Lies You Never Told Me Page 11

  “Thanks,” I say softly. I cradle the phone in my palm. It’s probably my imagination, but it still feels warm from his touch.

  When I put it back in my pocket, the weight of it there is reassuring. It feels like ballast. I finally muster a little smile.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He turns his eyes back to the road.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says.

  SEVENTEEN

  Gabe

  “I’m looking for Gabriel Gee-minez?” says the girl in the doorway, pronouncing it Anglo-style with a soft G. Mr. Perlman stops in the middle of his lecture on the electoral process to nod in my direction.

  It’s Friday afternoon, almost the end of the day, and my mind has been a million miles away from U.S. government and civics. I’m staring out the window, wondering what Catherine’s doing in her sixth-period English class. It’s been a little over a week since our kiss in the park, and while we’ve messaged back and forth every day since, I’ve managed to see her only during lunch.

  I raise my hand, and the girl steps forward and gives me a folded piece of pink paper, an office memo. “Thanks,” I whisper before opening it.

  Your mother called to say you don’t need to pick up your sister today, she can do it.

  I can’t believe my luck. Usually my Fridays are spent Vivi-sitting; Mom has a standing work meeting, so I pick Vivi up and play with her all afternoon. I love my sister to death, but there are better uses I can think of for my Friday afternoon than hanging out with a six-year-old, no matter how cool that six-year-old may be.

  Like, for instance: seeing Catherine, if she can get away.

  “So can anyone explain to me how a presidential candidate can win the popular vote, but still lose the election?” Mr. Perlman leans back against the chalkboard, looking around the room hopefully, but my mind’s already wandering. I have my phone out under my desk. Can you meet after school? Going nuts and I have to see you.

  A few minutes later, the response comes back.

  Scupture Falls, 3pm.

  *

  • • •

  After a rain, Sculpture Falls turns into a swimming hole, crowded with families and dogs splashing through the shallows. But right now it’s bone-dry. The creek bed is exposed, bare in the sun. On a day like today, there’s usually no one around.

  She’s already there when I arrive, wearing a frayed men’s button-down shirt and her scuffed-up Keds. Something in her stance has changed. She’s not so curled into herself. She thumbs her backpack straps as she sees me come down the trail, biting her lip and smiling at the same time.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” Her eyes flicker down for a moment, then turn up toward me, up through her thick lashes. My breath snags in my throat.

  “Come on.” I take her hand, walk her carefully over the uneven ground to the limestone outcropping that’s usually covered by the falls. Over the years the water has carved it into all sorts of strange, flowing shapes. We sit on the edge, legs dangling over the side.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” she says. “This was the first place I felt safe when I moved to Austin.”

  “Yeah?” I smile. “Me too, actually. I mean, it was the first place I felt like myself, after my sister was born.”

  She cocks her head inquisitively. I hesitate for a moment.

  “I’m not super proud of this, but … I had a hard time when Vivi was little. I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure of a meeting a special-needs toddler before, but take your average toddler insanity and multiply it by about a million. I kind of … wasn’t very nice.”

  The memories still make my cheeks burn. The way I’d back away from her when she reached out toward me, always just out of reach, just to torment her. The way I’d blame things on her—like when I knocked down my mom’s Día de los Muertos altar, breaking one of the clay skeletons inside, or when I tracked mud all over the rug of my dad’s study.

  “Some of it was jealousy. She took so much of my parents’ attention, and I was used to being an only child. And some of it was that I was … embarrassed. God, that’s such a shitty thing to say. I was an idiot.” I shake my head. “Anyway … in junior high, I met Caleb, and he started bringing me down here. Sometimes to swim, sometimes just to hike the trails. Something about it helped me get centered. And … you know, I guess once I started being a little happier, I was finally able to see what a great little kid Vivi was. But I’ve never really forgiven myself for being such a jerk.”

  I wonder for a second if I’ve talked too much. Catherine is quiet, looking down at her lap. But she leans against my shoulder, her hair spilling out across my chest

  “I so get that,” she whispers. “It’s hard to forgive yourself for stuff like that. God, there are things I wish I could just … scrub off the past. I don’t want to think of myself as the kind of person that could do … some of the things I’ve done. But there are some things … once you’ve done them, you’re branded with them forever.”

  I look down at her, almost amused. “What could you have done that’s that bad?”

  She turns her face toward my chest so I can’t see her expression.

  “I’ve made plenty of mistakes,” she says.

  For a moment I don’t say anything. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but I have a feeling it’s more than cheating on a math test. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. But my fingers curl protectively around the back of her head.

  “Yeah, but, Cat … everyone deserves a second chance,” I say.

  She lifts her head to look up at me. Her storm-blue eyes pull me in. She smiles then, a tiny curve of the lips. My heart swoops.

  And then we’re kissing again, soft at first, tentative, then hungry, our mouths opening against each other. She presses against my chest and we lay back against the warm stone. My hands move over her, searching, running through her silky hair, playing down her spine, cupping the small swell of her hip. Every thought in my head is crowded out by the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her skin against mine. Her fingers slip inside my T-shirt and graze my stomach, and I catch my breath.

