valentine, quietly: stop.
i stop.
but the clear crystal liquid looks so beautiful.
i am so thirsty for it—
i am ravenous—
my thoughts a hundred thousand devouring mouths.
me: what did you want to talk about?
him: may we go somewhere, um, private?
me, smiling: hmm, what type of conversation is this? should i trust your motives?
(am i flirting with valentine simmons?
the idea is so funny, i’m about to cry,
i’m about to)
him: . . . trust my motives?
me: i do trust you, it was a joke, don’t worry don’t worry
him: you do? why?
me: what, why do i trust you? i mean . . . i trust anyone reasonable. and nice.
his laugh is strange, plucks of a guitar string, light tenor. you think i’m nice.
me: you seemed nice when we talked.
him: of course.
me: so, what you wanted to ask . . .
he fidgets, shifts, his lips part. okay, he says, this is . . . and he half laughs, but it dies fast, he takes up a glass, fills it with sprite, smashes it back, and his eyes lose their light and grow soft and the stubborn line of his mouth loosens, and i make him a brief in-depth study.
him: I’m trying to figure out how to ask you . . .
david—
this is me giving in.
this is me telling valentine, wait, hold up, gotta . . . bathroom,
be right back
this is me sneaking through thresholds to a guest bedroom, dark, hidden.
opening the cabinet, rummaging for another secret drink
(one that will freeze and sweat and gasp against my hand)
three twists to the cap
two acid swallows straight from the bottle and then
speed-dial one
the only one.
two rings and a click and there he is. (so easy. too easy.)
I . . . Juniper? Are you okay? Why are you calling? What’s going on?
the murmur of his voice is a warm sun, after a chain of chilly, darkened days.
i remember, before our love got lost in labors,
i could see the future mapped out in road signs,
glaring from the sides of dark highways.
i remember, if i gave him a way to wax poetic,
he spoke the full moon to me.
i lie on the bed, take another sip of bitter cold
and imagine the empty space filled with the posture of his body.
head’s gone back to spinning
lazily, like a mobile,
my brain bobbing two feet above this body.
sleepy. david . . . david
There you are. Talk to me. Everything okay?
you at home? i ask.
Yeah. (pause.) Why’d you call?
shouldn’t say it. i miss you. i miss you.
(pause.) You’re drinking.
sorry, ’m not sorry.
Oh, June.
what?
(pause.) Don’t drive anywhere.
david, i never got to say. i roll over. i know you did what you did for a reason, of course, i know—
Yeah—
i barrel over him. (are my words coming out as words? i feel them keeling. reeling. falling.) i can’t see them turn you into—i can’t see people judge you for my decisions—
he sighs. They wouldn’t, is the thing. They’d judge me for mine.
and i know, i know, i’ve read every argument, i’ve read every article, but at the end of the day, i feel like—david, i’m perfectly capable of thinking for myself—
I know you are, but it’s—
at last it spills out: and i chose you, too. you never pushed me, and i still chose you every day, every time i took a breath. maybe you’re a bad choice, but you’re still mine. mine.
June, that’s not how it—
i need you. (i need you safe, of all the things to risk it couldn’t be you
don’t you see?)
the dark is a balm on my forehead
his silence a fire.
and his voice comes back a scratch, a stress: Please don’t say that to me. It hurts to hear.
david, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, take me back, please, don’t leave me like this. i love you. say you still want me, say you—
Juniper, you don’t sound like yourself. You’re scaring me. Do you have water? Are other people there?
david . . .
teeth in my lip, a bloody taste again. urgency gets its wiry fingers around my throat,
(i need to know i have you, you’re the only thing and the only one)
i’m sitting up and the world is toppling head over heels
come see me. i want to see you. right now.
I can’t.
please.
i wait for it—
(my goddamned head—)
and then—
not his reply.
knock. knock. knock.
he says, Is someone there?
no—
(have to lock the door. lock everything out
so i can have this one
safe place)
i stand too fast, head spinning
throat stretching
clogging
retching
Juniper! Juniper?
