Lies You Never Told Me Page 8

“We’ve got snacks,” he says.

  A shy smile unfolds over her face. She tucks her books under one arm.

  “Okay,” she says. “Where are we going?”

  *

  • • •

  Technically, the Lower Courtyard isn’t really a courtyard. It’s a spot under the social sciences wing that’s built over a dip in the landscape and supported by pillars, with an entrance to the ground floor that barely ever gets used. It’s functionally a shaded patio for smokers, skate punks, art freaks, and burnouts.

  Over time the place has gotten decorated in a haphazard, communal kind of way. A handful of mismatched deck chairs sit at random angles to each other. Someone’s left a bucket of colored chalk down there, and the concrete is covered in smeared and faded scrawls. Smash the patriarchy! Mara + Colton 4Eva. Degroot suxxxxxxx! There’s a broken pogo stick leaning against the wall, and someone has wound chili-pepper-shaped string lights around two of the pillars, though the bulbs are all burned out.

  Irene shakes her head at the chalk graffiti. “Amateurs.” She dumps out the bucket of chalk and picks up a pastel green, running it in quick graceful lines over the concrete. Caleb releases the armful of snacks onto a three-legged card table propped up with cinder blocks and picks up a bag of pretzels. I glance at Catherine; she’s smiling a little, looking around the Courtyard. A warm hum fills my chest.

  “You’re new, right?” Irene asks, glancing up at Catherine as she draws. “Where’d you go last year?”

  “Oh … last year I lived in Eureka. It’s in Northern California.” She scuffs her feet. I pull a pink plastic lawn chair out and gesture to it with mock gallantry, and she sits. I plop down next to her on an upended milk crate.

  “Cool,” says Caleb. “I got a cousin in Eureka. Maddy Scott? You ever meet her? She’s a year behind us.”

  Catherine shakes her head. “No, I don’t … I mean, we lived right outside Eureka. Kind of, uh, rural.”

  “Rural Humboldt County. You must have some stories,” Caleb says. “I bet you got a contact high just walking down the street.”

  Catherine’s eyes fall to her lap, where her fingers twist anxiously. I give Caleb a look, willing him to stop putting her on the spot.

  “Anyway,” I say pointedly. “Hey, so, I’m halfway through One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

  Her face lights up a little. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  “Yeah, except it’s more like One Hundred Years of Dudes with the Same Name. I can’t figure out who’s who.”

  She grins. “I know, I had that problem too. I had to make a flow chart.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Back up,” says Irene. “Gabe’s reading? A, like, book?”

  “A, like, five-hundred-page book,” I say haughtily. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Uh huh,” Irene says. She looks up at Catherine. “Have you read Love in the Time of Cholera? I like that one even better.”

  “No, but it’s on my list,” Catherine says. “Maybe I’ll pick it up over Christmas break.”

  “You have to really savor it. It’s slow and dense and gorgeous.” Irene picks up a yellow piece of chalk and starts to color something in. “Why aren’t you in AP English with me? If you’re reading García Márquez you’re better qualified than, like, ninety percent of the idiots in there.”

  I could kill both of my best friends right now. But Catherine just gives a little shrug. “My grades weren’t good enough last year. My mom died in the middle of the semester and I … I didn’t really recover very quickly.”

  Irene stops what she’s doing and looks up. “That sucks, dude.” She pushes her cat-eye glasses up her nose. “My dad died when I was twelve. Car crash. The idiot was driving home drunk from a Longhorns game. It was totally his fault, so I couldn’t even be mad at someone else. I basically refused to leave the house all summer. These two were the only people who’d still talk to me after that.” She jerks her head at me and Caleb. “Everyone else was too weirded out.”

  Catherine nods eagerly. “Yeah, I felt like such a … such a freak. Still do, kind of. Most people don’t get it.”

  Okay … maybe I spoke too soon. Because the tension suddenly leaves Catherine’s jaw, and her eyes are round and earnest.

  “Yeah, well, most people are morons.” Irene studies her, then starts to draw again. “That why you moved here?”

  “Yeah. Dad thought we needed a change of scene.” She kicks her legs gently, brushing her hair to one side. “It’s okay here, I guess. But I miss the trees back home.”

