Authors: Romily Bernard
Lie for Me
Contents
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Three years ago . . .
When I was six, my parents moved us to East Bumble, Alabama, because my dad found work as a truck mechanic. In terms of life events, this was basically an alien abduction minus the anal probe. Nothing I had learned up until that point worked in East Bumble. I got my ass kicked regularly by older kids in Wranglers. I had no friends.
But it ended up not mattering because Dad got fired within eight months and we were off again. By the time I was fourteen, we'd lived in eleven different placesâtwelve, if you count here, which I almost don't because it's my aunt Charlotte's unfinished basement and my mom won't stop crying.
She's locked herself in the bathroom again. That makes three times this week.
Not that I'm counting.
“Mom?” I lean into the door, test the handle. Locked. “Mom?”
No answer. Coming to stay with Aunt Char was my mom's idea. She said it would make her better, but her cryingâsobbing, really: the kind that rips from your gut and rolls through the airâis a regular thing now.
Usually, I can get her to stop. My dad says I'm good at it, but this time, she won't listen and I've stopped talkingâand that scares me almost as much as realizing it's pointless to try getting her to stop.
When she gets like this, nothing makes her feel better, nothing makes it up to her, and if I'm lucky, crying will be the worst of it.
Doesn't stop me from sitting outside the bathroom door though. She might need something.
Plus, Dad could be here any minute now. He took an overnight job and is supposed to be headed back to the basement, should already be on the road. If he were to come in and she's like this . . . well, he hates Mom's tears even more than I do. It just kills him.
And that kills what's left of me, so I wait. After ten minutes or so, Tucker, my cousin Ben's golden retriever, comes downstairs and sits beside me. His fur is rabbit-soft and his breath smells like ass.
“What do they feed you, buddy?” I scratch Tuck under the chin, watch his eyes roll in his head. At least I can make someone happy.
“Will?” It's Aunt Charlotte. Tucker's ears prick and he dashes toward her voice, bounding up the steps three at a time. “Ben's almost ready to go.”
Which means I need to be ready too. It's the first day of schoolâmy new school. Ben's supposed to take me.
“Coming!” I stand, wait with one hand on the door handle, hoping she's going to turn it, come out so we can say good-bye.
She doesn't.
I grab my book bag from the table and double-check that my sketch pad and pencils are inside before swinging it over my shoulder.
“I've gotta go, Mom. I'll see you tonight, okay?” I head for the stairs before she can answer. It's easier to pretend I didn't hear her than know she didn't respond.
Aunt Charlotte's waiting for me at the top of the steps. Her eyes are creased with worry . . . or maybe that's how they usually look. I don't really know. Charlotte's my mom's older sister, and supposedly they were super close as kids, but this trip is the first time I've ever met my aunt.
“Do you want breakfast?” Charlotte asks, gaze skittering past my shoulder to the stairwell.
“No, thanks. I'm not really a breakfast person.” I smile and my aunt frowns. I have no idea how to talk to her. Every time I say “Yes, ma'am” or “No, thank you,” she gets all focused. It's like she's trying to find something else underneath the words. I don't want to brag, but usually adults love me. It's a talent. This one though? No luck.
“Everyone is a breakfast person, Will. It's the most important meal of the day.”
“Griff.”
“What?”
“I go by Griff.” I keep the smile so she knows I'm not being an ass, even though I'm kind of willing to be on this. My full name is William Reed Griffin. I go by Griff. Always.
Charlotte's attention swings to the stairwell again. Her hair's darker than mine or my mom's. It's completely black in this light, like a bruise. “Your mom isn't coming to see you off?”
“She's tired.”
Her frown deepens.
“It's been a really hard week for her. She'll be better with some rest.” Charlotte's gaze shifts to me and I can see I'm hitting all the right notes: My aunt's shoulders are relaxing, her face is smoothing. I sound like my mom's behavior is no big deal. It's a lie I've used so much, I almost believe it myself.
“Come get something to eat,” Charlotte says at last, motioning me toward her bright yellow kitchen. “You look like you need it.”
I always look like I need it. Thanks to a summer growth spurt, I'm six feet and weigh only 160 pounds. Some of this is my buildâmy dad is tall and skinny tooâbut, yeah, we have grocery issues.
I can't admit it to her though. We're responsible for our own food. It was one of the conditions of moving into Charlotte's basement, and Dad spent our last fifty on gas for his truck.
“Nah, I'm good,” I say, forcing my smile from Friendly Nephew into Vote for Me Politician. I pat the front pocket of my book bag. “I have a really big lunch.”
Again, she believes me, and I get to wait for Ben outside. For about two seconds, I feel like a genius (
It's quiet! No one's asking questions! Pretty trees to draw!
), and then the humidity sets in. We've spent the last two years following work in the Northwest and I'd forgotten how southern summers make you feel like you're never going to be dry againâstill better than sitting inside though, watching Ben finish his cornflakes or whatever while my aunt eyeballs me.
