Lies You Never Told Me Page 5

  She laughs again. The needle creeps up the speed dial. The music is a howling, blaring chaos, thrumming against my skull. For a minute I’m back in the middle of the road, the night of the accident. I’m airborne. I’m flying, out of control, and there’s time to think about how hard the ground is beneath me, how heavy and fast the car, how flimsy my body …

  And then, all at once, the road is back. She’s snapped the headlights back on. The car starts to decelerate, still too fast, but not quite so wild.

  Sasha says, smirking, “This from my edgy skate-punk boyfriend.”

  “Did something piss you off tonight?” I ask. “Or are you just in a mood?”

  The playful sparkle disappears from her eyes. Her fingers tighten around the driving wheel, the sneer on her face lingering.

  “I’m just ready to have some fun,” she says. Her voice is low and almost silky. It sends a chill down my spine.

  My heart is hammering, but I don’t want to make things worse. I stare out the window again, even though there’s nothing to watch but my own darkened reflection. We sit in silence for the rest of the drive.

  Savannah’s house is perched on top of a hill with a sweeping view of downtown Austin.

  Inside, the high-ceilinged marble entryway is packed. I see a few people I know, already jumping around to the thud of the music. Noah Delany and Paul Meyer wave at me from the sidelines, holding red Solo cups. Abhay Patel is busy at the DJ booth, adjusting his levels as he mixes Sia’s “Chandelier” with some ambient electronic dance number. No sign of Caleb or Irene yet, though I know they were planning to come.

  No sign of Catherine, either. But then, she wouldn’t be at a party like this. I try not to let my disappointment show.

  I turn to look at Sasha, only to see that Julia and Marjorie have already converged. They huddle together, whispering something and laughing. I take deep breaths, try to regain my composure, but a dull nausea tugs my stomach downward.

  “Hey, Gabe.” Savannah’s appeared at my elbow. She’s wearing a tight silver dress that looks a lot like Sasha’s pale pink one.

  “Savannah, you look great,” I say, giving her a hug.

  “Thanks.” She flushes, pleased. “Can you believe how many people are here?”

  “Hey, Savannah. Nice dress. Did you raid my closet?”

  Sasha’s suddenly there in front of us, lips pressed in a smirk. To anyone who didn’t know her, her words would sound sincere. But her eyes glint at Savannah, and I instinctively let my arm drop from around Savannah’s shoulder.

  Savannah tries a tinkling little laugh. I wince at how forced it sounds. “Thanks! Great minds.”

  Sasha tosses her hair. “Sure. Something like that.”

  Savannah wilts a little next to me. But then she squares her shoulders, as if steeling herself. “Come on, let’s dance.” She laces her arm through Sasha’s.

  “Get me a beer, okay, babe?” Sasha’s grip on Savannah is tight. Behind them, a few of the other Mustang Sallys watch through narrowed eyes. All it will take is a word from Sasha to make them turn on Savannah.

  It suddenly feels crazy to me, like Savannah’s sticking her hand in an alligator’s mouth. And then, with disgust, I realize I’m no different. We all act like we’re honored to let her treat us like shit.

  I make my way through the crowds to the backyard, which is lit with Christmas lights strung through the posts in the wrought iron fence. A bunch of people gather around the keg on the patio. Half the wrestling team is in the kidney-shaped pool with their girlfriends, chicken fighting. Natalie McAfee already has her top off. She falls off Mike Bookout’s shoulders with a squeal and a splash. A little further back there’s a bonfire pit. I see Caleb and Irene in the group gathered around.

  Caleb’s roasting a marshmallow over the flames, turning it slowly back and forth for an even golden brown. Irene’s got a charred-looking s’more in one hand, a joint in the other.

  “Double-fisted partying. Nice,” I say. I grab the joint from her and take a drag. The smoke washes over my nerves, smoothing out the tangles.

  “You look like hell,” Irene says. “What’s up?”

  “Sasha’s in a mood.” I take a deep breath. The heat of the flames laps against my skin. “She drove out here like a fucking maniac. Now she’s in there torturing the other Sallys or something. I’ve got to take her a beer in a second.”

