Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  I make Terry order more copies. These are books that Jamison would want in the store.

  For eighteen years, I’ve told myself the same story, played my life to a single soundtrack instead of seeking out the hidden tunes, the suppressed melodies, the ignored truths.

  Ellis attempts to rectify our friendship, but I shoot her down. Even Sam rejects her after he finds out what she did. Even after so many years of friendship, I don’t feel her absence. I only feel the loss of Jamison.

  “I miss him,” Sam says. We’re sitting outside the café and drinking lattes. Spring is in full bloom. I don’t ask if he’s heard from Jamison, if they text or talk on the phone. If Sam said yes, it would break my heart. If he said no, guilt might eat me alive.

  I thought about calling Jamison. At first I told myself to give him time. A week or two. Maybe a month. But I was waiting for a reason. A moment that would bring us back together, that would heal us. I knew what it was. I just needed to be patient. I watched the mail every day for letters addressed to Jamison or Kaydene, their legal residence still in Alder Creek. And every day, hope grew a little more.

  When it finally arrives, I don’t care what laws I’m breaking as I open the letter.

  Rayne finds me in the garden, where the tulips are just beginning to poke up through the ground. The letter sits limply on my lap.

  “He didn’t get in,” I say.

  Western University is sorry to inform Jamison that they cannot admit him to the Creative Writing College. The number of applicants has risen significantly in recent years, making the program highly competitive. The admissions committee takes many factors into account, including the writing sample, high school transcript, personal and extracurricular credentials, and recommendations.

  Rayne sits next to me. “Kaydene told me a few days ago. Jamison got an email from the university.”

  My one last hope was that he’d get in, so at least his time in Alder Creek wouldn’t have been a complete disaster. But Jamison predicted what would happen, standing in the hallway after he’d been accused of hurting Ellis. He said it was over. That Mr. O’Brien would see to it. Ever since their interaction about the mural, it felt like Mr. O’Brien didn’t like Jamison. Or didn’t like being challenged by him. Jamison was a threat to his power and intelligence because Jamison saw something Mr. O’Brien couldn’t. Will Jamison ever know for sure that Mr. O’Brien is the reason he didn’t get in? I wish life made people like Mr. O’Brien accountable, but the truth is that the system protects him.

  “He must be so disappointed,” I whisper. And I wasn’t there for him. I couldn’t hold his hand or kiss him to ease the pain. “What’s he gonna do now, Mom?”

  “Kaydene said he’s going to KU in the fall. He still plans to major in English.”

  “His backup school,” I say. But Jamison deserved better than that. He deserved his dream school.

  The white wall, where the mural once was, remains empty. The Senior Senate meant to decide on what would replace it, but they became occupied with other important events. Senior Skip Day goes off without a hitch. Everyone meets down by the river in bathing suits, carrying coolers of booze stolen from parents’ liquor cabinets. And the wall remains white. The Senior Prank takes weeks to orchestrate, but Beckett and his friends eventually collect as many chickens as they can and release them into the hallways during first period. And the wall remains white. And then, there’s prom. Ellis picks the location, a fancy hotel tucked back in the mountains where the wealthy come to get married in the summer. And the wall remains white.

  Sam and I go to prom together. It’s a formality, really, checking a box. Everyone goes to their senior prom. But Sam and I are miserable, neither of us with the one we love. Tucker plans to meet us at Sam’s house later. Sam has promised him a Friday Night Lights marathon.

  I should bail and leave them alone, but the one bright spot in my life is seeing the two of them together. Tucker’s finally starting to talk about coming out. He has a date picked and everything. September twenty-first. “The beginning of a new season,” he said.

  As Sam and I walk out of the hotel, an hour after arriving at the dance, Ellis chases after us. She’s wearing a long black lacy dress. I wonder who she went shopping with. She’s been spending a lot of time with Michelle.

  “My dad is getting married in two weeks,” Ellis says. “Right after graduation.”

  “Good for him.” I start to walk away. I know perfectly well when Matt is getting married. We’re all invited to the wedding. But I’ll be gone by then.

  “I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately.” Ellis focuses on her feet, shifting her weight back and forth. “Would she be proud of me? Would she think I look like her? I’ve been thinking about that day, too. About the day she died. You were there, Amoris. You never left my side.” She pauses to take a breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I need you. I don’t think I can get through my dad’s wedding without you. Please. Don’t make me do this on my own.”

  Ellis’s pleas have a familiar ring. Her pain tugs at my heart, for the girl she was, for the mom she lost. A piece of Ellis died along with her mom. And for that, my heart will always hold sympathy for her.

  But it isn’t my job to hold her together, or fill that void, or pacify her bad behavior.

  “You’re on your own, Ellis.”

  She doesn’t need me. She’ll be just fine. The world loves people like Ellis. She was winning the moment she was born, though she’ll never admit it. People like her never do.

  When Zach shows up at my house a few days later, standing nervously at the front door, I’m caught off guard. I haven’t heard from him since Christmas, and I’ve avoided his social media.

  We sit in the backyard. The garden is blooming, the green returning to the trees. Twinkle lights tangle in the fresh branches.

