Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  “A little.”

  “Really?” Ms. Collins sounds surprised. “Care to tell me more? What do you want to be when you grow up? Actually, I hate that question. At what point are you considered ‘grown up’? My last date played more video games than my ten-year-old nephew. He also lived in his mom’s basement and wanted to be a YouTube star. Needless to say, we only went out once.”

  “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t complain about high school guys?”

  She laughs. “Oh no, you can complain. I’m just saying, if you’ve ever considered experimenting with your sexuality, now is a great time. Women are taking over the world. Men will have no one to blame but themselves when they go extinct.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Collins.”

  “Lori,” she says. “You can call me Lori. But back to more important topics, what do you want to do? College? Get a job? Travel?”

  “My plan is to go to community college and keep working.”

  “So you work right now?”

  “At the café on Main Street.”

  “And you plan to stick around Alder Creek?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Well . . .” Lori shuffles some papers around on her desk. “Your grades aren’t terrible. You lack some extracurricular activities, but if you write a tight, clean essay, I’m sure we can find plenty of universities that would be happy to have you. Some out-of-state colleges even offer tuition reciprocity, so the cost isn’t exorbitant. And there’s plenty of financial aid and scholarships we can look at.”

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t want to go away to college.”

  “OK, I get it. Some kids who don’t feel ready for college are taking a gap year and traveling. Seeing what the world has to offer. Have you thought about that option?”

  The more Lori talks, the more my palms get sweaty.

  “I know it’s easy to feel stuck when you grow up in a small town, but there’s a big world out there, and you should take advantage of it. You never really know what you’re missing until you finally see it for yourself,” Lori says. “Just think about it.”

  Lori has me pegged all wrong. I don’t feel stuck here. I feel comfortable here. What’s so wrong with feeling comfortable?

  The bell rings for fourth period, startling us both. Lori checks the clock on her wall. “Shit. I’ve kept you here too long.” She grabs a handful of college brochures and offers them to me. “I’ve put together a few schools that might interest you. In state. Out of state. We can talk about it at our next meeting.”

  Next meeting?

  “It was nice to finally meet you, Amoris.”

  “Same,” I say, though in truth, I’m not sure I mean it.

  I drag myself down the hallway, distracted. What happened to easing into the school year? One day at a time? Carpe diem and all that?

  In my haze, the warning bell sounds. The hallways start to empty in a rush. I attempt to pick up my speed, though my legs feel filled with lead as I move up the stairs to the second floor. With eyes down, arms full, I turn on the landing and run straight into someone. I’m jostled backward, and the brochures fly out of my hands. I’m about to fall when Jamison grabs my arms to steady me.

  “Whoa. Careful on those sharp turns.”

  “Shit.” I fall to my hands and knees, collecting the mess on the stairs. Jamison squats down to help and inspects the brochures.

  “This looks promising.” He holds up a pamphlet for local goat yoga classes. It must have gotten mixed in with Lori’s pile.

  I snatch it from him. “It’s supposed to be calming.”

  “Until a goat shits on you during Savasana.”

  “Do you even know what Savasana is?”

  “I know all about White trends,” he says. “Yoga. Reiki. Chakra cleansings. Veganism.”

  I snatch the pamphlet. “If you ever need your chakras cleaned, I bet my mom would do it at no cost.”

  He laughs. “Are you saying I’m dirty?”

  It’s the way he says it—all sexy and flirtatious. The hallway gets eerily quiet. Neither of us moves. I go back to picking up the brochures.

  “What is it?” Jamison asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. I’ve known you our whole lives. I can tell when you’re off. Spill it.”

  Where to start? “How long have you known you want to go to Western?” I ask.

  “A while.”

  “What if you don’t get in?”

  “I’ll go to one of my backup schools, I guess.”

  Zach was the same way. He was determined to go to Columbia. Zach wore this old, beat-up Columbia hoodie, handed down to him from his dad’s college days. Like a legacy. Kind of like my records. Columbia was all Zach talked about last year. But even he had backup plans that didn’t include staying in Alder Creek. It’s starting to hit me that everyone has plans to leave, except me. I’ve known this, and yet it’s only now becoming real. But what’s so wrong with staying put? I love living here. The idea of leaving has my stomach in knots.

  “How’s your first day going?” I ask, diverting from the subject.

  “It’s . . . interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “You have some very odd art here at Alder Creek High.” Jamison points to a mural on the wall, leading up the staircase. I’ve never paid attention to it. Leave it to Jamison to notice the fine details. Next he’ll do an in-depth inspection of the library’s collection of books, making sure they’re up to his standard.

  “Do you see anything weird about this mural?” he asks.

  America threw up on the wall. There’s an eagle, a space shuttle, a waving American flag that looks like the sea below an old-fashioned ship. There’s the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore, famous Americans like Helen Keller and Sally Ride.

  “I notice that it’s ugly,” I joke.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty damn ugly.” But I get the feeling that’s not what Jamison is talking about.

  “What is it, Jay?” I ask. “Am I missing something?”

  “It’s just an odd painting to have in a school.” He readjusts the backpack on his shoulder. It’s partially open, and I see a taped-up laptop inside.

