The Lies About Truth (11 page)

We docked the McCalls’s boat next to their moored Jet Skis at a beach campground a few miles away from the little island.

“Who thought camping in June was a good idea?” Gray asked for the third time as the teenage contingent carted stuff off the dock and set up camp in the dark.

The heat index was in the high nineties and it was almost ten o’clock. We couldn’t catch a breeze with a mitt. Unfolding the tent and lying on the nylon didn’t help matters either. Everything felt sticky and gross. As Gray threaded poles through loops, he gave us instructions we didn’t need. “No, stake it out tighter. Max, use the mallet. Gina, refold the tent-fly or it’ll get damp and mildew. Damn, it’s hot.” He went on and on, maintained that popping a tent was an art. We maintained that so was complaining, and he was king.

Beside me, Gina exhaled. “It really is hot, but I don’t want to encourage him. He’ll never shut up.”

Gray Garrison could suck a bone down to the marrow.

He was still going. “Goodness gracious, Sadie May, take off the sleeve before I burn to death.”

“Please don’t call me that,” I said. Trent was the only one of our group who had, and Gray knew it bugged me.

“You might want to change your email address if you hate it so much, but as you wish . . .
Sadie
.” He overemphasized my name and kept going. “This wretched heat’s making me ornery.”

He sounded like Trent.
Wretched
was a Trent word. Max dusted the sand off his hands and muttered to me, “Not sure it’s the heat,” as Gina said, “Gray, we live in
Florida
. Where it’s always
hot
. You might wanna move.”

“Now who’s being ornery?” He nudged me as if I might take his side. “Am I right, Sadie May? Or am I right?”

“Gray.”
I held an angry face for a full second. He was annoying as hell, but somehow he made us all forget about Trent’s absence without letting us forget about Trent. I loved him for that. Laughter bubbled up from a place in my gut and infected everyone, which only added fuel to his fire.

When he’d gone on for another minute or two, Sonia, our temporary supervisor, added to the commentary. “Garrison, good Lord, put a sock in it.”

Gray reminded Sonia politely that the parents slept on the boat. In the air-conditioning. With running water. And all the
food. He invited her to trade places.

She invited him to go jump in the bay.

Which he did, drawing another chorus of laughter from everyone.

Trent would have been right on his heels, sopping wet and splashing his mom. Max, in a rare moment of solidarity, ran after Gray. Gina and I followed. Where one goes . . . the others follow. We splashed and dunked one another until we were properly happy and cool. I imagined the bay was our fountain of youth.

“You know what we should do?” Gray said.

“What?” we all asked.

Gray’s answer was a terrible idea.

“Chicken-fight.”

“In the dark?” Gina asked.

Gray skimmed his hand over a wave lit by the night sky. “By starlight.”

I’d only chicken-fought with Gray against Gina and Trent, so I knew, once upon a time, I could take her every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

“You up for it, partner?” I asked Max.

“Hell yeah,” he answered.

“Language,” Sonia said.

Gray swatted Max’s chest. “She got ya that time.” He squatted down and gave Gina a boost onto his thick shoulders.

Max followed his example and I climbed on, hooking my knees beneath his armpits. If I had any doubts we were a couple
before, they ended with chicken-fighting. Gina and Gray versus Max and Sadie. This was our version of Facebook official.

“Bases aren’t fighting,” I called.

“That’s no fun,” Gray said. “I could take Squeak down—”

“Squeak?” Max lunged forward and locked arms with Gray. We rocked backward as Gray broke the hold and shoved him squarely in the chest. Max recovered; his feet found secure footing, and his knees bent into an athletic stance. Props to him. I wasn’t heavy, but I wasn’t a feather duster, either.

Gina and I had no choice but to engage. Old pros with new partners. We scrambled at each other. Fingers intertwined, we twisted and pinched and rocked to dislodge each other. Despite the physical therapy, my arms weren’t as strong as they used to be. She was formidable, but also concerned she would hurt me.

“I’m fine,” I told her when she went easy on me.

“Okay,” she said, and tried a new move.

Below us, the battle intensified.

Gray and Max shoved and parried positions. Max was stronger than Gray had anticipated. Long, wiry muscles broke Gray’s holds before he did any damage to our balance. The game ended when Max dove at Gray and all four of us went under together.

“Tie,” Sonia yelled from the beach.

“No way,” Gray argued. “We were up the longest.”

“By half a second,” I said.

