Lie for Me

by Romily Bernard

  It’s kind of funny actually. Paul’s the one who would really want to get closer to Bender and Tate. Since he’s a small-time dealer, a connection to them could help my uncle move up in the world. I’ve stayed away from all that, or at least I have until now.

  “What if you asked Bender for some work?” my cousin asks, and again, there’s that hopefulness wiggling under his cool.

  He needs this. For a second, I feel pretty good about that. I’m paying him back for all those canned beans and casseroles. Then I remember how I need it too. If I want a new life, I need to graduate, go to art school, get a real job, and get my mom out of here.

  The gap between what I am and what I want to be seems enormous, but maybe this could be a step to close it.

  “Yeah, fine.” I look at Carson. “I’ll ask around, but I can’t guarantee anything and you’ll have to pay me—no matter what Bender says.”

  Carson shrugs. “Fair enough.” He swivels his attention to Ben. “So he knows about . . . ?”

  My cousin nods once and I stiffen. Carson wants to know if I know about my dad. “Yeah,” I say. “He showed me.”

  “Good.” The detective leans sideways to open the filing cabinet. “We can use that. From now on, your occasional presence here will be explained by saying you’re answering our questions about your missing dad, got it? It’s a good cover.”

  Cover. Jesus. I scrub one hand over my mouth, not sure if I’m hiding a smirk or a grimace. They make it sound like we’re in a spy novel. Like what happened with my dad is useful and not . . . my stomach wads up. I drop my hand. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

  “I can’t give you copies of the case files, but you can look through what I have.” Carson pushes a folder across his desk. Some black-and-white photos slide out and I guess I’m expecting some scary-looking dude because, for a few seconds, I stare at the top picture, unable to bend my brain around what I’m seeing. It isn’t a guy at all.

  It’s Wick.

  4

  I tap my finger against Wick’s face. In the picture, she’s smiling, attention focused on some younger blond girl as they walk away from the local middle school. I’ve never seen her look so soft.

  “What’s Wick got to do with this?” I lift my eyes to Carson, but all I can think about is the girl who jacked up Bradford’s front tire, the one who doesn’t get mad, she gets even. I’m confused . . . but there’s something else under the confusion too . . . something tight, irritated. I just can’t seem to name it.

  Carson smiles like I am his favorite student. “We suspect she’s been aiding her father. There’s no way Tate’s been able to stay hidden for this long without help. I want to bring down the whole ring, including her.”

  My chest pinches. “How do you know she’s even involved?”

  “Hunch.” The detective’s smile goes thin, almost lipless. “How do you know her?”

  “Same neighborhood. Same school.” Which is a shorthand way of saying I know Wick the same way everyone knows each other around here. Peachtree City’s not exactly a big town, but even if I didn’t live a few minutes away from her, I’d still know Wick from all the rumors.

  First it was because her mother jumped to her death. Then it was because Michael Tate escaped the cops. For a while, it was because she was my neighbor and everyone in our neighborhood knows everyone else, but, when Wick went into foster care, they moved her.

  Truth is . . . I’d like to know her because I know her, because we hang out. It’s a feeling I’ve had ever since first seeing her, an ache I can’t seem to lose. No matter how much I want to.

  “We worked on a project together last year,” I add, and then wonder why I told him the truth. It’s not like I owe the detective anything.

  Carson’s eyes flicker. “Friends?”

  “Not really.” I’m being honest again, but even as I say it, I feel like I’m lying, and that’s stupid. We’re not friends. I don’t think Wick has friends. Wait. No, she does. The pretty, dark-haired cheerleader hangs out with her, but that’s it.

  “Do you think you could get close to her?” Carson asks.

  I can’t help my laugh. I’ve been trying to get close to Wick for years. She isn’t what I’d call approachable. Actually, the girl looks like a pissed-off pixie—not saying that’s a bad look. It sort of suits her or whatever.

  “Maybe,” I say, eyes dropping to the picture again. I’ve never seen Wick smile like that. It feels wrong that it’s in here.

