Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  I don’t want to let him walk away again, and yet I don’t hold on tight enough to make him stay. “What’s been my way?”

  “Silence,” Jamison says.

  He leaves, and the word he didn’t say rings loudly in my ears.

  11

  THE KISS

  Ellis is sprawled on my bed as I dig through my closet. A record spins, playing music softly in the background. Ellis’s homework is spread out on the bed, but she’s preoccupied with her phone.

  “Beckett won’t stop texting me,” she says, annoyed. “It’s homecoming. Not an engagement.”

  I peek out from the closet as Ellis rolls onto her stomach, nose in her phone, texting furiously. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing my pajamas. Sometimes I think the only thing that changes over the years is that we get bigger.

  “If you don’t like him texting you, why are you responding?” I ask.

  “I treat boys like I treat my clothes. You never know what you’re going to feel like wearing,” she says, snapping a picture of herself. “And I’m not afraid to throw something out when it gets old.”

  I go back to searching for a small wooden box Chris made me years ago. The lid has a lacquered painting of his on the top, an impressionist sunset over the mountains that surround Alder Creek.

  I crawl back out of the closet. “Am I a racist?”

  “What?” Ellis says. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. Of course you’re not a racist.”

  I want to believe her, but a part of me doubts her answer. “Are you sure?”

  “Where is this coming from?” Ellis asks.

  “Just something Jay said . . .”

  “Did he call you a racist?”

  “No, not exactly. I wouldn’t even let him use the N-word.”

  “Case in point,” Ellis says. “Racists don’t mind using that word. Do you have a secret Confederate flag lying around somewhere that I don’t know about?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then stop being ridiculous. You’re as much of a racist as I am. Do you think I’m a racist?”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

  “Well, if I’m not, you’re not. End of discussion,” Ellis says. “What are you looking for anyway?”

  “A box my dad gave me.” I go back to digging in the closet. I leave out the detail that inside this box is a stack of letters from Jamison.

  It started in third grade, after our annual summer trip to Kansas City. I got home and there in the mailbox was the first letter I’d ever received, not including holiday cards from my grandparents. Jamison had typed it. Most of the words were spelled correctly. He gave me a list of books to read, which I didn’t. I sent him back a list of songs to listen to, which he confessed later that he didn’t. He complained about his sister, Talia. I complained about River. We wrote about how anxious we were for the next summer, and lists of plans we already had for each other. Sometimes a few months would go by without a letter, but when the next one arrived, Jamison would always apologize for taking so long. Those letters would be extra lengthy, walking me through his days at school, or what he was learning on his own, or the ideas he had for my return to Kansas City in the summer. Sometimes he would just ramble for pages and pages. Nothing of importance, just thought after thought. Those were my favorite letters.

  “What do you think about Scott Kean?” Ellis asks.

  I poke my head out of the closet. “What?”

  “As a homecoming date.”

  “I’m taking Tucker. For Sam.” Zach offered to fly home, but I refused him on the grounds that it was ridiculous to fly across the country for a stupid high school dance. That, and other reasons I was unwilling to share.

  “Sam can’t expect us to be Tucker’s beards forever,” Ellis says. “I’m getting sick of it. And Scott wants to take you. Beckett told me. Tell Sam you changed your mind.”

  “I can’t do that to Sam.”

  “Yes, you can,” she insists. “You just won’t because you’re too nice and you like using Tucker as an excuse not to put yourself out there. What are you so afraid of?”

  Not this again.

  Ellis is focused on her phone, or else she might see how annoyed her question makes me. “Beckett just asked me to come over,” she says. “God, he’s desperate. It’s kind of pathetic. He called me his girlfriend a few days ago.”

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “Nothing. He can call me his girlfriend if he wants.”

  “Are you his girlfriend?”

  “I’m neither confirming nor denying.”

  “Well, you can go over to his house if you want,” I offer.

