Where the Truth Lies

by Jessica Warman

  “Del … ,” and just as suddenly as I’ve managed to muster it, my confidence is lost. I stare at the stone patio beneath us. We are illuminated by a bright moonlight, the rest of campus so quiet that I can hear the wind moving downhill through the branches on the trees. I feel my heart beating faster, blood rushing behind my ears as Del takes a step closer and puts his arms around me.

  “You’ll be in big trouble,” I tell him. “I’m serious.”

  “I was talking about you with Ethan Prince,” he continues, as though the broken window is nothing at all to be concerned about.

  “What did you tell him?” I ask, curious. Why were Del and Ethan talking about me?

  “He was telling me all about what a wonderful singer you are,” Del says. “He said you have a voice like an angel, and he doesn’t understand why you won’t join his band.” And he leans in closer to me, kisses me on the forehead. “I told him you were too shy, like you said earlier. But he said he’d known you for years, and that once you worked up the courage, you’d be fine.”

  “He said that?” I don’t care anymore, though. I close my eyes as Del kisses my cheek, and then my lips.

  “Mmm-hmm. He said you’re in the chorus and you sing in front of other people just fine.”

  “That’s different,” I murmur. “Lots of people are in the chorus.” I open my eyes to watch him curl a piece of my hair around his finger.

  “Do you ever sing by yourself?” he asks. His pupils are dilated in the almost-darkness.

  “Yes. Sometimes I sing when I’m alone, and I feel like I want to … I don’t know, to disappear.” I’m so nervous, it takes real effort to swallow. “When I was a little girl, I used to sing myself to sleep at night in my crib. At least, that’s what my parents tell me. I don’t remember anything like that.”

  “Hmmm.” Del tugs at my hair wrapped around his finger. “You get more interesting every day.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not interesting. I’m boring.”

  “You are interesting. You’re beautiful, too.”

  “I’m not. I have a pretty voice, that’s all. Having a pretty voice is … it’s nothing.”

  Del lets his fingers slide all the way into my hair as he pulls me closer, stepping toward me until our bodies are pressed together. “If you only knew how not boring you are, Emily. You don’t see what I see.” He hesitates. Then he says, “Well, it’s good that you aren’t going to be in the band.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because,” he says simply, “I don’t think it would be right for my girlfriend to spend so much time with a bunch of other guys. All those rehearsals together … I’d be jealous.” He smiles. “I’m the jealous kind, you know.”

  My girlfriend. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I don’t know how to be somebody’s girlfriend. Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, to say anything to him, Del asks, “Can you sing me something?”

  I shake my head. “No. I told you, I’d be too embarrassed.”

  “Come on.” He sniffles. I’ve noticed that he’s had the sniffles since he got here tonight.

  “Are you okay? Do you have a cold?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I want to hear your voice.”

  “What else did Ethan tell you about me?”

  Del looks me in the eye, shrugs. He wasn’t kidding; he almost seems jealous already. I can’t believe he’s just presuming that I’ll be his girlfriend. But I’m not arguing. “Why does it matter?” he asks.

  “Because you were talking about me behind my back.”

  Del kisses the tip of my nose. “He said you were a sweetheart. Sweetest girl a guy could hope to know.” He sniffles again. “Sing me something. Please?” His gaze is so sincere, his eyes so big and beautiful, I can’t bring myself to tell him no.

  “What do you want me to sing?”

  He shrugs. “Anything.”

  “Okay … ,” and I start with the first thing that comes to mind, the most innocuous song I can think of: a lullaby.

  Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.

  I’m half crazy all for the love of you.

  It won’t be a stylish marriage,

  I can’t afford a carriage.

  But you’ll look sweet upon the seat

  Of a bicycle built for two.

  I close my eyes and go somewhere else while I’m singing, someplace where I’m safe, unafraid, and unembarrassed. It’s the only time I feel truly free.