  “This many years in the force,” Carson continues, a touch of southern drawl curving the ends of his words, “you get a kind of . . . sixth sense for people. That girl is trouble. There’s something wrong with her. Bad. She needs to be taken out before she pollutes other people. Whatever you find—on her, on her dad, on Bender—I’d pay you for it.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends on what you bring me. We’ll start with two hundred.”

  I focus on Wick so Carson can’t see my interest. Two hundred? That would keep the phone on and buy groceries and . . . and I would have to bring someone down to hoist myself up. Can I do that? Nah, that’s the wrong question. I can do it, but I don’t want to be the kind of guy who would. Plus, it’s Wick, and the reminder makes my chest go tight again.

  “If everybody knows I’m working for Bender and Tate and then they get arrested and I’m walking around free, how’s that supposed to look?” I ask.

  Another lipless smile from the detective. “You mean, how are you supposed to avoid looking like a narc?”

  “I’d never let that happen.” Ben jerks forward. In the tiny office, he’s practically on top of me now. “We’ll keep you out of it. I promise. We promise.”

  Carson’s eyes return to me. “More you bring me,” he continues, voice so quiet it’s like we’re sharing secrets, “the more I’ll pay you. Get me proof Bender and the Tates are spearheading that scam and it won’t matter if your mom refuses to get out of bed.”

  I stiffen. It should be the wrong thing to say and it isn’t. If my mom can’t take care of herself, I’ll have to do it. I’ll have to save us both, and I can’t do that by mowing lawns or repairing motorcycles.

  I turn the picture over and meet the detective’s gaze. “Pay up. I’m in.”

  Ben tells me I did a good job and I don’t bother correcting him. I haven’t done anything yet, but my cousin’s walking on the balls of his feet like he’s about to break into a run.

  Or a song.

  I leave the station with mental notes from Carson and a prepaid smartphone. It even has a data package so I “look like the real deal.”

  I manage not to laugh when the detective tells me this, as if hackers can be identified solely by their cells. I should’ve told him there was a secret handshake. He probably would’ve believed me.

  Ben and I pile into his cruiser and he takes me home, chattering the whole way about relatives I don’t see and cops I don’t know. By the time he drops me off, it’s totally dark and our trailer is the sole black hole on the block.

  “She must have gone out for a bit,” Ben says, studying the windows like this is the most obvious thing in the world and he has no reason to worry about me.

  It’s a lie we’re both grateful for.

  He shifts the cruiser into reverse as I unbuckle my seat belt. “Probably be home soon though.”

  “Yeah,” I say, opening the passenger door. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem.”

  Inside, I don’t check to see if my mom’s gone out, because I know she hasn’t. I crack her bedroom door and sit at our kitchen table, listening to her breathing. It’s soft and steady, staying with me as I scroll through the phone’s features, linking it to my Gmail account and Facebook page, figuring, if Carson’s going to give the cell to me, I might as well use it.

  I’ve just loaded my Facebook stuff when I notice Jenna Maxwell’s entry at the top of the News Feed. She’s asking people to pray for Tessa Waye’s family, to see them through in “their dark hour.
”

  The hell?—I click the link—Oh. Tessa Waye committed suicide. Jumped off some building. Wow. I talked to Tessa just a few days ago. She didn’t look like she was living in a personal hell, although of all people, I should know that’s pretty much the point.

  I glance through the comments below Jenna’s post. Most are from their mutual friends, the kind of girls at school who are so beautiful that’s pretty much all you see when you look at them.

  There’s plenty of shock, lots of digital tears—understandable since Tessa was so popular. School’s going to be tedious tomorrow. I don’t deal well with damage. I have enough of it at home.

  Still, it’s a damn shame, I think, not even realizing I’m looking at my mom’s bedroom door until I am, have been for minutes now. That could be Mom one day.

  I shove the thought away, finish the homework for tomorrow’s chemistry lab, review my Spanish notes, and, at some point, fall asleep.