  “The redwoods are amazing,” Caleb says. “But Texas is okay. You should check out Hamilton Pool—it’s just outside town. Big limestone grotto. Snapping turtles, jackrabbits, catfish.”

  “That sounds beautiful,” she says.

  And just like that, she’s chatting with my friends. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or jealous. How is it that they’ve gotten this girl out of her shell more in five minutes than I have in a week? But soon I’m laughing with everyone else while Irene and Caleb retell our best stories: the time the three of us stole a golf cart from the country club and drove it up and down the halls at school, dressed in argyle sweater vests and plaid pants; the time Caleb got arrested because he was staring at some fireflies so intently the cops thought he was on drugs. The time we climbed out on the train trestle over Town Lake to help Irene paint giant octopus tentacles coming up from the water and I almost fell. By the time the bell rings we’re laughing our asses off.

  Caleb glances at Irene, then back at Catherine. “Hey, what’re you doing after school? Weather’s still good. Why don’t we all head out to Hamilton Pool?”

  “Yeah!” I sit up straight. “We totally should. It’s awesome. And we can go to Rosie’s on the way back. It’s this dope TexMex dive. I saw Willie Nelson there once.”

  Catherine looks a little startled. She picks up her books and hugs them to her chest, almost unconsciously.

  “That sounds … amazing. I really wish I could. But I have to get home.”

  Irene shakes her head. “What’s so great about home? Your new best friends aren’t there. They’re going to Hamilton Pool and possibly getting high with an aging country music star. Just think about what you could miss out on.”

  “Trust me. I’m already regretting it.” She chews the corner of her lip, then shakes her head and gets up to go. “Maybe another time. This has been really fun.”

  “You know where to find us.” Irene gives her a little wave.

  I scramble to my feet. “Can I walk you a little ways?”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, and my stomach lurches.

  “Okay,” she finally says.

  I don’t even hear Caleb and Irene saying goodbye. There’s nothing but Catherine, casting her long shadow next to mine. We make our way toward the street. Greasy-looking clouds obscure the sun overhead. A thin breeze shifts the branches of the box shrubs lining the walkway.

  “Your friends seem nice,” she says shyly.

  “Really? Because based on this afternoon, they seem more like career criminals,” I joke.

  She doesn’t smile. “No—I can tell. They care about each other. You all care about each other.”

  There’s a note of such sadness in her voice when she says this that I come up short for a moment. It strikes me that I’ve never met anyone who seemed as lonely as her.

  And then I’m moving before I can think twice about it. My arms slide around her. I pull her close. For a moment she’s bony against my chest, hard and unyielding. But then, just as I’m about to let go, she softens. I close my eyes. In the dark behind my lids there’s just the smell of her shampoo, like sun-ripened fruit, and the warmth of her body against mine.

  She steps away, and I stagger a little.

  “I’ve got to get home. I’ll see you.”

  “Yeah.” I watch her make her way up the street, her gait a little faster than usual. She turns a corner and disappears out of view.

  I stand there, my brain shorted out, my bod
y alive with the memory of hers. My phone vibrates, and I reach for it in a fog.

  But when I see what it is, my focus comes rushing back, razor sharp. It’s another Snap from an unknown number. A still frame this time—a picture of me and Catherine at the bus stop. A picture from mere seconds ago. In it, Catherine’s moving out of my arms. But whoever sent the message has modified the image.

  There’s a skull, superimposed over Catherine’s face.

  TWELVE

  Elyse

  On Friday afternoon Mr. Hunter announces to the cast that he’s managed to score free tickets to a matinee production of No Exit, and we should all come if we can. “Sorry it’s last-minute,” he says. “I didn’t know if I could get the whole group in or not.”

  So I spend Saturday morning trying to figure out what to wear. Last year I bought a short, curve-hugging LBD on markdown at Nordstrom, and I’ve never yet had the guts to wear it in public. I put it on and take it off three times before I finally steel myself and rip off the tags. I manage to curl my hair without burning myself for once, so it falls in soft waves around my shoulders, and I swipe red lipstick across my mouth. My dark-blue eyes pop from thick, dark lashes.

