“Why don’t we stay and watch her for a while.” Tucker climbs into bed next to Ellis. He pats the seat next to him. Before I leave, I remind them that the bedroom door locks. At least some love will be celebrated tonight.
But me—I need to get out of this house.
Outside, the air is cool, a refreshing change from the oppressive heat inside. I take a breath, clearing my lungs, and start walking around the yard. I want to go home, crawl into bed, and erase this night from my memory, but one thing keeps me here—Jamison. If he’s around, I want to find him.
Voices come from the tents, giggles and rustling. The longer I look, the more I worry that Jamison left already. Why does it feel like he’s avoiding me? What just happened in there? The way Ellis hung herself on him—the casual nature of it—it was like she was laying a claim. A desperate feeling settles in my stomach. And the longer I search, the more I lose hope.
I decide to circle the property one last time. My feet hurt, and I can’t shake the cloudiness in my head. The long day has worn me out. I’m about to give up and call Louisa for a ride, convinced my mission is useless, when I see him.
Jamison wanders aimlessly around the yard. I can tell by his expression that he’s deep in thought.
Here’s the problem with Ellis. It dawns on me as I watch Jamison. She believes she needs to stake a claim to what she deserves because life has been unfair to her. But Jamison isn’t a possession to be won or lost. Power over another just proves how scared and desperate a person is. That’s Ellis. And that’s pathetic.
I close the distance between me and Jamison, and before he can protest, before I let another word pass between us, I press myself against him, my lips finding his in the darkness. My arms circle his neck, pulling him down to me. I need you, is all I can think. I need you like I need air. Why have I been so stupid?
Jamison pulls back. “Amoris, what are you—”
But I’m done talking. Words won’t suffice. Action will. Love is a verb.
I bury Jamison’s words with my lips, parting his mouth so I can taste him. I actually feel his body release the tension he’s carrying. His arms reach around me, hugging me tightly, his hands grasping at my back. No more letting go.
But we’re too exposed out here. Even in the dark of night, I don’t want to risk anyone interrupting us. I pull Jamison toward a nearby tent, listening for the sound of people inside, but it’s empty.
“In here,” I say, unzipping the tent while not letting go of Jamison’s hand. The air is slightly warmer inside. I pull Jamison to me again, gently finding the ground beneath us, the floor covered in blankets. Lips meet lips. Hands grasp. I peel my shirt off. Jamison does the same. For a moment, I think I smell a hint of lavender on his clothes, but then it’s gone. My pause is brief, and then skin meets skin. Bare chest to bare chest.
All the questions that have overwhelmed me for months disappear. Jamison’s hips press into mine. I can’t get close enough. And I can’t stop. Not when this feels so good.
“We don’t have to do this,” Jamison says.
“I want to do this.”
“It’s not safe. I don’t have anything.” He puts space between us. “It’s too risky. We need to stop.”
I remember the gift Lori unknowingly gave me weeks ago, during one of our sessions, and take one of the condoms out of my purse.
Our clothes fall in a pile on the ground. I feel untouchable, removed from the world outside. I didn’t know I could feel this way, completely euphoric and yet wholly grounded. Familiar and yet unknown.
Jamison’s lips stay on my skin. He covers me like a safe shelter. Our frenzy slows, the minutes growing longer, more intense. I don’t want this to end. This night, this moment, this feeling. How quickly everything can change.
When it does inevitably end, Jamison and I lie curled into each other, wrapped in blankets.
“Amoris,” he whispers.
I prop myself up to look at him. “Yeah?”
“You know I love you, right?”
My heart might flutter right out of my chest. “Yeah. I know.”
“Good.” He rolls over, pinning me beneath him. “Don’t ever forget it.”
It would take a catastrophe, I think.
His lips meet mine, and it begins again.
35
ROOM FOR TWO
Terry is behind the counter at Black and Read when I show up to return his copy of On the Road.
“Done already?” he asks. “Did you find what you were looking for?” His long gray hair hangs in two braids over his shoulders. He wears a multicolored tie-dye T-shirt that might be forty years old. Terry looks like he always does, and yet today, everything feels completely different.
“Turns out, I don’t want to read about someone else’s adventure,” I say.
Terry comes out from behind the counter as I aimlessly wander the aisles of records, dragging my hands across the tops of the bins.
“Heading into the listening booth?” Terry asks.
“No need.” I’m not looking to escape today. It feels too good to be me.
Terry leans on a bin of records. “So . . . what happens now?”
“I’m just going to let my life be for a while.”
“Let it be. Wisest words Paul McCartney ever wrote,” Terry says. “Well, the booth is here for you when you need it.”
“Thanks, Terry.” I don’t tell him that I think I’ve outgrown the booth. I need to find a new way of dealing with my problems. My life is changing, and I might not be in Alder Creek for much longer. But I don’t want to alarm Terry. I still have a few months of high school left.
Back at Shangri-La, Chris is in the driveway, cleaning the Airstream, music blasting from its speakers. Canvases and paints and brushes litter the lawn, and the van is barely recognizable. The inside has been totally redone. The old burners in the minikitchen have been replaced with new ones, and it no longer smells like a backed-up toilet. Chris has even replaced the upholstery on the chairs. Now he’s vacuuming inside, his head bobbing along to the song.
