Where the Truth Lies

by Jessica Warman

  Her eyes brighten. “You like it?”

  It breaks my heart how little it takes to make Franny happy. “I love it.”

  There’s always a weird feeling of restlessness on Sunday nights, at least for me. Even though this has been my life for as long as I can remember, I always feel a kind of disappointment at the beginning of another week, which is sure to be almost exactly the same as the week before. I’m so tired tonight that all I want to do is fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind that makes you twitch as you’re drifting off. So I figure, what the hell—after Franny has changed into her jamiflams and quickly fallen asleep, I go ahead and take three of Dr. Miller’s pills right before I climb into the top bunk.

  “Emily. Baby, wake up.”

  It’s like someone has yanked me out of my own body. Before I can shout or move, I feel a hand over my mouth. “Shhh. It’s just me.”

  I blink in the darkness. My bones feel like Jell-O. I’m not wearing my contact lenses.

  “I can’t see,” I say, my voice muffled by the hand still over my mouth.

  “It’s me.” It’s Stephanie. She’s crying. “Here.” She hands me her backup glasses; we wear almost the same prescription, and have been sharing since the seventh grade. As silly as it sounds now, it was one of the things that initially made us such close friends. There was a time when we seemed to have everything in common. Things feel different now; I’m almost surprised that she decided to wake me up and not Grace, since they’ve been spending most of their time together since school started.

  Once the glasses are on my face, I realize that Steph is sitting cross-legged beside me in bed. She’s fully dressed in a blue and white Stonybrook Academy sweat suit, her face red and streaked, her pretty hair tied into a quick messy ponytail. “Will you come to Winchester with me?”

  I shake my head, still foggy with sleep. “Right now? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s barely midnight.”

  I glance at my alarm clock, struggling to focus. It’s 12:47 a.m.

  “What for?”

  “I have to go see Ethan, and I don’t want to go alone.”

  “Steph, I am, like, so heavily medicated right now. Can’t it wait until morning? What’s so important? Ethan’s probably sleeping.”

  She shakes her head. I can tell she’s going to start crying again, that her momentary composure was only summoned in order to wake me up and bring me along. “I got an e-mail. From my dad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He and my mom are getting a divorce. He’s in Saint-Tropez right now, and she’s moving out of our house like right this second, and they decided to send us a freaking e-mail to tell us.”

  “Oh, Steph.” I wrap my arms around her. “You’re kidding. I’m so sorry.”

  Her voice is shaky. “You don’t have any idea, Emily. Your parents aren’t getting divorced. My mom and dad have been married forever.” She shakes her head, rubbing her runny nose against my pj’s. My jamiflams. And I don’t care. The whole thing still feels like a dream. “It’s like I don’t know anything that’s real all of a sudden.” She pulls away to look at me. “Come with me? Please?”

  I hesitate. “Why do you need me to come?”

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Because you’re my best friend.”

  I straighten her glasses on my face; the whole world feels suspended halfway between sleep and waking, slightly out of focus.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just let me pee first.”

  Digger is late–night campus patrol. He’s Digger-the-dining-hall-carving-station-attendant’s twin brother. Depending on who you ask, they both graduated from Stonybrook like forty-five years ago, when it was still an all-boys’ academy, and basically never left. I’m not sure what their whole story is, but they don’t seem like they were ever Joe Harvard types. My dad says they’re harmless, and he seems to enjoy having them around for posterity. Beyond that, he’s mum on their backgrounds.

  The Diggers share an apartment on campus, in the middle-school boys’ dorm. I’m not sure what their first names are, but it doesn’t matter; you can always tell which one someone’s referring to based on context. Like, “Digger sneezed on my beef au jus last night,” or “Digger caught us smoking a joint behind the field house, so we gave him fifty bucks and a fifth of Wild Turkey not to turn us in.” See? Obvious.

  Without waking Grace, Steph opens her window and lets the rope ladder fall almost to the ground. She gives it a tug to make sure the hooks are firmly in place. Then we both climb out the window. Just like that. The whole process takes fewer than ten seconds.

