He scoots his chair back, the pause so significant it almost has legs. “Won't it bring up too many memories of your mother?”

I open my mouth to do what I always do. Brush him off, shut him down. Answer so brusquely he'll drop the subject forever.

But the words don't come. Maybe it's because my mother once sat where I'm sitting, answering calls from desperate students. Or maybe because there's an understanding in Liam's eyes I rarely see.

“I'm trying to understand her,” I say, and the hope bubbles inside me once again. Because if I can find my mom's letter, maybe I'll be able to let go of the rage. If there's more to my mom's story, then maybe she didn't betray me, after all.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. My life is so full of maybes I could drown in them. “When I'm not pissed at her, anyway, for leaving me the way she did. Sometimes, the line between love and hate can be very thin.”

“You're telling me,” he says. “I lost my father two years ago. He was a difficult man; his expectations of me were damn near impossible. And yet, not an hour goes by when I don't think of him. Not a day passes when I don't wish he were still here beside me.”

“What do you miss the most?” I ask softly.

“The times when we would go fishing on the lake. My dad and I lived in Chicago then, but my grandparents left him a cabin in Lakewood, and we would come for two weeks every summer. We'd get up before the sun, when the only animals crazy enough to be awake were the geese. We never caught much, but when we did, Dad would make a big production of grilling the sucker with rosemary and butter, even if the fish was so small we only had two bites each. It was the closest I ever saw to him at peace. I guess that's why I moved here after he died. 'Cause I'm looking for that same peace.” A smile tinges his lips. “What about you?”

I don't share memories of my mother as a rule. That's why I didn't turn in my self-examination journal. But I asked him first, and when I can forget about his good looks, my stomach unclenches. Liam's easy to talk to. But more than that, he doesn't judge. The longer we talk, the less he looks like those cruel guys at school, and the more he looks like . . . himself.

“She used to set up these treasure hunts for me,” I say. “Twice a year, on my birthday and Valentine's Day, because she said I was the very heart of her. One coded message would lead to another, and then another, until I finally arrived at my present. One year, she even got the local shopkeepers involved and had me running all over town.”

The shadow-smile morphs into a full-fledged grin. “She sounds like a fun mom.”

“She was.” I could say more. I could tell him how she always gave me the top of her muffin, and I didn't even realize until last year that was her favorite part, too. Or how she used to belt out Broadway musicals in the car, even though her voice was terribly off-key. But I've already shared too much, and my throat's thick with the recollection.

“Is that why you're here?” Liam asks. “Because you want to follow in her footsteps?”

I shake my head, not responding. There are lots of reasons I'm here, the primary one being to find my mom's final letter. But we've both been careful to focus on the positive memories. To stay on the side of love.

“That's what I want,” he says. “To be like my dad. I inherited his car, my grandparents' old cabin by the lake. And a bunch of crazy geese that wake me every morning.

“But that's not enough. I was never able to please him while he was alive, and yet, I believe it's never too late. If he can look down at me and be proud of what I've done, I'll feel like my life is worth something.”

I find myself leaning toward him, my insides turning warm and soupy at his confession. My tongue tingles, and the words tickle the back of my throat. I want to tell him everything. I want to learn more about his dad, to know what created these feelings that straddle the line between love and hate. To believe—for one moment—that my emotions are natural, normal, and understood.

But then he turns, and his smooth, handsome features catch the light. Liam belongs with the Mackenzies of the world. Too charming, too well-liked. Not an appropriate confidant for someone like me.

I turn instead to the oversized calendar hanging on the wall, filled with the call counselor schedule. “Is it okay if I sign up for Sunday afternoons and Wednesday evenings?” My voice is even and deliberately casual, as if it's no big deal. As if this weren't my mom's old schedule.

Alisara knew when my mom worked at the hotline. Maybe her other callers did, too. Maybe they're still calling at the same times six months later. And maybe they can shed some light on her behavior.

An expression I can't read flits across Liam's face. Oh god, is he hurt? I didn't mean to shut him down. I was just trying to end the conversation before he did.