  My phone shrills in the quiet. I fumble for it, thinking I’ll send the call to voice mail. But when I check the screen and see it’s my mom, something keeps me from ignoring the call. I answer.

  “Hey, what’s going …”

  “Where are you guys?” My mom’s voice is annoyed. I glance automatically around the clearing.

  “I’m at the Greenbelt with some friends. What’s up?”

  The line’s silent for a moment. Catherine cocks her head inquisitively, but I just frown.

  “You took Vivi to the Greenbelt?” asks Mom after a moment.

  “Vivi? No.” I adjust the phone so it’s closer to my ear. “I got your message. I’ve been out with some …”

  “It’s almost five!” Her voice is louder now. “Her school’s been out for three hours, Gabe!”

  “Wait …” I sit up a little straighter. “Are you saying she’s not with you?”

  “Hold on. I’m calling her school.” She hangs up without waiting for my reply.

  A panicky, metallic taste is rising up in my throat. I hold my breath, staring straight ahead. Something lands lightly on my back, and I half turn to see Catherine, her hand resting on my shirt.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “I guess I was supposed to get my little sister.” I frown, fumbling in my pocket for the note from the office, but it’s not there. I must have thrown it away. “She’s probably been waiting for hours for someone to get her. Fuck.” I stand up. “We have to head back to the car. I’ll have to pick her up on the way home.”

  But we’ve gone just a little way down the trail when the phone rings again. It’s my mom.

  “Get home right now.”

  Her tone sends a shock down my spine. She’s not mad. She’s scared.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My mother takes a deep, shuddering breath.

&nbs
p; “She’s missing, Gabe. Vivi’s missing.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Elyse

  The night is cold, the sky laced with clouds, when I step out into the movie theater’s parking lot. Fake-butter smell is embedded in my hair and clothes, and my soles cling to the asphalt with every step, sticky with sugar. Fridays are both the easiest and hardest shifts to pull—the pace is hectic enough to make it go fast, but I always end up with an aching back and feet in the process. Tonight I spent six hours running from one side of concessions to the other while customers barked orders. I burned my hand on the hot dog warmer, and then the soda machine broke, so I had to spend the rest of my shift telling people that no, they couldn’t get a Pepsi. My ears still throb, even out here in the quiet darkness.

  “Night,” I say to the little cluster of co-workers who just ended their shift. They mill around, lighting cigarettes, bitching about the cold. Most of them are a few years older than me. It scares me sometimes, how at home I feel with them; it scares me that I might be here forever.

  “Sure you don’t want to go with us to IHOP?” Rita Solano, my fellow concessions lackey, asks. She’s one of the few girls my age who works there, a whip-smart dropout with four little siblings she’s helping to raise. “You look like you could use a break.”

  I think about it. They’ll all sit at the diner until three in the morning, slugging back bottomless cups of coffee and sharing plates of cheese fries. I go out with them sometimes, and it’s usually chill. Fun to gossip, to be out late, to crack jokes at each other’s expense. Fun to feel connected to other people trapped in wage-slave hell. But I feel like I’m asleep on my feet. Plus Mom’s at home. She’s feeling better—less nauseous, at least—but she’s still pretty delicate. I can’t leave her alone for the night.

  “I’m tired,” I say. “I’ve gotta go home. I’ll see you Monday night, though.”

  She gives a little wave and turns back to the others, their laughter rising up in an echoing chorus.

  It makes the parking lot feel especially lonely, walking away from the light and the noise, across the dark expanse to the bus stop. Exhaustion weighs me down, but I tuck my purse under my arm and walk quickly. I’ve been riding the bus home from work all year, sometimes in the middle of the night, and while nothing bad’s ever happened, the theater’s in a pretty shitty neighborhood. I’ve been propositioned more than once—and a guy followed me all the way down the street making kissing noises at me. The best thing to do is to get on the bus as quick as I can. There’s one at 1:47, and if I miss it the next one won’t be along for a half hour.

  I hear the motor of a starting engine. Rita’s Camaro roars past me, honking, and a few other cars trail behind her. Then there’s silence. I look up and down the empty expanse of the parking lot, shivering in my thin coat. The distant lights of the street are bright but glamourless.

  There’s a single car parked in the middle of the lot. Must be a customer’s car. Maybe the driver walked to the dive bar down the street after the movie, leaving the car behind. But as I pass it I see something move inside.

  Someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat.

  My pulse picks up. I change course, angling as far away from the car as I can. It’s probably just a drunk, trying to sober up before hitting the road. Or maybe someone living out of their car, trying to find a place to sleep for the night. But even though I can’t make out the driver’s features, I can sense his attention on me—can imagine his eyes burning as they follow me. I fight the urge to bolt.

  The engine growls to life. A strangled whimper comes unbidden from my throat, my breath coming quicker now. I grip my cell phone in my fingers, ready to call 911 if I have to. You’re overreacting. It’s nothing. But I pick up the pace, tucking my head down and making a beeline for the road.

  When I hear tires crunching slowly behind me I can’t hold it in any longer. I break into a run. I drop my backpack and tear toward the bright lights of the road. It feels impossibly far away. My feet slam against the concrete. A sharp pinch shoots through my lungs.

