The Liars

by Jennifer Mathieu

  And then she was outside on the street, the sounds of wailing sirens growing closer and closer and overtaking the ringing sounds in her head. In the same spot where moments before Caridad had smiled for the photographers, guests from her quince milled about, crying and staring at each other, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open. One man clutched a white handkerchief to his forehead, and Caridad watched, stunned, as it turned bright red.

  “¡Caridad, preciosa! ¡Qué horror!” It was Caridad’s mother, her dress ripped, her dark hair in a loose frenzy. She grabbed Caridad in her arms and clutched her, hard. Caridad opened her mouth to speak, but she discovered she was mute. She brought her hands up to gently pat her mother’s back, to comfort her, but her mother was crushing Caridad in her arms so tightly Caridad was worried she would feel that same sick loss of air like she had in the ballroom.

  She saw her father then, racing up to them, his face smeared in soot. The emergency vehicles had arrived. People were shouting, screeching for help.

  “I knew it was a mistake,” her father said, breathless, approaching his wife and daughter, his eyes wild. He looked at the injured guests, the broken glass, the slick pool of someone’s blood spreading on the sidewalk. “I knew I should never have agreed to this.”

  “Joaquin, not now,” Caridad’s mother had snapped, and then she had burst into tears.

  Years later, Caridad would recall the horrors of that evening with unwanted regularity, as often as other people might look back happily on something pleasant. The night of her birthday party would become woven into the fabric of Caridad’s mind, and it would enter her dreams at random and unwanted intervals, like a virus. But all of it was private. Hidden. She talked about the quince as it had actually happened only once, with Juanita—who survived—unlike Ricardo, who did not. And once she left her island home and her parents behind, once she had climbed the metal steps into that airplane and held her breath as she was lifted high up into the sky, Caridad would never speak honestly of that evening ever again.

  ELENA

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE LIGHTS OF ESPERANZA BOULEVARD MAKE THE streets of Mariposa Island feel magical and romantic, like Paris. Or maybe it’s just J.C. that makes it feel that way.

  “I thought maybe we’d go to my place and get a drink, then maybe walk along the beach?” J.C. asks. His gaze drifts from the road for a moment, his dreamy, dark brown eyes fixing on me.

  Go to my place. It sounds like something a guy would say in a silly made-for-TV romance, but tonight feels very serious and real. My body thrums with excitement.

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” I hear myself saying. My very first date and it’s not to the Cinemark or Gino’s Pizzeria or any of the places kids in my class go, but to a guy’s place. A guy who doesn’t even live with his parents.

  Well, Elena, you might as well go all out when you finally get the chance.

  I don’t talk the entire drive to J.C.’s place, which I worry makes me look like some sort of high school dork, but J.C. doesn’t talk, either, so maybe it’s fine. He keeps the radio tuned to some rock station. I want to say something about liking the song that’s playing, but I don’t know what the band is, and if he asks me too much about it I’ll sound stupid. Better to just stay quiet.

  My mind slides back to my house. To Mami holed up in her bedroom and Joaquin keeping guard, ready to lie for me if need be. Hopefully ready to lie. I say yet another prayer that I don’t get caught. It all feels so reckless and weird but also like I can’t stop myself and don’t even want to try.

  Finally, J.C. pulls up near the spot on the beach where Michelle rents umbrellas. Wordlessly, I follow him up the steps to the second floor of a run-down, two-level complex of cheap apartments that rent out for the month or the season. Chipping seafoam-green paint covers the entire building, and empty planters line the perimeter, any plants they may have held long since dead and gone. A sad-looking wooden sign with the words Once Upon a Tide is tacked up by the main entrance.

  “Once upon a tide?” I ask incredulously, glad to finally be able to say something.

  “Yeah, it’s hella corny, isn’t it?” J.C. says, unlocking the door. “I actually have a roommate, but he’s working tonight. Go ahead and take a seat.”

  It’s a tiny apartment, full of a sweet smell that I think might be incense mixed with pot. I sit down on the one couch in the living room, some scratchy plaid number that must have come with the place. It’s dusted with sand, making it even scratchier.