  “I can’t believe you still have that.” But as I reach out to touch it, Jamison pulls away. The laptop was a gift for his thirteenth birthday. He wouldn’t shut up about it the entire time we texted that day. “I was just looking,” I pout. “Is that duct tape?”

  He wags his finger at me. What I wouldn’t give to read what Jamison has written on that laptop.

  “It’s amazing what duct tape can hold together,” he says. “If I ever make it as a writer, I’m sending that company a thank-you note and a check.”

  “When you make it,” I correct him. “Anyone who carries around that piece of shit for five years is clearly dedicated to his craft.”

  Jamison zips up his backpack. “Mind how you talk about my girl.”

  I chuckle. “By the way, Ellis is throwing a party on Saturday. She wants you to come.”

  “Well, you can tell Ellis she might be able to boss everyone else around, but I’m not so easily persuaded.” That stings. Is he including me in that judgment? Ellis has a strong personality, for sure. And I’ve never been a fighter, raised as I was by an artist alien and a witchy pacifist. Fighting isn’t my strong suit, but Jamison always pulls out my stubborn side.

  “I’ll let her know.” I make my way up the stairs.

  Jamison touches my arm to stop me. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just a little on edge today. Getting used to a new school and all.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, though it’s not really.

  “Are you going to the party?” he asks.

  “Of course I’m going.”

  “Then tell Ellis I’ll be there.”

  The rest of the day, I lug around the brochures Lori gave me. I can’t bring myself to throw them out. When I get home, I set them on my dresser to collect dust. This school year has not started as I expec
ted. And I have a feeling there are more surprises to come.

  7

  AMERICAN MYTHOLOGY

  In the late afternoon, Sam and I sit on the sun-soaked patio at Get Sconed Café. I’m on break, and I play guitar while Sam gets his caffeine fix. Right now, he’s busy sketching, his hands flitting around the page. To apply to art programs at universities, he has to submit a portfolio. He’s been working on it all summer, as diligent with his art as Jamison is with his writing. I examine my coffee-stained overalls and apron. I’m diligent with making lattes, and sure, I have the guitar, but I’m only proficient at playing other people’s music. Even Ellis has been working on her college applications for basically her whole life, joining every club she can, playing on sports teams. And last year, she achieved her ultimate goal when she won a coveted seat on the Senior Senate, the governing body at Alder Creek High. It’s a traditional popularity contest, and Ellis desperately wanted to win.

  “So Chris left yesterday?” Sam asks, his focus on his sketchbook.

  The Airstream was gone when I got home from school. Rayne gave me and River his goodbyes. River called Chris an asshole, and Rayne reminded my brother how much our dad loves us. To which River proclaimed that Chris only loves himself.

  “Why do you stay married to him?” he asked Rayne.

  She was taken aback by the question and said that marriage is complicated. But River said we were better without him. That Chris is never here anyway, that he doesn’t even really live with us. I wanted to punch River in the mouth to shut him up—he was hurting Rayne—but he stormed off before I could get a good swing at him.

  And I hate to admit it, but River had a point. Chris leaves Rayne alone when he travels. Chris moved next door. Yet he’s free of dealing with what he leaves behind. I didn’t feel better laying the blame on Chris. That’s not how blame works. I only resented Chris and River more.

  What I wouldn’t give for an hour in the listening booth at Black and Read. My brain can’t work anything out. It would be nice to just disappear with my guitar and music. Instead, Marnie is short-staffed, and I’m picking up extra after-school shifts at the café. It’s never bothered me before, but today it’s grating on my patience.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, Zach won’t stop texting and calling. I silence yet another one of his FaceTime attempts.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Sam asks.

  “I’m working. He knows that. I’ll call him later.”

  Sam cocks his head at me, an all-knowing expression on his face.

  “Don’t bullshit a former bullshitter,” Sam says. “May I remind you, I pretended to be straight for fourteen years. I know a lie when I see one.” He points at me with his pencil. “It’s in your eyes.”

  “It’s not a lie. I will call him later.” Maybe. If I have the energy. Lately, I haven’t. Zach is just another thing I can’t deal with right now.

  “You know, it’s not just gay people who live in closets,” Sam says, casually going back to his sketch. “Why don’t you just come out with it? I promise you’ll feel better.”

  What Sam conveniently left out of that statement is the word eventually. Eventually, I’ll feel better, but I can’t wait for eventually right now. Zach is at least consistent. Solid. With Chris gone, River acting like an ass, Jamison living next door, college brochures collecting dust, nothing feels like it used to. But Zach . . . he does. And I need that right now.

  “Is that what you say to Tucker?” I ask.

  “Tucker is different.”

  “How?”

  “Because when Tucker comes out, he becomes prey,” Sam says. “He goes from being at the top of the social food chain to the bottom. He’s playing the part of a straight White man. No lion ever wants to become an insect.”

  “You did.”

  “First of all, I was never a lion. Maybe half lion, on my dad’s side. Second, I don’t give a shit about society and its bogus patriarchal hierarchy. Lions don’t create lasting art. But they did create everything Tucker loves. Have you seen that guy watch football? He practically salivates. Giving up lion status isn’t easy.”

