Lies You Never Told Me Page 3

“Sorry …”

  “No, it’s okay, just …”

  “Here, I …”

  We talk over each other for an awkward moment, both leaning down at the same time. I get to it first, and she snatches it out of my hand.

  “Look, I just wanted to thank you,” I say.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, clearly annoyed. “And I’ve got a lot of homework, so …”

  A shadow falls across the table. I look up to see Sasha, outline dark against the sun. A few feet behind her, the Sallys are standing in a tight group, glaring at me.

  “Uh …” I say, stupidly. My heart drops.

  “Hey! I was just coming to tell you we’re going to the Springs. But I see you might have other plans.”

  Her voice is as bright as a blade, sharp with false cheer, her lips a blood-red slash on her pale face.

  “Hey. Sorry, I was just …”

  “Don’t I know you?” Sasha’s talking to the girl, not to me. “You’re in third-period computer lab, aren’t you?”

  I’m almost afraid to look at the girl. I don’t want to incite more of Sasha’s wrath than I have to. But out of the periphery of my vision I see her nod.

  “Yeah, you’re the girl that keeps throwing the curve.” If I didn’t know Sasha, I’d think she sounded impressed, but her eyes gleam dangerously. “What’s your name again?”

  The girl pauses for a long moment before she answers. “Catherine,” she says.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Sasha turns back to me, smiling. “This one keeps getting perfect scores on the quizzes. We all want to kill her.” She says it almost playfully, like it’s all friendly teasing, but I know better.

  If they didn’t before, they will now, I think. But her words give me an idea. “Yeah, I’m in English with her. I was just asking about the homework.”

  It’s risky. She could fact-check pretty easily, catch me in the lie. But her eyes soften a little.

  “Like you’ll even do the reading,” she says. She brushes her hair back over her shoulder. “Where’s my drink?”

  “Oh … yeah.” I jump to my feet. The barista long since called my order, and the drink is sitting there on the counter, the ice half-melted. “Here.”

  Sasha eyes it distastefully, then heaves a sigh. She plunges the straw in like an ice pick and swirls the cup gently. “So, are we going to the Springs or what?”

  I swallow hard. “The thing is, Vivi’s got a recital. I totally forgot about it, but … I have to go to it.” I hold up my phone quickly, hoping the tutu picture will derail her a little. “How cute is this?”

  Her eyes soften a little. I feel some of the tightness go out of my back as she takes the phone from me. “Oh my God, that’s out of control. Look, she put a little tiara on the dog!” She shows the picture around to her friends, and they all coo and croon in appreciation.

  “You should come with me,” I say hopefully, edging away from the girl at the table. “It’ll only be an hour or so, and then we can go to Kerbey Lane after.”

  Her gaze snaps up. “I’m not eating pancakes on our date night,” she says, her voice frosty again.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay, then, Asti Trattoria or whatever.” Never mind that a meal at Asti will clear out the last of my birthday money. “Whatever you want.”

  She sighs patiently, like I’m a little kid. “Of course we’ll go to Vivi’s recital. God, I’m not a monster.” She hands the phone back to me and turns to her friends. “You guys have fun at the Springs. We’ve got to get going.”

  I finally exhale. Crisis averted. Barely.

  “Thanks, Catherine. See you in class.” I give the girl a wave and turn to follow Sasha.

  Halfway to the parking lot I risk a glance behind me. She’s hunched over her notebook again, her hair spilling down over her shoulders to hide her face. But I catch a glimpse of her eyes, wide and wary, as she watches us go.

  FOUR

  Elyse

  I’ve barely gotten through the doors on Monday morning when Brynn grabs me, sliding her arm through mine.

  “The casting list’s up,” she whispers.

  I lick my chapped lips. “Have you looked yet?”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

  It’s officially my first test as a lead actor: pretending I don’t already know that I’ve been cast.

  I could hardly sit still this weekend. One minute I felt like I could fly. The next, I felt like I might puke. I kept picturing what Brynn’s face would look like when she found out she wasn’t Juliet. When she found out I was Juliet. I’ve been dreading this moment for two days straight.

