Where the Truth Lies

by Jessica Warman

  I’m still thinking about Ethan’s offer to sing in his band. I have to admit, there’s a part of me that’s genuinely intrigued by the idea. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever done before, and would be an exciting change from the day-to-day routine that I’ve gotten so used to over the years. Besides, the thought of spending more time with Ethan isn’t exactly unappealing.

  But when I told Stephanie about it, she only rolled her eyes. “Ethan and that stupid band,” she said. “Emily, you can’t. He’s got too much going on as it is, between school and baseball and being a prefect—not to mention all of the crap that’s going on with our parents. You can’t drag him into a band.”

  “But he asked me,” I said. “I’m not dragging him into anything. If I don’t do it, he’ll just find someone else, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but you shouldn’t encourage him.” And she smirked at me. “Besides, you’re too shy to do something like that. You’d die onstage.”

  After that, she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Maybe she’s right; I am shy. Maybe I’d just end up making a fool of myself. Still, I can’t stop thinking about Ethan’s words a few nights earlier: I don’t know if I want to do it without you. Why not without me? What does he see in me that I can’t see in myself?

  Right now, though, I’m in Renee’s room, talking about Del and not much else. Over the past week, Renee and I have had brief conversations here and there. I can’t help it; since our first real talk, I’ve been fascinated by her. And it turns out she’s easy to talk to. At least, most of the time. Right now, Hillary is lying on her own bed—she doesn’t play a sport, either—propped up on one arm, glaring at both of us. The duct tape still runs down the center of the room. Renee’s half is still a mess. I don’t remember being in her room much when Madeline was here, but she must have kept things nicer; Madeline was a neat freak.

  Throughout our conversation, I’ve been tempted to suggest that we go to my room and leave poor Hillary, who’s obviously annoyed by us, alone. But it is kind of thrilling to know how much we’re irritating her, to see that Renee obviously doesn’t care. Besides, even though she’s pretending to be agitated, it’s obvious that Hillary is just as curious about Del as everyone else.

  Renee shrugs. “Well, he’s clearly got some secrets, but who doesn’t? I’m not impressed.”

  Hillary makes a disgusted noise.

  “I’m not,” she says. “There are plenty of geniuses here, and there are plenty of kids whose lives are more screwed up than Del Sugar’s, I’m certain of it. Besides, his parents sent him away after they adopted him—but he lived with them for three years before then. So they must love him and everything. I mean, they adopted him, and then they sent him to boarding school. So what? Lots of kids go to boarding school.” She shakes her head to emphasize the point. “Practically everyone I know goes to boarding school.” And she starts taking a mental count on her fingers.

  I pause, thinking about it. “I guess you’re right. I mean … everyone I know goes to boarding school.”

  Hillary snorts again. “You live at a boarding school, Emily. You grew up here. Of course everyone you know goes to boarding school. God, naive much?”

  Renee gives Hillary a stony look, which is enough to give me the confidence to ignore her remarks. “So you don’t think I should bother sitting with him?” I ask, a tad disappointed. I want Renee to like me so badly. I’m not sure why. But if she thinks Del is no big deal, then I suppose he’s not.

  “No,” she says. She grins. “Sit with me.”

  So I do. That night, I see Stephanie trying to make eager conversation with Del throughout the whole meal. The school intern, Mr. Henry, is supervising their table halfheartedly (he’s only twenty-two and just out of Harvard) while Grace and Franny and Stephanie giggle and fuss over Del. Oddly enough, despite the earlier enthusiasm that Steph said he showed when inviting her to dinner, he seems almost bored.

  But after dinner, Steph catches me walking back to the dorm and squeals, “He’s going to come over!”

  “What?” I look around for him. “Now?”

  “No. He just said sometime. He was asking when we were all around, and he said he wanted to stop by and visit us sometime soon. Emily, I really think he likes me. Oh my God. I could die.”