  I barely recognize myself in the mirror. For a half-beat of my heart, I think, God, I don’t just look pretty; I look glamorous. But the very thought makes me blush. It’s too much. Too drastic a change. It’s ridiculous. I’m heading to my closet to change into something else when I hear Brynn’s quick double honk from the parking lot.

  No time. I have to go.

  Outside my bedroom the smell of unwashed clothes and cigarette smoke stings my nostrils. My mother lies sprawled across the sofa, wearing the same dirty T-shirt and athletic shorts she’s had on for almost a week. She snores softly. The TV’s tuned to what looks like a police procedural, music low and ominous.

  I move softly, trying to ease over the creaking floorboards without waking her. But at the door I pause, biting my lip. The temperature in the apartment is icy, and we can’t afford to turn up the thermostat. Sighing, I take a green-and-yellow afghan off the back of the couch and spread it over her.

  Mom stirs, her eyelids fluttering with the effort it takes to open them. “That’s a new outfit. Where you going?”

  “To a play,” I say, tucking the edges of the afghan under her shoulders a little snugger than necessary. “Did you eat anything today?”

  But she’s already nodded off again.

  I hesitate for a moment, trying to gauge how far gone she is this time. Brynn’s waiting, though. I quickly grab the cigarette lighter off the table and slip it into my purse—at least I can keep her from accidentally setting the couch on fire—and head out the door.

  Brynn does a double take when I hop into the passenger seat.

  “Wow” is all she says.

  I flip down the visor mirror, check my makeup and my hair. It hasn’t gotten messed up in the ninety seconds since I left my bedroom. I keep fighting the certainty that the mascara is smeared, the lipstick on my teeth. “Is it okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, you look amazing.” She gives a sideways grin. “Your legs look about twenty feet long in that dress.”

  She’s wearing a lime-green pencil dress, her hair in thick, 1940s-style victory rolls around her face. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that to my hair sometime,” I say.

  She gives me another long look, then shakes her head. “It doesn’t look like I need to teach you anything,” she says, putting the car into gear.

  *

  • • •

  The theater’s in a hip little row of cafés and shops in a neighborhood lined with Victorian houses. We park and join the others just outside the ticket office. I don’t see Mr. Hunter; he must be running late.

  Kendall gives me an up-and-down glance. “Jesus, Elyse, it’s just a matinee. What’d you do, rob a Saks?”

  I feel my cheeks get warm. I open my mouth to snap back, but before I can, I see Mr. Hunter, and all other thoughts disappear from my mind.

  He gives a half-distracted, half-wry grin when he sees us from down the street. Somehow he’s both sophisticated and sheepish—stylish in slim-cut jeans and a blazer, his hair mussed from running. He looks like how I’ve always imagined a writer or a professor: like someone who sits in the big picture window at Powell’s drinking black coffee, watching people pass on the sidewalk outside and taking notes in a Moleskine.

  “Sorry I’m late!” He steps up to the box office and gives the cashier a dazzling smile. “We should be on the list.”

  He doesn’t even look my way. I realize I’m standing on my toes, leaning toward him, a plant craning for light. I force myself to relax.

  It’s not like he’s going to ogle me or tell me I look hot. Not in front of everyone. But I can’t help it. I can feel myself shrinking, my shoulders drawing up against my body. I feel suddenly ridiculous. Everyone’s looking at me, and even though that was the point, it doesn’t feel as fun as I’d hoped. The heels, the lipstick—it’s all too much, it’s two P.M. on a Saturday. I feel wildly overdressed, even standing next to Brynn in her vintage clothes and pin-up-girl hair.

  I hug my purse under my arm and follow everyone into the theater. It’s small, a cramped, claustrophobic space perfect for Sartre. Mr. Hunter leads the way, handing the usher our tickets and herding us into a row near the back. Brynn sits next to Trajan. I watch as she leans over and says something that makes him laugh. I sit on the other side of her, tucking my purse under the chair and looking down at my lap. The low susurrus of conversation weaves around me in the dim house lights.

