Lies You Never Told Me Read online

  “Knock it off with the Snaps,” I growl.

  She cocks her head. “What’s your problem?”

  “Don’t be cute,” I say. I fight to keep my voice steady. The sight of her arched brows makes me want to push her away as hard as I can. “Leave my friends and my family alone, Sasha.”

  She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I grit my teeth. “Whatever. If I hear from you again I’m going to the cops.”

  She shakes her head, looking almost sad. “Gabe, come on, there’s no need for this. I’m totally over it, okay? I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone new. So whoever’s messing with you … it’s not me.”

  “You’re so over it you break into my house?” I say.

  She glances away.

  “That was … not cool. I was drunk, I was upset. You blindsided me. I’m sorry I freaked you out.”

  Now I’m the one who’s blindsided. I’ve never heard Sasha apologize for anything.

  She peers almost shyly up at me, through a canopy of lashes. “Anyway. I’m over it now. And … I’d like it if we could be friends.”

  She looks so earnest—and I want to believe her. I want this to be over.

  But I also don’t trust her.

  “Fat chance,” I say. I adjust my baseball cap, take a few steps backward. “Just stay away from us.”

  I turn away before she can answer.

  *

  • • •

  “Yummy!” Vivi says, her eyes wide as the waiter sets a steaming plate of cheese enchiladas in front of her.

  “Yummy indeed. Now be careful, mija, it’s hot.” Dad leans over to tuck a napkin into the front of Vivi’s shirt. “Let it sit for a minute.”

  We’re at my sister’s favorite restaurant, El Rancho, to celebrate her sixth birthday. The faux-hacienda is packed, as always, the air thrumming with conversation and music. Every now and then a loud groan erupts from the crowd watching soccer at the bar. I keep catching my dad’s eyes flitting over to the TV. Mexico’s playing tonight, so if the margaritas keep coming we might be in for some truly foul Spanish swear words. Dad’s lived in the States his entire life, but his own father used to play for the Liga MX, the top-tier soccer league in Mexico, before he and my grandma moved to L.A., so it’s safe to say he’s a total fanatic.

  I take my phone out of my pocket, glancing down to see if there are any messages I’ve missed. It’s become a nervous tic. There’s nothing, though—nothing on my Snapchat, and, disappointingly, nothing new on my Sekrit. I haven’t heard from Catherine since yesterday afternoon. I quickly reread our old conversation.

  daredevil_atx: Hey, no randos have been texting you, have they?

  dollorous00: Besides you, you mean?

  daredevil_atx: :P

  dollorous00: No, no one’s been texting me. Why?

  daredevil_atx: No reason. I just want to make sure I’m your only rando. Rando Calrissian. William Rando Hearst. Rando Baggins.

  dolorous00: Don’t worry. You’ve definitely managed to be the BIGGEST rando, in any case.

  So at least Sasha hasn’t been hounding Catherine directly. I wonder if I should warn her—if I should give her a heads-up that I may have accidentally brought the wrath of the drill team down upon her. But there’s no need to freak her out if Sasha isn’t actively messing with her. And Sasha claims she’s done. The question is whether I can believe her or not.

  My little sister’s wearing a plastic rhinestone tiara, and a cluster of bright balloons is tied to the back of her chair, fanning out like a throne. She looks like a tiny princess in Crayola colors.

  “Happy birthday me!” she says, kicking her feet out.

  “Happy birthday you,” I agree. “Did your class like the treats, Vivi?” Last night I baked and frosted three dozen chocolate-and-banana cupcakes, each with a Little Mermaid paper cutout stuck into the top with a toothpick. I’m a pretty good baker, but it took me forever to finish them. When she came downstairs this morning and saw them, though, the look on her face made the whole thing worth it.

  “Yup,” she says.

  “Except one little girl demanded a Frozen cupcake instead,” Mom says. “There were tears when I told her we were an Ariel household. Tears, and judgment.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.” I pick up a tortilla, bouncing it from hand to hand to keep from burning my fingers.

