Where the Truth Lies

by Jessica Warman

  “Maybe she’s dead,” Grace says.

  Renee is startled by the suggestion. We all are. “She’s not dead. Don’t even say that.” And she wraps her arms around her body, like she’s trying to give herself a hug.

  “Well, then, what happened to her? How does somebody just slip off the face of the earth?” Grace asks.

  “If she died,” Ethan says, “there would be no good reason for the faculty to hide it from us.” He takes a moment to look around the room at everyone. I notice that he intentionally avoids meeting my gaze. “Something terrible must have happened to her,” he continues.

  “What makes you think that?” Stephanie asks.

  “Because,” he says, “if it weren’t terrible, she’d have no reason to hide.”

  And out of nowhere, it seems, Del speaks up. “I bet I could find out what happened to her.”

  My roommates gape at him. Ethan raises his eyebrows. For the first time since we’ve sat down, Renee gives her full attention to Del.

  “Oh, really?” she asks. Her tone is sarcastic and doubtful. “And how would you do that? You’ve never even met her.”

  I’ve never heard Renee talk down to anyone before. But she was protective of Madeline; she seems agitated by the idea of Del meddling in the situation.

  “I’m resourceful,” Del says, grinning at her so that all of his teeth are exposed. “Come on. Don’t you at least want to know where she is?”

  Renee nods slowly. “Sure. But I don’t want to violate her privacy.”

  “How is that violating anything?”

  “Well, how would you find out?” She hugs herself more tightly. “Some kind of … espionage or something, right? You’d have to stick your nose somewhere where it didn’t belong, wouldn’t you?”

  “Espionage?” Steph says, frowning. “Renee. He’s not James Bond.” Then she turns to Del. “Can you really find out?”

  He looks the crowd over. He gives them a smug smile. “Give me two weeks.”

  chapter eight

  It’s a couple of weeks after the party, and I’m back at my dorm after class. I gaze out the window at my parents’ house, trying to figure out how I’m going to continue keeping Del a secret from them when pretty much everybody else knows we’re a couple. Somebody’s standing on the periphery of my parents’ property, smoking a cigarette. I can’t make out who it is—my contacts are out, and I’m wearing an old pair of glasses with a slightly weak prescription—but it’s undoubtedly someone who doesn’t understand the consequences if the headmaster himself catches you smoking. It’s one thing to stink and blame it on the cleaning ladies; it’s entirely another to be caught red-handed by someone other than Digger.

  As I’m staring out the window, somebody comes up behind me and wraps their arms around me. I don’t need to turn around to know that it’s Stephanie.

  Her touch gives me a weary sense of comfort. I like having her here because I know her so well; at the same time, there’s a small part of me wishing that she was somebody else—maybe Renee, or even Del. I hate feeling this way about Stephanie. She and I have been best friends for four years. We’ve shared more hugs than I can count. Trying not to think about all the distance that seems to have grown between us almost overnight, I cover her hands with mine. She rests her head on my shoulder to peer out the window.

  “How are you, sweetie?” I ask.

  “I’m okay.” She sighs. “That’s not true. I’m a mess.”

  She’s talking about her parents’ divorce. Even though I saw it coming, I kind of can’t believe they’re actually going through with it, after so many years together.

  “I know,” I tell her, squeezing her skinny arm. “It’ll be okay, though.”

  She tightens her grip on me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and Ethan.”

  “Steph, I want to apologize. I feel like I’ve been so wrapped up with Del that I haven’t even been around lately. You know you can talk to me about anything, right? It’s really happening? The divorce?”

  “Yes. And yes, you’ve been too wrapped up in Del.”

  I know I shouldn’t keep talking about him. It’s insensitive. But Stephanie is my best friend, and I want her to know what’s going on. “My dad will flip if he finds out we’re still together.”

  She hesitates.

  “What?”

  “He might not be so wrong, Emily.”