(the knocking still . . . )
trying to move, trying for the door—
the bottle’s crashing to the carpet
(where have my feet gone?)
i’m up i’m grappling for the doorknob in the dark i’m a
chaos
i’m
(click there’s the lock)
slamming into the floor
did i get my answer?
wake up, juniper—
(somewhere i hear his voice
he’s yelling for me
what a lullaby
lull
a
bye
bye
)
BY 11:45, THE HOUSE LIGHTS ARE OFF, SOMEONE HAS rolled the volume up on Juniper’s massive speaker system, and an honest-to-God mosh pit has clustered in the center of the so-called entertainment room, which has hardwood floors so slick, I’ve witnessed five falls in the last ten minutes. The sight makes me think it’s time to call it a night.
Deep in the knot of people, five or six voices yell a protest at once—I make out the words Party foul!—and the tangle unfurls, revealing a massive beer spill glazed and foaming across the floor. Yep, I’m done, I think. But as I turn for the door, my shoulder knocks into Olivia, and my exit strategy vanishes. On impact, a gym bag slips from her shoulder and hits the floor, and a bottle of contact fluid rolls out.
“Shit, my bad,” I say, crouching to grab her stuff, and she grins, saying, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” My cheeks turn hot. I hand her the bag and mumble, “You, um. Uh. You staying the night?” and she says, “Yep. Forgot my stuff, so my sister brought it.” I look around, expecting Kat Scott to spring out of nowhere, but Olivia adds, “She’s not staying. She’s in the bathroom, and then she’s gonna go.” Her eyes fix behind me on the dance floor. “Also, dude, that looks like maybe the worst thing ever,” and I say, “It really, really is.”
She grimaces. “God, I’ve got to find Juniper. Her parents are seeing some show in Kansas City for their anniversary, but they’re supposed to get home at one-ish. I told her she was going to have a nightmare time getting people to leave at midnight.”
“I saw Juniper talking to Valentine Simmons over in the, uh, kitchen area.”
“Ah, yes, the kitchen wing and suite,” Olivia says, sounding relieved. “When’d you see her?” The music pumps louder, and she takes a step toward me, knocking my train of thought off the rails. In the darkness, one side of her face is painted in shadows, the other side lit up by the flashing white-blue of the TV. Her bright eyes mirror the flickering screen.
I force myself
not to stare. “Maybe half an hour ago?”
“Shit,” she says. “Okay, well, I should start getting people out.”
Then Dan Silverstein walks through the threshold, red cup in hand, and when he looks over and sees us, a grin props up his round cheeks. My heart sinks as he heads our way, calling over the music, “Matt, you know Olivia?” and I’m like, “Yeah, we, uh, we have a class together.”
Olivia lifts a hand, and Dan says, “You look great tonight,” looking her up and down, and I get this embarrassed, self-conscious feeling like, Why didn’t I tell her she looks great? because she does, wearing a flow-y black tank top and skinny jeans that don’t quite reach down her long legs, and call me old-fashioned, but looking at her bare ankles—that weirdly personal inch of skin—makes heat creep up the back of my neck.
“Thanks,” Olivia says. “Dan, you haven’t seen Juniper, have you?”
“Nah.” He takes a step toward Olivia, and I notice her leaning back an inch. An instinct to punch him in the eye flares up, but I keep myself from reacting. Not my business getting protective.
“You want to go get a drink?” he asks her, closing in toward her ear, and she says, “No, thanks,” and he says, “Why not? Come on, Matt, let’s get the girl a drink,” and she says, “I’m serious. I need to find Juniper and start shutting this thing down. Also, I don’t drink, so there’s that whole thing.”
Dan laughs. “I like that. I like you. You’re not like other girls.”
Olivia raises one eyebrow. “Something wrong with other girls?” she asks. And Dan says, “No, you’re just, you’re funny,” and Olivia says, “You’re in luck. Plenty of girls are funny.”
