Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  “What happened with you two?” Sam asks.

  “Nothing.” I slump down in my seat, wishing I could bury myself.

  “Liar.”

  I don’t have the energy to tell Sam everything. It’s a swirl of madness and complete clarity. How can the world all of a sudden come into focus and also be a mess at the same time?

  Jamison leans on the counter, talking with Michelle Hernández. They smile. Laugh. It’s easy. She touches his arm. Is she flirting with him? Of course she is. Who wouldn’t? I decide that I hate Michelle.

  “Jamison!” Sam hollers. “Over here!”

  I swear I see a moment of hesitation before Jamison walks over to us. You’d think after countless shifts at work that I’d be used to the gut-wrenching awkwardness, but it never goes away.

  “I just closed the café,” Jamison says, too quickly. “I’m picking up dinner after my shift.” He seems eager to leave.

  “That’s nice,” I say, attempting to sound casual. “The burgers are good here.”

  “Jamison, I’m glad we ran into you,” Sam says. “I need your help. What are you doing tonight?”

  Jamison holds up his takeout bag. “You’re looking at it.”

  “Good.” Sam shows Jamison his sketchbook. “I have one more piece to do to complete my application to USC. I’m in desperate need of models.”

  “I’m no model,” Jamison says. “Better to ask Amoris.”

  “What?” I gasp. “I’m not a model. Models are tall. I’m short. Too short.”

  “First of all, I draw eyes,” Sam says. “That has nothing to do with height. And second of all, I actually need you both.” He shimmies out of the booth as Ellis walks back into the diner. She acknowledges Jamison with a cordial greeting and a smile.

  “Let’s go,” Ellis says. “Beckett’s waiting outside. We are officially on the list for Paisley’s party. Jamison, you can come, too.”

  “Tempting, Elle, but I pass,” Sam says.

  “What?” she snaps. “It’s Saturday night. Don’t be lame.”

  “That’s a derogatory word, by the way,” Sam says.

  Ellis groans. “Stop being so sensitive.”

  “I pass, too,” I say. “I’m not in the mood for a party.”

  Ellis is aghast. She turns to Jamison. “Please tell me you’re not joining these losers.”

  Jamison holds up his takeout. “I’m just here for the food.”

  “Fine,” Ellis says. “Do whatever you want, losers. I’m going with Beckett.”

  We watch her go, though none of us is disappointed.

  “Do you guys hear that?” Sam asks. “I hear munchkins. Singing. Something about a dead witch.” He smiles wickedly. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Do you think your dad would mind if we used his art studio?”

  I rarely go in Chris’s studio. Not that I’m forbidden, but it feels like Chris’s home. And not mine. Like I’m trespassing. I always assumed Chris moved out to get away from us, which meant he didn’t want us in his studio. He quartered himself next door by choice.

  It’s strange to be here now, seeing the familiar objects that inhabited my house years ago. Chair, table, bed, French press, an old stereo. Chris’s coffee cup with the permanent brown stain at the bottom. But lately, his toothbrush has been in Rayne’s bathroom, and the bed in the studio is still made from the last time he left on a trip.

  Sam moves around the studio, rearranging the furniture, like it’s his own. The studio feels untouched. Each paint brush is clean, organized by size in mason jars on Chris’s desk. Completed artwork is stacked against a wall. I didn’t realize how hard Chris has been working lately. I thumb through the paintings, all new, all work I’ve never seen before. All landscapes of Alder Creek.

  “I may have my issues with this town,” Jamison says from behind me, his chest practically touching my back, “but no one can deny it’s beautiful. This place is worthy of art. Chris has captured it perfectly.”

  I look at Jamison. His heat collides with mine. We haven’t been this close in weeks. It feels better than good. It feels like we could heal each other simply by being this near.

  “OK,” Sam says. “I need you both to sit here.”

  Two seats are positioned next to each other, Chris’s easel facing them, Sam’s sketchbook propped there. Jamison and I take our seats. Sam stands back, examining us.

