Lies You Never Told Me Read online

  I lick my chapped lips, frustrated.

  “She’s not dumb enough to keep escalating this. She came pretty close to getting busted by the cops last Friday. Trust me, it’s over,” I say.

  Catherine looks at me skeptically, but she doesn’t answer. I put my arms around her and pull her to my chest.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this out in the open,” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull away.

  “No one’s down here. No one’s watching.” I press my lips to hers. The kiss is soft and lingering and for a moment nothing else in the world matters.

  And then something we can’t ignore permeates.

  “Gabriel Jiménez, Gabriel Jiménez.” The receptionist’s nasal voice blares over the intercom, just outside the door. “Please come to the principal’s office. Gabriel Jiménez, to the principal’s office.”

  For a moment I stand still, listening. My stomach does a rapid roller-coaster drop. Last time I got a message from the office it was a trick. But the principal wouldn’t page me if there wasn’t something important going on.

  Catherine looks up at me, her face stark and scared. “What’s going on?”

  I gently disentangle myself from her. “I’d better go see.” I tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You should go inside.” I don’t add that I’m scared to leave her alone—I don’t want to freak her out even more.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  I lean in to kiss her one last time, but I don’t answer her question. I don’t know how to.

  When I arrive at the office, lunch is over, and the halls are clear. I pause at the receptionist’s desk, leaning over to announce myself, but before I can say anything the door to Principal DeGroot’s office swings open.

  It’s not the principal who steps out. It’s Sasha.

  It looks like she’s been crying. Her cheeks are pink and blotchy, and she has a balled-up tissue in her hand. When she sees me there, she pauses in the doorway for just a moment. Then she shakes her head, and hurries past me to the hall.

  I watch her go, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.

  Now Principal DeGroot fills the doorway, a heavy-jowled brick wall of a man. I’ve never had any run-ins with DeGroot before—the few times I’ve gotten in trouble have been minor enough to be handled by a detention or two. But Irene’s been in his office so often she might as well have a plaque on the door herself, and according to her, DeGroot’s a hard-ass, big on order and discipline, but not unwilling to listen.

  “Mr. Jiménez?” I nod, trying to stay calm.

  “Yes, sir.”

  DeGroot opens his door a little wider and gestures for me to step in.

  The room is dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents off and a handful of table lamps lighting the small room. A large tapestry on one wall depicts Waterloo’s rearing-mustang logo. The desk is almost spartan, empty except for a half-full coffee mug, a computer, a digital camera, and a bronze football-shaped paperweight. DeGroot moves behind his desk and lowers his bulk in a chair that looks way too small for him. It groans under his weight.

  “Please, have a seat.” He nods to one of the simple wooden chairs on the far side of his desk. I sit down.

  I can’t hold back any longer. “Is everyone okay?” I blurt. I’m on the edge of my chair, clutching at the sides of the seat with both hands. DeGroot, who’s still settling in, goes motionless.

  “That’s an interesting question,” he says. “What makes you think someone might not be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought maybe … maybe my family …”

  The principal seems to be studying me carefully, his brow slightly furrowed. “So you have no idea why you’ve been called down here?” he asks. I shake my head.

  For a long moment, the principal doesn’t say anything. I get the feeling he’s trying to wait me out—letting the moment drag on so I might say something. I shift my weight, unclench my fists from the sides of the chair and rest them in my lap as calmly as I can.

  Finally, DeGroot picks up the camera. It’s an older model, large and heavy-looking. He starts pushing buttons. Then he holds it across the table toward me, screen-first.

  I take it almost numbly. When my eyes adjust to the screen, my whole body gives a jerk of horror.

  It’s a picture of a locker, hanging open, the door dangling by one hinge. The first thing I see is red. Red, dripping down the inside of the door. A red, pulpy mess, lumped on the bottom. On the small screen it looks like a pound of flesh. I stare down at it, my eyes trying to make sense of what I’m looking at, trying to parse out the image.

  “What … what is this?”