  “No way. Chicks before dicks. Beckett can play with himself tonight.” Ellis climbs off the bed and stands in front of my mirror, adjusting her long dark hair so it cascades smoothly over one shoulder. She snaps another picture of herself. She really is beautiful in a way most teenagers aren’t, not a bit of awkward to her. “Beckett just sent me emojis of two blue balls. Guys are so gross.”

  She throws her phone on the bed and rummages around in her purse, producing a bottle of lavender oil. She dabs some on her wrists and rubs them together, then looks out the window and asks, “So what has Jamison been up to? I hardly ever see him at school, and he never comes out on the weekends.”

  “It’s been busy at the café. Eddie quit. He’s leaving Alder Creek.” I go back to digging in my closet.

  “Did Fast Eddie finally realize he needs a real job? I’d say I’ll miss him, but that would be lying,” Ellis mocks, picking up her phone again. “We should invite Jamison over. Do you want me to text him?”

  “No!” I shout, too quickly. Ellis freezes, phone in hand. “He’s working on college stuff. Don’t bother him.”

  I actually have no idea what he’s doing. It’s taken all my energy not to stare at the house next door, waiting to see him. Nothing has been right between us since our tense conversation at the café.

  “Amoris, boys want you to bother them. They live for that shit. I’m sure he’d drop whatever he’s working on if we asked.” She tosses my phone at me. I don’t pick it up. “Come on. What are you waiting for? He won’t say no. I promise.” When I don’t move to pick up the phone, Ellis rolls her eyes. “See. You’re hiding again. Why are you such a sissy?”

  “Because I won’t send a half-naked picture to a guy? Sorry, Elle. I’m not like you.”

  “OK, first,” Ellis states, “spare me the hyperbole. I wasn’t half-naked in that picture. I’m in your pajamas. And second, what’s so wrong with being like me? So what if I’m headstrong? If I were a man, people would call me a leader, but because I’m a woman, I’m a bitch. Well, fuck that. Excuse me if I won’t sit back and let other people tell me how to live.”

  “I didn’t call you a bitch.”

  “You didn’t have to. It was in your tone.”

  She might be right about that. But I hate when she talks about Jamison. My entire body reacts. I contract, like I need to protect myself. I’m trying to keep the past squarely where it belongs, and yet the idea of what might happen if those two were alone together again keeps creeping up on me like a recurring nightmare.

  The worst part was that I didn’t see the kiss coming. One minute we were playing an innocent game of ghost in the graveyard, and the next I found Jamison and Ellis kissing behind our garage. When the game was over, they acted like nothing happened. And the next day, the Rushes left to go home. It was the only summer they came to Alder Creek, a decision Rayne made because Ellis was living with us, and she didn’t want to take us all to Kansas City in case Matt Osmond came home from his travels. I knew it was wrong to be mad at Ellis—I wasn’t the one with a dead mom, an AWOL dad, and a broken heart—but I felt it anyway.

  “Please don’t text Jamison,” I beg. I hate the sound of it.

  “What’s the big deal?” Ellis asks. She stands at my window. Can I really blame her for who she is? For that kiss when I never spoke a
word about my feelings for Jamison? Never gave her any clue?

  When Ellis was finally living back at her house, I should have missed her sleeping next to me every night. But a part of me, the ugliest, darkest part, was glad she was suffering. It was worse to be Ellis than me.

  But Ellis didn’t need that kiss. Not like I did.

  “I just want to hang out with you tonight,” I say. “No boys. Chicks before dicks, right?”

  “I guess I did say that,” Ellis says.

  “And you’re not a bitch, Elle.”

  “Yes, I am.” She smiles. “But I know that.”

  I finally find the box I’m searching for. I open the lid, and Jamison’s letters are stacked neatly, organized by date. I take the top one.

  Ellis sticks her head in the closet. “I’m making tea. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  When Ellis is gone, I open the last letter Jamison sent me. When it was my turn to write him back, so many times I sat down at the computer and tried to type. But all I could picture was the kiss. His hands cradling her in the way I had only dreamed about. Weeks turned into months that turned into a year that turned into years. It wasn’t until he showed up at dinner six weeks ago that we spoke again. Eventually, I stopped trying to find the words. Instead, like always, I hid, and let silence do the talking.