  But Del yanks me out of the moment. Before I’m finished singing, he kisses me hard, stepping backward until we’re both against the outside wall of my dorm, the two of us intertwined and sweating in the warm night. As he’s kissing me, I don’t care about the window, or how late it is, or anything at all. All I want is to be with him.

  He pulls away suddenly. For the first time since I’ve met him, he seems shy, almost embarrassed. He keeps his arms around me but stares at the ground for a minute.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  He looks up at me. “I have one good memory of my mother. At least I think it’s my mother. You know what—I’m sure it was.”

  “How do you know?”

  He blinks. His pupils grow larger. “Because I just know. And it’s the memory of her singing that song to me.” He shakes his head. “How could you know that?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t. I just sang the first thing I could think of.”

  He laces his fingers through mine. “We have a connection, Emily.”

  “Del?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When did you go into your first foster home?”

  He pulls away. He rubs his tattoo. “I was three. My sister was four. They put us in the same place for about a year, and after that it was hit or miss. My whole life was like that until Doug and Sharon Marshall came along.”

  “Those are your adoptive parents?”

  He nods. “Yes. But you know … they’re too good for me. I don’t know why they even wanted me.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so sad. Even being sent away to boarding school in seventh grade seems far better than going from temporary home to temporary home. Better than not knowing where your own sister is.

  “What happened to your real parents? Why were you taken away?”

  Del shakes his head. “I’m not telling you that.” He’s suddenly, obviously uncomfortable. “I should go. I’m sorry I broke your window. I’ll take all the blame, Emily.” He pauses. “How did you know that song, anyway? Did your mother sing it to you?”

  I think about it for a second. “I don’t know. I guess she must have.” I know the song because it’s a popular lullaby, but I can’t remember my mom ever singing it to me. I don’t remember much of anything from when I was young.

  “Well, look at what we got here. If it isn’t the headmaster’s little girl with the new bad boy on campus. What would Daddy think of all this, you suppose?”

  Digger shines his flashlight right in our faces. Then he shines it past me, against the dorm wall, illuminating the rope ladder. He doesn’t say anything about it, just looks at us with what almost seems like admiration. I can tell he’s pleased with his discovery. “You know what time it is, kiddos?”

  Del and I quickly pull apart, shaking our heads. Del shades his eyes as Digger shines the light in his face.

  “I’ll tell you what time. Time for all the good girls and boys to be in bed, that’s for damn sure.”

  It’s, like, his favorite line in the world. He’s probably been saying it for years to students who are out after bedtime.

  Del puts his hands up. “We’re going, man. It’s not her fault. I came over here and woke her up.”

  “Uh-huh. You two know you got an audience?” He points his flashlight at Stephanie and Grace’s bedroom window, which is open all the way. Grace, Stephanie, Franny, and Renee are all crowded in the frame, staring down at us. When Digger’s light hits them, they freeze for a moment. Then, one by one, as though we don’t know they�
��ve been watching us, they lower slowly out of sight. Once they’re all gone, a lone arm—I think it’s Stephanie’s—reaches up to close the window. A few seconds later, the light goes out.

  Digger’s flashlight doesn’t shine on my broken window, and he doesn’t say anything about it. But I know he must have noticed.

  I work my way up the ladder with unsteady hands, terrified that it will snap and send me falling onto the stone patio below. When I finally climb inside the window, I look to my right and see my roommates, along with Renee, sitting in Grace and Stephanie’s room, waiting for me.

  Steph is the first to speak. She’s in a foul mood already because of her parents—not that I blame her. But she really unloads on me, tears welling in her eyes, and I feel so guilty. I am a terrible best friend. What kind of girl steals the boy her best friend likes? A bad girl, that’s who. A bad friend.

  “First of all, Emily, I don’t know how you’re going to explain that broken window.” She glares at me. On my way in, I’d noticed that someone—undoubtedly Steph, who is the neatest of the four of us—had already swept up the glass. And she’s right, there really is no good explanation.