“Exactly,” Gray agreed.

Worn-out but no longer hot, we made our way to the tents
and forced ourselves to be productive.

Max whispered to me at one point, “Not bad for my first attempt.”

“You’ve never chicken-fought before?”

“Odd man out,” he said.

As soon as Max said it, I had a memory of him sitting on a cooler, his hands on his knees, watching. Now he’d made himself a participant. Ironically, while no one was watching.

Campground quiet hours were totally pointless, as we were the only people stupid enough to camp when it was this hot. Sonia made sure the tents were up and the genders separated, before she went back to her air-conditioned palace.

We all changed clothes, and since it was dark, I put on a T-shirt and shorts.

Max stole a private moment between the bathhouse and the tents. “I’ve had fun today,” he said, and kissed me.

“Me too.”

I buried my nose in his fresh shirt and took a drag of Max: bar soap, aloe, and sea salt.

“Sleep in it if you want,” he offered.

On a scale of one to ten, having your boyfriend offer you his shirt scored 101.

I thanked him appropriately.

“Do I get to keep yours?” he teased.

I shoved him away and, despite the heat, slid his shirt over my own. “I’m heading out for a walk.”

“Want some company?” he asked.

“Love some, but I need to unwind.”

“You saying I wind you up?”

I bit my lip and grinned. “Maybe.”

As I got away from him, his voice crept up as high as it could go. “Go write something sweet about me, and put it in Big.”

I’d already done it. Just before I’d walked to the bathhouse, I’d torn the corner of a weathered band poster from a wooden pole and written:

Max McCall keeps surprising me with his strength.

I’d stuff it in when I got home. I imagined a parallel universe where there was another version of me. That me had a Big, some excellent resolve, and wrote things like that about herself:
Today, I surprised myself with my own strength.

As I walked farther from the campsite, I rehashed my list. In the past week, I’d driven a car. Not on the road. Not even forward, technically, but I’d sat in Metal Pete’s yard and shifted an old Civic from park to drive and back to park. Tonight, I’d chicken-fought and played Nertz with Max, Gina, and Gray.

Progress.

Maybe forgiving Gina and Gray wasn’t letting go of what they’d done or dulling it down. Maybe forgiveness was giving the past less power to hurt me. Or even building new memories that were stronger than the painful ones. We’d done a little bit of that tonight.

“What do you think, Trent?” I asked the breeze.

I conjured a picture of him. Earth-toned board shorts, a
light-blue Billabong tank top, and a pink trucker cap that hid his bleached-blond hair. The same clothes he’d worn on the day he died. I imagined what he’d tell me. The mental chorus of words came as they often did.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

“To the grudge? Or to Gina and Gray?” I asked, frustrated.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

Early Saturday morning, Max scratched on my tent. Gina pulled a pillow over her face and groaned as I unzipped the tent. The sun stretched and yawned with me.

Max looked as if he’d been up for hours. He held up a Diet Coke and a Sharpie. I sipped on the Coke and rubbed my eyes before I realized I was still in my shorts in the daylight. Tennessee and Pink Floyd said hi to both of us.

“I’m trying to stop,” I said to Max, putting the Sharpie back in his hand. We’d discussed my Sharpie problem at length one night by instant messenger.

“No. No.” He tapped his bare chest. “I need a treasure map.”

“You want me to draw on you? What time is it?”

“
Too
early,” Gina moaned from inside the tent.

“It’s pirate time,” Max answered as loudly as he could. He kicked the bottom of the tent. “Up and at ’em, Adler.”

She groaned again.

I unzipped the tent halfway. “Let me put on some pants, and I’ll draw your treasure map.”

He stopped the zipper and tapped his throat. “Does my voice bother you?”

“You know it doesn’t.”

I never even thought about his voice unless I had to have him repeat something. I let him zip the tent to the top and took the Sharpie.

Max of small victories struck again.

I penned a pirate map worthy of Blackbeard. Drawing on myself was therapy. Drawing on him was sexy. The dotted line led this way and that, but ended at his heart. I circled a big X and handed him the Sharpie.

Tucking his chin, he admired my work. “Nicely done.”

“Expert,” I said with a shrug.

“You’ll have a pretty sweet costume yourself.”