  12

  DEATH BY A MILLION PINPRICKS

  Chris returns to Alder Creek in October with a newly cracked tooth. Rayne scolds him lovingly about dental bills and self-restraint, but Chris just wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her into an embarrassingly mushy embrace, and says, “Will you still love me when I’m toothless?”

  Chris is a nail-biter. Always has been. He’ll stand in front of a canvas, nails between his teeth, thinking. When it’s his day to wash the dishes, he’ll put his hands in the hot, soapy water and seethe in pain, his nails bitten so far down they’re raw. “Creativity has its costs, and I’ve paid in nails,” he’ll announce.

  He chipped his first tooth last year. The dentist told him nail-biting had worn his teeth down, and if he didn’t stop, more would chip. Clearly, Chris didn’t heed the warning.

  I leave my parents alone and go to play guitar in my room. But one thought keeps distracting me—would Chris really risk losing his teeth just to keep up with the gross habit of biting his nails? Why is it so hard for humans to quit what they know is hurting them? Why is it so hard to admit we’re doing it all wrong?

  Eddie officially left Alder Creek. I went by his apartment before he left. I’ll miss him. The café just isn’t the same now. Marnie hired a girl named Louisa. She’s German, traveling the world for a year. She’s staying in Alder Creek until she’s earned enough money for a plane ticket to Australia. No one seems to stay put, except me. And I still haven’t looked at the college brochures Lori gave me. They sit on the dresser in my room, staring at me. Taunting me to imagine a different life. I’m sure the universities have amazing sports facilities, or top-rated organic, allergy-friendly dining halls, but none of that would tempt me anyway.

  “Amoris,” Chris calls up. “How about the Allman Brothers tonight?”

  He’s standing under my window, acting like nothing has changed. Like he can just come home to the same music, the same routine. I glance at Jamison’s apartment. It should be easy just to cross the bridge and say I’m sorry for being a wimp with River. I’m sorry I let Jamison down. His opinion means a lot to me, and knowing I’ve tarnished that feels shitty.

  “Amoris?”

  “Any specific album?” I reply like I always do with my dad, because I’m weak and I don’t know what else to say.

  “Brothers and Sisters. Let’s make something beautiful tonight.”

  I’m imagining it, but I swear I can see Chris’s chipped teeth from up here.

  The album Chris has requested spins on the turntable quietly as I play along. My fingers move methodically. A habit ingrained in my muscles and bones. But there’s no comfort in playing tonight, especially when the smell of weed drifts into my room.

  It’s so familiar, almost comforting. If he was bottled in Rayne’s studio, Chris’s label would read “weed.” It never occurred to me how messed up that is. Not aftershave or mint shampoo or even sweat socks. He smells like drugs. Should I really be surprised that River has come home almost every weekend night since Ellis’s party stinking of alcohol or weed? He comes by it honestly.

  I slam my window closed and stop the record. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. But the silence now filling the room only makes me angrier.

  Silence is the worst kind of screaming.

  But what to say? What if Chris never changes? What if he can’t? I know why he bites his nails. Sometimes familiar pain is just more bearable than change.

  I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stare at college brochures. I can’t send the same text to Zach night after night. I can’t make another latte. I can’t play the same music over and over. I can’t be in the same room with my dad and keep pretending nothing’s changed. I can’t keep rereading Jamison’s letters, wishing I had just written him back all those years ago, explaining what I saw, asking for answers I desperately needed.

  I’m sick of being a cover song, I’m thinking as I arrive at the library. Jamison and Sam are sitting together, Sam with a sketchbook in hand, Jamison with his laptop open. But neither of them is working. Their heads are angled toward each other, exchanging whispers.

  “Are you going to tell anyone?” Sam asks.