  Before he can speak, I say, “I’m sorry, Zach. For everything.”

  He looks different. Older. More mature. “Don’t be,” he says. “It all worked out in the end. I’m actually here to thank you. You dumping me was the best thing that could have happened.” He tells me all about college. His classes. His friends. His girlfriend. “It’s strange how some of the worst moments in life tend to be the most transformative. Sucks at the time, but in the end . . .”

  “I’m glad everything worked out,” I say.

  “You OK?” he asks.

  I don’t know why it’s Zach, of all people, that I finally crumble in front of, but I do. I unload the entire story while he listens intently, and by the time I’m done, some of the pressure in my chest has lifted.

  “It’s not over,” Zach says, placing a comforting hand on my thigh.

  “How can you say that? I ruined everything.”

  “Because I’ve been in his place,” Zach says.

  It’s not fair that the hope I need right now comes from Zach, but I take it thankfully, knowing hope won’t stick around forever. I better grab ahold while it’s here. He asks if he’ll see me around Alder Creek this summer, and when I don’t respond, Zach smiles and says, “I thought so.”

  It’s my last day of high school. Exams are done. My locker is empty. My time at Alder Creek is coming to a close.

  Lori’s office is cleaner than usual, her pamphlets and picture frames packed in boxes.

  “You’re leaving,” I say as I take a seat in my usual chair.

  “After what happened with Jamison . . . I can’t work for a principal like that.”

  “So Mr. O’Brien wins?”

  “I think we all lose in this case.”

  It feels that way, I think to myself.

  “You still haven’t heard from Jamison?” Lori asks.

  “No.” I slump back in the chair. “I keep thinking he went through all of that, and for what? Nothing came of it. Sure, the mural is gone, but now the wall is just . . . blank, like none of it ever happened. And nobody seems to care.”

  “I feel the same way some days.” Lori picks up the last remain
ing picture from her desk and comes to sit in front of me. “Did I ever tell you that I used to work as a counselor at this summer camp in Michigan? It was a place for teenagers who felt . . . lost. The thing is, Amoris, what I’ve come to realize is that most of us are quick to lose hope. The world just seems so bad sometimes. Hope feels . . . impossible. But I’ve seen what can happen when people find it again.”

  “What happens?”

  “The world changes,” she says. “I’m not saying hope is an answer, I’m just saying it’s a start.” She puts the picture in a box and seals the box with packing tape. “Have you decided what you’re going to do once you graduate?”

  “I have.”

  Lori offers me a warm smile. “The world is waiting for you, Amoris Westmore. Get out of line, and don’t waste its time.”

  That night I write Jamison a letter. The letter I should have written nearly four years ago.

  It’s a simple sentence—a subject, its object, and most importantly, the verb.

  I love you.

  The truth, finally, among all those pretty lies.

  39

  HOME SWEET HOME

  The Airstream is packed and sitting in the driveway. It’s mine now. All those months Chris was fixing it up, he was working on it for me. A belated birthday present, he and Rayne called it. He no longer needs the van to travel to art shows, since he’s staying in Alder Creek and turning his studio into an art gallery. With our houses in a prime location on Main Street, he thinks it will do well. Apparently the meeting he had in Denver was with an investor interested in his work. A partner, really. Someone to run the business side of the gallery, giving Chris the freedom to create. He even moved back into Rayne’s bedroom. He still works next door, where he’s finishing a new collection of Alder Creek–inspired paintings, but he spends his nights eating dinner with us, and washing dishes, and giving Rayne the massages she deserves.

  The smell of summer blows through my bedroom window as I carry the last crates of records into River’s room.

  “Are you sure you want to give these to me?” he asks.

  “Just try not to scratch them.”

  “I can’t promise anything.” River flips through the records a little too vigorously. I slap his hand.

  “Easy . . .” I say. But then I stop myself from dishing out a diatribe on the importance of these records. The legacy.

  “Where should I start?” he asks.

  “That’s for you to figure out, River. Just remember, there’s a lot of music out there. Don’t get too caught up in these.”

  “It’s gonna be so weird around here without you. And now that Dad lives in the house . . .”

  Rayne sticks her head into River’s room. Her usual earthy scent follows her. “You better get going if you’re going to make it to Santa Fe tonight.”

  River and I hug. “Does this mean I can take over your room?” he asks.

  I shove him away. “You’re such an ass.”

  I take one final look through my bedroom, making sure I have everything I need. But the truth is, I can’t take most of this stuff with me. It feels better to leave it behind.

  Chris appears at my door, holding a large envelope in his hand. “Mail just came. This one’s for you. Glad it got here before you left.”

  I recognize Jamison’s handwriting instantly and grab the envelope from my dad.

  “I’ll leave you alone.” Chris closes the bedroom door behind him.

  I open it carefully, nervous. I unfold the pages, worry and hope tangling together, not knowing what I’ll find. I sit down on the bed and just stare at what’s in my hands.

  The story. His story.

  I take in each word slowly. I turn every page carefully, like a vinyl record I don’t want to scratch. And when I’m done, and my tears have dried, I tuck his story neatly into my bag, leave my bedroom, and close the door behind me.