  I wake up with my cheek glued to a flash card. It’s a little past six in the morning and a truck is backfiring. Mr. Santos must be leaving for work.

  Feeling fuzzy, I push to my feet, hitting the bathroom to brush my teeth and then my mom’s bedroom to check on her. She’s staring at the wood-veneered closet.

  “Hey.” I tap my knuckles gently against the door frame and wince. The noise is still too loud. “You hungry?”

  Nothing.

  “Okay.” I stretch and my neck pops. “I’ll make us both something.”

  I put the last pieces of bread in our toaster and, while I’m waiting, change into a clean polo shirt, listening for any signs she’s moving. There’s nothing though, and for a horrible moment I wonder if Ben might have a point. I can’t save her. She’s too determined to drown. If she is . . . how am I supposed to walk away? How could I live with myself?

  Thankfully, the toaster dings, giving me an excuse to stop thinking and get moving. There isn’t any jelly, but I do find a bit of peanut butter at the bottom of the jar, so I put what’s left on her toast and carry it to the bedroom.

  “Hey, think you could eat something?” I put the plate on the edge of the mattress and crouch next to the bed. “Mom?”

  She blinks, dark hair hanging in her eyes. People think we look alike: almost black hair, green eyes. I always smile because the comment makes her happy, but deep down, it kind of terrifies me. How similar are we? Am I going to wake up one day and not be able to get out of bed?

  “Mom, you gotta get up.” I shake her limp shoulder. “You have to go to work.”

  She blinks, but doesn’t stir. So much for work. I guess I can count on her being fired. I stifle my sigh, reminding myself this is why I’m going to work for the detective.

  “I’m going to school.” I stand, pause for a beat because I want her to say, Don’t. Don’t go. Stay with me. It’s too early for school. I’m getting up.

  My mom doesn’t say any of that though. She stares and I wait and, eventually, the silence is worse than her glassy eyes. I can’t take it.

  “Bye, Mom.” I turn off all the lights, lock the trailer door, and gun my motorcycle out of the driveway. It’s the last thing I have left from my dad and I drive it like I don’t care. I’m doing sixty by the time I reach the highway, seventy by the time I hit town. My bike is shaking hard enough to rattle and it’s still not fast enough to escape.

  5

  I should be studying. Instead, I draw. I could do this anywhere, but I end up in Mrs. Lowe’s computer lab because she won’t give me shit about it. I’ve been in her computer classes since freshman year and she doesn’t mind that I keep weird hours.

  I’m almost finished with my second sketch when I hear footsteps. The door scrapes open and she pushes in. I put my pen down, think it should feel different seeing Wick now that I know what I know.

  Maybe it does.

  Our gazes collide and I try to see her as the detective does, as someone who’s worth only eliminating and . . . I can’t. I still see the girl from three years ago—sharp chin, pale eyes. Her hair’s different. Again. In all the time I’ve known Wick, I’ve seen her go blue, pink, and, once, antifreeze green. Today it’s Kool-Aid red. I like it.

  A lot.

  The realization makes me go hot. I shift, suddenly uncomfortable, and smile so she won’t be able to tell.

  “You’re here early,” I say.

  Wick hesitates and I catch myself watching how the skin of her throat ripples when she swallows. “Yeah, pretty early. I actually got up on time.”

  “Me too.” This is the part where I should have more to say and I don’t—doesn’t matter though, because Wick’s already halfway down the line of desks, heading for her usual spot in the back.

  I sigh, tap my pen against my drawing. I’ll need something way more original for my art school portfolio, but for right now, it’s a good distraction from the redhead behind me.

  In fact, it’s such a good distraction I almost miss the crying. There’s a knot of girls outside Lowe’s classroom. They’re hugging each other, sniffling. Jenna Maxwell is, unsurprisingly, at the center, looking like Tragedy Barbie.

  I stretch both arms behind my head, making my shoulders pop. “Amazing. I didn’t think she was programmed to cry.”

  “Yeah, it makes her look almost lifelike,” Wick says, and immediately the tips of her ears go pink. She glances at me and I try and fail to squash my smile.