  “Jamison, turn toward Amoris. And, Amoris, do the same.”

  I can smell the scent I was struggling to re-create in Rayne’s studio. I’ve missed it so much. My heart aches at the smell of it now. Sam walks around us, exploring the angles of light. He adjusts Jamison’s position slightly.

  “Sam, what are we supposed to be doing?” I ask.

  “Just look at each other,” he says.

  I don’t know how often two people stare at each other for more than a few seconds, but it’s awkward. At first, it’s only slight, but the longer Jamison and I are locked in a gaze, the more I want to cry. I feel empty without him. I’m just going through the motions every day. I had a taste of what life could be like with Jamison, together. And as he sits in front of me now, he looks at me as if he can read my mind, as if he’s trying to figure out why I’m doing this to us.

  Why, Amoris?

  Why did I push him away?

  I can’t do this. I stand up and break the moment. Sam stops drawing. I pace.

  “My foot fell asleep,” I lie.

  “I need to check on Tucker anyway,” Sam says. He disappears into the back room as I walk around, attempting to breathe evenly. I can do this. I said “friends,” so we need to be just that, and I need to start acting like it.

  “I guess I can take model off my list of possible future professions,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood. “Good thing I have a fallback.”

  “What’s that?” Jamison asks.

  “Professional basketball player.”

  “Really.”

  “You’ve seen me on the court.”

  He chuckles, and some of the tension eases. “You still owe me a rematch.”

  “Anytime you’re in the mood for losing.”

  “So, it’s like that?”

  “Like what?” I ask. “You’re not . . . scared, are you?”

  Jamison gives me a warning look. “You better watch what you say, Amoris. You might be eating those words.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Jamison picks up the garbage can from the corner and sets it in the middle of the room. He balls up a piece of scrap paper. Then he steps back and shoots. The paper ball glides easily into the can. Jamison gestures to where he’s standing. “Your shot.”

  I accept the challenge and aim, sending the paper ball straight into the basket.

  “Child’s play,” I say.

  Jamison’s second and third shots land in the can as effortlessly as the first. I, on the other hand, am not so lucky.

  “You’ve been practicing,” I say.

  “Maybe . . .”

  “I better step up my game.”

  Jamison stands close to me as I prepare to shoot. As I’m about to launch the paper ball, he leans down and gently blows in my ear. The ball misses completely.

  “Cheater!” I shove him playfully in the chest. He laughs and grabs me by the wrists, spins me around, and pins me to him. And before I know it, we’re in a full-fledged wrestling match. Jamison picks me up and carries me to the couch.

  “Put me down!” I scream, kicking and laughing.

  “If that’s what you want,” Jamison says. He lifts me high and drops me on the couch like a pro wrestler. I can’t stop laughing. He’s over me immediately, tickling my ribs.

  “Not there!” I barely manage to get the word out. “Not there!”

  The weight of his body on mine, his fingers crawling over my skin, it’s ecstasy. A dream. This is the best I’ve felt since I uttered that awful word. The more Jamison presses into me, the more I want to melt into this
couch and forget about “friends.” Forget about drawing boundaries. Forget it all. This feels too good.

  Sam clears his throat, and we stop moving. “Sorry to interrupt. I can go if you want.”

  Jamison is up in an instant. “No. Stay.”

  I sit up, fixing my chaotic hair. “We were just—”

  “No explanation needed,” Sam says, moving back behind the easel.

  Jamison sits back in his seat. “How’s Tucker?”

  “He didn’t pick up,” Sam says, trying not to sound bothered.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Sam lets out a long breath. “I can’t think about it. I need a distraction. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  This time Jamison and I are better at holding still. Goofing around eased the tension, and for the first time in weeks, I’m not in complete agony this close to him.

  “Good,” Sam says. “That’s better.”

  If my eyes could say one thing to Jamison right now, it would be that I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put space between us by uttering the dreaded “friend” word, but I swear it’s for us.