  I hear shouting. It takes me a moment to recognize my name.

  “Elyse. Elyse!”

  The engine dies behind me, but the lights don’t turn off. I slow to a trot and turn to look behind me.

  It’s Mr. Hunter.

  I can just make out his features in the glare of the headlights. He gets out of the car and walks over to my backpack, stooping to pick it up. I stop where I am and stare. The adrenaline still shudders down my limbs, but its intensity shifts. I’m no longer feeling fight-or-flight; instead, a warm tingle of anticipation tickles through my veins.

  “I’m so sorry.” He walks over and hands me my bag. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you saw my face. I should’ve parked near a light.”

  “What are you doing here?” I realize as soon as it’s out of my mouth that it’s a dumb way to ask the question. What I really mean is, Why are you lingering in a dark parking lot? But he either doesn’t pick up on that or ignores it.

  “Seeing a movie. I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “I didn’t see you in there. You must not have gotten any popcorn.”

  He grins. “Don’t tell anyone, but I smuggled in a box of Junior Mints.”

  My hands fly up to my mouth in mock astonishment. “Breaching the sacred trust between moviegoer and concessions? Mr. Hunter, I am shocked. Shocked!”

  He laughs. “Want a ride home?”

  My exhaustion lifts off me, as if by magic. I walk around to the passenger side door and climb in.

  *

  • • •

  The streetlights flutter through the car and vanish as we drive under them. His radio is on very low, an old Smiths song thrumming along with the hum of wheels on pavement. I watch him out of the corner of my eyes, leaning back against the headrest.

  “You really take the bus home in the middle of the night?” he asks. “Seems kind of dangerous.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I say. “The drivers keep an eye out for me. And it’s only about a fifteen-minute ride.”

  “Hm,” he says, frowning.

  “Hey, you’re the one who keeps telling me how easy it was to get emancipated at sixteen,” I say.

  “Touché.” He glances at me, his glasses catching the light for a moment so I can’t see his eyes. “How’re things at home?”

  “A little better,” I say. “Mom felt good enough to make a meeting this afternoon.”

  “NA?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I went with her—just to give her some support.”

  He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I raise an eyebrow.

  “You don’t approve?” I ask.

  “It’s not that.” His fingers tap the edges of the steering wheel. “I just worry that you’re taking her sobriety on your own shoulders a little bit. You know you’re not responsible for her.”

  I look out the window, biting the edge of my thumbnail.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says quickly. “It’s not my place.”

  “No, you’re right. I always feel like somehow, this time, I can make her stay clean. If I just figure out the right mixture of meetings and nagging and support, if I can just will her to try a little harder … if I can make things perfect. If I can be perfect.”

  “And how’s that been working?” he asks.

  I give a little laugh. “About as well as you’d think.”

  We pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex. My heart sinks; the ride was too short. He parks in an empty spot, but he doesn’t turn off the engine.

  “Look, Elyse, I can’t tell you how to feel. What you’re going through is … really hard. But if I could encourage you to do anything …” He pauses. “It’d be to protect yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” I turn sideways in the seat to look at him.

  “Just don’t let yourself believe any of this is your fault. Or your responsibility,” he says carefully. “It’s really noble to want to hel
p your mom. But her sickness isn’t something you can control. And if you let yourself get pulled into her mess, it’ll hold you back.”

  I look down at my backpack on my lap.

  “I … I can’t just let her fend for herself.”

  “I know.” His hand comes to rest gently on my elbow. I draw in my breath a little. “Just … make sure you don’t sacrifice your own hopes for hers. That’s all.”

  I glance up at him. The car suddenly seems very small, our faces very near one another.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Aiden,” he says. “You can call me Aiden. At least when we’re not at school.”

  “Aiden.” Maybe it’s all the Shakespeare I’ve been reciting, but I love the rhythm, the shape, the poetry. Aiden.

  We sit in silence for a moment. I know I need to get out, but I don’t want to. Not yet.

  I don’t know why—maybe it’s the residual adrenaline from being startled, or maybe it’s the memory of the kiss, brief and breathless in the green room. Maybe it’s the curve of his lips in the moonlight, the lock of hair resting carelessly against his forehead. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion kicking in and making me foolish.

  What it feels like, though, is bravery.

  I lean across the console and kiss him, a quick, nervous peck on the side of his mouth. “There.” I laugh. “Now we’re even.”

  He looks down at me, his lips parted in surprise. And I think, Oh God, I’ve done it now. I’ve made it awful. Now I’ll be in trouble, and lose everything, and he’ll never want to see me again …

  But then his hand is cradling the back of my head and our lips are together, and I taste chocolate and peppermint, and lose myself in the softness of the kiss, the softness of our lips together. His mouth plays against mine without pressure. His tongue traces the gentlest line and then disappears. A sound escapes from my throat.

  Abruptly, he stops. He looks around. The parking lot is quiet, but there are lights on in some of the windows.

  “We shouldn’t do this here,” he whispers. But he doesn’t move away. He runs a fingertip along my cheek, and I shiver.