  DeGroot leans forward, clasping his fingers together. “I don’t know, Mr. Jiménez. Why don’t you tell me?”

  I look up at the principal, shaking my head. The man’s face is hard to read, a slab of blank stone, but his voice is low and serious. After another long, silent moment, he reaches under the desk and pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper. It’s flecked with dark red, the same dark red as in the picture.

  I don’t want to touch it. But when I lean closer to inspect it, I can see that the blood is fake. The color is spot-on, but the viscosity of it isn’t quite right; it looks like the concoction Irene and I once made out of corn syrup and food coloring, fake blood for a short horror movie we filmed together and put on YouTube. I had played a hapless victim of Bloody Mary, the demon who lived inside the mirror, and I can still remember how gummy the blood was, how it felt drying on my skin over the course of the long afternoon.

  The note is short, scrawled in untidy pencil.

  STAY AWAY FROM ME AND MY FAMILY YOU BITCH OR ELSE.

  “It’s fake,” I say, looking up at the principal. “The blood.”

  The principal’s expression doesn’t change. Talk about a poker face. “If it weren’t, you wouldn’t be here talking to me. You’d be talking to the cops.”

  I shake my head. “But I didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t … I don’t know what this is about.”

  “That’s not what Sasha Daley says,” says DeGroot.

  I stare back at the picture. Sure enough, now I can see it—the picture of Zayn Malik she’d taped inside her locker, now running with fake blood. And that’s her Mustang Sallys warm-up jacket—torn to shreds, but still identifiable. It’s Sasha’s locker. And I realize suddenly that I’m the one who supposedly vandalized it.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” I say, pushing the camera back across the desk. “I’d never do something like this.”

  DeGroot’s eyebrows lift slightly, but other than that he betrays no real surprise. “Ms. Daley says you two broke up recently.”

  “Yeah, we did. A month ago,” I say. “But this is crazy. Why would I mess up her locker? I just want her to leave me alone.”

  DeGroot nods. “I see. Ms. Daley also said there was a misunderstanding last week. She spent some time with your family, and you reacted pretty badly to that.”

  My skin gets hot with anger. “She didn’t ‘spend time with my family,’ she kidnapped my little sister. She took Vivi without telling anyone she was going to do it. Yeah, I reacted badly. Who wouldn’t?”

  The principal takes off his glasses and sets them upside down on the desk in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, and then sighs.

  “Look, Mr. Jiménez, I know that breakups can be difficult. There are a lot of emotions running high.” He clasps his hands in front of him again. “But harassment is a very serious problem, and we don’t take it lightly at Waterloo. No matter what happened between the two of you, this is not an acceptable way to react.”

  “But she’s the one harassing me.” I can’t help it. The words burst out of me in a blast of justified outrage, but they sound nasty as soon as they’re out, defensive and entitled.

  “I don’t care about the he-said, she-said,” says DeGroot, holding up his hands with a placating motion. “It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, Mr. Jiménez. Th
e fact is, I can’t prove you had anything to do with her locker, so all I can do is issue the following warning. This is a learning environment. This behavior is disruptive. Whatever has happened between you and Sasha in the past, you need to steer clear of one another now, do you understand me? Stay away from her. Don’t talk to her, don’t look at her. If she tries to talk to you, just walk away. Because if I catch wind of anything else like this, I will be forced to get the police involved, and I don’t think either of you want that.” He leans back in his chair. It groans under his weight. “Am I being perfectly clear?”

  I slap my hands on my legs in frustration. “So tell her to leave me alone.”

  DeGroot looks at me, unflappable. “I have. And please control your temper while you’re in my office. I won’t be yelled at.”

  I stare at him for a moment. I’m seized by a desire to argue, to make the principal understand that I’m innocent. But I can tell that DeGroot thinks this is some kind of tit-for-tat, back-and-forth spat between me and Sasha. That the locker is a vengeful prank gone too far. I wonder how Sasha played it. Dabbing her eyes, telling in a choked voice how she’d found the locker broken open and destroyed. Mentioning her volatile ex-boyfriend, how upset I’d been that she’d dared speak to my family after the breakup.