  And then, almost like an apparition, I see Catherine float past the bar, and nothing else even registers.

  Just behind her is a tall, bearded man in a plaid button-down. His stride is heavy, authoritative. He pulls out her chair for her. She sits automatically, like a wind-up doll.

  A waitress brings a basket of chips to their table, and Catherine dips one in the salsa. The man watches her, his brow furrowed in what looks like disapproval. Or disappointment? Either way, he leans in to talk to her, but she doesn’t look up from the menu.

  “’Scuse me,” I mutter. “I need to run to the bathroom.” I push myself back from the table and drop my napkin onto my empty plate. My parents don’t even look up; Dad’s taking pictures, and Mom’s trying to get a glob of enchilada sauce out of Vivi’s hair.

  I walk around the wide edge of the room. Catherine’s back is to me now, but I can see the man’s face. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, light glinting off the lenses. As I approach, I can just make out what he’s saying.

  “Can you please just relax and try to have a nice evening?” He trails off as he sees me. I take a deep breath and put on my best parent-charming smile.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck with an aw-shucks grin. “I just saw Catherine and thought I’d say hi.”

  I glance down at her, and something jerks in my chest. The expression on her face isn’t just shy, or nervous.

  She’s staring at me in wide-eyed horror.

  “Well, hello.” The man’s voice is softer than I expected, almost gentle. “Do you two know each other from school?”

  My eyes dart to Catherine. Now, mired in a mistake I don’t understand, I don’t know what to say. She gives a tight little nod.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Gabe Jiménez.” I gesture back to my own table, where my sister is playing with the tiny plastic animals that always fill her pockets, galloping a blue elephant across her plate. “We’re out for my little sister’s birthday.”

  Catherine’s staring back down at the table, but the man watches me steadily.

  “That’s nice. How’s the food here? I’ve heard the queso is great.”

  “Oh yeah, best in town,” I say. I turn an open, friendly face toward him, but inside my pockets my fingers clench. Why won’t she look at me?

  It’s that moment when the mariachi band approaches my family’s table, buckles and tassels bright against their dark jackets. The vihuela strums a few opening chords, and the band erupts into “Las Mañanitas.” A small flan appears from the kitchen, a single candle flickering from the center. Vivi claps her hands, off-rhythm with the music.

  Catherine’s father gives a tight smile.

  “Looks like you’d better get back to your family, Gabe. It was nice to meet you. I hope your sister has a happy birthday.”

  There’s no way to argue with that. I give them both an awkward wave, and head back to my table. I feel the man’s eyes follow me all the way.

  I barely hear the music, barely notice my little sister’s delighted squeal. Dad takes pictures of Vivi with the mariachi while Mom sings along. The candlelight lights up Vivi’s face. Her arms pump up and down in spontaneous, uncontrolled joy.

  “Make a wish!” Dad says, as the music comes to its robust finale. Vivi leans forward and blows her candle out in one sputtering breath. I absentmindedly join in the applause. I sneak another glance at Catherine and her father. They’re talking now, both leaning in over the salsa dish. His lips move quickly, angrily. She shakes her head no. He grimaces, slapping his palm light
ly on the table.

  “Gabe, yummy!” Vivi’s holding up a huge quivering spoonful of flan to my lips. Most of it ends up on my chin, but I make a big show of wiping it off with my finger and then popping it in my mouth.

  “So yummy!” I say. “Boy, they’re sugaring you right up before bedtime, aren’t they? Maybe we should just leave her here. I’m sure the mariachi will look after her.”

  She laughs and bounces in her seat.

  I don’t risk another glance at Catherine’s table until we’re on our way out. She and her dad have their entrées, and they sit, unspeaking, picking at their food. I will her to look up at me, but her eyes remain resolutely downcast.

  As I pass, her dad’s eyes narrow in my direction. I feel it like a jab to the ribs, sharp and hostile.

  He doesn’t look away until I’m out the door.

  FOURTEEN

  Elyse

  “That was great, Elyse,” says Mr. Hunter. “Can we try it again?”