  As Stephanie and I hurry across campus, we spot Digger strolling near the tennis courts with a flashlight, a hand-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear while another burns between his lips. He spots us right away, pointing the flashlight in our direction.

  “Prince! Meckler! Kinda late for a stroll, dontcha think?” His voice is rough and unfriendly.

  Stephanie is a blubbering mess. She and I are holding hands as we walk; I tug her along as I hurry over to Digger.

  “Sir, we have to go over to Winchester to see Stephanie’s brother. It’s an emergency.”

  Digger is not easily impressed, intimidated, or coerced. He’s the kind of guy who can smoke an unfiltered cigarette all the way down to its nub without once having to take it out of his mouth.

  “Uh-huh.” He shines the flashlight in my eyes. “Let’s see those pupils.”

  I squint into the light. “They’re not dilated.”

  “No, they aren’t.” He sighs, almost disappointed, taking a long drag from his cigarette and exhaling out his nose. “You know what time it is?”

  Stephanie is just standing beside me, clutching my hand so tightly that it’s almost numb.

  “I know it’s late. I’m sorry—we’ll be fast, I promise.”

  He considers. “If your father was to hear about this, and you had to explain this so-called emergency, what would he have to say about it?”

  “Pleeease!” Stephanie says. Her tone is uneven and frantic. “I need to see my brother, sir!”

  Digger peers at her, shines the flashlight briefly at her pupils. “All right. Make it quick. Don’t let me run into you girls out here at four in the morning.”

  Winchester is a one-story dorm, about two hundred feet kitty-corner from our dorm, Ellis House. Because Stonybrook Academy is situated on a hill, even though we’re miles from the beach, the air is moist enough to carry the smells of sand and salt. It’s overwhelming, sensory-wise, holding on to Stephanie’s hand as she trembles, the two of us rapidly approaching Winchester, damp gritty soil working its way into the edges of my sandals as we hurry along in the cool, still night.

  Ethan must have known we were coming. His desk is just beneath his window, which is open, and I can tell right away that he’s been crying. I help boost Stephanie into her brother’s room. Ethan wipes his eyes and gives me a sweet, grateful smile. “Thanks, Em. You’re the best, you know that?”

  “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  He nods, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry my dad’s an asshole.”

  “Ethan, don’t say that.” Stephanie’s arms are around her brother’s neck; for the first time, I notice he’s wearing only a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. Just as the jolt from the sight of him is dissolving, I realize that neither of them seems to have any plans to help me into the room.

  “So I guess I’ll just … I can wait out here? Or do you want me to go ahead back, Steph?”

  She shakes her head. “Stay. Ethan, can you let her into the common room to wait?”

  I meet him at the far end of the building, where there’s a set of double doors locked from the inside. Since Ethan is a prefect, he has a key, so he can let me in. As we’re standing alone in the dark, silent hallway, all of a sudden he puts his arms around my waist and folds me into a tight hug.

  The dampness from his eyes and cheeks smears onto my face and neck. He holds me for what feels like a very
long time. I hug him back, so aware of his whole body against mine that I can hardly breathe. This is Ethan; I’ve known him since we were twelve. He’s never acted so affectionate before. To be honest, even though his good looks aren’t exactly a matter of opinion—he’s definitely hot—the whole scenario feels kind of … icky. I mean, Ethan is the brother I never had.

  He pulls away like nothing happened. Maybe it didn’t; maybe he’s just so upset about his parents that he needed someone to hold on to. But then he takes my hand—I’m so startled that I almost yank it away without even thinking about it—and leads me to the common room, where the lights are off but the television is on low.

  We stand together in the doorway. “I mean it, Emily,” he repeats. “You really are the best.”

  Two sleeping pills would have been plenty—it occurs to me there’s a possibility that I’m hallucinating, or totally misinterpreting him, or both. Please God, I think, don’t let him try to kiss me. Or do. It’s entirely up to you.

