Lies You Never Told Me Read online

  I look down at my plate. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “No, it’s not. I know I can’t really make things up to you. And Jesus, I’m really dreading that ninth step.” She takes a deep breath and laughs nervously. We both know the Twelve Steps by heart by now; nine is making amends to people you’ve hurt. “Because you and I will have a lot of shit to talk about. But this time I … I’m going to do it. This time I’m going to be better.”

  Usually, I try not to think too much about the past. The memories of my mother drifting in and out of consciousness, or selling my things when she needed cash, or disappearing for days at a time are painful. But even more painful are the happy memories. I usually stave those off. I have to, if I’m going to stay realistic, if I’m going to keep from false hope. But now for some reason they play across my mind, projected like a film reel. Mom taking me to the zoo when I was two or three, marveling at how many of the animals I could name from memory. Mom holding me in her lap at the movies. Mom making me bologna sandwiches with the gross plasticky edge of the meat peeled off. Mom lying in bed next to me, rubbing my back until I fell asleep.

  I put down my fork and take her hand. It’s chilled, almost scaly-dry. I make a mental note to buy her some lotion next time I get paid—something that smells good, that feels like silk. Not to reward her—she doesn’t deserve a reward just for staying sober. But because that’s the sort of gift you give your mom, when you want her to know you love her.

  “Remember the rules,” I say. “One day at a time, right?”

  We both smile. We’ve both made fun of NA’s cheesy sayings over the years. But the fact of the matter is, there’s no other way for us to figure this relationship out. One day at a time. Because even though I want to hope and I want to believe in her, we both know how fragile the future can be.

  “Okay,” she says. She squeezes my hand. “One day at a time.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Gabe

  “Again!” shouts Vivi, shrieking with laughter. “Again!”

  “All right, you ready?” Caleb puts his hands under her arms and swoops her up to the hoop. She dunks her little foam basketball with both hands.

  “Vivi makes the goal!” Irene yells. She’s sitting at the table, watching them play. Rowdy runs in circles around the yard.

  It’s late Friday afternoon, and we’re at my house, the slate on the patio still warm with the fading sun. Vivi’s pigtails are lopsided, her cheeks flushed pink. My parents are at a faculty banquet, and I’m babysitting for the night. I don’t mind. Caleb and Irene are over to keep us company, we have pizza money on the counter, and the fact that Sasha’s been watching my every move has left me less eager than usual to go out.

  “Gabe! Gabe, ball!” Vivi squeals, pointing. Rowdy’s scooped up the ball and torn off running across the yard, tail wagging. I take off after him, and we play an exaggerated game of keep-away, much to Vivi’s delight.

  Ding-dong. I can hear the doorbell inside the house. My stomach flip-flops.

  “I’ll get it,” I say quickly. “Be right back.”

  I try to keep my excitement down as I run to the front door. It could be anyone. It could be a FedEx guy, or a Jehovah’s Witness, or the little kids from next door wanting to know if Vivi can come play.

  But it’s not.

  Catherine stands uncertainly on the doormat, rubbing the back of one bare leg with the toe of her sneaker.

  “You came,” I breathe.

  “I came.” She smiles a little bit. “Dad had work tonight.”

  We’ve been extra cautious at school since I found the razor in my locker. I don’t talk to her in the halls anymore—I don’t even look at her, if I can help it. It’s maddening. But tonight her dad is out on a job—he’s a handyman, and there’s been some kind of plumbing emergency at a duplex on the edge of town that’s going to take him all night.

  So she’s here.

  “You didn’t tell me this was gonna be a boy-girl party.” Irene’s voice comes from behind me, mock-scandalized. “I don’t know if I should be here.”

  “Hi, Irene,” Catherine says. She glances behind her, toward the street. “We should get inside.”

  “You’re right. Come on.” I open the door a little wider and let her in.

  It’s somehow surreal to see her in my house. I’m used to seeing her in the woods, under the trees. My high-ceilinged living room, lined with my dad’s books, my mom’s cheerful folk art collection, my sister’s toy animals, seems too bright, too loud, for someone like her. She glances around, and her face is hard to read.