  “Am I being perfectly clear?” DeGroot asks again.

  Finally, I nod. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “All right. Head on to class now. Mrs. Murray will give you a pass so you won’t be marked tardy.” DeGroot stands up from his desk. “I hope I don’t have a reason to see you again, Gabe.”

  I don’t trust myself to answer. I grab my backpack by one strap and step out of the office. My fury mutes the sounds of the hallway. I barely notice as a sophomore slams into me, eyes on her phone. She looks up to apologize, but the words die on her lips; I have no doubt my rage is plain for anyone to see.

  I slow only when I get to my locker, my steps faltering. The lock is missing and the door is slightly open. The noise of the hallway comes back with one sharp blast, the loud shouts of kids returning from lunch, the clang of lockers, and the distant strains of a Sia song from someone’s headphones. I hold my breath as I open the door fully. Everything is exactly as I left it—my textbooks piled haphazardly, my jacket on the hook, the peace sign carved on the side wall. Everything except for a crisp white envelope tucked neatly in the back corner.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I rip the envelope open, the paper thick and pulpy in my trembling hands. The pain comes swift and sharp as a small metallic object tumbles out, embedding itself in my palm before clattering to the floor with a hollow ping. It’s a razor blade, the edge now stained with my blood.

  I whirl around, pressing the cuff of my jacket to my palm to stanch the bleeding. And then I see her, at the very end of the corridor. She leans against the bulletin board as students stream around her, rushing to fourth period.

  Sasha’s eyes lock on mine, a smile playing on her lips. She blows me a kiss and then disappears into the crowd.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Elyse

  “The thing is, Trajan’s smarter than most jocks.” Brynn leans on her palm, elbow on the table next to a towering stack of books. “Did you know he’s going to Stanford next year? He wants to study chemistry, which, like, yuck. But he’s also super into literature and stuff.”

  It’s Wednesday night, and we’re at Central Library after rehearsal, trying to study. I love the old sandstone-and-marble building; it gives off a studious, serious air that the boxy modern branch down the street from my apartment lacks. We’re on the third floor, surrounded by heavy wooden book stands and globes and glass displays of early editions.

  My phone vibrates softly on the table. I glance down at the screen.

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  And even though there’s no name associated with the number, a smile touches my lips.

  We haven’t been able to see each other outside rehearsal since Cannon Beach last weekend, but Aiden and I have been texting all week. We have to be careful. I can’t put any identifying information in my phone; I can’t list his name, can’t have a photo of the two of us—though I do have a perfectly innocent picture of him on stage, going over the notes of the last few rehearsals. He texts only from a burner. That way, if someone gets suspicious, we won’t get in trouble.

  Brynn hasn’t even noticed. “Like, we’ve been talking about Shakespeare a lot. You know he’s in AP English? But he also reads plays for fun. The other night we read the seduction scene from Richard III together, and it was so freaking hot.”

  “That’s the nerdiest date I’ve ever heard of,” I say.

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” She grins. “Maybe we can talk Mr. Hunter into doing that one next year. I mean, Romeo and Juliet’s okay, but it’s definitely not the most sophisticated play Shakespeare ever wrote.”

  “I like Romeo and Juliet!” I protest.

  “It’s about dumb people making dumb decisions.” She shrugs. “I’d much rather do Midsummer. Or Much Ado about Nothing. Oh man, I’d kill to play Beatrice.”

  I don’t know why, but it irritates me. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream is about someone falling in love with a donkey. I’m not sure that counts as sophisticated.”

  She laughs lightly. “Well, that’s not what it’s about. It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  The faint note of condescension rankles my nerves. “I’ve read the play, Brynn. I know what it’s about.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get huffy.” She smirks a little. “Juliet is a very important role, too. No one’s disparaging your part.”