I flip open my sketch pad and focus on the ancient oak tree in the neighbors' yard. Seconds later, my breathing starts to smooth. Minutes later, my chest unwinds. Drawing and computer work do that. They're the only thingsâaside from my nicknameâI've been able to keep with me move after move. Behind me, the door slams and I tuck the notebook into my bag. I'm fast, but not fast enough.
Ben flicks my ear as he passes. “Aren't you a little old for coloring?”
I get up, follow him to the faded-blue SUV his parents gave him. “Do that again and you'll have to jerk off with your left hand.”
He laughs and we pile in, pulling away from the curb before my seat belt's even fastened. Ben drives the whole way to school with his foot mashed on the gas and his hand on the radio dial, switching stations every few minutes. The silence between us should be uncomfortable, but I'm used to it by now.
Most people think it's nice I have a cousin so close in age, but honestly, the only thing Ben and I have in common is his hand-me-downs. His mom has been shipping them to us for years. In fact, I'm wearing one of his old polos now.
“Heard your mom crying,” Ben says suddenly, eyes still on the road.
“She doesn't feel well.”
“She doesn't feel well a
lot
.”
There's a pause and I know I'm supposed to fill it, but I watch the houses pass instead. Ben can shove it if he thinks he's getting me to spill more details. She's my mom. He should get that.
He should also get that you're not supposed to put on an entire bottle of Axe body spray. My eyes are watering.
We two-wheel it around a bend in the road and make a hard right into a school parking lot. Ben screeches into a nearby space and slams both feet on the brake.
“Welcome to hell,” he says, panning one hand.
I lean forward, look through the windshield. Eh, it could be worse. Most public schools look like prisons. It's all institutional brick on the outside and washed-out gray on the inside. This one? Well, it's the same stuff, but at least there are wide banks of windows. I appreciate the effort.
“C'mon,” Ben says, swinging open the driver's-side door. “Mom'll kill me if I don't make sure you find your homeroom.”
I shrug, throwing my bag over my shoulder and following the other kids dragging into school. It's still pretty early and this side entrance shouldn't be that popular, but as soon as we're through the double doors, I realize the hallway's clogged with people. We have to push through the crowd, making it maybe ten steps before Ben comes up short, staring.
“Girl fight,” he says.
I crane my head, get a better look. More like girl beatdown, because the first girl is way bigger than the second. Hotter too.
If they start rolling around, First Girl is totally popping out of that top.
Ben elbows my side. “That's Jenna Maxwell.” He bumps his chin toward the hot girl. “Nice, huh?”
“Definitely.” Jenna is a pale blonde with curves in all the right places. The other girl has . . . violently purple hair. She bounces to her feet, saying something I can't hear, but the crowd laughs and Jenna's face flushes.
Ben whistles softly. “She's going to beat the shit out of Wick for that.”
Wick?
I glance at him. “Who names their kid Wick?”
“Trash.”
Ben says it easily, like it doesn't apply to either of us. I guess he's already forgotten my dad filled out a trailer rental application yesterday.
Ahead of us, Jenna gets the purple-haired girlâWickâin a headlock, driving her skull toward the floor.
I stiffen. “Do something, Ben.”
“Like what?”
The crowd shoves both of us forward. Everyone's trying to get a closer look. They're staring at Jenna and I'm staring at . . . Wick. She's thrown off Jenna now and should be booking it, but she's not. She's waiting for the other girl to make a move.
As they circle each other, I see Wick's face for the first time. It's all sharp edgesârazored cheekbones, a pointed chin. She looks like the kind of girl you'd cut yourself on.
“What's going on here?” It's a female voice, pissed off and loud. Immediately, everyone starts to scatter. “Don't. Move. Any of you.”
People to my right jostle as an older woman steps into the circle. “What
is
this?”
Jenna's breathing hard, one hand working through her hair to smooth it. “Nothing. We were just messing around.”
That's her excuse?
I almost laugh. No one's going to believe . . . wait. Wick's nodding. She's
smiling
like it's the truth, and when she tucks hair behind her ear, our eyes meet.
Linger.
Say something
, I think.
Do the right thing and tell the teacher what Jenna did to you.
“Is that true, Wicket?”
Wick turns. She has to tilt up her chin to face Jenna. “Yeah, just messing around.”
Typical
. I'm more disappointed than I should be. She's too scared to do what's right. She's tooâthere's a twitch of movement at Jenna's back. Wick has her arm around the girl and is digging her fingers into Jenna's rib cage, making the taller girl smile through the pain.
“We just haven't seen each other all summer,” Wick continues, and her hand twists, knuckles going white.
Damn. That bruise Wick's leaving will match the ones Jenna gave her. Even from here, I can see how the skin along Wick's collar is purpling. It's going to match her hair.
“All of you”âthe teacher jabs a finger at usâ“get to class.”
Everyone shuffles off, going in ten different directions at once. Ben grabs my upper arm and hauls me toward the stairs.