  “Um. Thanks.”

  “Listen,” he says shyly, “I know this is a weird time to be asking you something like this …”

  Oh, my God. Is he going to ask me out? I can feel myself breaking into a sweat. He’s like a brother in lots of ways—but he’s not my brother. Any girl would be crazy not to go out with him.

  “We’re starting a band,” he says. “Me and Max and Chris.” He looks at the ground between us while he talks. “And we need a singer.”

  I’m not a good student. I’m not a good athlete. But if there’s one thing I can do, it’s sing. And if there’s one thing I love to do, it’s singing. Ethan knows this; he’s in the chorus with me. Of course, he’s good at practically everything musical. He’s always playing drums in the music room during free periods and after school. Because of this, his forearms are toned like nobody’s business. Whenever he wears his shirtsleeves rolled up in class, I can’t help but stare at his muscles—none of the girls can.

  I’ve sung in chorus plenty of times—I’ve even had solos, and I’ve been singing with my mom while she plays the piano for as long as I can remember. But being the singer in a band?

  “I don’t know,” I say. I shake my head, staring hard at the carpet, suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s a lot of—you know, exposure.”

  He reaches toward me. My hair is loose and spilling over my shoulders. Ethan takes a tendril between his fingers and tugs at it, ever so lightly. My entire body breaks out in an instant, cold sweat. “Come on,” he says. When I look up at him, he’s smiling at me, despite his puffy eyes and the obvious weight of the evening. “There has to be a wild redhead in there somewhere. You’d be fantastic.” He pauses. “I don’t know if I want to do it without you. Every time we’ve rehearsed so far, I’ve imagined your voice singing the lyrics.”

  I am dying from the attention. All I can think to say is, “Steph’s probably waiting for you.”

  He nods. “You’re right. I should go. Just … promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  And then he turns and walks away, shutting the door quietly behind me, and I hear his light footsteps as he hurries down the hall, back to his room and to Stephanie.

  The TV is on the far end of the room, against the wall, opposite the sofa, and I walk toward it. In the dark, someone is watching an old episode of Columbo. I used to watch Columbo all the time with my dad; it was like our thing when I was a little girl. Every once in a while, we still manage to catch an episode together. For an instant I imagine my father at home, staying up late, watching the same channel all by himself, and I feel a pang of sweet, grateful love. I know I’ve got a good life. My parents will never get divorced; my dad will never run off to Saint-Tropez with his mistress. I’d never admit it to Steph, but I’m not at all surprised that her parents are splitting up. All they ever did when I was around was fight.

  “You never meet his wife,” I murmur.

  All I can see is the back of a head and shoulders against the glow of the screen. It’s too dark to tell who it is.

  “What do you mean?”

  I don’t recognize the voice.

  “Haven’t you seen this before?” I ask. “He talks about his wife all the time. It’s, like, part of the whole Columbo appeal. But you never see her. It’s almost as if she isn’t real.”

  He turns around to look at me. In between the smell of sand and salt and the heavy cape of night that is tugging me toward exhaustion, there’s something else: Cigarette smoke, and an acrid smell that I can’t quite identify. Eyes so blue I can see their color in the almost-dark. He stretches his arms above his head, and there it is: on the inside of his left wrist, a tattoo of a bright red apple with a bite taken out of it, a single green leaf hanging from the brown stem.

  “I’m Del Sugar,” he says. “Who are you?”

  My breath catches in my throat. “You weren’t at dinner.”

  He squints at me, confused. Behind him, Columbo is closing in on the killer. “See, there’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense to me here. Just one thing I need you to explain to me, ma’am …”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  The explanation seems so simple, so obvious. “Oh.”

  “You stupid old man. You’re right—I did poison his marmalade. Just like I poisoned the marmalade you’re eating right now!”

  “Sorry to interrupt your time with—what’s his name? Your boyfriend?”

  “Ethan. And he’s not my boyfriend.” I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be out here. Why are you still awake?”