  That’s when Vivi and Caleb come clattering in, Rowdy on their heels. “Gabe! Gabe, I got ball!” says my sister, holding it up over her head. She skids to a halt as she sees Catherine, her eyes getting big.

  “Vivi, this is Catherine. My, uh, friend,” I say.

  Catherine kneels down in front of my sister. “I’ve heard so much about you, Vivi.”

  Vivi studies her face for a moment, taking her in. Vivi loved Sasha, who used to bring presents every time she came over—a pink dress, an Elsa doll, glitter ChapStick. I hold my breath, wondering how this will go—if Vivi will hate Catherine, if Catherine will be awkward, if somehow this whole thing was a bad idea. But then my sister breaks into an enormous smile.

  “Hi!” she says. She holds up the ball, wet with dog drool. I’m about to jump in and intercept it, but Catherine doesn’t skip a beat. She takes it, bounces it a few times in her palm.

  “So where’s the hoop?” she asks. “And whose team am I on?”

  *

  • • •

  We play outside until it gets dark, and then retreat to the den. At first I’m tense in spite of myself. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Vivi, or afraid Catherine will turn out to be a bitch or something—but I have a long-ingrained, knee-jerk anxiety every time I bring someone new home. I want to protect my little sister. I also don’t want my friends to think I’m boring or lame.

  But it’s not long before I relax. Catherine rolls with everything. She plays Dance Central with Vivi about five hundred times. Then, when we order pizza and settle down in front of the TV, she doesn’t bat an eye when Vivi immediately cues up The Little Mermaid. She even joins in when Irene, Caleb, Vivi, and I sing along—her voice is soft but pitch-perfect, sweet.

  By ten Vivi’s asleep, half on the sofa, half on my lap. I gather her up in my arms to take her to her bed. My heart gives a quick lurch when Catherine gets up to go with me.

  “We’ll be back,” I say. Irene has the remote and is already switching to Adult Swim.

  “No hurry,” she says, without even glancing at me. “We know where the fridge is.”

  My sister is limp in my arms, her head against my shoulder. I take her to her purple bedroom and tuck her in. She stirs a little in her sleep, then falls still. Catherine lingers behind me, watching, smiling.

  “She’s such a sweet kid,” she whispers, when I step back out into the hall.

  “Thanks. Yeah.” I lace my fingers through hers.

  She catches sight of my door, painted with green and pink graffiti streaks. “Is this your room?”

  My heart trips a beat or two, but I try to keep my cool. “Yeah. You want to see it?”

  She nods shyly. I take her hand.

  My desk light casts a warm glow across the smooth denim bedspread, the dresser appliquéd with skate stickers, the Justice League action figures posed on my desk. I shut the door gently behind us, then wonder if I should have left it open—if she’ll think I’m being a creeper or something. But she’s already looking around the room, smiling.

  “It’s so neat,” she says.

  “Yeah, so?” I feign a scowl. “What, you think just because I’m a dude I don’t like hospital corners?”

  She runs her hand along the back of my desk chair. “It’s just that I don’t know a lot of people under thirty with a labeling machine.” She picks up my label maker and types something into it. Then she hits “Print.” ANAL RETENTIVE
, it says.

  “Fine. You know my dark secret. I’m the world’s only OCD skate punk.” I put the label on my forehead and stick my tongue out. “Fight the man. But maybe do it with color-coded Post-it notes.”

  She laughs.

  Then she reaches up and peels the sticker off my forehead. I take the label maker from her and set it on the desk, using it as an excuse to step closer to her. My hands slide around to the small of her back. Her breath is thin, shallow; her arms wrap around my neck.

  We kiss. It starts slow but builds quickly, chemical reactions setting each other off in a cascade, energy and heat releasing from every touch. She grips my shirt in her fingers. I feel drunk and desperate and dizzy. I clutch her hips and pull her close.

  CRASH.