Dan shoots me an exasperated look and says, “I’m trying to compliment you,” and Olivia says, “I mean, that—” and Dan doesn’t wait for her to finish. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he says. “I thought you might’ve left.”
Dan gives me another look, and this one reads, Be a good wingman and leave, already. But like hell am I leaving, when apparently Dan never learned how to read basic social cues. “Yeah, no,” Olivia says, “I’m cohost, can’t leave,” and he says, “Hey, want to go somewhere quieter to talk?” and she says, “No, I’m—”
“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on her hip, and she takes a full step back, and he’s like, “Don’t be like that.”
I break my silence. “Man, didn’t you hear her? She said no. Jesus Christ.”
Dan stares at me with disbelief. Anger mixes into his expression like blood uncurling in water, and I wait for him to square up to me, tell me to shut up, and start a drunk fight or something.
Then we hear sirens. The tiniest whine at first, but the three of us freeze as one, trading looks. “Is that—” Dan says, and I’m like, “Yeah,” and then Olivia charges forward, yelling, “Turn off the music! Everyone out. Everyone, get out—”
Nobody’s listening until she bellows, “POLICE!” and then someone kills the music, the siren slices through the air, and panic crashes down like an avalanche.
They run. I’ve never seen a charge like this, a clot of people dashing for the nearest exit, cramming themselves through however possible. I press back against the wall, hoping to ride out the storm, but a voice says, “Hey!” and I look to my left. A wild-eyed Valentine Simmons forces his way upstream, battered back by person after person, his desperate words not stopping anyone. “Help—anyone—Juniper’s in a room over there. She locked herself in, and I can’t get her out.”
I yell Olivia’s name, and Valentine beckons frantically. The three of us duck between fleeing people down the mile-long hall to the locked door. Lucas McCallum is kneeling in front of it, rattling the knob.
As we skid to a halt, Olivia yanks a bobby pin from her hair and snaps it in half. “Let me,” she says to Lucas, and as he moves back, she hunches over the doorknob, bending one side of the pin. “Someone check for the police,” she says, and I sprint down the hallway, the tasseled rug slipping askew under my feet. I dodge the bathroom door opening as Kat Scott peeks out. By the time I rush into the foyer and stop at the wide-open door, kids are flooding down Juniper’s lawn like ants.
It’s not police cars at the curb—it’s an ambulance.
And a sleek black car is pulling up the driveway, two horrified adults sitting stiffly behind the windshield. Juniper’s parents are home early.
EARLIER TONIGHT, EVERY PERSON WHO SET FOOT IN this house said, “Holy shit,” but I haven’t let myself stare. Most of my friends here assume I’m rich, because I went to Pinnacle and dress like a Pinnacle kid. If somebody asks, I’m not going to lie, but I’m not going to give away the game by gawking, either.
Now the house merits a “holy shit” for other reasons. The crowd demolished it the way someone might demolish a decadent dessert. Every rug is out of place, their corners folded up. A pair of stout leather ottomans in the front lounge are on their sides. A crystal decanter lies in shards on the yellow wood floor of the dining room, bathed in a pool of whisky that probably cost more than my truck. The hallways ring in the aftermath of Lil Jon’s sneering rap, silent now.
Five of us stand in the foyer, watching the ambulance wail away from the house into the night, Juniper’s parents following in their Mercedes. Valentine, to my left, shifts his weight from foot to foot as if he’s standing on burning sand. By the door, Olivia and Kat Scott argue about something in low voices. Matt Jackson hovers nearby, shooting Olivia looks every so often.
“Okay,” says Olivia, turning to the rest of us. Her sister wears the scowl of the century. “We’re going to clean up before we head out. Do any of you think you could stay and help?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling numb. The sight of Juniper getting carried out on a stretcher, her face as blue-white as marble, glares in my mind. I can’t be alone right now.
Matt nods. Valentine doesn’t reply, just stalks down the hall, as expressionless as always.