  Now I steel myself, letting my best friend lead me to the ticket office. There’s already a crowd. I see Nessa craning her neck to see over someone’s shoulder. The basketball player grins widely and nudges a boy standing next to him. One girl is crying.

  “You ready for this?” Brynn asks, squeezing my arm.

  No. “As ready as I’m going to be,” I say, my mouth dry as sand.

  Brynn’s eyes are bright, hopeful as she stands on her tiptoes to see over the crowd. My heart wrenches in my chest, so sharp for a moment I forget to be happy for myself. I know how much this means to her.

  But before I have a chance to say anything, Frankie catches sight of me.

  “I knew you’d get it,” he says loudly, pulling me into an excited hug. “Your reading was unbelievable!”

  I can’t see Brynn for a moment, her face disappearing behind Frankie’s shoulder while he pulls me close. Other people are looking our way now.

  “Congratulations!” Nessa says, grinning. Laura Egan grabs my hands and jumps up and down. I can’t help it; a smile blooms across my face at the sight of theirs. I’ve never been the center of attention before.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Thanks, everyone.”

  And then I see Brynn, standing stock-still in front of the casting list. She’s facing away from me so all I can see is the back of her head. Over her shoulder I can see my name, hand-written in neat marker.

  Juliet… … … . Elyse McCormick

  I scan the rest of the list. Frankie’s Romeo; Nessa is Lady Montague; and Laura, Lady Capulet. The basketball player, Trajan Holland, is Tybalt. Brynn’s name is halfway down the list.

  She’s the nurse.

  I feel queasy. It’s not fair. Brynn works so hard—she rehearses more than anyone I know. She’s gone to every drama camp, every theater workshop, every master class she could. I don’t understand why Mr. Hunter picked me over her.

  I step closer to her, and the people around us get a little quiet. In the time-honored tradition of high school theater club, they are all eager for a whiff of drama. She doesn’t turn to look at me; I’ve never seen her face so still, her expression so blank.

  “Brynn …” I start. Then I realize I don’t know what to say.

  She turns to look at me, her eyes glistening with tears. But then all at once she forces a smile. She pulls me into her arms so I can smell the sweet vanilla of her perfume.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she says softly. And even though her hug is a little wooden, I know she means it.

  Tears well up in my own eyes. “You should’ve gotten it.”

  “Not this time,” she says. “You really did kill that reading.” She wipes at her face and laughs softly. “It wasn’t mine to get. But next time … I’m coming for you.”

  *

  • • •

  The rest of the day is surreal. I feel like a minor celebrity—people keep coming up to me and congratulating me. Even people I don’t know, or people who aren’t involved with theater. For once I don’t feel invisible. Somehow the news of my casting has pulled back a curtain and turned on the lights and now I’m on stage, watched as I walk down the hall or answer a question in class. Meg Derrick, the student body president, buys me a cup of coffee from a vending machine before English. And Trajan shoulder checks me lightly as we pass between classes, gr
inning widely. His gaggle of athlete friends give me the kind of appraising looks that make me blush and straighten up at the same time.

  At one point I see Mr. Hunter. It’s just after fifth period, and he’s in the hallway outside his classroom, monitoring the passing period the way all the teachers are supposed to do. I’m not sure if I should say hi, or wave, or just scurry past as usual, but before I can make up my mind he catches sight of me. A half smile touches his lips, and he winks.

  Bubbles fill my chest. I feel like laughing, skipping. But I just smile and hurry past him, remembering the way he talked to me on Friday.

  You, Elyse. You’re really quite remarkable.

  After school I manage to extricate myself from the crowds and head out into the crisp Portland fall. The rains haven’t started yet. I pass run-down bungalows with rusted chain-link fences, cars on blocks in half the yards. But even in my neighborhood, with its broken glass on the sidewalk and its weed-choked lawns, the sun is burnished gold against the deep blue sky and the trees are tall and bright and green.

  My building is a sagging pink-and-gray box called the Shayla Apartments. I’ve always assumed Shayla was the daughter or wife or sister of some previous owner. Now the place is owned by a rental company, and the original Shayla is long gone. The parking lot is an expanse of chipped and broken concrete. The unit doors are all tightly shut, strange chemical smells coming out of some.