  It’s Monday—the first time I’ve seen Mr. Hunter since the matinee. Since those few brief moments of contact. I’ve been counting down the seconds to get here. Desperate to be in a room with him, to be near him. To see if anything has changed.

  Now I’m not sure why I was so anxious to see him. Because nothing has happened.

  “Let’s start from ‘Come, night,’” he says. “And when Brynn comes in, let’s really slow down when she tells you Tybalt is dead. Remember, you think she’s telling you Romeo’s dead. It’s a big moment.”

  “Sure.” I roll my neck back and forth, trying to release some of the tension in my shoulders. I step back to my mark and take a deep breath.

  “Come, night. Come, Romeo. Come, thou day in night …” I meet Mr. Hunter’s eyes as I say the lines. I try to read any sign of desire in the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow.

  I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I’ve got a fever and I can’t really think straight—I can only tumble blindly from one fantasy to the next. One minute I’m sure that he knows how I feel, and that he feels the same. The next he’s giving me the same mildly friendly look he gives everyone in the play—dispassionate, detached.

  But the way his hand lingered against mine, there in the dark of the theater …

  “Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it.” I step to the edge of the stage and reach out my hands beseechingly. “And though I am sold, not yet enjoyed.”

  I think I see something in his eyes—a ripple in the water, like a fish I just missed seeing jump. But then he looks down at his clipboard and scribbles a hasty note. My hands fall back to my sides as Brynn hurries to the center of the stage, all aflutter with the news of Romeo’s banishment.

  “Good!” His voice cuts through the scene. “Good. Elyse, you looked absolutely heartbroken there. That’s exactly what we want. That’s perfect.”

  “Great,” I say softly. Perfectly and absolutely heartbroken. I think I can manage.

  He gives out a few notes to other actors. I’m barely listening. I watch him put a hand on Laura’s shoulder; watch him grin at Frankie, dimples popping. I’m trying to see some difference in the way he talks to them and the way he talks to me, and if I’m honest, I can’t.

  “Elyse. Hey, where are you?”

  I come back to myself with a little jolt. Brynn’s standing next to me, knit cupcake scarf wrapped around her neck, jacket buttoned tight. “Sorry, what?”

  “Do. You. Want. To. Get. Coffee?” she asks.

  “I shouldn’t. I have work tonight,” I say. “I’ve got to get home.”

  “Boo.” She scowls. “Your schedule sucks.”

  “Yeah, well, my whole life kind of sucks, so I don’t know what to tell you.” I watch as Mr. Hunter bursts into laughter at something Frankie’s just said. All the moments I’ve mistaken for connection feel farther and farther away by the second.

  She stares at me. “Are you okay?”

  I take a deep breath and sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just tired. I’ve been pulling the eight-to-midnight shift to make ends meet while Mom’s out of work.”

  “Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. I tear my eyes away from Mr. Hunter and try to focus.

  “Really,” I say. “But it’s just a few more nights. I’ll be able to catch up on my sleep this weekend.”

  “No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll be able to catch up on Mrs. Cowan’s ten-page Wuthering Heights essay.”

  I groan. She’s right.

  “See?” I say. “My whole life kind of sucks.”

  *

  • • •

  I trudge home in the twilight, my backpack a heavy weight on my shoulders. A thin drizzle wets my sweater. Everything smells leafy and green in the rain, even in the traffic. It’s the smell I most associate with fall.

  I climb the steps to my apartment and unlock the door.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  My mom stands in the middle of the living room, eyes wide and staring.

  This morning I left her on the sofa, drifting in and out of consciousness. I’d expected to find her mild and stoned now. But here she is, looking not so much alert as half-wild. I take an involuntary step backward as she comes toward me.

  “Hi to you too,” I say. I take a deep breath and shut the door firmly behind me. The TV mutters madly from one corner. Mom obviously hasn’t showered in days; a rich, earthy stench is starting to roll off her. I drop my backpack next to the door and step around her into the apartment.