“Is he okay?” Olivia asks, nodding after him.
“I think so,” I say. Down the hall, Valentine enters the guest bedroom where Juniper passed out. I jog his way, and the others follow.
Valentine stands at the foot of the bed, staring at the vomit smeared across the floor, disturbed where Juniper fell into it. It’s reddish, the color of the punch. The sight of it makes me want to throw up, too. I look away, twisting my watch around and around my wrist.
“I’ll clean this up,” Olivia says, waving at the vomit.
“You sure? I can get it,” Matt says, although he looks a hundred times more grossed out than she does.
“Nah, don’t worry. Juni’s vomit and I have gotten real friendly these last couple of weeks.” Olivia points back into the hall. “Can you get the kitchen, or move the—”
Someone’s phone rings. We all check our pockets, but I glimpse a phone that must be Juniper’s peeking out from the bedding. I dart around the vomit and grab the phone, frowning when I see the screen. “She doesn’t have the number saved,” I say. “Should I pick up?”
“Might be important. Let me,” Olivia says. I palm it to her, and she hits accept. “Hello?”
A male voice bursts out on the other end, audible from feet away. After a few seconds, Olivia’s face goes slack. She lets out the tiniest noise.
After a few more moments, the voice on the other end stops.
“It’s n—it’s not Juniper,” Olivia says. Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “This is Olivia Scott. Is this . . .?”
Silence. I trade a baffled look with Matt. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Dunno,” he says.
Olivia’s voice rises. “Who is this?”
The rest of us flinch, except Valentine. Still staring at the mess of vomit, he has a look of dread on his face.
“Valentine?” I say. He doesn’t move.
The voice on the other end comes back to life. Olivia says quietly, “Is this Mr. García?”
The air in the room gets thick and stifling. “Oh my goodness,” I say, realizing exactly
what we’re witnessing. Kat’s and Matt’s faces go as blank as Valentine’s.
A surge of sound comes from the other end of the phone, but Olivia, turning deathly pale, shakes her head hard. “I can’t—I have to go,” she says.
I catch one word as she takes the phone from her ear. “Wait—”
She drops the phone onto the bed, taking a step back from it as if it’s about to spit poison. Disbelief washes over me. I hardly believed the rumor was real, let alone that I’d know the culprit. How can it be Juniper Kipling? Claire never stopped talking about how perfect she was, how she had her ten-year plan figured out to the week, how levelheaded and rational she was . . .
“Well. That’s that,” Valentine says. He sounds like we’ve just heard a weather report, not discovered the school scandal of the century.
“Hang on. You knew already?” Matt asks, pointing at Valentine. “You knew! What the fuck?”
Valentine gives him the most withering look of all time. “Of course I knew. Why else would I be here?”
“Jesus, I can’t believe it’s her,” Kat Scott says.
“Is it that surprising?” Valentine asks.
“Dude, hello,” Kat says. “Megapopular valedictorian girl, God’s gift to humanity or whatever? Banging a teacher is kind of breaking the pattern.”
Valentine clears his throat and says, “First of all, she’s salutatorian if anything. I’m valedictorian.”
Jeez, Valentine. I nearly laugh.
“Whatever. That is not the point.” Kat tugs a hand through the tangle of her ponytail. “We’re turning them in, right?”
I nod, looking around. Olivia nods hard, looking like she’ll be sick if she opens her mouth. The others nod, too—except Valentine. Doubt tugs his thin lips downward. “Are you sure we should?” he says.
“I mean, we should turn García in, at least,” Kat says. “He’s a friggin’ statutory rapist.”
Everybody avoids one another’s eyes at the word rapist. It sounds like TV-cop-show talk, something for a crime scene, not for five kids trying to clean up after a party. It forces the image of Juniper and García together into my head, and I blink it away.
After a second, Valentine takes his phone out. “How old is Juniper?”
“Seventeen, pretty sure,” Kat says, and Olivia nods.
Seven Ways We Lie Page 16