  Usually, Wick never volunteers anything. Mostly, she stares at me like she can’t quite figure out why I exist, so I want to press this further, but there’s another sob from outside—Jenna again. I jerk my attention to the windows. “I always thought they were frenemies. I guess she really was close to Tessa.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Shit, she doesn’t know? I roll the question around, my answer around, and come up with jack. Wick’s mom was a jumper, committed suicide maybe a year or so before I moved in, which basically means I’ve inserted my foot so far into my mouth I could kick my own ass.

  I swallow. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” Her voice goes hard and high.

  “Tessa jumped off a building.”

  “Tessa jumped off a building?”

  “Yeah, it was early yesterday.” Can we say tactless? The past three years Wick and I have had classes together, done a couple of projects together, even sat next to each other on a field trip, and I’ve tried to talk to her about everything—anything—and I’ve never gotten past what report’s due next or what homework really sucked. Now, when my first opportunity arrives, I tank it. I stifle a sigh and pass one hand over my face, shake my head.

  “There has to be some sort of mistake.” Her voice is climbing, step by step. I recognize the tone. I’ve heard it so much from my mom that it feels like something that belongs to me, not to Wick.

  “That’s not what Jenna’s saying.”

  Maybe it would help if I showed her? Sometimes that works with my mom. If she sees the actual bill, it scares her less than what’s in her head.

  I pull out my phone, open the app to show her Jenna’s Facebook page. Wick looks at the screen, eyes going glassy as my stomach sinks.

  “She says Tessa committed suicide,” I say carefully, eyeing the other students filing into the room. Their eyes are pinned to us and bright with interest.

  “No.” Wick bounces to her feet, sways. “You’re wrong—she’s wrong. There has to be some mistake.”

  Crap. She’s freaking and I don’t know the words to calm her. When it comes to Wick, I never know the words. She makes me stupid.

  Stupider.

  “Wick.” I stand, ready to . . . actually, I have no idea. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. Please. Sit down.”

  I take one step toward her and there’s no response. I take another, but she’s still staring into space, breathing like she’s sprinting.

  “Wick? Wick!” I wrap my fingers around her wrist and the contact is an unexpected jolt. My breath catches. “Are you okay?”

  Wi
ck’s eyes flick to mine and something nameless inside me shifts.

  “What’s going on here?”

  I bite down a swear. It’s Mrs. Lowe. She shoulders between two wide-eyed tenth-graders and grabs Wick by the sleeve. “Miss Tate, are you sick?”

  Wick goes even paler.

  “It’s my fault.” I shove myself between them, my shoulders so close to Wick I can feel her gasp against my spine. “I told her about Tessa.”

  Mrs. Lowe pauses, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s biting down her own swear.

  “You poor thing.” She peers around me to get a better look at Wick. “I guess you would’ve found out sooner or later. Principal Matthews didn’t want to break it to everyone like this, but Miss Maxwell’s already told half the school. Here. Sit down.” She cranks Wick around by the arm and shoves her into a seat, holding her down with one hand. “You look horrible.”

  Wick blinks. “I’m—”

  “You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”

  “No, she’s just . . .” I trail off. To be honest, Wick does look like she’s about to have a panic attack. Or vomit. I don’t understand. This is the girl who slashes tires. I’ve never seen her so shaken.

  “Is it a panic attack, dear?” Mrs. Lowe’s face is now inches from Wick’s. “Do you need a paper bag?”

  Wick’s mouth moves, but nothing comes out. She’s still frighteningly pale, and yet there’s something about the way her eyes begin to snap into focus—

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wick says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s so pitiful, and at the same time, her hands have closed into fists. She puts one against her breastbone, rubbing in a tight circle like she’s struggling to breathe.

  “Yes, I am.” Wick leans ever so slightly away from Lowe. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Do you want to go to the nurse?” our teacher asks.

  Wick shoots to her feet, wobbles, and I close my hand around her elbow. The sharp point fits my palm and all I can feel is her heat.