  Mom tries to whirl around, but she’s unsteady, her feet tripping into a little jig to keep her balance. “I’m not playing. Where’ve you been all night?”

  “All night?” I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play cute with me!” Her voice is a sudden scream, ripping loose from somewhere deep inside her. My fingers tense into fists at my sides. “It’s six in the morning, Elyse. I’m not an idiot. Where have you been?”

  I stare at her. I can’t help it: I burst into scornful laughter. All my fear and worry and confusion vanishes in a rush of anger.

  “Jesus, Mom. You’re high. It’s six at night. I was home last night at eleven. We even had a conversation, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “I just got home from play practice.”

  Mom wavers a little, her eyes going out of focus for just a moment. Then she regains her own outrage. “Don’t lie to me, Elyse. I can always tell when you lie.”

  “I’m not lying!” I stride back to the door and throw it open. “Look outside, Mom. Rush hour traffic on the road. Light source in the west. It’s six P.M. and I just got home from school. And you’ve been so fucked up for the last week you don’t know how to tell time.”

  I slam the door shut, more forcefully this time. “And even if it were six A.M., don’t think for a minute that you get to tell me what to do with my life. You’ve been so checked out for the past decade you’ve long since lost that privilege.”

  Breath heaving, I stomp to the small kitchen, separated from the living room by a chipped Formica-topped island. I jerk open a cabinet and pull out a metal pot, a box of spaghetti. I’m not hungry now, but I can take it to work and heat it up there—better than another meal of popcorn and Sour Patch Kids. I keep my back to the living room, not wanting to look at my mother.

  I bring the water to a boil and add the noodles, my hands trembling with anger.

  It’s not until I pour the noodles out into the colander that I realize my mom is crying.

  “I try so hard,” Mom whimpers. “And I still always mess it up. I just … I always mess it up.”

  My shoulders sag, my resolve collapsing like it always does. I look up to see my mother standing like a forlorn child in the middle of the living room, covering her mouth with one hand. Her skin is pink and tear-streaked. I take a deep breath.

  “Sit down, Mom. I’ll put on some coffee.”

  Mom doesn’t move. I ignore her, pouring water into
the coffeemaker, turning it on. Then I fix a bowl of noodles and sauce and set it on the island. “Come on. Eat something. You look like a scarecrow.”

  “I can’t.” Mom’s voice is breathless, tragic. I slap my palm against the Formica.

  “You have to. You haven’t eaten in ages. Come on, just a few bites.” I push the bowl a few inches toward the bar stools on the other side. The Oxy always kills her appetite, but if I can talk her into eating just a little, drinking some coffee, it might help sober her up. “Please?”

  The please seems to do it. She doesn’t sit, but she walks forward a few steps and takes up the fork in one hand. Tears still wet on her face, she coils a few strands of pasta around the tines. Then she pauses with it halfway to her lips.

  “I don’t … I don’t know what to do,” she whimpers.

  I pour a cup of coffee and push it across the counter. “I think you need some help. Maybe … I mean, maybe you could look into going to a meeting, or …”

  She grimaces. “A twelve-step thing? You don’t know what they’re like, Elyse. Full of sanctimonious, preachy …”

  “You have to do something!” I snap. I grit my teeth. “You can’t go on like this. I’m going to come home and find you dead on the floor one of these days. Have you ever thought about what that’d be like for me?”

  Her hand shakes. She sends a tiny spray of spaghetti sauce over her already stained shirt. “I know how much I can take.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Oh yeah, you know your limits, huh? You don’t even know what time it is. So pardon me if I don’t buy it.”

  For a long moment she’s silent, staring at the fork with its few sad strands of spaghetti. Then, finally, she gets it into her mouth and chews. She washes it down with a swallow of hot black coffee.

  “Okay,” she says, finally, her voice very small.

  “Okay what?” I brace myself against the island counter.

  “Okay, I’ll … I’ll find a meeting. I’ll stop. I’ll do better.” She puts the fork down with a clatter and rubs her face with both hands. “I’m sorry, Elyse. I really am.”