  I’m happy for her; really, I am. But something just doesn’t feel … right. Steph is beautiful and popular. And don’t get me wrong—she’s my best friend. But she has an attitude to her that not everyone likes; a lot of people, people who don’t know her like I do, are more afraid of her than anything else. She likes to get what she wants, when she wants it, and she doesn’t like it at all when things don’t go her way. And I can’t help but feel like, just from our very brief conversation, I kind of know Del. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy who would go after someone so … well, someone like Stephanie. He seems like the kind of guy who would see right through her pushiness, and maybe even find it unattractive. Call it a hunch; I don’t know how I know. I just can’t picture the two of them together.

  The following morning, Grace is at a cross-country meet; Franny and Stephanie sleep through breakfast, so I go up alone. I’m walking back to the dorm when I feel a cool hand on my shoulder. It’s Del. He reaches out and touches me—just like that, like it’s no big deal at all.

  “It’s the Columbo expert,” he says. He’s supposed to wear long sleeves all the time to hide his tattoo, but as far as I can tell, he’s completely disregarded the rule. I can see his veins beneath the flesh of the apple. I can see the pain, so bright red and deep that I can almost feel it myself.

  I try to pretend that I’m not interested in talking to him, for Stephanie’s sake. But he has these blue eyes that look like a thousand ice crystals, a crooked smile, and slightly imperfect teeth—he’s gorgeous in a fully human, vulnerable way, and there’s something just slightly needy about him.

  Besides, everyone is still so curious about his history. Nobody knows who his real parents are, or where he came from; nobody has the nerve to just ask him. Not even me.

  “Del,” I say. Then, trying to be … I don’t know, aloof, maybe even a little rude, I ask, “What’s that short for? Delbert?”

  He winces, almost imperceptibly, for just a split second, before the coolness returns to his expression. “No. It’s just Del.”

  “Your mom gave you that name?”

  “I told you, I’m adopted.” It’s not exactly an answer.

  It’s still unbelievably warm, so I’m walking back from breakfast in Stonybrook Academy athletic shorts (borrowed from Grace) and a T-shirt I bought in town that reads: STONYBROOK! 500 RICH PEOPLE CAN’T BE WRONG! My dad rolls his eyes every time I wear it, and has begged me to get rid of it more than once. He’s real touchy about the perception of elitism at Stonybrook—even though it’s so blatantly elitist.

  Del’s gaze lingers at my chest, longer than it takes to read the writing. Then he looks me in the eye. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Emily?”

  Say my name again. In that moment, I realize it’s all I want in the world.

  I shake my head. “No. Do you?”

  He nods. “I have a sister. She’s older, but we’re less than a year apart. Her name is Melody.”

  “Oh? And where’s Melody?”

  We’re almost to his dorm. “I don’t know,” he says. “I got adopted. I’m not certain, but I think she’s still in a foster home somewhere. She’ll be there until she’s eighteen, and then … who knows if I’ll ever find her again?” His tone is bitter. He licks his lips, which appear soft and full and please say my name again. Just once.

  “Do you want to go for a walk or something?” he asks.

  “What? You mean right now?”

  “Why not right now?”

  “Um … lots of reasons. Where would we go? We can’t leave campus.”

  “I don’t know. We can just talk. Take a little walk around. There are places.”

  I consider. It isn’t like
I have a boyfriend or anything. And it isn’t like he and Stephanie are dating. Maybe he wants to talk about her. Or maybe he just wants to talk. It’s only a walk, I think. That’s harmless enough. “Okay,” I say. “But not right now.”

  “What’s the matter? You have somewhere else to be?”

  We stop at his dorm. We’re standing in front of one of the windows to the common room. Looking inside, I can see that Ethan has his drums set up. Max Franklin, who plays guitar, is with him. When Ethan notices me looking at them, he raises his hand in a “come here” gesture.

  “What does he want?” Del asks.

  I’m suddenly embarrassed. Just the thought of singing for them, of being the center of attention, is enough to make me feel mortified. “Nothing,” I say. “He’s goofing around.”

  Ethan tosses a drumstick at the window. I flinch as it hits the glass.

