Lies You Never Told Me Page 7

“Do you know Sekrit? The app, I mean?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never used it.” I shift my weight. “I usually just text people.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s more private. Secure.” She hesitates again. “I’m dollorous00.” She spells it out for me.

  Then, before I can say anything, she steps close. I get a whiff of her shampoo. It smells like some kind of fruit—pomegranate or cherries, maybe. I close my eyes, and before I can move she’s taken the comics from my hand and disappeared into the crowd.

  For a moment I stand there in the glaring morning sun. Then I pull out my phone, ready to download the app and find her there. I’m already writing the first message in my head. It has to be casual—I don’t want to freak her out—and maybe funny. But not too funny. Not like I’m saying, hey, look at me, I’m so funny. I don’t want her to think I’m trying too hard.

  But before I can even go to the app store, I see I’ve got a new Snapchat. It’s from a number I don’t know. I wonder if it’s hers—if she found me already. I open it.

  It’s a video. At first I can’t make anything out—whoever’s taking it is behind a chain-link fence, with a large bush obscuring the view. But then the camera refocuses, and I see a playground. A bunch of little kids run laughing across the wood chips, playing tag. They’re maybe five—kindergarteners, first graders.

  Suddenly I feel cold. I know, somehow, what I will see.

  The camera zooms in on one little girl, her curly black hair in pigtails. She looks impossibly tiny against the playground equipment, and she toddles along with a clumsy, stomping gait. The camera is close enough to pick up her laughter.

  It’s Vivi.

  TEN

  Elyse

  “Leo was so cute when he was younger,” Brynn says, taking a handful of popcorn from the large bowl between us.

  It’s Monday evening, and we’re in her living room, taking a break from homework to watch the old Romeo + Juliet from the nineties. We’re ostensibly watching for “research.” It’s the party scene—the part where their eyes meet through the fish tank, Claire Danes in her angel wings, Leonardo in his armor.

  “He’s still pretty cute,” I say. “Did you see Gatsby? He looks good in a suit.”

  Brynn sticks her tongue out. “Too old.”

  “He’s not that old,” I mumble. My cheeks burn, but she’s not looking.

  I spent the rest of the day yesterday trying to decide if the kiss had really happened, or if it’d been a dream. Outside of the close air of the green room it seemed so unlikely. But I could still feel it—could still close my eyes and feel the pressure of our mouths touching. He was right—it was crossing the line. It shouldn’t have happened. But I’ve gone over the memory again and again, my heart tripping in my chest every time.

  I haven’t mentioned it to Brynn. I’m not sure why—I don’t think she’d tell anyone. But it feels safer to cradle the secret close, to keep it protected.

  “Your one-on-one session must have done you some good,” Brynn says suddenly, almost as if reading my mind.

  My hand freezes halfway to the popcorn bowl. “What do you mean?” This afternoon I worked as hard as I could to keep things normal, even though the sight of Mr. Hunter filled my chest with bubbles. I barely talked to him, and only when he had something to say about the play. But Brynn knew me better than anyone else. Maybe she’d seen through it.

  She doesn’t even glance at me. “I mean, you’re off book for act one now. And you sound really good.”

  “Oh. Oh, thanks.” I catch my breath again. “Yeah, we just ran lines. It was helpful.”

  Brynn is wearing a pair of pajama bottoms printed all over with fluffy cartoon sheep. Her hair is pinned up in a sloppy bun, her face is makeup free, and her glasses are crooked on her nose. It’s 7:45. It took her less than five minutes to get out of her vintage swing dress and wipe her lipstick off when we got in the door from rehearsal. As far as I know I’m the only person she lets see her like this besides her family.

  She glances at me now, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up with you? You’re all twitchy.”

  “Just tired,” I say. “My brain is full.”

  “Girl, please, you’ve got four acts to go.” She sits up, folding her legs under her. “Anyway, we need a break. Not a watching-old-movies break. Like, a find-a-Sadie-Hawkins-dress break. Want to hit the vintage shops this weekend?”