  His lips curl into a slow grin. “One in the morning and a girl in my dorm’s telling me I shouldn’t be out here? And just who are you?”

  “Emily Meckler.” I swallow. The room seems very bright, even though I know it’s not. I’m embarrassed to be wearing Stephanie’s old glasses. Everything still feels a little off-kilter, but more focused now, my gaze steady as Del and I stare at each other.

  “Meckler,” he says, sitting up a little bit straighter, interested. “Like Dr. Meckler?”

  “My dad,” I say.

  “Mmm.”

  “Why are you starting school here now? Nobody ever starts late.”

  “Ma’am, this isn’t the marmalade that you made. You see, my wife likes to make marmalade, too. I switched her marmalade with yours just before you served it to me. So you see, ma’am, I won’t be dying. Not today, anyway.”

  “My parents,” Del says. “They were my foster parents for three years. They finalized my adoption two days ago.” His smile widens. “And then they sent me away.”

  chapter four

  There are more than a few rumors going around about Del Sugar. There’s the rumor that he’s some kind of genius, and that Stonybrook is the only school in the country with any hope of giving him a good education. There’s the rumor that he was a juvenile delinquent when his parents adopted him, and that after only a few days of his being their real son, they were too scared of him to keep him at home. Someone—Beth Slapinski, who’s in my civics class—heard that when he was at his old school, he dented someone’s skull with a baseball bat just for talking to his girlfriend. Supposedly Del didn’t kill the guy—he just hurt him badly enough to get kicked out.

  I’m not sure how much I believe any of the rumors. If any of them were true, aside from the one about Del being a genius, my dad would have given me some inkling of it. Besides, my dad wouldn’t let someone in if they’d done some of the things that Del is supposed to be responsible for.

  But it’s true that he’s gorgeous, with his mussed blond hair and tall, thin build … and that tattoo. Where does a seventeen-year-old get a tattoo?

  All the girls want him. My roommates, my friends—even me. How can we not? He always seems bored and disinterested. He doesn’t talk very much. But there’s no question that he’s smart as can be: he’s in math and chemistry with Stephanie, and she says he barely stays awake in class, but all of his test scores are 100 percent. With, like, zero eff
ort.

  “I got to be his partner today,” she tells me as we’re walking back from school together.

  “Really? Did he pick you?”

  “Well … no. We were assigned.”

  “Oh. Did he talk to you?”

  “Kind of. We talked about chemistry, mostly. Emily, he’s brilliant. He barely had to do the experiment, and he figured out most of the calculations in his head. And he told me that the four of us” (she means our quad) “should sit with him at dinner tonight.” Stephanie is almost shaking with excitement. She hops up and down on the balls of her toes in a gesture that’s reminiscent of Grace. “Emily, I think I’m gonna go for him. I think I like him.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “I’m pretty sure he likes me, too.”

  “Really?” I feel a twinge of something I don’t quite recognize at first—then I realize it’s annoyance. “Are you sure he wasn’t just being nice?”

  She shakes her head. “There was more to it than that. He seemed interested in everything I had to say.” She pretends to shiver. “He’s so smart, I can’t stand it. It’s amazing.”

  “And then they sent me away?” Renee raises a single eyebrow. “He’s, like, a mystery. Plus he’s sexy.” But then she shrugs. “Lots of guys are sexy, though. Big deal.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing in here, I really don’t. It’s just before dinnertime. Franny is asleep, taking her usual after-school nap. Grace is at cross-country practice. Renee and I are part of only a handful of students who don’t play a fall sport. It was actually my dad’s idea; he prefers that I stay focused on studying, even though it never seems to do me any good. As a joke, my roommates call me a bookworm. But I’m naturally skinny, and lord knows Renee always looks ready to strut down a runway … so what would be the point in exercising? Better to just enjoy being young, I figure. Besides, it’s not like there’s any sport that I’m particularly good at. All I have is singing, and I can do that all by myself, anytime I need to get away. I just close my eyes, open my mouth … and forget about the rest of the world.