  At mine I stop for a moment, my smile fading. Home sweet home. I stand outside listening for signs of life, hoping against hope to find an empty apartment when I go in. But I’m not surprised when I hear the TV blaring as soon as I crack the door.

  My mom’s wearing stained sweatpants and an oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She’s curled up on the sofa, her eyes vaguely tracking the images on the TV. She’s only thirty-four but she looks older. Her hair is fried to an ugly calico orange from too much cheap dye; her bones jut painfully against her dry pink skin. A cigarette smolders in an ashtray teetering on the edge of the coffee table. A quick pulse of anger takes over my good mood.

  “Didn’t you have a shift today?” I shut the door behind me and immediately start tidying up. Celebrity gossip magazines are splayed out all over the floor, and plates of half-eaten food cluster around the sofa. A pilling, smelly afghan lies heaped on the floor where Mom kicked it off in some fretful dream.

  “My back hurts real bad today,” she says. She gives this exaggerated grimace, her eyes not quite making it to my face.

  I was six when my mom had her car accident. I still remember the brace she had to wear to keep her spine aligned. The crash left her with pulled ligaments, broken bones, and two herniated discs. And because it was her fault—she ran a red light—there was no hope of settlement money to help with the treatment. That was when she started on the Oxy, for the pain.

  It’s been nine years, but she still spends half her days in a fog. I don’t know how much actual pain she’s in anymore; it’s hard to know if she’s still suffering, or if she just likes feeling high.

  “Mom, you’ve got to keep this job.” I try to keep my voice calm. Sometimes if I get mad, if I yell, Mom will set off on a whole new binge, trying to numb her hurt feelings. “There’s nowhere else that’ll take you.”

  “I know, I know. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  Tomorrow. The single most overused word in Mom’s vocabulary. Tomorrow I’ll go to the doctor. Tomorrow I’ll go to work. Tomorrow I’ll do those dishes, take out the trash, eat something, change my clothes. Tomorrow I’ll stop using. I grab the cigarette in the ashtray and stab it out almost violently.

  “The rate you’re going, you’re going to set the place on fire before we get evicted.”

  I stomp into my bedroom and shut the door firmly behind me. I can still hear the TV through the wall. Someone on a game show asks for a vowel. I stick the phone into my stereo dock and turn on Adele to try to drown out the noise.

  My room is sparse, but comfortable. There’s a small wooden desk I found on the side of the road and spray-painted teal; the cheerful yellow curtains and pillowy duvet were bought out of my movie-theater wages. White fairy lights crisscross a tall bookshelf, stacked high with all my books.

  I sink down onto the bed and start unlacing my shoes. I have just enough time to shower before I have to catch the bus. There’s a past-due electrical bill on my desk, and the other utilities will be along again soon. Ever since our last eviction, I’ve taken charge of the household bills.

  Sometimes it feels like I’m juggling knives. No, not knives; sharp as they are, knives are light. I’m juggling anvils. Keeping the power on, finishing my homework on time, getting to all my shifts at work, making sure Mom eats enough. Every one is a weight that, any minute, could fall straight on my head.

  Tomorrow I’ll go through Mom’s room, try to find her stash. Flush it. Not that it’ll matter; she’s got a half dozen doctors ready and willing to prescribe her more. Mom’s a mess, but she’s a cunning mess, good at manipulating what she needs out of people. But maybe I can slow her down a little.

  I take a deep breath, rummage in my bag for my script. Sometimes you have to keep moving so you don’t give up entirely. I take a minute to leaf through, scanning the lines. Mr. Hunter’s words come drifting back. You’re really quite remarkable.

  But what does that matter? I realize with a dull pang that the magic of the day has vanished. Shakespeare isn’t going to pay the bills. Shakespeare isn’t going to help my mom get to work on time, or help her stay clean. I throw the script onto my desk and pick up my towel. Time to get ready for work.

  Because Shakespeare isn’t going to get me out of this hellhole.

