Lies I Told

by Michelle Zink

  Even a queen needed some kind of consensus if she wanted to avoid an uprising.

  I was pulled from my thoughts when my mom entered the kitchen wearing slim black pants and a jade-green blouse that accentuated her eyes. Her hair was pulled back, a more conservative style than the one she usually wore, and her legs looked extra long in four-inch heels.

  “Hey,” I said, putting a bite of waffle into my mouth.

  “Hi, honey.” She walked to the window and looked outside. “The flowers around the pool are pretty. The landscapers are doing a good job. Fast, too.”

  “You look nice.” I couldn’t have cared less about the backyard. “Where are you going?”

  She turned around. “Leslie Fairchild sits on the board of the Playa Hermosa Community Theater. They’re having a committee meeting today. I’m going to volunteer, see if I can get to know her. Turns out she’s a bit of a homebody.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I got some of the women at the salon talking. Seems taking care of Warren, staying on top of his meds and appointments and all the other things that go along with being married to someone with his condition, is a full-time job.”

  “But he goes golfing and stuff . . .” I wanted to believe that Warren Fairchild’s condition wasn’t that bad. That we wouldn’t be stealing from someone so mentally ill that it took all of his family’s resources to take care of him.

  My mom laughed. “He’s not paralyzed, Gracie. They just have to control his environment. From what I understand, he can handle familiar places and situations as long as he’s on his meds. They just have to keep an eye on him, that’s all.” She didn’t sound at all concerned as she grabbed her handbag off the counter. “Anyway, I have to go. Have fun at the bonfire tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I watched her leave, her words echoing through my mind: He can handle familiar places and situations as long as he’s on his meds.

  What about unfamiliar situations? What happened to Logan’s dad then? I pushed the thought away. What happened to Warren Fairchild after we took his gold wasn’t our problem.

  I took my plate to the sink and ran water over it as I looked out the window, scanning the trees for parrots.

  “I thought you were going to the mall?”

  I jumped at the sound of the voice behind me. It was Parker, standing there in swim trunks and flip-flops, a blue knapsack in his hands.

  “God! You scared me!” I took a deep breath. “I’m picking Selena up in half an hour. You don’t need the car, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m getting a ride with the guys.”

  “The guys?”

  “Logan, David, and Liam. They’re teaching me how to surf today.”

  “Oh, wow . . . you got in before me,” I said with a twinge of jealousy.

  “Not really. I’m about where you are. They invited me surfing when we won our basketball game in gym, but I wouldn’t say I’m in yet.” He grabbed a beach towel off one of the hooks on the wall by the kitchen door. “The bonfire should help, though.”

  “The bonfire?”

  “Logan invited me. I heard you were going, too.”

  Guilt heated my face. “I forgot to mention it. I’m sorry. I would have invited you when I remembered.”

  Even as I said it, I wondered if it was true. If the slip had been intentional. Parker was good at a lot of things: running recon, cracking locks, and finding ways around alarm systems, working the hottest—and richest—girls in any school. But he was also a little too good at being my slightly older brother. And while I appreciated the concern, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of tiptoeing around his protective gaze.

  He looked at me for a minute, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  Finally, he sighed. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  My heart softened. “I know that.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “Because not everybody who says they care is going to do right by you. It sucks, but it’s true.”

  A car honked out front. For a moment, Parker didn’t move. When he spoke again, there was something heavy and sad in his eyes.

  “I haven’t always done the right thing, Grace. But I’m trying to do it now.”

  He left me standing there, wondering what he meant.

  Twelve

  Selena’s father was a somber man, dressed in a suit despite the fact that it was Saturday. We made small talk for a few minutes and then Selena and I were off, following the winding road down the peninsula until it picked up the Pacific Coast Highway in Redondo Beach.

  Selena teased me about staying on the highway that ran parallel to the ocean. We could get to the Galleria faster through town. But I’d learned to take advantage of the good things my strange life had to offer. I’d moved more times in sixteen years than most people would in a lifetime. I’d said too many good-byes, lied so much I sometimes forgot the truth. But I’d also watched the sun set over the desert. I’d walked the streets of New York City in the fall, felt the bite of cold air, smelled the food from the street carts mingling with hot metal from the subway and the earthy scent of leaves blowing across the sidewalk. In DC, I’d seen the cherry blossoms in bloom. In Seattle, I’d raced across Puget Sound in a speedboat, staring into the depths of a sea so green it was almost surreal.

  Now I was happy just to be driving with the wind in my hair, the Pacific on one side, a friend on the other. Selena turned up the music, pointing things out as we made our way toward the mall. For once, I felt free.

  We cruised the Galleria, stopping in all of Selena’s favorite stores. For the first hour I observed, paying careful attention to how the mannequins were merchandized in the popular shops, making note of the brands and styles Selena gravitated toward. She might not be in Rachel’s crowd, but she was Playa Hermosa born and bred.