  I feel someone settle in next to me. I look up, expecting to see Frankie or Nessa or Laura, one of my other friends, but when I see Mr. Hunter my pulse swells like a tide. He doesn’t look my way, and I barely have enough time to register him when the lights go down and everything disappears from view.

  The seats are close together. In that brief moment of darkness I feel the heat of his body radiating toward me. I feel his breath, rising and falling. I don’t let myself lean toward him. But I don’t shy away from the contact. My elbow touches his across the armrest, and even with his sleeve between us, it makes me breathless.

  The first two actors step out on stage. “So here we are?” says Garcin.

  “Yes, Mr. Garcin,” says the valet.

  “And this is what it looks like?”

  I barely register their voices. I can’t track what’s happening on the stage. I stare blindly forward as the other characters join them, one by one, filling up the nightmarish little room. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Mr. Hunter’s profile, his aquiline nose, his dark, thick eyebrows. The stage lights shift and change color, sending wild shadows across his face.

  My mind wheels around wildly, soaring over the theater. I know that I’m supposed to forget that kiss. He said it was a mistake, and he was right. But being so near him now, in the dark … I touch my lips, remembering.

  I know it can’t happen again. But I want proof. Proof that it wasn’t all in my head—a dream, a fantasy.

  Proof that, for just a moment, he wanted to touch me.

  I shift my weight toward him, just a little. It’s barely noticeable. I could deny it if I had to. I slide my arm onto the armrest, as if I didn’t notice his elbow there on the edge. I breathe in his smell, cedar and citrus and something else, a dark musky note.

  His chair creaks softly as he shifts his weight too. And then it’s like every connection in my brain lights up at once, a Christmas tree surging to life, twinkling and brilliant, because his hand brushes against mine, our skin touches, and everything in the world vanishes but that tiny point of contact.

  On stage the actors are yelling at each other about something, but I don’t care. His hand draws gently away again, and I’m left wondering if it was an accident or not. My head spins. He’s never once looked my way. His eyes are locked on the stage.

  But it felt so much like a caress. Deliberate and soft and gentle.

  As if from far away
, I hear Garcin’s famous oneliner: “Hell is other people!” Soon the audience is clapping and whistling. The actors step forward to bow. The warmth between us dissipates as Mr. Hunter gets to his feet, applauding.

  The house lights go up. Mr. Hunter turns to say something to Nessa, who’s sitting on the other side of him. I fight down a surge of jealousy. Why won’t he just look at me?

  “That was amazing,” Brynn says breathlessly.

  “Yeah, great,” I say, distracted. She doesn’t notice. We stand up and start crowding toward the exits. “Crap, I left my purse.”

  I turn around, and walk right into Mr. Hunter. His hands land on my hips.

  For just a moment, I think I see a flash of longing in his eyes.

  Then he smiles, jerking his hands away. “Sorry about that,” he says, bluntly cheerful. “You startled me.”

  “It’s … okay.” I straighten up. I’ve been praying for his gaze all day. Now it moves over my face, making me visible, beautiful.

  “Sorry, I just need to get my purse.”

  He steps back so I can squeeze by, and when I turn around he’s gone, along with the rest of my friends, out to the lobby. I stand there for a moment, letting my heart slow its manic staccato flutter.

  I don’t know anymore what’s real and what’s my imagination, what’s a kiss and what’s a performance. I don’t know if I’m just hoping, wishing, for him to think I’m special. For him to look at me and touch me and want me. But I can’t deny one thing, not even to myself.

  I want it to be real.

  THIRTEEN

  Gabe

  I don’t have any classes with Sasha this semester, but I still know her schedule. So Monday after lunch I wait outside her figure-drawing class until I see her coming down the hall.

  I’m acting against every bit of good advice I’ve ever gotten, including my own. But I’ve thought about it all weekend. Breaking into my room to freak me out was one thing. Stalking my little sister—and Catherine—is another. I can’t let it go.

  She smiles when she sees me, but she doesn’t pick up her pace. When she gets to the door of the classroom it looks for a minute like she’s going to saunter right past me. I grab her arm; when her eyes widen I realize I’m squeezing harder than I meant to. I let go.