  We’ve bumped into the desk. My Green Lantern clatters against Wonder Woman, and they both tumble to the ground. I give a start, but then we both laugh, and we’re leaning toward each other again, about to kiss, about to touch, when I see something that stops me cold.

  She pauses and opens her eyes, looking confused. “What’s the matter?”

  I don’t answer. My hands drop away from her sides. Suddenly my whole body feels like it’s made of stone, heavy and numb.

  I reach across my desk and pick up the thing that was sitting behind my action figures. A black box. On the front, a small reflective circle, a single dilated eye. The whole thing no bigger than a matchbook.

  Catherine blinks. “Is that …”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  A camera.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Elyse

  “Don’t squirm.”

  I stand on a block in front of the green room’s full-length mirror while Oksana Ivchenko, the girl heading up the costume department, sticks a pin into the heavy brocade dress. It’s gold and white—it looks like it’s made from some kind of upholstery fabric, but Oksana’s made it look elegant. The French neckline dips low, and the trumpet sleeves drape beautifully around my wrists. I tuck my hair experimentally into an updo, and suddenly, there she is.

  Juliet.

  We’re one week out from opening night, and the costume crew is here in full force. A few feet away, a skinny boy with elaborately gelled hair is taking Laura’s measurements. Brynn sits at one of the vanities, rotating the chair slowly left and right as she waits her turn. Kendall and the other girls, the extras and bit players, are digging through a box of accessories, looking for things that might work for them.

  There’s a general buzz of excitement in the room. This is when it all starts to feel real. Doing final fittings, working on hair and makeup design, going through the last few rehearsals. This is when the pieces come together.

  “Ow!” One of Oksana’s pins jabs my hip. I give a little jump.

  “I told you, stop squirming.” Oksana frowns at the spot where she stuck me. “Don’t bleed on my fabric.”

  “Sorry.” I stand motionless, but I’m still smiling in the mirror. I can’t help it. Up until now I couldn’t have pictured this.

  Brynn looks up at me with eyes narrowed. “You really do look amazing,” she says grudgingly. “God, you know it kills me to say that.”

  As always, she’s both kidding and not. Her own costume is a bland gray dress and a wimple. It covers her whole body. It’s weird to see her like that, out of her usual peacock colors. She somehow looks shorter, diminished.

  The door swings open, and Aiden steps in. Brynn gives a little shriek.

  “Mr. Hunter, we’re changing in here,” she says.

  Quickly he covers his eyes. “Sorry! Sorry! I just wanted to see how the costumes are coming.”

  My cheeks get warm at the sight of him. He’s been in the shop, taking a look at the sets and props this afternoon, and his sleeve are rolled up to his elbows. The smell of wood shavings clings to him.

  “Is everyone decent?” he asks.

  “As decent as we get around here,” quips Laura. He takes his hand from his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he says again, chastened. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Brynn’s eyes go hard and narrow. She’s never been particularly shy, and she’s not remotely naked, so I’m not sure what her problem is.

  “What do you think?” Oksana asks. I turn my attention back to Mr. Hunter, meeting his eyes in the mirror. My face is lurid pink; it clashes with my dress. I’m sure everyone in the room has to notice.

  “It’s great.” His voice is brisk and delighted—professional and detached. So much so that I start to wonder if I look as good as I think I do. Is he just humoring me? Humoring Oksana? I don’t want to look “great.” I want to look beautiful.

  “We’ll do a white petticoat,” says Oksana. “And I’ve got a beaded net that’ll look good against her hair.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “It’s quite striking. Good job, Oksana.”

  Oksana makes an affirmative little grunt in the back of her throat. “Okay, Juliet, step down. I’ll take it in tonight.”

  I hop off the block. The skirt skims the floor, covering my toes. I feel like bolting into the changing room so I can hide my face. But before I can, Aiden steps close.

  “It’s perfect.” His voice is still brisk, but it’s softer, gentler. No one eavesdropping would think anything of it, but I feel the caress in the words.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I wish more than anything that we were alone. So that he could turn me around and look at the costume from every angle. So I could run my fingers through his hair. But we can’t even risk standing next to each other too long. I step away and into the changing room. By the time I come back out, he’s gone.