  I stare at the sidewalk. Last year, they replaced a few squares of concrete in front of Winchester. While the cement was still wet, almost everybody who walked by took the opportunity to write their initials in it. There’s an “E.P.” for Ethan Prince, “S.M.” for Sam Marshall, “W.H.” for Winston Howard, and—in a corner by itself—“M.F. LOVES H.S.” for “Max Franklin loves Hillary Swisher.” There’s an “A.S.” (Amanda Stream), “S.P.” (Stephanie Prince), and “M.M.P.” (Madeline Moon-Park). There are a bunch of other initials, too, from kids in different grades.

  Del follows my gaze. “Where are yours?” he asks.

  “They’re not there.”

  “Oh yeah? Why not?”

  Ethan throws his other drumstick in our direction. “Emily!” he calls. “Get in here and sing!”

  “I didn’t want to get in trouble,” I say to Del.

  “You thought you’d get into trouble for writing your initials?”

  “Emily!” Ethan shouts again. “Get in here and sing!”

  “Yes.” I can feel blood rushing to my face.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone else was afraid.”

  “Well, I was.”

  “ …”

  “ …”

  Then he says, “It seems like they really want you to go in there and sing.”

  “I’m not going.” I look up at Ethan, who is staring expectantly at me through the window. I shake my head.

  “Why not?” he shouts. He sticks out his bottom lip in a pout.

  “Someone ought to shut them up,” Del says. “They woke me up at nine thirty with that noise.”

  I look at him. “It’s not ‘noise.’ They’re good.”

  “Then why don’t you want to sing for them?”

  “Because … I’m shy.”

  When Del smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkle like tissue paper. His skin is so smooth that it almost seems translucent. “You’re pretty, too,” he says.

  The air feels hotter all of a sudden. Del reaches out with his tattooed arm and tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “What are you doing right now? Why can’t we go somewhere and talk?”

  “I told you, I can’t. I’m supposed to study with my roommate.” And it’s true; Franny is going to help me with precalc.

  “All right. What time, then?”

  Inside, Ethan and Max begin to play “In My Life” by The Beatles. Ethan is singing. He’s got a fantastic voice; I don’t know why they even want me.

  I stare at the sidewalk again, focusing on the “M.M.P.” for Madeline Moon-Park. Beside her initials, she’d drawn a crescent moon and three tiny stars. She might be gone, but a part of her is here forever, in stone. “Four o’clock,” I tell him.

  I can hear him smiling. “Okay. I’ll come over and get you.”

  “No,” I say quickly. I don’t want Steph to see me with him. “I’ll come here.”

  He nods. He begins to back away, toward the double doors to Winchester. “All right, Emily. I’ll be waiting.”

  I need to tell someone what’s happening, and I obviously can’t tell any of my roommates, so I stop in Renee’s room on my way back from breakfast to tell her what’s going on.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her mirror, working her wet hair into two long braids. “He likes you,” she tells me. “Ooh la la.”

  “Stephanie thinks he likes her,” I say. I’m sitting at Renee’s desk. Her notes for English lit are scattered all over the surface. She has sloppy handwriting. Big surprise.

  “He obviously does not like Stephanie,” Renee says.

  I frown. “But she’s beautiful.”

  “So? She has the body of a game show hostess and the personality of a Komodo dragon.” Renee finishes her braids and takes a long moment to stare at her reflection. Then she turns around to look at me. “This is very exciting, Emily. You should be happy. Don’t worry about Stephanie.”

  When I don’t respond, she adds, “I’m a little bit jealous, you know. Del is the only boy around here who’s actually interesting.”

  From her place on the bed, Hillary rolls her eyes and speaks up. “Renee. Didn’t you go out with Mark Foster last summer?”

  “That’s right, you did!” I say. Mark Foster is a child star. Over the summer, I saw dozens of photos of him and Renee, hand in hand as they exited clubs together late at night.

  Renee shrugs. “Mark Foster is a boring snob. This is a real person with a history and a personality. Do you know how dull people in show business are? They’re all completely self-absorbed.”

  Hillary yawns. “Self-absorbed, I can see. Dull, I’m not so sure about.”