  “Who?” Jamison asks. “There isn’t a single Black teacher in this school.”

  “Mr. O’Brien?” Sam offers. “He’s White, but he’s gay, which means he’s seen his fair share of bullshit.”

  “The principal?” Jamison states. “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  Why would Jamison need to go to the principal? I had assumed they were whispering out of obligation to the library rules, not because they share a secret. I duck behind a bookshelf, telling myself I don’t want to interrupt, knowing full well that I really want to eavesdrop.

  “I just need to put up with it,” Jamison says. “It’s not worth the hassle.”

  “Said every oppressed person while continually being oppressed. That attitude won’t change the world.”

  “I don’t want to change the world, Sam,” Jamison says. “I just want to get through high school.”

  “Maybe you can do both. Look at Parkland. Black Lives Matter. Fucking Tiananmen Square! All led by teenagers!”

  “Keep it down.” Jamison glances around the library. I press myself against the shelves, hoping he can’t see me. “Sam. This is different.”

  “How?”

  “Those are big issues,” Jamison says. “National news. Social media fodder. The moments hashtag creators dream of. White people love retweeting and posting shit like that because it’s easy. It makes them feel like they’ve done something good for Black people, all the while staying properly removed. But this? It’s in their backyard. It’s personal. The worst kind of racist is the person who insists they’re not racist. I’d rather live with this than deal with White denial. Either way, nothing changes, and I’ll pay the price. I just need to ignore it and move on.”

  “Can you really live with seeing it every day?” Sam asks. “Take it from the resident artist—everything in a painting is deliberate. It has meaning. You and I both know what that ship represents. I get that the big issues pull a lot of attention, but that doesn’t mean you should suffer death by a million pinpricks just because you’re one of the only Black kids in this school and White people are afraid of the word ‘racist.’”

  Jamison looks from Sam to his laptop. “Seven months and I graduate. That’s what I need to focus on. Getting into college. This is temporary.”

  “Well, at least you aren’t counting down the days,” Sam says. Jamison chuckles. “What about Amoris? Are you going to tell her about it?”

  “No,” Jamison says emphatically. “She doesn’t see it.�
��

  “I get it,” Sam says. “Half the time my dad doesn’t see it either. Don’t take it too personally. She’s never had her perspective challenged. It’s only been reinforced by everything she’s ever seen and everything she’s ever learned.”

  “And yet I’m the one who suffers from that miseducation.”

  “Have you told her that?” Sam asks. “Amoris cares about you a lot.”

  “And I care about her,” Jamison says. “That’s what so difficult.”

  “If she knew she was hurting you . . .”

  “I tried telling her.”

  “And . . .”

  “The conversation didn’t go anywhere,” Jamison says. “I hate having to defend myself when I’m the one who’s been wronged. It’s exhausting, especially with a person you think will understand. It’s better to keep her out of it. This is between you and me. I’m just glad someone gets it.”

  I lean back on the bookshelf, deflated. I’m too late. Jamison’s shut me out. I grab myself around the waist, as if that will bandage the gaping hole I feel in my chest.

  “Not to change the subject and all,” Sam says, “but a little bird told me Michelle wants you to ask her to homecoming. And by ‘little bird,’ I mean Michelle told me herself. She’s never been one for subtlety.”

  Jamison exhales slowly. “I’m not in the market for a date.”

  “Did you ask someone already?”

  “No,” Jamison says. “And I don’t plan on it.”

  “But you’re going to the dance. You have to. I won’t let you stay home.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “I know homecoming is a little high school cliché for one as sophisticated as you,” Sam says.

  Jamison nudges him playfully. “Shut up, man. I’m not above a high school dance. It’s just . . .”

  “Worried you’ll sit on the bleachers all night, just hoping someone will ask you to dance?”

  “I’m not worried about dancing,” Jamison says.

  “Then you’re coming. It’s decided. Something utterly dramatic and gossipworthy always happens at the dance. It’s a must-attend evening.”