  I don’t know if Jamison can forgive me for running away when he needed me. I don’t know what will happen to us, or if he’ll wait for me. I don’t expect him to. Jamison’s life goes on. He won’t give up on his dream. Of that, I’m sure.

  This is just the beginning. I have a long journey ahead of me, and a lot to see of this world. But I think I know where it ends. As I drive away from Shangri-La—the Airstream packed, my guitar in the back—I grasp the steering wheel tightly. Next to me sits the typewriter. I don’t know when I’ll be back, or even if I’ll return to Alder Creek.

  But here’s the simple truth—all this time, I’ve known where I belong. Turns out, it isn’t the place I love most. It’s a person.

  With the windows rolled down, I can smell summer in Kansas City already.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My editor first told me of the mural at his daughter’s school, and the subsequent movement to have it removed, at a casual dinner in New Orleans the night before a book event. I had no idea then that this story would change my life. I should have known better. Storytelling has always had, and will always have, the power to incite change. But that night I returned to my hotel, belly full, and slept soundly.

  It wasn’t until months later that a residual question plagued me: What character would I have played in the story? Would I have been as brave as my editor’s daughter, standing up to the principal of her school when he refused to address the issue? Would I have been the librarian who gathered the students together in thoughtful reflection that resulted in big action? Would I have been a parent who heard of the mural secondhand and gave it little thought? Would I have been the principal who refused to take it down, who threw up bureaucratic walls to hide his White fragility?

  The answer was simply . . . I don’t know.

  I believe the best fiction touches on our deep, intrinsic, universal humanity. To create from that knowledge, I must be mercilessly honest, with myself and my characters. If I wanted to find my answer, I needed to dig deeper, search my soul, open my ears, shut my mouth, see through the eyes of others, and pull the truth out by its deep-seated roots. And then I needed to write about it.

  The answer to my question is this book.

  But important answers must lead to more questions. On the subject of racism, no single answer absolves us from constant and vigilant work. There is no typing THE END and walking away. There is no putting down the pen. There is no homework pass, or gold star, or A-plus grade that tells the world, “This person has mastered antiracism.” There is only work.

  This book is not a pardon from the role that I have played in perpetuating racism. It is, instead, a doorway. And now that I’ve stepped through, I cannot, will not, must not go back. This story is just one step forward in a lifetime of repeatedly asking myself, Who am I and what is my role in perpetuating or dismantling racism?

  I must be mercilessly honest with myself. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.

  We all must be.

  To all my teen readers—you have the power to change the world. I know this because I was changed by one of you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I’d like to acknowledge all the writers, activists, artists, journalists, scholars, and others who have written and spoken out on the topic of racism and antiracism. They were (and are) my guides and teachers through this journey. Without their work, this book would not exist. Too often, they are overlooked or silenced when they should be supported, amplified, championed.

  My agent, Renee Nyen, as always, I thank you for sticking by my side, picking up my phone calls, and listening to my sometimes harebrained ideas with enthusiasm.

  My editor, Jason Kirk, as always, thank you for picking me out of a pile of manuscripts years ago—a moment that would change both our lives. It has been an honor creating art with you.

  This book would not be nearly what it is without the feedback of readers who offered their honesty and intelligence. Jamal, Tyler, Maggie, Lashanna, Ami, Coco, Mitchell, Muriel, Kai, Chris—you are in the pages of this novel. I hope I’ve reflected you well.

  A special thank-you to
Brittany Russell, my publicist and feedback reader, whose narrative commentary on this book was editorial level. You are a gift.

  To everyone at Skyscape who championed this novel, thank you for believing in my story, and for believing in me.

  And to the reader, as always—I am your biggest fan. Thank you for joining me on this journey.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  The book begins with Amoris describing her grandmother’s legacy. We learn about her grandmother’s café and the vinyl records she left behind. Why do you think the author chose to start the book with this theme of legacy? How does Amoris’s perspective develop over the course of the book, and why?

  Amoris’s family life is a little unusual in that her artist father lives in the duplex next door and goes on long trips without the family. Meanwhile, her mother, a holistic body healer, seems at ease with the situation. How does Amoris rationalize and understand her parents’ relationship, and how does that understanding evolve over time? How does River’s point of view affect his own understanding? How is Jamison’s family different from Amoris’s? Why do you think the author chose this difference?

  Amoris tells the reader how specific smells remind her of her family and friends, but Jamison “doesn’t have a smell. His scent would be impossible to capture. What he is to me isn’t easily replicated and bottled.” Why do you think she feels this way?

  The novel is set in Alder Creek, described as a place counterculture thrived before it became a tourist destination. Why do you think the author chose this fictionalized town as the setting? When does Amoris first realize her hometown may not be as it seems?

  How do Sam and Jamison relate to each other? What does Jamison find in their friendship that he doesn’t have with Amoris?

  How does race factor into Amoris and Jamison’s budding romantic relationship? How does their childhood relationship influence their interactions as teenagers? Do you think it’s possible for Jamison and Amoris to have an honest, true relationship after everything they’ve been through, and why?