  “You like bourbon?” J.C. asks, taking two glasses out of one of the cabinets in the adjoining kitchenette.

  “Sure.”

  He drops the ice cubes in the glasses one plink plunk at a time. I watch Mami make cocktails every day, of course, but I’ve never had hard liquor. Joaquin always says stick with beer because it’s safer. But before I know it, J.C. is handing me a tumbler and I’m taking careful sips and trying not to raise my eyebrows.

  How does anyone drink this shit?

  “Let me put some music on,” J.C. says, moving to the stereo on the other side of the room. He has to shift a pile of guy clothes in order to fiddle with the dial. I want to put down my drink, but the coffee table is littered with Styrofoam cups from Whataburger and a half-filled ashtray. Honestly, the whole place is cluttered with mess except for the pale blue walls, which are mostly empty, except for one painting of a little girl collecting shells on a beach that looks a lot nicer than the coast of Mariposa Island. The painting clearly came with the apartment and was intended for very different tenants.

  “So … you got the job here because of your uncle?” I ask as J.C. makes his way back to the couch, drink in hand. He sits down next to me but not creepy close. I try to settle in and make myself look natural, forcing myself to take another sip of my drink.

  “Yeah, I did,” J.C. says, dragging his hand through his hair. I wonder if he knows how hot that makes him look.

  “So you’re not from Texas?”

  “California, actually,” says J.C. “Los Angeles. My Uncle Jack and my mom grew up out there, but my uncle followed a girl here like a million years ago and then never went back. Seems weird to trade L.A. beaches for this shitty place, but I’m here now, too, so I can’t judge, I guess.”

  “It is a shitty place,” I say, even as I feel like a traitor for disparaging my hometown. I wonder why the urge to defend the place of your birth is such a natural thing for people to do. To stand up for the place where your parents happened to have sex one time.

  “I mean, it’s not so bad,” J.C. says, putting his drink down on the floor and leaning for a pack of Camels on the coffee table. “It’s cheaper than L.A. for starters.” He points the pack of cigarettes at me. “Want one?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. I’m so anxious I’m afraid my hands will shake or I’ll cough too much. I can barely handle the bourbon.

  “But you don’t mind if … ?”

  “No, go for it,” I say. I manage another sip of my drink. Maybe soon the alcohol will numb my mouth and I won’t be able to taste it anymore.

  “So … are you so over high school?” J.C. says before taking a long drag. I know smoking is terrible for you and it causes cancer and yellow teeth and whatever but something about a hot guy smoking a cigarette is enough to make me melt. It just is.

  “I have two more years left at LBJ High,” I say. “I hate it.” I don’t actually hate it, but I think that’s what I should be saying.

  “I fucking hated high school,” J.C. says, taking a sip of his drink. More like a swallow. “It was such a drag. I barely finished.”

  “I’ll be lucky to finish, too,” I say, rolling my eyes. In truth, I have a B average, but sometimes I wonder if this is because I’m smart or because LBJ High is a joke. I don’t even have to try that hard to make Bs.

  “So what are you going to do after school?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe some classes at the community college. I don’t know.” Now I am being honest
. Mami wants me to become a nurse because she thinks that’s a good job for a girl to make decent money. Actually, I think she wants me to marry a rich man and never work a day in my life just like Mrs. Callahan, but that seems like a highly unlikely career path for a working-class girl from Mariposa Island.

  “Well, take it from me,” J.C. says, letting the rest of his cocktail slide down his throat, ice cubes and all, “you’ve got time to figure it out. It’s a long fucking life.”

  “Unfortunately,” I say, sneering, and J.C. laughs. I’m pleased I said something funny even though deep down I feel stupid. My life is sucky in some ways, but I want to be living it. It is, after all, my life.

  “So it’s you and your mom and … ?”

  “And my older brother. The one who answered the phone. Joaquin. He just graduated. I think he’s going to abandon me at the end of the summer though.” I wince a little inside at the thought.

  “Joaquin?” J.C. says, frowning a little. “Isn’t that a Spanish name?”

  “Claro que sí,” I say, smirking. “Sabes que puedo hablar español.” I love pulling this little trick out of my pocket, mostly for the shocked expressions I get.