  When I felt like I had a handle on the nuances of Southern California style, I bought a pair of killer jeans, a floral dress, multiple sleeveless tops, a shrunken cardigan, and two pairs of strappy sandals. Then I loaded up on cheap earrings, bracelets, and other accessories at one of Selena’s hot spots.

  I felt a twinge of guilt handing over the credit card my dad had given me; I would never even see the bill. But all the kids in Playa Hermosa had cards paid for by their parents, even Selena, although she had a limit and was questioned by her father about the charges when the statement came in the mail. Mooching off my parents was part of the cover, like the ocean and the house on the peninsula and the Saab I shared with Parker. I might as well enjoy it. I would have to leave it all behind anyway.

  I treated Selena to lunch at a sushi place in the mall, our shopping bags stacked in the seats next to us. We talked about Ashley (habit friendship left over from middle school) and Nina (a neighbor Selena walked with to and from school), our classes, and the difference between fashion and label conformity. We were on our second plate of tuna rolls before I dared to bring up the subject of Selena’s mother.

  I’d been thinking about it ever since that first conversation in the cafeteria. It had nothing to do with the con. Selena was just so unguarded. Her secretiveness about her mother was a noticeable departure from her usual openness. How could I say we were friends if I didn’t know the story behind her mother’s absence?

  “Your dad seems nice,” I started, picking up a tuna roll with my chopsticks.

  She smiled. “He is. I mean, he’s strict and everything, but I understand it. He came here from Mexico when he was a kid. He’s had a hard life. He just wants me to take my future seriously.”

  “I can see that.” I hesitated, suddenly unsure. I was so used to digging for information that it felt dishonest to ask questions even when they had nothing to do with the con.

  Selena set down her chopsticks. “You want to know about my mom, don’t you?” she asked softly.

  “No! Well . . . I mean . . .” I sighed. “I guess I am a little curious. But you don’t have to say anything about it if you don’t want to.”

  “What h
ave you heard?” Selena asked.

  I looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Grace. I know people talk about it. It’s okay. I get it. It’s weird.”

  “Nobody’s said anything to me. Then again, you’re pretty much the only person I talk to.”

  “What about Rachel Mercer?”

  “I hardly know Rachel. She’s just someone I sit next to in AP Euro. Besides, why would Rachel say anything to me about your mom?”

  Selena took a drink of iced tea. “My mom sort of . . . walked out on us a couple years back.”

  I inhaled sharply. It wasn’t what I’d expected. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Selena. That must have been really tough.”

  She nodded.

  “Does she still live in Playa Hermosa? Do you see her often?”

  “We haven’t heard from her since she left.” She gave a sad little laugh. “I actually have no idea where she is.”

  “Wait . . .” I shook my head, trying to get my head around what she was saying. “You mean she just . . . took off without even telling you she was leaving? Without telling you where she was going?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, that’s shitty,” I said. And then, in case I’d offended her, “Sorry.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “No, you’re right. It is shitty. It’s been really hard for my dad.”

  “And for you, too, I bet.”

  She nodded slowly. “It was kind of a big deal. At first we thought something had happened to her when she didn’t come home from work. My dad called the police and there was a big investigation. They even suggested she’d been having an affair. Then they found her car at the Cove, and they thought maybe she’d drowned or . . . committed suicide or something.”

  Her face was so still, so lacking its usual animation, that I suddenly wanted to take it all back. Pretend I’d never asked about her mother. Rewind to when we were talking about friends and clothes and the dubious appeal of Hollister. I felt like a thief. Like I’d stolen the light in Selena’s eyes.

  But it was too late. I’d already brought it up. And who knows? Maybe Selena needed to talk about it. I didn’t have a lot of experience with friendship, but it probably involved more than just shopping. I silenced the voice in my head that urged caution, the one that said sharing secrets was the place where real attachment began.

  “How do you know she didn’t?” I lowered my voice. “Commit suicide, I mean.”

  “We got a letter a month after she left,” Selena said. “It didn’t say much. Just that she didn’t want to be a wife and mother anymore. That she needed to take care of herself, and she couldn’t do that taking care of us, too.” She shrugged. “We haven’t heard from her since.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words felt stupid and empty, but I didn’t have anything else.

  “It’s okay. I wanted to tell you before, but it just seemed weird and depressing.”

  I shook my head. “It’s real. And we’re friends, right?”

  She nodded, the light moving back into her eyes. “Yeah, I think we are.”

  I smiled, wondering why the words made me feel not just happy, but more than a little scared, too.

  After lunch, I dropped Selena off and headed home to get ready for the bonfire. I’d invited her to come along, but she’d opted to stay in and make dinner for her dad. It was probably a good thing. Selena would be a distraction, a violation of my new keep-real-friends-separate-from-fake-ones rule. Inviting her had been reckless.

  And reckless was a good way to get us all sent to jail.

  I was halfway down Camino Jardin, already planning the night’s outfit in my head, when something in the middle of the road caught my eye. It was a peacock, and I slowed down, rolling to a stop in front of it. It regarded me calmly, surveying me with watchful eyes, its tail feathers folded back into a silky train, its large body oddly graceful on slender bird legs. I wondered if it was the same one that had been in the road the day Logan drove me home after school.