  “Well, I’m not a lion either. Women get eaten in this patriarchal hierarchy, too.”

  “That’s not the point.” Sam sets his sketchbook down and squares himself to me. “Just tell me, Amoris. Sometimes saying it takes the pressure off. Silence is heavy.”

  Sam might be right, but what exactly to say? Where to start? And what’s the point? If I say out loud everything that’s in my head, will anything change for the better? Or will it only disrupt my life more?

  When I catch sight of Jamison walking up to the café, I take it as a sign and keep my mouth shut. Sam seems disappointed.

  “What are you doing here?” I set my guitar down as Jamison approaches us.

  “Does this place not serve Black people?”

  “Not funny, Jay. Don’t joke about that.”

  Jamison gives me a small grin. “Who said I was joking?”

  Sam extends a hand to Jamison. While they know of each other, they haven’t properly met. “I’m Sam. You’re in my AP American History class.”

  “You mean AP American Mythology?” Jamison says, shaking his hand and offering his name.

  “Wise observation.” Sam chuckles. “Just wait until winter. Every classroom will be littered with Martin Luther King Jr. quotes. White people love MLK.”

  “What’s wrong with Martin Luther King Jr.?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Jamison says.

  “He’s just been put through the White American history factory,” Sam says. “Now he’s palatable, mislabeled, and highly processed, but at least he tastes good to White people. They hate eating their vegetables.”

  “But they love taking credit for it when they do,” Jamison says.

  “Not all White people are bad,” I say.

  “I didn’t say White people are bad,” Jamison clarifies.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “You wouldn’t get it.”

  Jamison’s avoidance irritates me, but then my coworker, Agnes, sticks her head out the café door, interrupting us. “Time’s up, Amoris. I need you. The espresso machine is acting up again. You’re the only one who knows how to fix it.”

  “Coming,” I say. Jamison stops me before I can disappear back into the café. He holds out a piece of paper.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “I’m applying for a job.”

  “Here?”

  “Is there something wrong with here?”

  “Well, a lot of White people work here. Are you sure you want to interact with us?” My tone is too snarky. I sound like Ellis. Immediately, I want to take it back.

  “Don’t do that, Amoris.”

  “Do what?”

  “Minimize my perspective. It’s not that simple and you know it.”

  Do I? Lately, it feels like I know nothing.

  “And to be clear . . .” Jamison leans into me. “I’m not concerned with all White people. Just one in particular.”

  Our eyes meet. An intensity sparks.

  “Look, college is expensive, and I need to help my parents out, but I can apply somewhere else,” he says, reaching to take back the application. “I just thought, with this café being in your family . . .”

  “And you get free food and coffee,” Sam hollers.

  “Just tell me if you don’t want me working here,” Jamison says softly.

  Agnes pokes her head out the door again. “Amoris. The espresso machine. I’m dying in here.”

  I glance at the application. Jamison has listed Rayne as a reference. A smart move, not that I have any doubt that Marnie will hire him.

  “I’ll make sure Marnie gets your application,” I say to him.

  When I’m back behind the counter, espresso machine fixed, my feet aching again, Sam brings me my guitar. I can’t believe I left it outside. I’ve never been that careless with it before.

  “I get it now,” he says.

&
nbsp; “What?”

  “What I saw in your eyes last week.”

  “Do I look that tired?”

  “It was him,” Sam says knowingly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist. But Sam knows damn well I’ve just served him a pretty lie. He can smell bullshit from a mile away.

  8

  OUR SONG

  On Friday night, Ellis stumbles into my room, drunk. Her hair is messier than she usually allows, and her makeup is smudged. Ellis’s hazel eyes are glazed over with a look only booze gives her. I figured this would happen when she said Matt would be out of town all weekend. She strips off her clothes and digs in my drawers for a pair of pajamas.

  “Where were you?” I whisper. As mad as her unplanned appearance makes me, I was waiting for her. She tried to get me to tag along with her after the football game, to whatever hidden fiesta she was planning to attend. Not everyone advertises their parties as widely as Ellis does, but I wasn’t in the mood. This week has exhausted me. All I wanted to do after River’s game was curl up in bed and watch TV alone.

  “Beckett’s,” Ellis says, exhaling a wave of booze in my direction. Beckett Stranahan’s family rivals Ellis’s for the wealthiest in town. He’s usually dressed head to toe in Patagonia, though his outdoor wear is more for the status than actual use. Ellis flops down onto my bed and giggles. “Ask me if we had sex.”

  “Did you have sex?”

  “Totally.”

  “You did?”

  “He asked me to homecoming afterward,” Ellis says. “Like he’s some kinda gentleman.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him to stop being so sappy.” She giggles. “And then I said yes.”

  Ellis shimmies across the bed, finding the part of the mattress that’s practically molded to her body. Even on the nights she’s not here, I leave space for her. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.

  “It could be you tomorrow night,” she says, grinning. “It’s about time you had sex with someone other than Zach. How boring to go through high school only having one penis.”