  I slump back against the overstuffed sofa. “Oh God, that’s coming up? We just got done with homecoming. What’s the student council’s crepe paper budget, anyway?”

  She chews the edge of her thumbnail. “I’m thinking about asking Trajan.”

  “Trajan? Like, the star basketball player currently playing Tybalt?” I laugh. “You’re going to have to find six-inch heels, or else you’ll be slow-dancing with his bellybutton.” Trajan’s got to be at least six foot five.

  She smirks. “There’s something about a guy who could throw you over his shoulder, though. You know? I mean, not like in a caveman way. More in a sexy fireman way. Anyway, what about you?”

  “I’m not so into sexy firemen. I’m more of a hot-cop kind of girl,” I say.

  “No, I mean … who do you want to go after?”

  The image of Mr. Hunter floats up before my eyes. Which is ridiculous. Because even if we would go together, we couldn’t.

  I pull a pillow down over my face. “I’m too tired to go to a dance. I’m too tired for anything except rehearsal. I am a line-memorizing robot.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s not even a lot of work. Find a dress, then come over and let me do your hair and makeup. Boom. Dance-ready.”

  “Maybe they’ll let me wear my Juliet costume and I can wander around the dance running lines from the masquerade scene,” I say. “I can multitask.”

  “You can at least help me find a dress,” Brynn says. “Come on, you haven’t gone with me in forever.”

  “Because vintage shopping with you sucks. All I find are moth-eaten housedresses covered in, like, bloodstains and cat hair and black mold. Meanwhile you always manage to find some amazing dress in perfect condition and magically in your size.” I shake my head. “It’s like you have a superpower. A very limited but very useful superpower.”

  “Remember that Pierre Cardin I found last summer? Oh man, they didn’t even know what they had.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes.

  I purse my lips. “It’s so unfair.”

  I look away from the TV, the lines echoing in my head. Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged. The scene is layered now, memories overlapping across it. I think of rehearsal, of the chaste peck Frankie gives me, of the feeling of intense focus I get when I’m diving into the role; I think of Mr. Hunter, his lips on mine. I think of the row of wig heads in the green room, watching like an audience, wondering how it will end.

  “You girls doing okay?” Mrs. Catambay appears in the doorway. She’s a tiny, plump woman with warm sepia skin, and as usual, she’s holding a tray laden with food—paciencia cookies and dried bananas and the coconut crackers she knows I love. She comes in and sets it down on the coffee table.

  “Mom. We’re fine,” Brynn says, rolling her eyes. “We don’t need to eat every snack in the house.”

  “Ooh. I love this movie.” Mrs. Catambay pauses in front of the TV and gives a little sigh. “Your dad and I used to make out to the soundtrack.”

  “Ew!” Brynn clamps her hands over her ears.

  “You should be grateful we did,” Mrs. Catambay goes on, a wicked glint in her eyes. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that Des’ree song.”

  “Oh my God, you have to stop,” Brynn groans.

  They joust like this all the time. It’s partly a bit, partly not. They get on each other’s nerves and crack each other up at the same time. I can’t even imagine talking this way with my own mom.

  “How have you been, Elyse?” Mrs. Catambay turns her attention to me, her eyes
twinkling warmly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while. School going okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Catambay’s always been warm and welcoming toward me. She never says anything about my mom, but she knows things aren’t great at home; she takes pains to feed me and fuss over me. But even though the Catambays are playful and casual with each other, I can’t quite get the hang of the “normal family” patter. I’m always a little too formal. Luckily Brynn’s mom thinks it’s hilarious.

  “You hear that? Ma’am. I am a ma’am, Brynn.” She points triumphantly at me. “This is what a respectful child looks like.”

  “She just doesn’t know any better,” returns Brynn. Then she throws a pillow at her mom. “Go away. We’re trying to learn our lines.”

  Mrs. Catambay just laughs.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen Skyping with your lola,” she says. “Elyse, help yourself to anything else you want, since my ingrate daughter will probably forget to offer you anything.” She kisses the top of Brynn’s head and whisks out of the room.

  “Sorry,” Brynn says. Her bun is askew from the mauling, but she doesn’t bother to fix it. At home she is completely without a care about her image.