  And weirdly, Kendall and Brynn are sitting side by side.

  The sight of them together hits me hard. It doesn’t make any sense—it’s like seeing a cat riding on a dog. They lean toward each other, Kendall speaking quick and low, Brynn’s eyes wide, and for a moment I’m sure that they’re talking about me.

  “Hey,” I say, flopping down next to them. Kendall gives me a disdainful sneer, but Brynn turns toward me.

  “Well, that was freaky,” she says.

  I cock my head. “What was?”

  “Uh, Mr. Perv charging into a room of naked girls?” She curls her lip with distaste.

  “No one was naked,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t know that.” She scowls. “Okay, I didn’t want to tell you this because I didn’t want to freak you out, but Kendall … saw something.”

  My throat gets tight. I sneak a look at Kendall. That day in Cannon Beach. Did she see more than I thought she did? Did she see me with Aiden?

  Kendall purses her lips prissily. I can tell she’s thrilled to have information someone wants.

  “Like, okay, the other day at rehearsal I lost my phone. What else is new, right?” She glances from me to Brynn, hoping for a laugh, and then gives up. “Anyway, I came back into the theater to look for it and I found one on the edge of the stage. So I just grabbed it without thinking. But when I looked at the screen I realized it wasn’t mine.”

  I give her a look like, so what?

  “Well …” Kendall glances at Brynn. “There were, like, dozens of pictures of you on it.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “Pictures. Of you. During rehearsal.” She takes in a breath, savoring this final bit of intel. “And then Mr. Hunter came in and saw me with it and got this funny look on his face, like, really embarrassed. And he kind of laughed and said, ‘Oh good, you found it.’ Then he took it from me.”

  There’s silence for a long moment. I stare at her, wondering if that’s really and truly all she knows … or if she’s hanging on to something she might have seen in Cannon Beach. I glance over at Brynn.

  “Is that it?” I ask.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s kind of sketchy?”

  I shrug. “So he wants to take pictures of the production.”

  “Yeah, but, there weren’t pictures of anyone else,” Kendall says.

  I
roll my eyes. “Yeah, but I’m kind of the lead. Doesn’t it make sense for him to have a bunch of pics of me?”

  “Oh, come on,” Brynn bursts out. “You don’t think it’s weird? He’s, like, obsessed with you or something.”

  I’ve finally had enough. “You just don’t like him because he didn’t give you Juliet. Get over it, Brynn.”

  The words whip out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about them. Brynn freezes in her place. She looks like I’ve slapped her.

  Kendall clears her throat. “Gosh, guys, I didn’t mean to start any drama.”

  Neither one of us answers. We stare each other down. Once upon a time I would have apologized—I would have hurried to smooth things over. But I’m tired of Brynn throwing shade at me and then pretending I’m being too sensitive.

  I’m tired of making things easier for everyone else.

  It seems like forever before she grabs her purse and stalks out of the green room, letting the door slam behind her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Gabe

  Let’s talk. Now.

  I stand in Sasha’s driveway, staring up at the house. It’s almost one A.M., and the windows are dark, the neighborhood silent except for the distant sound of a barking dog. I stare down at my phone, waiting for a reply. Somehow, I know she’s up.

  The mini-camera is in my pocket. It’s maybe five ounces, but it feels like it weighs five hundred pounds.

  I find her window, with its sheer white curtains. Just as I thought, her light is on. I stand for a moment, my eyes narrowed. Then I pick up a handful of the smooth white pebbles that fill the garden. One by one, I hurl them at the glass.

  I see a dark silhouette look out at me. Then my phone chimes.

  Coming. Meet me in the back.

  I pace along the side of the pool, rigid with anger. The succulents in Mrs. Daley’s garden scrape against my shins. For hours I’ve been roiling, furious, planning what I’d say to her, planning what I’d do. But when she steps out onto the patio, I’m at a loss for words.