  “I know what you think. I know what everyone thinks, Steph. But I can’t tell you what it’s like when we’re alone together. You don’t know him the way I do.”

  “How well do you really know him? Did you talk to him about what happened at his last school?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And? What did he tell you?”

  “It isn’t what you think. Believe me, there’s no reason for me to be afraid of him. I trust him.”

  “Emily.” Her tone shifts to shock. “Oh my God. Do you see that person smoking?”

  It’s gotten darker quickly; by now, I can barely make out the silhouette in the evening. There is only the glowing red tip of the cigarette moving in the night, almost like it’s trying to send a message.

  “I do see someone. Right by my parents’ house.”

  “Emily … my God, is that your mother?”

  Stephanie and I both lean closer, our bodies still together, to squint out the window.

  “I can’t tell who it is,” I say. “My vision isn’t good enough. These glasses are old.”

  She takes off her own glasses. “Here. Switch with me.”

  I put her glasses on and squint harder at the figure in the dark. It looks like a woman. “But my mom doesn’t smoke, Steph.”

  “I know. But there’s something about the way she’s moving.” She presses her nose to the glass. Her mouth creates a circle of fog. “It looks like your mother.”

  “But my mom doesn’t smoke,” I repeat.

  And before we can debate the issue any further, the light from the cigarette goes out, and we can barely make out the body walking away. All we can tell is that it’s walking toward my parents’ house. Most of the lights are out in the downstairs, so I can’t tell if the person goes inside. I can’t see anything at all.

  I turn around to look at Stephanie. Her glasses make everything up close a little blurry. “Well, that was weird.”

  She nods. “It sure was.”

  We switch glasses again. We are both quiet. The situation seems impossible. We’re talking about my mother. I would know if she were a smoker.

  Fire. Smoke everywhere. My mother’s body stiffening beside me when I mentioned my dreams in Dr. Miller’s office earlier.

  I shake my head. “There’s no way it was her. Come on, we’re going to be late for dinner if we don’t hurry.”

  As we’re getting dressed, Grace returns from cross-country practice, and Franny comes back from wherever she’s been. Lately she’s been disappearing a lot. I’ve been meaning to ask her what’s going on.

  They’re in the middle of a heated discussion; at least it seems that way at first. But once Steph and I start listening, we realize what they’re arguing about: ice-cream flavors. They’ve been talking about what ice-cream flavor people’s personalities would be.

  “I told her she’d be shaved ice. No flavor,” Grace says. “And now she’s all pissed off—”

  “Shaved ice is not a flavor!” Franny insists.

  “Exactly!” Grace says. “You would be flavorless!”

  Franny has tears in her eyes. “That’s so mean, Grace. Honestly, you’re such a bitch sometimes.”

  “I’m just telling the truth!” Grace rolls her eyes. She’s covered in sweat from practice, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She looks alive and beautiful and vivacious. “Okay. If you had to be a flavor, you’d be air. Is that better?”

  “No!” Franny picks up a history book and hurls it across the room at Grace. “And I don’t think any of your choices were accurate, by the way.” She sniffles in my direction. “Emily, she sa
id you’d be Neapolitan.”

  “Neapolitan?” I frown. “But that’s so boring.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Grace says, excited. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this. Two hours of thinking.” Because she’s a distance runner, Grace tends to find herself in these meditative states of bliss. It’s not unusual for her to come back from practice wanting to discuss two hours’ worth of meandering thoughts with us. “Emily, on the surface you might seem kind of dull, right?”

  “Thank you,” I say drily, holding my middle finger in the air beneath her nose.

  “Let me finish,” Grace says. “Jeez. Okay, so you might seem innocuous and innocent and dull and naive—”

  “I already said thank you—”

  “—but you’re not. You actually have multiple layers to you, and if people would just look past the surface, they’d see that you’re rather complex.” She begins to tug the ponytail from her hair. Beads of sweat are still gathered on her tan forehead. “For instance, there’s your relationship with Del.” She frowns. “He must see something fascinating in you, right?”