  “What the hell!” J.C. says. “You don’t even look Mexican!”

  “I’m not from Mexico!” I say, laughing. “I’m Cuban. I mean, at least on my mom’s side.”

  “But you’re white,” J.C. says, confused.

  I roll my eyes like he’s dumb, but I’m enjoying myself. I have something clever to talk about at last. Something that maybe makes me worth being the kind of high school girl you take back to your apartment. “You can be white and Hispanic,” I say. “You can be black and Hispanic, too, you know.”

  “Huh,” J.C. says, wrinkling his brow. “Well, I learned something today, I guess. Hell, that’s cool. So you speak Spanish?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I’m not totally fluent, but I can get by.”

  J.C. grins at me. “That Spanish makes you even cuter, you know.”

  I blush and stare at my drink, but I manage to say, “Gracias, chico.” J.C. knocks into me playfully with his elbow and I die.

  “So what are you?” I ask. “I mean, like, your ancestors.”

  J.C. stubs out his cigarette and laughs. “Irish or some shit. My last name’s Keller so, like, I think maybe German. You know … just a boring American mutt.”

  I giggle a little and take one more sip of my drink. I’m feeling warm and a little relaxed. Maybe the bourbon is starting to kick in a little. At least I hope it is. There has to be some payoff for the nasty taste.

  “So if your mom is Cuban, what about your dad?” J.C. asks, getting up to go to the kitchenette to refill his glass.

  I take a breath, not sure how to answer. But to my surprise the words just tumble out.

  “He lives in California,” I say. “I mean, I think so. I think he was an American mutt, too, but I’m not sure. He took off when I was a baby, so I don’t have any memories of him. I think that’s one reason my brother wants to abandon me at the end of the summer. I think he wants to go find him, maybe?” For the first time I’m grateful for my screwed-up backstory. Weirdly, I think maybe it makes me sound more interesting. More mature. More something.

  “That fucking sucks,” J.C. says, making his way back to the couch. This time when he sits down, he’s so close our knees touch. I feel floaty and golden and warm.

  “Yeah, it sort of does,” I say, although does it really? I can’t miss a man I never knew. In the few snapshots that Mami begrudgingly showed us when we were small, I saw grainy images of a so-so-looking guy with Joaquin’s nose and my lanky build. Mostly we’d inherited Mami’s features. Truly, we were fortunate, because Mami was a beautiful woman when she was younger, and it’s a good thing her genes are stronger than our father’s. Of course, Joaquin was the lucky one who inherited her blue eyes.

  “I had the opposite thing happen,” J.C. says. “My mom took off when I was in junior high. So it was just me and my dad.”

  “God, she waited until you were in junior high?” I say. I’ve never known anyone whose mother left them. Taking off when your kid is a teenager seems almost criminal somehow.

  “Yeah,” J.C. answers, lighting another cigarette. “But she was always sort of checked out, to be honest. She moved to Taos to find herself, I think. For a while she sent me Christmas cards and shit. But then I told her to knock it off because it was all bullshit.”

  Something about this speech makes me want to throw a raincoat over J.C. and protect him and also kiss him for a hundred years. I look down and my glass is empty. I feel good. Safe. Happy.

  “I guess we’re both fucked-up people then, huh?” I ask. A little thrill runs up my spine when I swear.

  “Maybe a little fucked-up,” J.C. says, bumping his knee into mine completely on purpose. When he gets up to refill my drink, I manage to promise myself I’ll only drink half. And soon I’m realizing what Mami gets out of all that Bacardi and off-brand cola. Suddenly I feel very smart and sophisticated and fascinating. And J.C. and I start talking and it’s not as hard as I feared it would be. We talk about the people who come to Mariposa Island for vacation (“They couldn’t afford a real beach?” J.C. asks) and about Michelle (“She’s been my best friend since forever”) and we talk about whether or not the Russians will ever drop the bomb (“Back in California I think I saw Red Dawn five times in the theater”). Finally, two drinks in for me (and three for J.C.), he asks me if I want to go for a walk on the beach.

