If I Lie (14 page)

Two weeks have passed since I saw my mother in Spring Lake, and little has changed except that my father seems to notice me now from time to time. I almost feel guilty that his garden remains a brown wasteland, but no way in hell am I going to admit what I did. I haven’t bumped into my mother or Uncle Eddy again, and I’m glad. What would I say?

For now, I’m lucky Mr. Horowitz chose to take the seat next to me. At least I was able to get some sleep during the long drive. Lately the nightmares won’t go away. I trace a drop of condensation on the window.
Come home, Carey.

“How’s your friend?”

I turn to Mr. Horowitz, wondering if he can read minds.

He adds, “The one in the pictures on your camera.”

George, then, not Carey.

George is coughing more these days, but he says not to worry. They haven’t figured out the right combination of medications to give him. He’s like a kid’s chemistry set, and the doctors keep mixing things up to see what kind of reaction they can set off.

I shrug, not wanting to get into it. “He’s okay.”

“Good, good,” Horowitz says, nodding cheerfully.

I’m trying to decide if I’m still pissed at him. I never planned to go on this trip, but he conned me into it by feeding my ego.
We need pictures, Miss Quinn. Your work is so beautiful, Miss Quinn, so full of honesty.
He loved the pictures I took at the dance, despite the missing shots of the king and queen. I feel cheap for caving to flattery, but honestly, it’s not like a lot of people are nice to me these days. And when George heard about the trip, he asked me for a favor I couldn’t refuse.

“I think you mentioned you met him at the VA Hospital?” asks Mr. Horowitz.

His curiosity surprises me, and I’m slow to answer. “Yeah. George does a lot of volunteer work for the Veterans History Project. I help out a few days a week.”

Horowitz looks confused, and I explain what the project is. Excited, I turn on my ever-present camera to show him pictures of George, Don, and the others I’ve met at the VA. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even George, but Boston University has
accepted me into their photojournalism program. It doesn’t seem right to plan my future until I know whether Carey will have one too.

“You wouldn’t believe what some of these people have been through,” I finish.

He considers me with a new awareness like I’ve said something he didn’t expect. “You sound pretty passionate about working with the military.”

It takes a moment for that arrow to plant itself in my chest. I stiffen. “You mean I shouldn’t care, after how I treated Carey?”

Horowitz blushes to the matted roots of his curly hair. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, and I think it’s true. He’s one of those teachers who care about their students. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s heard the gossip about me and judged me for it like the others.

“You don’t know me,” I say.

The conversation ends when I turn back to the window. Discomfort moves in and takes over the two inches of space between us, but I still prefer this seat to the one beside Jamie.

*   *   *

The bus pulls into the hotel parking lot, and we wait for the driver to unlock the huge undercarriage so we can claim bags. Shivering and shuddering from the cold, I hang back until the crowd disappears into the hotel lobby before I grab my small duffel.

The lobby gleams and shines, despite the loud teens now
loitering about and sprawling on velvet sofas and armchairs. Add a few video-game consoles, TVs, and a soda machine, and we’d make ourselves right at home. Soon the chaperones turn over the distribution of the keys to Jamie and Josh, our trip leaders, and they wander toward the fireplace to warm up while we get sorted out. Jamie and Josh group us together. Two beds in a room, four girls or four guys to a room. Again I hold myself apart, wanting to disappear from this trip where escape into the woods or even my car is impossible.

I needn’t have bothered.

Some of the guys, including Blake, wander off, but a lot of the others stick around, even after they have their keys. A sly silence spreads, and looks bounce between Jamie and me. More rooms are assigned and I do the math in my head. There are twenty-one girls: five still await their room keys, including Jamie.

Jamie gives me a smug smile, and I wince. Then she points to Janet Chou. “You can room with me. And you,” she adds, pointing to Amery Hoffmeyer.

Danielle Alcala and I are the last ones standing. Of course, Danielle is Jamie’s friend. Jamie makes a production of putting the tip of her finger to her lips, playing to her audience. Everyone watches, and my eyes burn with embarrassment.

Finally, she shakes her head, oozing pity. “I don’t know, Quinn. I’m not sure I want to share a room with you. I mean, have you had your shots?” She takes a step toward me and drops her voice just enough to go unnoticed by the chaperones. “Who
knows what I could catch from bed-jumping trash like you?”

Right. Now my whore cooties can spread through close contact.

I roll my eyes.

Jamie’s eyes narrow and she calls out too loudly, “OMG, Mrs. Peringue, we have too many girls! I think Quinn is going to be sleeping in the lobby.” She waits for the teacher to join us before adding in her sweetest voice, “Unless someone wants to volunteer to let her sleep on their floor?”

Twenty seconds. That’s how long they stare at me, letting me hang.

Finally Angel makes a move to step forward, but Nikki grabs her arm. That’s all it takes for Angel to back down, refusing to meet my eyes. Nikki covers her smile with a fist. Clearly enjoying the situation, Josh grins. And the whole time Mrs. Peringue stands there, wringing her hands and doing nothing.

With a little shrug, Jamie says, “Oh well, Quinnie. I tried.”

I want to punch her in the face. I hate her. I hate them. I really wish I hated them all.

Mr. Horowitz finally steps in and asks what’s going on. He takes charge of the situation. Jamie is on ten, playing teacher’s pet. Horowitz listens to her explain how I was a last minute addition and there simply isn’t a room for me. I can actually feel myself sinking into the ground, a gelatinous blob of humiliation.

“Well, Jamie, I can see only one solution. Since you’re such good friends with these ladies”—he gestures to Nikki and Angel—
“you can take a cot in their room. You won’t mind Quinn taking your spot, now will you?”