I’d showed it to him yesterday, and he’d approved. In preparation, I’d cut a pair of black sweatpants off below the knees and doctored a Goonies sweatshirt so Tennessee wouldn’t show. A dark do-rag covered Idaho, and two skull-and-crossbones tattoos were the finishing touch. Mom and I tested them out at home last week. The scar at my mouth nearly disappeared
beneath the tattoo film. Too bad I couldn’t wear these every day.

All this . . . and I got a paintball mask. Game, set, match. I should be on top of the world, but I wrung my hands instead.

Crowds still made me nauseous.

“Stick with me,” Max said.

The problem with that suggestion was we didn’t have control over registration. “We’ll probably end up on different teams.”

“If we do, odds are you’ll end up with Gina or Gray,” he said. “They both know this is hard for you.”

Fear was such a thief. I loved the wildness of the game, the quickness of my heartbeat as I stalked across the island, the celebration of nailing a competitor. There was a barbaric nature to it—like living in
The Hunger Games
and knowing you’re a badass. And it was still hard to be here.

“What can I do?” Max asked.

I shoved into him and watched the smile I loved ripple across his face. “You’re doing it.”

“I used to avoid people. Remember?” he said.

I nodded. Neither of us cheapened our emotions by comparing them side by side. Neither was
worse
than the other. I might be too stupid to change quickly, but I wasn’t too stupid to understand.

“Sucks, eh?” I said.

“Yep,” he agreed.

Our eyes drifted out to the bay. We watched small waves slush from side to side, rocking against the shore like a fast metronome. March winds in June would make for a challenge during the game and a fun ride on the Jet Ski later. The Gulf could be a bitch on wheels. Maybe after Pirates and Paintball, we’d ride out of the bay and toward the horizon.

After mentioning the possibility to Max, he gave me a half-cocked grin. The grin of someone who knew something I didn’t know. “Sounds perfect,” he said.

“What are you hiding, Max McCall?”

He toed the ground, shoved his hands into his pockets, and put on a pleased-as-punch grin. “I’ll tell you after the game.”

“Bad?” I asked automatically.

“It’ll push you a little. Like a tank top or Pirates and Paintball. But not bad.”

Worry dug a ditch in my chest. That sounded like a
From a friend who cares
statement.

Rather than spend the whole day wondering, I found a question to ask that wouldn’t give anything away. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Big, does it?”

“Nope, why?” he said quickly.

Maybe too quickly.

“No reason.”

“I didn’t mean to get you all worked up. You want me to just tell you now?” he asked.

“No.” If it wasn’t about Big, I wanted something to anticipate. And if it
was
about Big, I wanted to keep the fantasy of us
a little longer. “Keep your secret, Max McCall.”

“I plan to,” he said with a wink.

For the rest of the morning, he gave away nothing but a few dozen smiles.

Some Emails to Max in El Salvador

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: March 14

Subject: my list

What do I want?

I want . . . so many things.

I’d like to drive a car again.

I’d like to live one day without thinking about my scars.

I’d like to walk the graduation line.

Maybe kiss someone without flinching.

See the Fountain of Youth.

Fletcher had me make an actual list. He asked me to pick a number. I picked seven, because I always pick seven. Then,
he told me to write down seven things I wanted. Seven things I thought were impossible. It wasn’t hard. I could have listed a dozen, maybe more.

The funny thing is . . . if I’d made a list before the wreck, none of these things would have been on there. In fact, my list would have had things like:

Learn Spanish.

Go skydiving.

Visit the Great Wall of China.

I had all these pie-in-the-sky dreams, and now I have reality. I guess that’s life for you.

What would be on your list?

Love,

Sadie

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: March 20

Subject: your list

Max,

That’s a good list.

Here are my thoughts:

1. If you ever do get that tattoo, I want to go with you.

2. I’ve done that. Two tips: make sure you enter the water completely straight, and follow the bubbles to the top.

3. Ha, ha.

4. I think LOTR was filmed in New Zealand. That’s the closest Shire there is.

5.–6. Star Time can be anywhere.

7. Gross. You’re such a boy sometimes.

Love,

Sadie

P.S. I saw Gray sitting on the curb across the street from my house this morning. That sounds creepy, but it wasn’t. It looked like he was crying, which made me tear up too. Seeing him so vulnerable made me realize I don’t have feelings for him anymore. And I think that has more to do with you than it does to do with him.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: March 28

Subject: No hiding

Max,

I haven’t been trying to make you read between the lines. You know I have feelings for you.

Love,

Sadie

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: April 2

Subject: ☺

Max,

You make me happy too.

Love,

Sadie