  “You know I love your mom,” I say. “She always reminds me of Lorelei Gilmore.”

  “Jesus, don’t tell her that, she’ll never shut up.” She gives me a sidelong look. “How’s your mom doing?”

  “It’s been bad lately.” Mom’s been particularly out of it. She hasn’t been to work in a few weeks—I’m assuming she’s lost her job. I had to take on extra shifts at the movie theater to make sure we could pay our bills.

  I don’t have to tell Brynn all this. She knows what “bad” means.

  “That sucks.” She exhales loudly. And while Mrs. Catambay is out of the room, ostensibly not listening, and while she would insist that Brynn’s a terrible hostess who doesn’t pay attention to her guests, I know that when I leave here I’ll have a bag full of food. Tons of snacks; a bunch of perfectly good fruit they’ll claim is “about to go bad;” a Tupperware container full of leftover adobo because “Mom made too much.” And I know it’ll be impossible to tell who’s responsible—Brynn or Mrs. Catambay—because no matter what they say about each other, they’re peas in a pod.

  I rest my head against Brynn’s. The rhythm of her breath against my shoulder soothes me. On the screen, Leo and Claire dodge into an elevator and kiss, narrowly evading Lady Capulet. I think about my own kiss again—the feel of Mr. Hunter’s five-o’clock shadow against my face, the woodsy smell of him. I imagine telling Brynn about it. What would she say? It’d almost be worth it just to be less in my own head about the whole thing, just to hear it out loud. It’d make it feel more real.

  But what if she thinks it’s gross? What if she can tell I liked it anyway?

  I press my lips together tightly, as if I might tell her in spite of myself. She glances at me and her brow furrows.

  “You know you can crash here any time things get too crappy,” she says softly. It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about my mom.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I smile. “You really are the best.”

  She throws a piece of popcorn into her mouth, catching it neatly.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

  ELEVEN

  Gabe

  “All students will make their way to the B gym for this afternoon’s pep rally. Again, all students must make their way to the B gym quickly and quietly …”

  Principal Degroot’s voice is nearly drowned out over the intercom by the noise in the halls. It’s the Friday before homecoming, and the last two hours of the school day are devoted to the manic religious experience that is Texas football. Everyone’s wearing blue and red, Mustang colors; a few people even have painted faces and bright-colored wigs. The tide moves relentlessly toward the gym.

  “Ready?” Caleb says, straightening up from the vending machine with his arms full of Doritos and Hostess cakes. Irene snags a bag off the top and opens it.

  “Ready,” I agree.

  We make our way upstream, against the crowd.

  The three of us don’t exactly have an abundance of school spirit. The game itself is fun enough—who doesn’t like watching two-hundred-pound dudes brutalize each other?—but the other parts of it, the tribalism and theatrics and rah-rah-rah, are lame. Of course, dating Sasha, I had to go to every single event so I could watch her dance. But now I am free to blow off any and all pep-related activities.

  I imagine the crush in the gym, the mass of kids piled into the bleachers while cheerleaders tumble below. The football team will come running out through a big paper banner and everyone will chant, “Wat-er-LOO! Wat-er-LOO!” And then the Mustang Sallys will come out in formation, kicking and strutting to the marching band’s rendition of some cheesy pop song. I can picture Sasha there in the center in her cowboy hat and sequined vest, her smile painted on, her skin glowing in all that luminous attention.

  I’ve been trying to avoid her since the breakup. It’s not easy. Every time I turn a corner she’s there, her pale eyes sending a freeze ray right in my direction. She knows my schedule by heart, so I have to assume she’s going out of her way to bump into me. I’ve started ducking into the bathroom every time I see a hint of blond curly hair. I don’t want anything to do with her.

  Because while I can’t prove she sent that Snapchat message, I don’t know who else it could be.

  I’m not scared. I’m pissed. I don’t trust myself to talk to her. When I imagine it—when I think about the video, the implicit threat to my little sister, my fingers twitch convulsively. I want to grab Sasha by the shoulders, to shake her, to make clear what I will do to her if she comes near Vivi. And that would be trouble.