The last part does not come out like a question. Crossing his arms, Mr. Horowitz waits for her to slap her key in my palm, and then orders us all to our rooms. “Get some sleep, people. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

As I pass him, I mutter, “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he says.

In the elevator, I shift my duffel to my other shoulder and analyze my feet while people straggle in around me. Someone’s feet face mine, and her breath crosses my face, smelling of red hot gum.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Jamie says. Rage boils her low whisper until it blisters my skin. I wish the doors would close already because then I’d be that much closer to getting in a room away from her.

“Nothing to say?” she prods. “No? I guess we all know you’re better on your back.”

That hurts, but I can deal. It’s just more of the same from her.

I ignore her, and she adds, “You’re just like your mother. I bet if Carey had a brother you would’ve slept with him, too.”

Bull’s-eye. Blake is Carey’s brother in all the ways that matter.

Shocked, I hiss a breath and a cold sweat pops up on my skin. Maybe I really am my mother’s daughter when it comes to using people. What if everyone figures it out? Figures out Carey’s secret? Does she suspect it’s Blake in the picture? What
will happen to him then? What will happen to Carey’s family?

Worse, I can’t even defend myself; it’s hard to argue with truth.

I tremble and sway on my feet, and Jamie knows she’s finally gotten to me. Her eyes glow like light hitting a polished trophy.

The elevator doors begin to slide closed, locking me into this nightmare. Like a coward, I tuck my tail between my legs and shove past the others to slide back into the lobby. I am completely horrified when a sob claws out of my throat.

They hear it.
She
hears it. She laughs, and I bleed.

*   *   *

Last July, my only concerns had been waiting for Carey’s leave in August and keeping Nikki out of trouble so she didn’t get kicked off the squad for what Coach Breen called “inappropriate behavior.” Coach meant the drinking, the boy-chasing, the mean-girl rep, and every other clichéd cheerleader behavior TV had used to label us. Nikki, of course, took the rules as a challenge. For some reason I never understood, she liked to press up to the point of no return without actually crossing over.

One summer day after a grueling practice, we swooped into Angel’s house, hot, sweaty, and tired.

I stopped at the mirror in her entryway, staring at the reflection of my neck. “Damn it, Nikki. You gave me another hickey.”

Nikki and Angel pressed in close to study the reddish-purple mark Nikki’s shoe had left on my neck. Our heads looked interesting together with my black hair, Angel’s brunette locks, and Nikki’s red mane.

Nikki scowled. “If you had stood still, my foot wouldn’t have slipped.”

I glared at her, rubbing the mark. “You try not moving with your fat ass standing on my shoulders.”

Angel wrapped an arm around our necks, clamping a hand over each of our mouths before we could start arguing for the fifteenth time that day. “I swear, if you two don’t cut it out, I’m going to murder you in your sleep tonight. Be nice.”

Nikki must have licked Angel’s palm because Angel yanked her hand back, wiping it down her side. “Ew! That’s disgusting, Nikki!”

She laughed. “You liked it. That’s the most action you’ve had in months. Dibs on the shower!”

Angel and I watched her leave to stake her claim on the bathroom, and Angel shook her head. “I hate it when she’s right.”

“Luckily, it doesn’t happen often.”

*   *   *

A couple of hours later, we stared at the remains of the demolished pepperoni pizza and ignored Nikki while she tried to convince us it was a great idea to go blond for the start of school.

“Come on, guys! Show a little backbone. Blondes have more fun! And I want to have hella fun my senior year.”

“Not a chance,” Angel said. “My mom would kill me.”

“Your mom’s not here,” Nikki grumbled. She instantly smacked a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening when she realized what she’d said. “Oh geez, Ang, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it like that.”

Angel’s mom had been gone for seven months that tour. A Marine deployed to Iraq, she’d spent more of Angel’s teen years overseas than at home, though they e-mailed and talked on the Internet as often as they could.

Angel grimaced and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her father appeared in the living room doorway and eyed the pizza box on the coffee table. It was a graveyard of crusts.

“You didn’t leave me any,” he accused. “Are you sure you’re girls? I swear, you eat like dudes.”

“First come, first served,” Nikki said, and added, “Where’s your sweater, Mr. Rogers?”

With a name like his, Mr. Rogers had long ago grown accustomed to the jokes. “It’s with my slippers. I only bring it out for neighbors.”

Angel’s father doted on her. He even made time for us when we hung out at her house, and he never missed out on the opportunity to cheer her on, no matter how small the achievement. It amazed me how well they got along, and sometimes I wished we could switch families, even though Angel would get the short end of the stick.

Mr. Rogers dropped between us onto the couch, throwing an arm around an embarrassed Angel. “What are we talking about? Boys or other girls?”

Angel elbowed him in the gut. “Parents who don’t mind their own business.”

Nikki’s mobile rang with a dirty song that raised Mr. Rogers’s
eyebrows. She checked the caller ID and squealed. “It’s Josh. Don’t wait up.”

We watched her go out the sliding glass door to the backyard, answering the phone in a breathy voice as she went.

“Josh?” Mr. Rogers asked.

“Don’t ask,” Angel muttered.

Her dad focused on me. “Um, Quinn, I hate to tell you this, but you have something on your neck.”

I slapped a hand over the mark and shot a venomous look toward the backyard.

“Nikki again, huh?” he asked without missing a beat, used to our cheerleading injuries. “When’s Carey due back?”

I blushed. “Next month,” I said, at the same time Angel said, “Dad! We are NOT discussing boys with you. Out!”

She stood and pulled him to his feet, pushing him out of the room. He protested the entire way, but the huge grin on his face said he was messing with her. I hid a smile when Angel collapsed back beside me on the couch.

“Shut up, Q,” she said, smacking my arm.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

Angel scowled. “He’s lonely. It’s hard on him when Mom is gone this long.”