  As if he can hear my mind, Jamison reaches for my face, his fingers hesitant, and brushes my hair from my forehead. It’s the kindest of gestures, and I don’t deserve it. As his hand skims down my cheek, I turn into his touch, willing him to know how badly I want this, how good it feels.

  “There,” Sam says seriously. “Don’t move an inch.”

  Jamison softly touches my face, and I don’t turn away. Before I couldn’t look at him longer than a few seconds, and now I’m desperate for time to stop, right here, just the two of us, locked in touch.

  As we’re holding the pose, it dawns on me that it’s nearly February. Sam already applied to art school. His portfolio is complete. He did this on purpose. I wonder if Jamison knew. Was he hoping this would happen? Either way, I don’t care.

  The silence is broken when a phone rings, startling us all.

  “Tucker.” Sam sounds relieved as he grabs his phone, but it’s not his that’s ringing.

  There are moments in life when we know that what’s coming is bad. An intuition springs, like a little gift from the universe, preparing us before the fall. I feel it drop in my stomach.

  I scavenge my cell from the bottom of my bag and answer it. “River?”

  “Amoris?” His voice is frantic. “Please. I need you.”

  30

  WINNERS AND LOSERS

  The lights on top of the police car are off. At least there’s that. The entire neighborhood isn’t witnessing this. River made me promise on the phone that I wouldn’t involve Rayne and Chris. I wanted to scream at him, but I was too panicked to resist. As we pull up in Sam’s car, River leaning against the police cruiser, intoxicated, I regret it now.

  A uniformed officer stands next to River.

  “I’ll stay here,” Jamison says.

  The smell of sour vomit edged with alcohol hits my nose as I approach the police car, alone.

  River attempts to stand. “Thank God you came. You’re the best sister in the world.”

  River looks sallow and pathetic. He’s so drunk, his eyes are sagging.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask.

  The police officer, whose badge says Monroe, tells me he was driving by, his shift at an end, when he saw River puking on the side of the road. He pulled over to help. That’s when he smelled the alcohol.

  “Do you know anything about a party tonight?” Officer Monroe asks me.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Look,” he says. “I remember being in high school. Sometimes you just have a little too much fun. Get a little carried away. I’m not sure your brother needs to be arrested for that. But he needs a safe ride home and a good night’s sleep.”

  “I can do that,” I say.

  “Good.” Officer Monroe seems satisfied. River thanks him over and over for not arresting him. “Just promise me you’ll be safe the next time. Mind your intake and always have a designated driver.”

  “Yes, sir,” River says, holding on to the car for stability.

  “We’ll forget this happened,” the officer says. “Now, get this boy home.”

  I take River around the waist to keep him steady. He’s been behaving all year as if he’s above the law, and tonight just proves that he is. He should be marinating in a jail cell, paying the consequences for his mistakes. Instead, I’m dragging his drunk ass home, and now I’m responsible. An accomplice.

  River flops into the back seat next to Jamison. The officer leaves. I just want to get home and get River out of my sight.

  “You’re a real shithead, River,” I say as I fasten my seat belt. “You know that?”

  He blows out a deep breath, and I have to roll down the window. “It’s fine,” he says. “No big deal. I’ll be more careful next time. I was just having a little fun.”

  “Next time? How is this fun, River? You’re lucky you weren’t arrested.”

  “He wasn’t going to arrest me.”

  Now that River is safe in the car, his panic is replaced with arrogance.

  “You heard what the good officer said,” River continues. “I got a little carried away. It was an innocent mistake.”

  “I should have let you rot on the side of the road,” I say.

  “Too late.”

  Jamison speaks now, his voice stern. “I need to get out of the car. Sam, pull over.”

  The car isn’t even stopped fully when Jamison opens the door and gets out. River flops over in the back seat.

  “I’m gonna take a nap,” he mumbles. “Wake me up tomorrow.”

  I can’t stand the sight of him. The arrogance.