  “Emily,” Renee says, “we heard you singing to him. What were you doing?”

  I stare at her. I don’t even know how she got in here; Franny must have woken her up, since she knows Renee and I have been spending more time together lately.

  “Yes, our little songstress. Illuminate us, will you? Why were you singing?” Steph snaps. She won’t even look at me now.

  “He wanted me to sing something,” I say, hoping it will be enough of an explanation, hoping I don’t have to elaborate: And somehow I ended up choosing the only lullaby that he remembers his mother singing to him before she lost custody of her children.

  It’s weird; I know that. But it’s also sad and touching and just so … fascinating. There are so many unanswered questions surrounding Del, and I have so many unanswered ones of my own. Somehow, even though we barely know each other, I feel like the two of us could find answers together.

  My friends are not convinced. “What did you do with him?” Stephanie demands, wiping her eyes.

  “Steph, nothing.” I shake my head, maybe a little too insistently. “All we did was kiss. It was a mistake.”

  “He’s got issues,” Franny says. “Emily, he’s from a foster home. Those kids have experiences we don’t even know about. My first stepfather was a family court judge, and I used to hear all about how screwed up foster kids were. He’s been around, Em. He’s going to …expect things.” She stares at her hands. “But I guess they all do, huh?”

  “But he’s so hot,” Grace chimes in. I can always count on her to be the voice of reason. “So if he wants Emily, I say go for it.”

  “He broke our window! With a freaking apple! What are we going to tell people?” Stephanie puts a hand to her forehead in frustration. It looks like she’s about to start crying again. “This is the worst week of my life.”

  “Steph, I’m sorry. … Look, I’ll take the blame for the window—”

  “I don’t think you should do that,” Renee interrupts.

  “Oh, really?” Steph snaps. “Who should we say did it, then? The bogeyman? I think we should just be honest.” She crosses her arms and shoots a glare at Renee. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

  Renee stays calm and cool. She ignores Stephanie. “Say you woke up and found it that way. Say it was vandalism.”

  The four of us pause, considering. It’s actually a good idea. Every once in a while, kids from the local public school will come onto campus and mess something up. It wouldn’t be completely unbelievable.

  “We’ll have to lie to Dad,” Stephanie points out.

  Renee smirks. “Like she hasn’t lied to her parents plenty of times before.”

  Renee is wrong. I’ve almost never lied to my parents. But this situation is different. I’d do anything to avoid getting Del in trouble. “Okay,” I say, “that’s what I’ll do.” I look around at my roommates, at Renee. “It’s late. I’ll go see my dad in the morning. Right now, we should all go to bed.”

  Franny falls asleep right away; the girl requires something like ten hours a night just to be functional. It hasn’t been more than ten minutes before I can hear her breathing deeply above me. I’ve always wondered what she dreams about.

  There’s a light, almost imperceptible knock on my door. When I open it, Renee is leaning in my doorway, wearing her loosely knotted bathrobe and nothing else.

  “We should talk,” she says.

  “Right now? We should sleep.”

  “Like you’re anywhere near sleep.” She tugs me by my elbow into the hallway. We slide down against the wall and sit cross-legged in the dark.

  She puts her head on my shoulder. For a moment, I’m surprised by the easy act of affection. Then I’m surprised by how natural it feels. “You really like him?” she asks.

  Being close to her is comforting, almost totally relaxing. “I really do, Renee. I’m sorry about Stephanie, but I can’t help how he feels.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  I shake my head, thinking about the question. Not much … but it’s enough. “I know that he’s had a tough life. And I know that he likes me.”

  “Lots of boys like you.”

  “Oh, they do not.”

  “Yes, they do. You just don’t realize it.” She sighs. “But Del isn’t ‘lots of boys,’ is he?”

  I shake my head again. “Nope.”

  “I just want you to be careful, Emily. He was a foster kid. I’m sure he’s seen and done a lot that you can’t even imagine.”