  Before I can say anything, she continues. “And there’s your voice. And your red hair. And your nightmares.” She narrows her eyes, nodding in satisfaction, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. Definitely Neapolitan.”

  “But I don’t like Neapolitan,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. She stretches her arms over her head. “Not my problem.”

  “At least you’re not shaved ice,” Franny says. Tug. Tugtugtugtugtug. She starts to change into her uniform for dinner.

  “Hey, what day is it?” Steph asks. “Franny? Could you help me?”

  We all stare at Franny’s underwear. My mouth falls open. “Franny,” I say, “what’s the matter with you?” Her bra says TUESDAY!—which it is. But her underpants say WEDNESDAY! Something’s definitely going on with her.

  “Shut up,” Franny says. “All of you.” She starts to pull on her clothes. “And I wouldn’t be so chipper if I were you, Steph. Ask Grace what flavor you’d be.”

  “It was a toss-up,” Grace tells her, “between Rocky Road and praline.”

  I snort. “Why was it a toss-up?”

  “Well, at first I was thinking Rocky Road because of all the drama with her family. But then that got me thinking about how she’s a twin, and I almost went with chocolate and vanilla swirl. But that didn’t feel right, either.” Grace’s tone starts to become more fevered. “At this point, guys, I was on, like, mile three of a six-mile run, lots of hills, and I was really in the zone. You know? So I finally decided praline, definitely praline for Steph.”

  “And why am I praline?” Steph wrinkles her nose. “I hate pralines.”

  “Because,” Grace says, almost shrieking now, “your relationship with your brother is so icky, and pralines are the ultimate ick factor when it comes to ice cream!”

  Franny just shakes her head, rubbing her eyes. “I like praline, Steph.”

  The three of us—Franny, Steph, and I—decide telepathically to give Grace the silent treatment all the way up to dinner. It doesn’t stop her from yapping away the whole time about other people’s flavors. Renee? Peanut butter and chocolate, because she’s so rich—both literally and figuratively, Grace explains. Renee is walking up with us, and doesn’t seem a bit fazed by the description. She shrugs and says nothing.

  Del’s flavor? Grace isn’t sure, but she’s positive he’d be something with chunks. And Madeline Moon-Park? According to Grace, Madeline is the only person who she couldn’t think of a flavor for.

  “Shows how much you know,” Renee says.

  “What?” I ask, suddenly interested in the conversation again—although I’ve got to admit, I’m hurt and confused by the whole “Neapolitan” label. “What do you mean, ‘shows how much you know’?”

  Renee gives me a smooth smile. “Madeline,” she pronounces, “would be pumpkin pie.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says, shivering a little bit inside her blazer, “autumn was her favorite season. She used to say it made her feel so alive to have everything around her dying. And she loved pumpkin pie.” She pauses. “Any word yet from Del about getting her contact info?”

  I shake my head. “He says he’s working on it. We’ll see.”

  At dinner, Del sits across the room from me at Dr. Sella’s table. She’s the Italian teacher, and her house is right next to my parents’. When I’m pretty sure they aren’t looking, Del and I exchange small grins. At one point he mouths, tonight, and I feel a tingle of electricity run down my spine. Tonight tonight tonight.

  As I’m hugging my parents good-bye after dinner, I remember the scene from earlier outside their house. I hold on to my mother, trying to sniff her hair, her clothing.

  It was her. She’s changed her clothes and put on perfume, but there’s that unmistakable gross smell still clinging to her hair. My mother smoking? She barely even drinks. Does my father know? He can’t possibly.

  What else don’t I know? Smoke, fire, water … her body stiffening. She’s lied to me—at least, it’s a lie of omission, a secret big enough that she’s kept it from me for God knows how long.