“Leaving for an art show?” I ask.
He turns the music down and the vacuum off. “I’m taking a short trip to Denver in a few days. Meeting with a guy. I won’t be gone long. Where were you?”
“Black and Read.”
“Terry’s going to miss you next year.”
“Who said I’m going anywhere?”
Chris looks at me knowingly. “You’re one of the only people in this town who speaks Terry’s language,” he says.
“You know . . .” I lean on the hood of the van. “Maybe it’s time to teach River how to speak music.”
“Do you think he’d like that?” Chris asks. “He’s never seemed interested before.”
“I think River might surprise you.”
Chris shrugs but considers the idea. “If you say so.”
“I do.” A bucket of soapy water sits next to the car, and there’s still time to burn before Jamison gets home from the café, so I grab the bucket. “Need some help?”
Chris turns the music back up, and he and I continue to clean the Airstream. The unusually warm day makes the air feel light and hopeful. It’s amazing what a little heat does for the psyche. I clean to the beat, running the sponge in rhythmic waves and circles.
When the Airstream is polished, and the inside more organized than I’ve ever seen, Chris leaves to help Rayne with dinner.
I lie in the bed at the back of the van, the sun pouring through the polished windows, the radio now on low, a satisfied feeling settled in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve been in this van. Lying here now, the memories of so many trips to Kansas City practically come alive. The anticipation of driving hours across multiple states, the games we played to occupy the time, the cooler Rayne would pack full of food, the excitement of just knowing I would see Jamison for an entire month.
“Room in here for two?” Jamison sticks his head in, as if on cue. I scoot over on the bed, smelling the sweetness of
the café on his clothes. “This is more comfortable than I thought,” he says, though his legs can’t stretch out completely.
“It’s a good size for two people,” I say.
Jamison edges closer to me. “Two people who really like each other.”
“It’s a good thing I like you, Jay.”
“Is that all?”
I haven’t said the words yet. I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m worried I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve to love him. Tucker said love isn’t something a person deserves, it’s a human right, but actually believing that, for myself, is hard.
Jamison kisses me. And as the day turns to night, and darkness falls on the Airstream, hiding us from the world, that kiss grows into more, just as I’d hoped. There’s time to say the words. We’re together now, and that’s all that matters.
36
A FRESH COAT OF PAINT
Ellis is absent on Monday, but that’s not the first thing I notice when I walk into school. It’s the smell of paint. Jamison notices it at the same time.
The mural is gone. The wall freshly painted in white. We haven’t talked about the email Mr. O’Brien sent, about how Jamison feels, about Ellis and her part in all of this. The past two days have been like a dream, but reality has come knocking.
“He made himself look like a hero,” Jamison says. Without him saying it, I know he’s talking about Mr. O’Brien. And Jamison is right. The email was as hopeful as it was discouraging.
In instances like this, one mustn’t wait for others to do what’s right, one must act. And for that reason, I made the executive decision to remove the mural without waiting for the approval of the school board. It felt like the right thing to do. I accept the consequences of my actions should the school board decide that any are necessary.
I’m so proud of our Senior Senate for rallying behind this cause, making their voices heard, and demanding a safer environment for all students at Alder Creek High. They are the true great leaders of tomorrow.
As principal of this school, I value Alder Creek’s diversity, celebrate its many colors, and commit to serving all who walk through our doors.
The letter was a pretty lie. Like a con artist finally telling the truth, Mr. O’Brien congratulated the efforts of the student body while simultaneously negating any resistance he had to the mural coming down in the first place. The letter felt false, contrived, a load of bullshit fed to the school community so we’ll keep believing we’re better people than we actually are.
Jamison examines the painted wall.
“I wonder what they’ll put in its place,” I say.
“The Senior Senate is in charge of coming up with a plan,” he says. “But they seem more concerned with prom. I have a feeling the wall will stay blank for a while.”
“Does that bother you?”
“What bothers me more is that I’m not surprised everyone at school has moved on to easier topics, like prom.”
I take Jamison’s hand in mine. “At least the mural’s gone.”
He looks at me earnestly. “Do you think whatever is painted next will make a bit of difference?”
And I don’t have an answer.
By Wednesday I still haven’t heard from Ellis. A creeping fear has trailed me since the party. I’ve managed to push it away, but the longer I don’t hear from her, the more worried I get.
I ask Sam if he’s had any contact with her, but he hasn’t either.
If Ellis needs space, I can give her that. Everyone needs room to breathe.
That’s what I’ve told myself for the past few days, but I had forgotten. Forgotten . . . or didn’t want to remember. Ellis doesn’t like “space.” She doesn’t like time to herself. If she did, she wouldn’t have spent so many nights in eighth grade sneaking out of my house, meeting boys who were too old for her, boys who didn’t care about taking advantage of her. Ellis just wanted human touch, to be held, noticed, seen.
When she moved into my room, I offered to sleep on the floor so she could have the whole bed, thinking she might want to cry without me next to her. But Ellis said no.