  “I know that. I can’t help it.”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just reaches over to hold my hand, and we sit that way in the dark, alone, for several moments.

  The closeness between us almost feels wrong—like it’s something I should be sharing with Stephanie, and not Renee. I hate to admit it, but it’s been a while since I’ve felt completely comfortable around Stephanie. As much as my easy comfort with Renee calms me, I hate that things are changing, and there’s nothing I can do about any of it. I feel like I have no choice but to hold on to what makes me feel good, and try to hold on to the things that used to make me feel good. Life, all of a sudden, has gotten so confusing, so unpredictable. It’s like I don’t even recognize myself.

  Renee breaks the silence. “You aren’t just any other girl,” she says. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  There is a long pause. “I can’t explain it. I just know. You have that incredible voice. And you’re a sweet girl. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “Well … thanks, I guess.”

  She squeezes my hand. “I mean it. Be careful.” And then she stands up, leaving me to sit alone as she disappears into her room. I stare at the door until the light beneath it goes out and the whole world around me seems to become still.

  chapter six

  Dr. Miller’s office is about as transparently “I’m down with teens” as a high school shrink’s office can get. There’s the mandatory leather sofa and big wooden desk, plus a wall with so many diplomas that it’s almost funny—I’ve never known anyone who went to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Brown except for her—but then there are all her knickknacks and books: she has the entire Harry Potter series on prominent display (in hardback, of course), all of the Gossip Girl books, and—I’m not kidding—running subscriptions to both Seventeen and Teen Vogue magazines.

  I’m sure there’s some kind of strategy going on here. I mean, a person doesn’t practically collect degrees from the Ivies without learning something. My best guess is that she’s trying to keep her thumb on the pulse of what teenagers are into, while trying to find relevant connections between that and whatever problems we might have. For instance, on the same shelf as Harry Potter, there’s a bunch of books on homesickness and grieving the loss of a loved one. Whatever. Despite all her
so-called efforts, it seems like Dr. Miller’s favorite panacea is to hand out prescriptions.

  She’s a well-dressed woman in her fifties, but she’s too thin and has wisps of gray hair in her blond bob, which makes her look older than she really is; she’s widely known on campus as the Crypt Keeper. Some kids really do find her helpful—or at least they find her prescriptions helpful. I know Stephanie has been sleeping soundly lately, thanks to the same sleeping pills I’m supposed to be taking.

  This afternoon, I’m in her office with my parents, who sit on either side of me. I’m agitated, and this is the last place I want to be. Ever since the incident with the broken window (whose explanation I don’t think my father believed for a second), Stephanie has barely been speaking to me.

  And there’s Del. The more I get to know him, the more I realize he might be the smartest person I’ve ever met. Right after he took his placement tests, they put him in all AP classes. I’ve never even seen the inside of an AP textbook. My grades so far this year have been mostly Cs and a few Bs. I can always count on an A in chorus … but it’s chorus.

  Del doesn’t seem to care about my academic problems. More than once, he’s offered to do my homework for me.

  “You’re part of the problem,” I told him one day after lunch as we were standing at my locker together.

  “How?” He gave me an innocent stare.

  “Because you’re always distracting me.”

  “Is that what I am? A distraction?”

  We’ve been together for a few weeks, but people still stare when they see us talking. Aside from being with me, Del keeps mostly to himself. He has a tendency to disappear sometimes for entire afternoons or evenings; even I don’t know where he goes, and he won’t tell me.

  I know what people are thinking: what’s so special about her? What I’ll never tell them is that I don’t know what’s so special about me. Del sees something that I don’t, or can’t.

  On most nights, after my roommates have fallen asleep, I climb down the rope ladder and sneak across campus to his dorm. He waits for me outside. He always brings this old blanket that he told me he’s owned ever since he can remember, to keep us warm in the cool night air. “I took it from house to house,” he said, watching as I felt the worn fabric, which is threadbare in a few places, between my thumb and index finger.