The Truth Lies Here

by Lindsey Klingele

  “How about tomorrow? I gotta deliver a wedding cake to Traverse City. The couple seem to really hate each other, but then again, they were smart enough to order my cheesecake frosting, so who knows? You can help Dex run the store while I’m gone.”

  I smiled, but then thought again about Dex’s disappointed expression when he’d dropped me off the night before. I wasn’t looking forward to another argument about my dad, aliens, or any combination of the two. “Yeah . . . sounds good.”

  “So that gives you, what? One whole day of summer to waste before you get to work,” Cindy said with a wink. She was joking, but her words echoed in my mind. I didn’t even have one day to waste, not if I wanted to get my Northwestern admissions article as strong as possible.

  “Actually, Cindy, I was hoping you might help me with something else? If you have a minute?” I straightened up, pulling a small notebook and pen out of my purse.

  “Ooh, looks serious. What’s up?”

  I explained to her about the article I had to write, and why I wanted to focus on Bone Lake’s economic decline since the plant closure.

  Cindy’s mouth puckered in distaste. “Now, why would you want to write about something so depressing?”

  “Well, I’m hoping ‘depressing’ will catch the eyes of the admissions officers. Plus, I want to write about something important. Something true. And true things are usually kinda depressing, right?”

  Cindy looked at me with concern. “You don’t really believe that, do you, hon?”

  I shrugged and smiled, like I might have been kidding, and Cindy’s expression relaxed.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  I jumped right in. “How do you think your business has been affected by the plant’s closing?”

  “Oh, it hasn’t, I don’t think,” Cindy said quickly, waving her hand as if I was being silly. “I mean, there are up years and down years, but people always want ice cream. And cakes.”

  “Okay . . . but what about the town? Have you noticed any changes here in the past ten years?”

  Cindy took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “No,” she finally said, drawing out the word. “Well, Molly’s Antiques burned down, and now it’s a consignment shop. That’s different. Plus, the church finally repaved the parking lot.”

  I smiled thinly, trying to hide my disappointment. I wondered—just for a second—if I should ask about Cindy’s husband, Mark. He’d left when Dex and I were in the sixth grade. He’d gone looking for work since he couldn’t find any here after he lost his job at the plant, but he hadn’t come back since. I knew bringing up Mark would cause Cindy pain. Maybe it’s what a real journalist would do, but . . .

  “Okay,” I said instead, “let’s talk about the actual plant closing for a second. Do you remember anything about when it happened? Or the accident with Mr. Jameson?”

  Cindy blinked once, then twice. Then she shook her head. “What a tragic thing that was. And a shame, too. It’s best not to think too much about it.”

  “Sure, but could you maybe try to say something about it? It’s just that the article is really important—”

  “I’m sorry, Penny,” Cindy said, shaking her head. “My memory just isn’t what it used to be. You know who you should talk to? Hector at the hardware store. He knows everything that goes on in this town. And he was a manager at the plant before it closed, you know.”

  “Oh yeah! That’s right. But do you remember even a little—”

  I was cut off by a ringing phone.

  “Gotta get that; might be an order,” Cindy said, pushing herself away from the counter. “So you’ll be in tomorrow?”

  “Definitely,” I said, a bit jarred by Cindy’s sudden shift as she raced toward the ancient landline. I waved goodbye, deciding to take Cindy up on her advice.

  Hector’s Hardware was just two blocks away.

  When I made my way over to the shop and pushed open the front door, I once again felt like I was in a time warp. Just like Sweet Street, nothing in this room had changed since the last time I’d been in it. It had the same scratched linoleum, the same inappropriate pinup calendar hanging behind the counter. Hector looked the same, too—tall frame, thinning hair, and wide-set eyes that bulged a bit when he laughed.

  “Well, if it isn’t the littlest Hardjoy, back for the summer already,” Hector said, putting down his phone and grinning widely when he saw me. Hector had been one of my dad’s friends growing up. He was one of the few people who didn’t seem to mind Dad’s weird obsessions and stories and would still grab a beer with him from time to time. “You here to pick up something for your dad? He ordered some screws a while back, but they were on back order. I think they came in, but I’ll have to check. Our stock boy just went missing, and everything’s gone to heck. You heard about that? Bryan Ryder? His parents are real upset. Probably he just ran over to Windsor with his girl, that’s what I think. Anyway, he didn’t exactly call in before he up and left, and now I got packages coming in left and right, and I’m sure your dad’s screws are around here somewhere—”

  “Thanks, Hector, but I’m not here for Dad,” I interrupted loudly. Hector was capable of carrying on a one-sided conversation for hours, if you let him. “I was actually just at Cindy’s, and—”

  “Did you try the new ice-cream flavor? Berry Vanilla Whip. It’s no Mackinac Island Fudge, but then again, what is?”

  “Oh, uh, no. . . . I was there to get a part-time job, actually—”

  “Nice! I’ve been needing a man on the inside. Been trying to get hold of Cindy’s maple candy recipe for years, but she always says—”

  “—it’s a family secret.”

  “Yup. But if you should happen to find that secret lying around in a drawer somewhere . . .” Hector gave an exaggerated wink.

  “Uh, sure. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Hector’s eyes widened as he grinned. “Excellent.”