  “I’ll stay,” Sam says.

  Jamison is halfway down the street when I catch up to him, hollering his name.

  He turns on me, a fire in his eyes I haven’t seen in months, like he wants to break something. “This is fucking bullshit!” he yells.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. River’s an idiot. I’m done helping him.”

  “It’s not just River, Amoris. It’s everything. Some days, I can’t breathe in this damn town. Do you think that officer would have been so kind if it had been me puking on the side of the road? Do you think he would have chalked it up to good-old teenage innocence? Or would I be handcuffed in the back of a squad car.”

  “You’re right. This whole situation is messed up. If you can’t breathe here, let’s leave,” I say, pleading with him. Anything to make this better. Anything to take the pain away. “Wherever you want to go.”

  Jamison starts pacing, rubbing the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the same everywhere.”

  “Just tell me what you want, Jay. Whatever you want.”

  He pauses, then pulls me to him, his hands tight around my arms. All the air leaves my lungs. His lips hover over mine. Just do it, I beg silently. If Jamison kissed me, I wouldn’t be able to resist anymore. I’d give in. This forced distance would all be over.

  He sets me down, as quickly as he grabbed me, and my knees give out slightly.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I’m sick of pretending shit doesn’t bother me. I’m sick of my opinion meaning nothing. I’m sick of other people telling me what I can and cannot have.”

  “Jay—”

  “I want it gone. Painted over. I can’t look at that mural anymore.”

  I don’t expect that. I thought this fight was over and lost. “Are you sure you want to do this? Last time—”

  “Yes, Amoris,” he says. “It’s my decision. I want that fucking thing gone.”

  31

  A MEETING COMES TO ORDER

  Lori is confident this is going to work. She said so herself when Jamison and I met with her last week. She’d thought about it, and it boils down to a numbers game. The more people, the more pressure. That’s what we need. And power—power helps. I said I k
now someone with a lot of power. Jamison was against the idea, but there is no student at school who has as much power as Ellis. He eventually conceded, and we made a plan. Having Ellis on our side should have increased our confidence in the mission.

  But when we walked out of Lori’s office that day, Jamison said, almost to himself, “Why is it always like this? Why do I have to risk so much just to do what’s right?”

  And that’s when it appeared—anxiety that something was coming. Something I couldn’t predict. Something unseen.

  Ellis and I stand in front of the mural now, and I should feel relieved. But the whole scene feels odd.

  Ellis examines the painting with a critical eye. “Holy shit,” she says. “That’s totally a slave ship. I can’t believe I never noticed.”

  “I know. I had the same reaction.”

  “Jay’s right. This definitely needs to come down.”

  “You’re sure?” I say.

  “Like there’s a debate? It’s an ugly fucking mural anyway. Who cares if it’s painted over?”

  Ellis doing the right thing should make my anxiety evaporate, but for some reason, it only makes the situation feel wrong . . . off. Because in the midst of all of this, what really bothers me is the way she casually just called him Jay. I feel nauseous.

  I swallow it down and thank her for her help. Ellis agrees to bring up the issue at the next Senior Senate meeting, which is two days from now. And then she says, “But . . .”

  I knew there would be a catch. A hook. A tentacle. I try to remain calm. “What?”

  “My dad is making me go to dinner with stupid Darcy this weekend. I was going to bring Beckett, but we broke up.” Ellis groans, more annoyed than heartbroken. “Will you come with me? Please. I can’t do it alone.”

  The cost for my favor feels too small. Too easy. But maybe I have Ellis all wrong. Maybe I haven’t given her enough credit. Maybe, just maybe, she’s helping because it’s the right thing to do, and Ellis wants to be on the right side. I’ve just painted her poorly, but I didn’t used to do that. There was a time not so recently when I trusted Ellis wholeheartedly.

  I agree to go to dinner. It’s one night. I owe her that. I’ve spent too much time trying to make Ellis into what she might not be. Into the villain.