“No problem,” he says. “Go ahead and pencil yourself in.”

I bite my lip, not sure how to get back to where we were, but not sure how to move forward, either. “Speaking of my mom, do you know if she left anything at the hotline?” I blurt out. “Some notebooks, maybe? Photographs or knickknacks?”

“I don't think so.” He dips his head, and for a moment, I let myself see how attractive he is. How attractive I might find him if I were a different girl. “We had to move here from the old shed when our cover was blown. Most of the equipment was transferred, but I've never seen any of your mom's stuff.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Do you mind if I stretch my legs a bit?”

“Nope. Hightail it back here when the phone rings, okay?”

“Got it.”

I leave the main room, with the computer, phone bank, and lumpy, burnt-orange sofa, and head down the hallway to the bathroom.

As soon as the door's closed, I kneel in front of the sink. I skim my hands over toilet paper and cleaning products, paper cups and a packet of sponges. And then I see it. The triangle edge of a piece of paper, sticking up from a box.

The saliva flees my mouth. I see, hear, smell everything in crisp, clear notes. The dented corner of the pink box. The hum of the radiator. The acrid sting of pine needles. I tug up the paper and find . . .

. . . the instructional insert of a feminine product.

The breath whooshes out of me, and I rock back on my heels. Great. Super teen investigator, I'm not.

I close my eyes and picture what I'm searching for. A suicide letter. Addressed to me, explaining her actions. Proving my mother loved me, after all.

It's got to be here. It's got to. For god's sake, this is the woman who wrote me a letter every year for my birthday. I keep each one in a packet inside a sandalwood jewelry box. Every few months, I take them out and reread every last one.

My mother knew this. She knew how much her words meant to me. If she loved me even a little bit, she would have written me a letter.

Think! If my mother left me a letter, where would she hide it? Logically, there are only two real options: the caller database on the computer or a storage box somewhere.

During my last session, I logged briefly into my mother's old account when Liam stepped into the restroom. She'd recorded hundreds if not thousands of calls in the four years since she founded the hotline. It would take hours to sift through all those entries—unsupervised hours I don't yet have.

That leaves the storage box.

Determined, I put the insert back and go into the hallway. The phones are quiet, and Liam's pen scratches across paper. I should go back. Prepare myself for the next caller.

Instead, as if pulled by an outside force, my feet turn in the opposite direction. To the end of the hallway, where a set of stairs leads to a basement room. It wouldn't hurt if I take a peek. See if I notice anything out of the norm. I tread down the steps and open the door. A basement room, which Liam has converted into an office. I pause at the threshold and glance behind me. Pen, still scratching. Phones, not ringing.

Was my mouth dry before? It cracks like desert sand now. Quickly, before I change my mind, I cross to the closet at the back of the room and fling it open.

Boxes. Stacks upon stacks of boxes. Tattered cardboard cartons scrawled with black marker. See-through filing crates stacked neatly on top of one another. Pretty storage parcels decorated with paisleys and dots.

I don't know where to start. It's almost as bad as the thousands of call records.

And then my breath catches. No false alarm this time. Because in the corner, practically hidden from view, I glimpse a box papered with a familiar swatch of wallpaper. It has a crisscross pattern featuring a woven basket overflowing with apples, pears, and grapes.

The very same pattern that's on my kitchen walls at home. We had so much leftover wallpaper, my mom wrapped all our storage boxes with the extra sheets. Apparently, at least one of those boxes made it here.

I reach out to tug the parcel closer to me. And then a hand claps onto my shoulder.

My heart leaps into my throat, and my hand flies to my mouth, maybe to catch it. “Liam! You scared me!”

“What are you doing, CeCe?” Liam tilts his head, as though confused.

“Noth-nothing,” I stutter. I don't want to lie to him. I don't want to see the hurt cross his eyes again. But I can hardly tell him I'm searching for my mom's final letter, which may or may not exist. I'll sound as delusional as my dad. “I needed some paper for my homework, and I thought I would look in the supply closet. That's all.”