  “Is it my imagination, or is she more psycho than usual?” Irene frowns.

  I shrug. “She’s pissed that Savannah’s having the first big party of the year, I think. It’s usually at her house, but her parents have her on a short leash since the whole security camera thing.”

  “Did you hear she managed to get Tori Spencer kicked off the Sallys? She basically accused Tori of bullying her.” Irene pops the last of her s’more into her mouth. “Which doesn’t sound like Tori. It sounds like Sasha.” Her words are muffled through the marshmallow.

  I grimace. “Yeah. She’s been laughing about it.” Tori was trying to change one of their routines, which meant that Sasha’s solo got cut. She went crying to their coach with some crazy story about Tori sabotaging her costume before a game.

  Irene shakes her head. “Jesus, what’s it gonna take for you to break up with her?”

  I don’t answer right away. The truth is, I don’t know how to answer. Because Irene’s right. Sasha’s appeal has worn thin. I don’t know if it’s that Sasha’s gotten more unstable, or if I’m finally just seeing it for what it is—not some wild, free-spirited energy but something dark and bottomless and boiling. Something with the power to destroy.

  That’s when Devon Lord, who’s standing on the other side of Irene, speaks up, startling all three of us.

  “Man, sorry to slide into your conversation like a creep, but it’s crazy that you gave Sasha that ring.”

  Irene, Caleb, and I turn to stare at him.

  “What ring?” I ask.

  Devon pulls his marshmallow out of the pit. It’s a perfect golden brown, even on all sides. He blows on it for a moment, then slides it onto a graham cracker. “That promise ring, or whatever? I don’t know, it looked like a big honking diamond.”

  “How the hell is Gabe gonna afford a diamond?” Irene asks. “He owes me, like, ten thousand dollars for the past three years of Taco Cabana trips. He’s never got money.”

  Devon shrugs.

  “Seriously, when did you hear about this?” I realize my voice has gotten loud. People are looking. I grit my teeth and try to calm down. “This is so ridiculous. Like, she had a ring and she was showing it off or something?”

  “Yup. In figure drawing yesterday. She kept sort of flitting her hand around.” He mimes admiring the back of his hand. “Kept talking about how romantic the whole thing was. Had some big story about how you promised to be with her forever, and you had chocolate-covered strawberries and, like, some song you wrote just for her …”

  I grimace. “No, man, I didn’t do any of that shit. She’s … she’s just messing with you.”

  But I can’t get the image out of my mind. Sasha with a dreamy smile on her face, telling some story that makes it sound like I’m planning to marry her someday. Maybe doing it as some kind of joke at first … but reveling in the attention. Letting the story spin out of control. Letting everyone believe it. It’s not exactly out of character for her.

  Almost as if she’s reading my mind, Irene turns to look at me. “That’s the kind of shit she always pulls when something’s out of her control, Gabe.”

  But before she can finish her sentence, I catch sight of Sasha, emerging from the darkness and into the orange light of the bonfire. Her shoulders are rigid with anger.

  “What happened to getting my beer?” she snaps.

  Normally, when Sasha comes at me like that, I get flustered. Normally I stammer an apology, sheepishly say goodbye to my friends, hurry to the line at the keg. But this time I can’t even speak. I just stare at her.

  Her expression falters a little. “What?�
�

  “So where’s that promise ring I gave you?” I say.

  She tosses her hair and gives an airy laugh. “Oh, that. Give me a break, I was obviously kidding. I found a ring in Mom’s safe and thought it’d be funny.”

  “Sure. Except Devon Lord believed you. So you’re not kidding. You’re lying.”

  “Devon Lord is dumb as a sack of bricks,” she says. “No offense, Devon.”

  “Uh, taken,” he says, frowning.

  “And besides …” She puts her hand on her hips and stares at me, and even though I know I’m in the right and she is not, I feel like I’m about three inches tall. “Is it so fucking awful for people to think you might do something nice for me once in a while? God, to hear you talk, I’ve been telling everyone I’m pregnant or you gave me crabs or something.”