  “Don’t you have someplace to be?” They take what feels like a full minute just to glare at each other. But beneath the surface of their expressions, I can sense the slightest hint of a smile in both of them.

  “Can I just start calling you Madeline?” Renee asks. Her smile grows a bit wider. She breathes a wistful sigh. “Could you just, like, act exactly the same and maybe dye your hair black?”

  Even Hillary loved Madeline. “We should find out where she went, Renee,” she says. “I’m sure we could track her down on Google.”

  “You think I haven’t tried that?” Renee, standing beside me, tugs me out of my chair and toward her bed. “I’ve looked. There’s nothing.” To me, she says, “Sit down, Emily. Let me braid your hair.”

  “Well, there has to be some way to find a phone number for her, at least,” Hillary says. “She’s probably at another school, right?”

  “Obviously she’s at another school,” I say. “Where else would she be? Come on, let’s think about it. I want to help.”

  “Keep looking,” Hillary tells Renee. “You’ll find something. And, Emily, you weren’t even great friends with her. Aside from getting some private information from your dad, what help can you possibly be?”

  I frown at Hillary. But when I think about it, I realize that she’s right. I didn’t know Madeline all that well. Since I’ve been going to school here, I’ve hung out almost exclusively with Steph, Franny, and Grace. I wish I’d taken the time to get to know Madeline better. Now that she’s gone, I’ll never have the chance.

  There’s one thing I remember, though. “You know what’s weird?” I ask. I try to keep my head steady as Renee tugs at my hair with a brush.

  Hillary sits up. She goes to her own mirror on her closet door and begins to dab foundation over a faint hickey on her neck. “What?”

  “I never met her parents. In all the time she was going here, never once did I see Madeline’s parents. Did either of you? Renee, you were her roommate—did you ever meet her mom or dad?”

  Renee is quiet, thinking. “Umm … no,” she says, “I don’t think I ever did.”

  “Well, that’s kind of strange.” Hillary peers into the mirror, squinting as she blends the foundation. “I mean, lots of parents aren’t around much—but to never have seen them? Weird.”

  I feel goose bumps on the back of my neck as Renee winds my hair into two long braids. “That’s enough about Madeline,” she says. “We shouldn’t talk about her lik
e this.”

  “Fine. But you spoil everything fun, you know?” Hillary is at the door. “I’m going to see Max. I’ll be back later.”

  “Take your time,” Renee says.

  “Put my hairbrush back where it belongs,” Hillary tells her.

  I glance down at the bed, where the brush is sitting beside me. “Hillary” is written in permanent marker on the handle.

  “Why are you using her brush?” I ask, once Renee and I are alone.

  “No reason. I just don’t have one of my own.” Renee stands up to look at me. “You look great.” She smiles. “You look ready for your date.”

  I feel my face growing warm. “It’s not a date. We’re just going for a walk.”

  “Okay. Right.” She winks. “Come see me when you get back. Then you can tell me if it wasn’t a date.”

  When I get to Winchester, Del isn’t in the common room; nobody is. Ethan’s drums are still set up, and for a moment I stand there looking at them, part of me wishing I had the nerve to sing with him.

  “Emily.”

  It’s Max. Hillary is standing beside him, her arm around his waist. “Are you looking for Del?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s behind the building. He told me to send you back.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”

  Max gives me a suspicious grin. “Whatcha doing, Em?”

  Hillary stands on her tiptoes and whispers something into his ear. He nods, listening. Then he says, with a knowing smirk, “Ohhh … I see how it is.”

  “I’m not doing anything!” I almost shriek the words. “Hillary, what did you tell him?”

  “What?” She looks at me innocently. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “You’d better be a good girl, Emily,” Max says, tugging Hillary toward the door. “We wouldn’t want you doing anything to disappoint Daddy.”

  When I find Del, he’s leaning up against the brick wall of his dorm, smoking a cigarette. I fan the air as I approach him, wrinkling my nose at the smell.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” I say. “It’s disgusting.”

  To my surprise, he says, “Oh. Okay.” And he flicks the lit cigarette butt into the woods. He smiles. “Better?”