  FIVE

  Gabe

  “You gonna be all healed up in time for Big Bend this Christmas?” asks Caleb Scott, picking the crust off one of his three peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. “I got a new tent. Super lightweight, good for the trail.”

  It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and we’re sitting at a cement table in the outdoor lunch area. The sun is mild in the sky, the heat finally broken. A few yards away a game of ultimate Frisbee rages up and down the lawn. Guitar music drifts aimlessly through the air from where a girl sits under a tree playing.

  “Ugh,” says Irene Novak, before I can reply. She’s next to Caleb, doodling in her history textbook. She’s transformed Thomas Jefferson into a psycho clown, penciling a creepy painted leer on his face. “You guys are nuts. A week with no shower, no electricity, no cell coverage? Kill me.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why you ain’t invited,” Caleb drawls. He’s the only person I know in Austin with an actual Texas accent. “We don’t need a repeat of the Enchanted Rock trip.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Irene says, peering wryly over the frame of her cat-eye glasses. Her hair is purple this week, short and shaggy around her ears. “Twenty-four hours with nothing but crickets and wind. Never again.”

  “More like twenty-four hours with crickets, wind, and your bitching.” Caleb pauses to shove half his sandwich in his mouth. He’s six foot four and built like a tree trunk; the dude never stops eating. “I’m trying to get a little peace and quiet on this trip.”

  I know better than to take their bickering seriously. Caleb and Irene have been best friends since kindergarten. I don’t know how, exactly—they’re nothing alike. He’s the definition of mellow, a guy whose idea of a good time is stargazing on the edge of town with his dog and a six-pack. Irene, on the other hand, keeps a running, snarky commentary on everything that happens, her hands always busy, always sketching or scrawling. The manic energy comes in handy when she’s tagging street signs or stenciling pictures on walls.

  “I’m down,” I say to Caleb. “My shoulder’s still pretty stiff, but I think it’ll be fine by then. I just have to talk my mom and dad into it. And, uh, Sasha.”

  Irene snorts, but doesn’t look up from her book. “Better find a backup backpacker, Caleb. Gabe’s gonna be home for the holidays.”

  “Hey, I’m my own ma
n.”

  She shakes her head sympathetically. “She’s not going to let you out of her sight for a whole week. Especially not for Christmas. I mean, what are the holidays without an all-out screaming fight?”

  “It’s tradition,” says Caleb.

  Now I remember how they’ve been friends so long. They have me to gang up on.

  “What was it last year? The chocolates you got her were the wrong kind?” Irene says, rolling her eyes.

  “Nope, that was Valentine’s Day. Christmas was the fact that he went to Midnight Mass with his family instead of taking her out for that carriage ride.”

  They’re both enjoying this too much. “Whatever. It’s not like I need her permission to go.”

  That really makes them laugh. I scowl around the table.

  Ladies and gentlemen, my supportive best friends.

  I’ve opened my mouth to argue when Caleb nudges me. “Speak of the devil.”

  I follow his gaze to see Sasha, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. Heads turn as she steps across the patio. Seeing her walk toward me used to send a hot thrill through my body, crowding out every thought in my head. I wonder when I stopped feeling that way.

  “Oh, great! You can ask her now!” Irene’s eyes give a wicked sparkle. “Since it’s no big deal, right?”

  “Ask me what?” Sasha sits on the bench next to me, otherwise ignoring my friends. Her lips are etched out in perfect red lines, a nonchalant pout.

  “Uh … well …” I take off my strapback hat, mess with the brim, push it back on over my curls. Irene’s the one who answers.

  “Caleb and Gabe here are planning a trip over Christmas break.” Irene’s voice is cloyingly sweet; she loves a chance to troll Sasha. I shoot her a look, but she ignores me. “They’re going backpacking. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Sasha doesn’t even look at Irene. “Obviously I don’t. I already told him it was okay.”

  My stomach twists. It’s not true—I haven’t said a word to Sasha—but she can’t admit Irene knows something before she does.

  “Anyway, Christmas doesn’t matter. Because we’ve got our own trip planned for New Year’s,” she says.