  Is she right? Am I overreacting? I don’t even know anymore. I’m never on stable ground with Sasha. I never know how to feel.

  And suddenly, that’s enough of a reason to be done.

  She must see it in my expression. An uncertain look flickers across her face and is gone. Her hands drift away from her hips and she shrinks a little.

  “Gabe?” she asks. It’s maybe the first time I’ve heard her sound vulnerable … but I don’t care anymore.

  I look over at Caleb. “You cool to drive, man? I need to get out of here.”

  “Yeah, man.” He glances at Irene, and suddenly they’re flanking me. “Let’s get outta here.”

  Sasha shakes her head, lifting her chin angrily. “Don’t you even think about leaving me here.”

  “Okay, Sasha, step aside.” Irene tries to shoulder past her. Sasha swells up, her spine going rigid. I push Irene gently behind me.

  “Stop,” I tell Sasha. My voice comes out almost like a plea; I don’t have energy for anything more. “Just … stop, okay?”

  I turn away from her. I don’t look behind me as we walk toward the door. I half expect her to run after me. My shoulders are tensed for it. But she never does, and we get to Caleb’s beater without anyone saying a word.

  *

  • • •

  I’m in a car, hurtling in the darkness. The scene shifts and I’m outside of the car and it’s barreling toward me. I’m watching Sasha dance, her shorts encrusted in sequins, a white spangled cowboy hat on her head—but partway through the performance she stops and starts to strip. At first I lean forward to watch, a thrill running through me as her long limbs emerge bare and smooth. But then she’s angry, her face screwing up into a mask of fury, and she’s pulling out her own hair, her eyes swollen, her hands gripping long blond locks and yanking them free. Blood runs down her scalp. She steps toward the edge of the stage, and her eyes meet mine. For a moment we both stare at one another, as if seeing each other for the first time. Then she launches herself like a cat, straight toward me.

  I wake sweaty and disoriented. It’s pitch-black. Snatches of anxious half dream, half memory grab at me. I’m in my own room, in my own bed. My clock reads 3:42 A.M.; it’s only been two hours since Caleb dropped me off.

  It’s half a second before my eyes adjust and I realize I’m not alone.

  Sasha’s sitting backward on my desk chair, her legs splayed out on either side of the frame. Her hair is tangled and loose, and her eye makeup is smeared down her cheeks. She looks like a half-mad ghost, blood-hungry, but the smile she gives is calm and almost beatific.

  “What are you doing here?” I sit up straight, adrenaline shooting through my veins. The darkness feels like it’s crowding in on all sides. I pull my blanket up to my chest, even though I’m still fully clothed. “Jesus, how’d you even get in?”

  She shrugs. “I have a key.”

  “You have a …” I shake my head. “What key?”

  “I had it made a couple of months ago.”

  “What, did you steal mine and get it duplicated?”

  She gives a soft snort, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, Gabe, you act like I’m untrustworthy. Plenty of people leave spare keys with their girlfriends.”

  I know something is wrong with this line of reasoning, but I’m still so groggy, so confused, I can’t quite figure out what. I reach for the bedside lamp, but her voice cuts through the darkness. “Don’t!”

  Then she stands up from the chair, and I see that she’s completely naked.

  “I came to make nice,” she purrs.

  My breath catches in my throat. She is truly beautiful, her body powerful and delicate at the same time. But she’s also truly terrifying. The angles of her face disappear into shadow. Her mouth is a tight determined line. And there’s something flat and far away in her eyes.

  “Sasha, this is nuts,” I whisper. “My parents are asleep down the hall.”

  She moves toward me. Her skin glows in the moonlight. “All I want is to make you happy. You mean everything to me. I need you.” She leans down, cups my chin in her hand.

  I jerk away from her touch. “Don’t.”

  “Oh, Gabe, come on.” She rests a knee on the bed next to me. Her flowery perfume winds its way into my nose, into my throat. The sense of claustrophobia intensifies. I push her to the side, gasping for air.

  Now she looks genuinely confused. For the first time a hint of self-consciousness seems to cross her features. She presses her knees together and hunches her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why don’t you want me?”