  On impulse, I put the car in park and stepped slowly onto the pavement, half expecting the bird to flee. But it just stood there, watching my approach. I stopped moving toward it when I was a few feet away.

  “Hello,” I said softly. “Are you lost?”

  It cocked its head to one side, like it was considering the question. Its eyes were strangely human, brown and knowing.

  A car swerved around us, breaking the spell. The bird still didn’t move, but I suddenly felt foolish. I was standing in the middle of the road talking to a wild—no, a naturalized—peacock like I expected it to answer me back.

  Retreating, I got back in the car and drove around it, careful not to get too close. I pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, looking back at the street. The bird was gone.

  I shook my head, putting it out of my mind as I hurried to change. I ripped the tags off my new jeans and chose a drapey shirt printed with large flowers. I was turning in front of the mirror, trying to get a good view from every angle, when I heard a low hum coming from the window.

  I crossed the room on bare feet and peered through the glass. Someone was singing.

  And it was coming from next door.

  Scanning the neighbor’s backyard, I spotted a figure, his face obscured by a wide-brim sun hat, moving across the grass in plaid shirt and shorts. I could only assume it was the man from the Jacuzzi. He held something in his hands as he sang.

  Southern trees bear a strange fruit,

  Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

  I watched with fascination as he set down a step stool near one of the trees. He climbed up, lifting a bag to a metal cylinder hanging from one of the branches. Then I understood: he was filling the bird feeders in his backyard, singing as he made his way from one to the next.

  A chill ran up my spine as he continued singing. The crooning was eerie, almost creepy. And what was the song about? Dead bodies? It reminded me of my conversation with Selena, and the image of a car, abandoned at the Cove, suddenly appeared in my mind.

  I stood there for a few seconds before moving away from the window, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that had fallen over me with the sound of the man’s voice, the disturbing lyrics to the song he’d been singing.

  This place was getting to me.

  I slipped into my new sandals, fortifying my resolve. I would go to the bonfire. I would get close to Logan and everyone else in their group. I would do my job and I would do it quickly.

  Before things got even weirder.

  Thirteen

  “How was surfing?”

  We were on our way to the Cove, Parker driving the Saab while I sat in the passenger seat. A cool breeze blew through the window, and I was glad I’d passed on straightening my hair in favor of the beachy waves I’d been working all week. With any luck, the wind would only make it look better.

  “Fine,” Parker said. “I mean, I suck, but that was to be expected.”

  “Did you have fun?”

  He seemed to think about it. “Yeah. Logan’s cool, and his friends are pretty chill, too.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It makes it easier,” he said. “Liking them.”

  Turning my head to the window, I thought about Selena. “And harder.”

  He glanced over at me. “Yeah.”

  Pulling into a gravel turnout, he continued down a winding road to a lot that sat halfway up the cliff. He parked next to a blue Lexus and rolled up the windows before cutting the engine. Then he turned to look at me.

  “You don’t have to do this, Grace. Neither of us does.”

  I met his eyes. “Parker . . .”

  He shook his head. “I have money saved. I’d hoped to have a little more, but I think it’s enough. We could leave. Start over somewhere. I’d look after you. You’re the only family I have.”

  I looked around. This was definitely a violation of protocol. The windows might be rolled up, but it still wasn’t the War Room.

 
“What about Mom and Dad?” I asked softly.

  His hand tightened into fists, the leather bracelets constricting around his forearm. “Cormac and Renee aren’t my parents. And they’re not yours either.”

  “They’re the only parents I’ve ever had.” I hesitated, trying to find the words to make him understand. “I love them. They make me feel safe.”

  His laugh was brief and bitter. “You could go to jail, Grace. I wouldn’t call that safe.”

  I stared out over the Pacific, glinting like an endless sapphire, the past flashing through my mind. There had been a few nice families. And then there’d been the ones who weren’t bad but whose apathy showed in their eyes, in the way they looked past me, as if I’d already moved on when I was still right in front of them. I’d been able to live with that. What I hadn’t been able to live with were the other ones. The ones with cold beds and messy sheets, strong fingers wrapped too tightly around my arms, the slap of a palm against my face.

  I turned away from the rest of the memories. Turned toward Parker, like a flower seeking the sun.

  “No one’s hurting me anymore,” I finally whispered. “And I don’t want to be alone again.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone. We’d stick together,” Parker promised. “And you wouldn’t have to pimp yourself out for the fucking con.”

  I smiled sadly. “You love the con.”

  He shook his head. “Not like this. Not anymore.”

  I watched the sun in the distance, almost kissing the water. It would be dark soon.

  “We have to take the good with the bad, Parker. It’s part of the deal.”

  “Well, I’m ready to deal myself out,” he said angrily. “But I won’t do it without you.”

  I had to swallow around a sudden dread. Around the feeling that Playa Hermosa was the place where all our markers would come due.