  My mom pulls away from the hug. “I love you, Emily.” She smiles, reaching out to touch my hair. She’s chewing on a mint.

  “I love you, too, Mom. Hey—you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to take those pills and keep that journal, like Dr. Miller wants me to. I think it will help.”

  Her smile wavers a little bit. “Good. I think that’s a good plan, sweetie.”

  “See you later, then.”

  “Of course.”

  It’s another warm night. When I get to Winchester, Del is inside his room with the window open. As usual, he tosses his cigarette into the woods when he sees me coming.

  “You’re late,” he says. It’s past eleven.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I wait for him as he climbs out the window. He’s holding the red blanket beneath his right arm. We walk into the woods together, until we’re at the very edge of campus, to what has become Our Place beside the stream.

  We sit together in the night, the evening lit by the bright moon above us.

  “It’s so warm,” I say.

  “You’re right. It’s almost hot.” Del yawns. Then he pulls his T-shirt over his head and tosses it aside in a ball. He leans back on his elbows, staring at the sky.

  I’ve seen him without a shirt on before, but the sight always startles me. Del has a flat stomach with visible muscles that curve at his hips. He’s still wearing his dress pants from dinner, but he’s taken off his belt so the pants are loose around his waist. I can’t stop looking at him.

  “Well?” He yawns again. His stomach muscles flex. “What do you want to do?”

  The question alone is enough to make my blood rush to my cheeks. My face gets hot.

  “Emily? You’re so quiet.”

  He blinks at me, the edges of his eyes wrinkling in a smile.

  “I’m thinking,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “Nothing.” I’m too embarrassed to tell him. “You’re right. It is hot out here.”

  “Take off your sweatshirt, then.” I’m wearing jeans and a tank top covered up with a Stonybrook Academy sweatshirt. “Here,” Del says, leaning forward to help me. When he pulls the sweatshirt over my head, my hair falls against my face.

  Del tosses my sweatshirt aside. He looks me over. “You’re so pretty,” he says. Then he nudges me back against the ground until I’m leaning on my elbows. He brings his face close to mine.

  “Sing something.”

  He loves to hear me sing. Usually, when we’re outside, I love singing for him. It puts me in an entirely different place, a place so relaxing and calm and far away from all of the chaos of school and nightmares and everyone’s disapproval of Del.

  But I feel so shy right now for some reason; maybe it’
s because he’s half-naked. The idea of singing seems mortifying. “I don’t want to.” When I shake my head, the tips of our noses brush together. “Somebody could hear us,” I say. It’s never stopped me before. “We have to be quiet.”

  “Then sing quietly.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “I don’t care. Your voice.”

  I can’t think of anything. “I don’t know,” I tell him. I start humming the scale that we always warm up with in chorus. It’s a boring exercise. It seems very Neapolitan.

  I stop singing to tell him about the conversation my friends and I had earlier with Grace.

  “You,” he says, tugging on my red hair, “are anything but Neapolitan.”

  “Oh yeah? What am I?” I lean back farther on the blanket and stare at the sky, which is bright with stars. “There isn’t a flavor that goes with ‘stupid.’ ”

  “Emily, stop it. You aren’t stupid.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing with me,” I tell him. “Our GPAs are totally incompatible.”

  “GPAs mean nothing,” he says. “I’m not even going to college.”

  Somehow, the revelation doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how little I’m bothered by it.

  “No college?” I ask, tracing the outline of his tattoo with my index finger. “Won’t your parents be disappointed?”

  He’s quiet for a while. Finally, he says, “I have other plans.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  He hesitates. “We can talk about them later.”

  I want to ask, Do they include me? But I’m afraid of what the answer will be.

  “You aren’t singing,” he says.

  “I don’t want to sing.”

  The whole time we’ve been talking, he’s been lying above me, against me, his face close to mine. Now he leans on his side and rests a hand against my stomach. I stare at him. His blue eyes are wide and glassy.