  I stare at her. I can see that the last question, at least, is dead earnest, and that’s what breaks my heart: the fact that she can fight with me all night long, then break into my house convinced I’ll still want her. That this will make all our problems go away.

  I grope around on the ground until I find her T-shirt, then hand it to her. Silently, she pulls it over her head, tugging it down to cover the tops of her thighs.

  “We’re done,” I say, simply.

  She blinks, gripping the bottom hem of her shirt. “What are you talking about?”

  “Sasha, we’re done. I don’t want to do this anymore. The jealousy, the arguments, the head games. It’s exhausting.” I angle toward her, trying to look her in the face, but she’s staring out in space now. “I don’t think you even love me anymore. I think you just like playing with me.”

  She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “No.”

  “Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders, trying to force her to look at me, but she wrenches out of my grip.

  “Forget about it,” she hisses. “We’re not breaking up.”

  Anger rises up again, all my pity and anxiety and sadness swallowed whole by the rush of it. “You don’t get to decide that. It’s not up to you.”

  She smirks at me. It’s humorless, hard. “Isn’t it, though?”

  I shake my head. “I’m done fighting.” Then I lean across the bed and snap on the lamp.

  Light floods the room. She recoils, squinting. Somehow in the light she doesn’t seem so frightening, so unpredictable.

  “Find your clothes. I’ll walk you out to the front door.”

  For a minute, it looks like she’s going to refuse, and I’m not quite sure what I’ll do if that happens. Physically drag her out, kicking and screaming? I don’t want to have to explain that one to my parents. I cross my arms over my chest and wait, refusing to look away. Finally, she stands up and walks over to the desk chair. Her underwear and shorts are folded neatly on the desk. I turn away as she pulls them on.

  Once she’s dressed, I get up off the bed and open the door softly, gesturing for her to go first. Silently, her face as still as a doll’s, she walks past me and into the hall.

  I follow. At my sister’s half-open door, her service dog, Rowdy, pushes his head out of the crack, his tags jingling softly. Useless dog, I think. Aren’t you supposed to bark at intruders? But Sasha pats Rowdy’s head as she passes, and he wags up at her. Because Sasha’s not an intruder; she’s one of our pack. And now I have to start the tricky business of extricating myself from her.

  In the living room, I op
en the front door. She stands for another moment and stares at me. Her face is strange and affectless in the dim light.

  She puts her arms around my neck and presses her lips to mine. I pull back but her arms are tight, surprisingly strong. She nips at my bottom lip before letting go of me, smiling up at me with a dark glitter in her eye.

  “This isn’t over,” she whispers.

  Then she slips through the door and is gone.

  EIGHT

  Elyse

  Sunday afternoon I let myself in the unlocked door in the arts wing and make my way to the theater.

  My footfalls echo off the linoleum. There’s the sharp smell of the janitor’s chemical cleaners; underneath is the memory of body odor and graphite dust and greasy food. It’s always weird being in the halls when school’s out. There are no windows to let in the late autumn sun; the only illumination is from the emergency lights, dim and almost ambient. The place feels like I’d imagine a tomb does, the silence a rebuke to all the noise and chaos that used to be here.

  Mr. Hunter is in the green room beneath the stage, sitting on a steamer trunk and paging through some notes. I linger in the doorway for a few seconds. He’s wearing a plain V-neck T-shirt today, no jacket, and it makes him look younger than usual.

  “Hey, you made it,” he says, his dimple flashing.

  “Yeah. Thanks for meeting me,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it. The play is going up in six weeks. I sprung this part on you. I just want to make sure you’re ready.” I can see the back of his head in the vanity mirrors, his dark hair, his trim shoulders. I can see myself there too, standing awkwardly in front of him. My skin is pasty white in the glaring light. I suddenly hate the outfit I spent the morning picking out—skinny jeans and my favorite blue scarf. So basic.

  “Should we head up to the stage?” I shift my weight, not sure if I should sit down or lead the way upstairs. He thinks about it for a moment.

  “Let’s stay in here so we don’t have to mess with the stage lights. We’re just reading—we don’t need to worry about blocking yet.”