  “Sure, why not?” I ask, checking my watch. It’s only nine thirty. By now Mami is probably asleep. I think about making up an excuse to call home and check in with Joaquin, but I’m scared the ringing will wake her up if she is down for the count, and if she isn’t, she might get curious and venture out of her cave and then not believe Joaquin’s story that I’m at the Callahans’. Better to just cross my fingers and hope for the best.

  I have to use the bathroom—which is so boy-gross I hover over the seat and skip washing my hands because the sink seems dirtier than any other part of the bathroom—and when I walk out, J.C. is leaning up against the little breakfast bar that separates the kitchenette from the living room, inhaling hard on a small pipe. A cloud of sweet-smelling smoke fills the air.

  “Hey,” he says, then coughs once. He holds the pipe and a lighter out toward me. “Interested? It’s totally cool if you’re not.”

  “I’m cool,” I say, shrugging. I feel light-headed enough from the drinks, but I do notice that it’s odd how my brain is deciding which lines to cross tonight. Sneak out of the house without telling Mami? Sure. Go to the apartment of a strange boy who is really, for all intents and purposes, a man? Okay. Drink liquor? Fine. Inhale marijuana? Now hold up there, Elena.

  I don’t have to wonder if crossing some lines makes it easier to cross more in the future. I know the answer to that already.

  The beach is mostly empty. Lights from the parking lots and crappy beachfront hotels cast a spooky, yellowish hue on the sand. The moon is out, too, which is nice, at least. Nicer than parking-lot fluorescents. I see a few kids around my age sitting on one of the tipped-over lifeguard chairs, drinking beers. They probably go to LBJ, so I keep my head down. I don’t want to talk to anyone but J.C. tonight, and I don’t need the word to get around that I was out with some strange older guy.

  I left my flip-flops back at the apartment, and at this hour the sand is actually cool under my feet. Little baby Gulf Coast waves crash lazily along the shoreline.

  “You should see the waves in L.A.,” J.C. says, raising a hand high up over his head. “Like as tall as a two-story building.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying to picture something like that. But instead my mind flashes on Joaquin standing all alone on a California beach at night, getting swallowed up by some gigantic wave. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and push the picture out of my head. God, Elena, I think to myself, it’s really good you didn’t smoke that pot.

  I’m foc
using on clearing my head when I feel J.C.’s hand slip into mine.

  “Is this cool?” he asks, glancing at me.

  “Yeah,” I answer, my entire body electric. “Totally.” Ugh, why did you have to say totally like some cheesy girl.

  My chest is tight. I’m trying to burn every sensation into my mind, like the fact that J.C.’s hand feels rough but warm. Strong but not crushing. I hope my hand feels nice to hold. Not too sweaty or anything. He’s probably held hands with lots of girls before. Honestly, he’s probably done lots more with lots of girls before. He’s nineteen, after all. And I’m just sixteen-year-old Elena Finney, with only a few clumsy make-outs on the beach at parties during the summer to my name. Kisses that were mechanical and boring, and under-the-shirt gropes that reminded me of an eager puppy trying to jump into my lap.

  We walk in silence for a bit. J.C. motions toward the next tipped lifeguard chair.

  “Want to stop there?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  When we get there, J.C. pushes the chair upright and we climb up, my hands scraping against the peeling white paint and rough wood.

  “These chairs look like they’ve been here since the fifties.”

  “They have!” I answer. I think about when Michelle and I were in junior high and we would rate the lifeguards by their cuteness, categories one through five, just like hurricanes.

  J.C. reaches for my hand again. We stare out at the ocean—the gulf, Mami would remind me.

  “So you’re here for the whole summer?” I ask. “Or what?”

  “At least the summer. Maybe more. My uncle wants me to take some classes at some community college around here in the fall. Try to get my act together or whatever.” At this he half rolls his eyes.

  “Oh, yeah, Mariposa Island Community College,” I say. “Everyone just refers to it as M-I-C-C,” I say, spelling out each letter.

  “Okay,” says J.C. “My uncle wants me to take classes at M-I-C-C. Now I won’t stick out too much since I know the island lingo. Thanks.”