“Don’t leave me, Amoris. I’ll be swallowed up by all this space.” What she meant was she would be swallowed up by all that grief. So I climbed in and slept next to her, night after night.
It takes four days, but Ellis finally emerges. I was naïve to think she was resting, recovering, recuperating. That’s not Ellis. Even her silence is active. It means something. Silence wants to be seen, too.
Jamison and I are standing in the hallway by his locker when Lori approaches us. I think nothing of it. I’ve spent so much time in her office this year, I assume she’s bringing me another brochure or wants to talk about the mural. But the expression on her face gives me pause. More than pause. It bottoms out my stomach.
Then she turns to Jamison next to me, his hand in mine, and that panic rises in my throat.
“Mr. O’Brien needs to see you, Jamison.” Lori sounds different. Formal.
“Why?”
“I think it’s better if we don’t discuss this in the hallway.”
“I’m coming,” I say.
“This is a private matter, Amoris.” Again, Lori sounds too serious.
“She’s coming,” Jamison insists.
Lori acquiesces, giving us both a small sad grin, and we follow her down the hallway. I won’t let go of Jamison’s hand. No matter what happens. I’ve learned my lesson.
I’ve never actually been in Mr. O’Brien’s office. It’s different than I imagined. He has hundreds of pictures of students collaged on one of the walls, like a timeline of his career, from twenty years back when he was a teacher all the way until now. His multiple degrees are framed and hung, too. It’s the office of a person who loves his job. He even has a “World’s Best Teacher” mug on his desk next to a picture of him and his husband.
Mr. O’Brien gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Jamison, please take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand if that’s all right with you.”
“Suit yourself.” Mr. O’Brien sits behind his desk.
I try to relax. Maybe Mr. O’Brien wants to apologize. But then why is Lori here? Her presence makes me uncomfortable. It’s so . . . official.
“Jamison, a student has filed a report against you,” Mr. O’Brien says. “And we’ve opened an investigation into the allegations.”
I’m slow to process what this means.
“What are the allegations?” Jamison asks, his voice steady.
“I’ve been in contact with your former high school,” Mr. O’Brien replies. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your time there?”
“What are the allegations?” Jamison asks again.
“Now isn’t the time to keep secrets, Jamison. If there is anything we should know, I suggest you reveal it. Did you have many girlfriends?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Jamison replies.
“Maybe an arrest record we should know about?”
This is absurd. I glare at Lori, but she looks as helpless as I feel. “That’s ridiculous,” I manage to utter. “Jay has never been arrested.”
“Are you sure about that, Amoris?” Mr. O’Brien asks. “How well do you really know him?”
“That’s none of your business,” Jamison interjects.
Mr. O’Brien’s eyes drift down to our interlaced hands. “Where were you on Saturday night, Jamison?”
“Again, none of your business.” Jamison holds his back straight. I can feel his tension radiating through his palm.
“When it affects the students in my school, it is my business.”
“You still haven’t told me what the allegations are,” Jamison says.
“Would you say you have a history of violence?” Mr. O’Brien asks.
“What?” I snap.
“You seem prone to outbursts, Jamison. Is that something you have a hard time controlling?”
“This is crazy!” I turn toward Lo
ri. “Can’t you fix this?”
But Lori seems caught, restrained by some invisible, bureaucratic rope.
Mr. O’Brien continues evenly. “A student reported that you punched a locker.”
Jamison and I glance at the fading bruises on his knuckles. Someone must have been eavesdropping on us in the hallway during the Senior Senate meeting.
“I can explain that,” I say.
“Amoris, have you considered that this boy isn’t who you think he is?” I hate the sound of my name coming out of his mouth. Mr. O’Brien stands up from his chair but stays behind the desk, as if to protect himself. “I’ve seen your temper firsthand, Jamison. If you’re willing to act violently toward authority, there’s no telling what you’ll do to a person your own age. This is a serious matter. It’s your senior year. You’re courting colleges, and they won’t want to admit someone who’s potentially a threat to other students.”
“I didn’t do anything to anyone,” Jamison says, his voice still calm.
“I saw the bruises on her arm.” Mr. O’Brien acts like he’s commenting on the weather, not ruining Jamison’s life in a sentence.
“Her,” Jamison says.
Mr. O’Brien’s confidence seems to weaken for the first time. He sits back down and gestures toward Lori. “As mandatory reporters, Ms. Collins and I are obligated to take this issue to the police,” he says. “And though you are eighteen and technically an adult, we have informed your mother of the situation.”
Words keep falling out of the principal’s mouth, but they all run together into a mumbled mess. All I keep hearing is the word her.
Her. Her. Her.
Ellis.
We’re ushered out of Mr. O’Brien’s office, still clutching each other’s hand. Are the police on the way to the high school right now? Why is Jamison guilty until proven innocent? Isn’t this what he has been trying to tell me all year? This is his reality. To the world, he’s a thief before a customer, a thug before a scholar, a criminal before a person.
“Listen to me,” Lori says. “Don’t panic. The best thing you can do is hold tight and lie low. Don’t make any rash decisions. We’ll figure this out.”
Only the Pretty Lies Page 21