  “You literally just said she’s a dumb person making dumb decisions,” I point out.

  A crease forms in the middle of her forehead. “Look, can you stop making this about you for half a second? I’m trying to tell you that Trajan and I are, like, official. So can you maybe be happy for me?”

  What I want to say? Why does hearing about you and Trajan require an elaborate sidebar about how the play I’m starring in is trash? And why do I have to drop everything to care about your latest conquest?

  But what I do say, after a long pause?

  “Sorry. I am happy for you … he’s really cute. And he sounds awesome.”

  She looks mostly placated, but the remnants of a frown linger on her brow.

  “What’s been up with you lately? You’ve been distracted nonstop.”

  “I’m just feeling anxious since we’re so close to opening night, I guess.” I grab my ponytail and take it out of its elastic, then redo it, my fingers fidgety. “That, plus Mom, plus homework, plus my life in general.”

  She seems satisfied with the answer. She reaches across the table and pats my forearm. “It’s a lot. But you’re going to be great. You’re perfect for this role.”

  I purse my lips and restrain myself from pointing out, once again, that she just told me Juliet was an idiot.

  But at least my secret is still safe.

  *

  • • •

  When I get home a few hours later, Mom is in the kitchen, smoking into the exhaust fan. When she sees me she puts out the cigarette and straightens up.

  “Hi,” she says. “How was your day?”

  “Fine,” I say. Then I look around and see that the island is set with plates and cutlery and serving ware. My eyes widen. “What’s … all this?”

  “I thought we could eat dinner together.” She smiles shyly. “If you wanted to, I mean.”

  I stare at the spread. She hasn’t cooked in about five years. I’m sort of impressed she still remembers how. It’s a simple meal—baked chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, Pillsbury biscuits—but it smells good. My stomach rumbles.

  “Sure,” I say, putting down my backpack and swinging myself up into one of the barstools at the island. “It looks great. Thanks.”

  She sits down across from me, and silently we start to load our plates. She still looks a little sickly; her skin is pasty-pale,
her hands a little shaky. But she looks worlds better than she did last week.

  “So. Uh, when is opening night for that play?” she asks, spreading butter over a biscuit.

  I blink. “What play?”

  She gives a nervous laugh. “Your play, dummy. You know, the one you’re in?”

  Somehow I never imagined Mom coming to the performance. She hasn’t set foot in my school at all since freshman year, much less come to any plays or concerts. It’s hard to picture her in the auditorium, surrounded by the other parents. What will she wear? Will she fidget through the whole thing, all her nervous tics out on display?

  Will she want to meet Aiden?

  I’m taking too long to answer. Mom’s face falls. She sets down the biscuit and looks away. “I mean … if you want me to come.”

  “Of course I want you to come,” I blurt out. “I just … I didn’t know you’d want to. It’s the Thursday before Thanksgiving.”

  She gives me a slightly surprised look. “You’re the lead, Elyse. Of course I want to see it.”

  It’s no use pointing out that until last week, she didn’t even know I was in a play. It’d just hurt her feelings. And while there are moments I want to yell at her, moments I want to hold her accountable for all the ways she’s hurt me, I also know from experience that there’s no faster way to send her spiraling back into despair.

  And at least she’s trying.

  “Okay. I’ll get you on the list.” I decide to let myself be excited. Finally, my mom’s going to see me in the spotlight.

  We eat in silence a little longer. The chicken is a tiny bit dry, but the seasoning’s good. The broccoli is crisp and bright. It’s the best meal I’ve had in ages.

  “Elyse?”

  I look up. Mom’s biting the corner of her thumbnail, looking nervous. I hold my breath, waiting for some confession to come. Did she get more pills? Did she fall off the wagon? If so, we’ll have to find an NA meeting tonight. Which will mean, once again, no homework. Though that would be the least of my worries.

  “I just wanted to say … to say thank you. For last week. For helping me. I know it’s been hard.” She rubs her face a little, and I can see how exhausted she is. “I know it’s been hard for a long time.”