  But I haven’t gotten any further messages from the mystery number … so I have to believe it was just a pathetic, fumbling attempt to get my attention. The death rattle of a bad relationship.

  “Hey, man, there’s that girl.” Caleb’s voice interrupts my reverie.

  I shake my head, look up at him. “Huh?”

  He’s a full five inches taller than me; he can see over the crowd and down the hall more easily than I can. He nods to the left. “That girl. You know, the one you chased across the parking lot Monday.”

  My head snaps to follow his gaze. There she is, curled protectively around a stack of books: Catherine. She strikes me the way she does every time—some camouflaged forest animal, quiet in the shadows, hard to make out but fascinating once seen.

  I’ve been messaging with her all week now—mostly light, innocuous stuff. Videos of baby sloths, pictures of my food, dumb memes from Reddit. Anything I can think of to start a conversation. She’s mostly just responded with smiley faces, or vague, noncommittal words. Cute! LOL. But here and there we’ve had an actual exchange. When I sent a picture of Vivi hugging Rowdy around the neck, she said:

  dollorous00: I don’t know if I’m more jealous of the dog or your sister. Pure love.

  And another time:

  daredevil_atx: Anyone ever tell you you look like Natalie Dormer from Game of Thrones?

  dollorous00: Ha … no? But thank you.

  daredevil_atx: She’s my favorite. Though Sansa Stark’s pretty badass now that she’s dressing like a supervillain.

  dollorous00: I HATE Sansa! She’s the WORST.

  daredevil_atx: No spoilers! I’m behind by a season and I plan to binge watch the rest this weekend. You should come over and watch with me.

  A suggestion that we should hang out was apparently too much too soon, though, because I haven’t heard from her since that one.

  Now I stop in my tracks. “Hey, Catherine! Cat!”

  It seems to take her a minute to register my voice. She blinks, then gives a little wave without slowing down.

  But this time I’m not going to let her slip by me. I push my way across the hall. “Trust me, you can skip the pep rally. Spoiler alert: Waterloo High will Go-Fight-Win. Our opposition will b
e pushed Way, Way Back. We will score many goal units that way.”

  In spite of herself, the corner of her mouth twitches up. “But how am I ever going to learn how to spell victory if I don’t go?”

  “Wait, wait, is that a joke?” I feign incredulity. “School spirit is good on you. It really brings out your inner snark.”

  She glances up and down the hall, stepping back as a guy in a red-and-blue clown wig walks between us, howling. “This is nuts. No one at my old school cared about football.”

  “Must not have been in Texas, then,” I say. “This is pretty tame. Last year we fought our rivals from just outside Houston. There was livestock loose in the hallways. Seriously—their mascot’s a ram, and some dumbshit thought it was going to be a good idea to sacrifice a sheep …”

  “Oh no …” She looks simultaneously horrified and amused.

  “Don’t worry, it survived. It got loose, ate half the band’s sheet music, and took a crap on the Mustang mosaic in the middle of the cafeteria before the 4-H kids managed to wrangle it into submission. I hear it’s living in Tori Spencer’s backyard now. Keeps the grass trimmed.”

  She laughs.

  For that moment it’s like the crowd becomes so many cardboard cutouts around us. The chaos gets swallowed, and in its vacuum all I can hear is her laughter. It’s soft, musical, muted—a tune escaping from a mine, from somewhere deep and dark.

  And then I come back to myself as Caleb and Irene come up behind me. “Hey. What’s the holdup, Jiménez?” Irene asks.

  “Hey. Uh, this is Catherine. I was just trying to convince her to come with us instead of going to the rally.”

  Irene gives her an appraising smirk. I feel unaccountably nervous. It’s not like I need my friends to approve of some girl I’ve got a crush on—but then, since they were right all along about Sasha, maybe I should wait for their thumbs-up.

  Finally, Irene nods. “Come on, then.”

  I feel myself relax. Catherine glances from Irene back to me, uncertain. Caleb holds up a package of Ding Dongs and shakes it enticingly.