  Something else occurred to me before I could get to my article questions—Cindy was right, there wasn’t anything that went on in Bone Lake that Hector didn’t know about.

  “Hey, Hector, speaking of my dad, you haven’t seen him around, have you? He didn’t show up to pick me up at the airport, and I was wondering . . . did he tell you he was going camping or hunting or anything?”

  Hector’s mouth pulled down in an exaggerated frown as he shook his head. “He didn’t mention it. Actually, haven’t seen your dad around too much lately. A couple of times over at Vinny’s, we played darts, but I don’t remember him talking about a trip.”

  “He was at Vinny’s?” I asked, hearing a beat too late how all the friendliness had dropped out of my voice, leaving it flat and cold.

  Hector blinked, confused. “Yeah . . .” He studied me a moment, as if trying to figure out what was behind my abrupt shift in tone. I quickly smiled and waved my hand.

  “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. I actually came over to ask you about something else. . . .” I quickly laid out for Hector the same pitch I’d given Cindy, though this time it took three times as long to get out with all of Hector’s interruptions. But at least, unlike Cindy, he conceded that Bone Lake had changed.

  “Yeah, I guess things are kinda different around here,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter and nodding his head in thought. I quickly started taking notes as he continued. “What with the recession and everything.”

  “The recession?” I asked. “Don’t you think the plant closing had something to do with it, too?”

  “Oh sure, that was bad business, bad business. People were real upset when it happened.”

  “What do you remember from then? You worked at the plant, right?”

  “Yep. Got a job there right outta high school. Worked my way up to manager in six years, you know.”

  “So, how did you feel when the plant closed?”

  “Terrible! It was hard times. But now I got my store, make my own hours. Course, running your own business isn’t alw
ays easy, either. Like now I gotta figure out if I should hire a new stock boy or wait for Bryan to show back up—”

  “Right, but, about the plant,” I said, worried we were getting off track. “I haven’t found a ton of concrete information from the time it actually closed. Do you know much about the accident?”

  A cloud seemed to pass over Hector’s face. “Now, that was a real tragedy,” he said, his voice faraway. “A real shame. Human error is all it was, which is the worst part. But it’s best not to think too much about it. . . .”

  My pen stuttered a bit over the page as I wrote down Hector’s words, but before I could ask Hector to repeat himself, he’d moved on.

  “That was a real bad time, Penny. But I think we’ve moved past it, if you want my honest opinion. You can write that down. Say, Hector Correa, a successful, upstanding businessman, is optimistic about the future of his town—do you think upstanding is the best word? Or maybe honorable?”

  “Um, they’re both pretty good,” I said, reluctantly putting away my notebook. As Hector went on to talk about the new brand of paint he was stocking and how the newspaper didn’t deliver on Mondays anymore, I began to realize how hard a task I’d set for myself this summer. Why was it so difficult for Bone Lake’s residents to talk about its obvious decline? Or maybe they just didn’t want to talk about it with me? I’d always be Ike’s daughter, the littlest Hardjoy, whenever I came back to Bone Lake. But I was also an outsider now, too.

  The front door opened with a dinging noise, and Hector excused himself to go help the new customer. I took the opportunity to look through my hastily scribbled notes. I stopped when I got to one particular line—It’s best not to think too much about it.

  Putting my finger there to mark the spot, I flipped back a couple of pages to my interview with Cindy. Written there, at the bottom of the page, was the same line. The exact same.

  It’s best not to think too much about it.

  A coincidence? Probably. It was a pretty common expression. But why had Hector and Cindy both been so reluctant to talk about the specifics about what happened to Hal Jameson at the plant? It’s not like what happened was a secret town shame or anything; at the time, the accident had made it into newspapers around the state.

  Frowning, I closed my notebook. When I looked up, movement on the other side of the shop’s glass window caught my eye, and I froze. Standing right there on the other side of the glass, the afternoon sun lighting up the gold ends of his hair, was another Jameson. One with blue eyes and a Clark Kent jawline that a younger version of me had memorized a long time ago.

  Micah.

  My stomach dropped, and for a moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  Damn. First crushes really did leave a mark.

  By the time I was able to inhale again, Micah had looked up through the window. He spotted me, squinted, and then his face broke out into its trademark wide smile. I was smiling back before I could help myself, the notebook in my hand all but forgotten.

  Five

  I STEPPED OUTSIDE the hardware store, blinking in the early summer sunshine.

  “Penny? Is that you?”

  Micah’s smile stayed fixed on his face as he crossed the distance between us in two giant steps and gathered me up in a hug.

  “Hi,” I squeaked, my face pressed against his letterman jacket.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” Micah said. “It’s been forever.”

  He pulled back, and I tried to regain my balance as gracefully as possible.

  “I know.”

  “No, seriously,” he said. “When’s the last time we saw each other?”

  “Hmm . . .” I said, pretending like I was trying to remember. In truth, I remembered the last time I’d seen Micah Jameson very clearly, but he hadn’t seen me. Last summer, Dad had sent me on an early morning grocery store run to get more bread and mustard, and I saw Micah pulling a gallon of milk from the dairy fridge one aisle over. But I’d been wearing pajama bottoms and flip-flops, and was too embarrassed to go say hi.

  “Wasn’t it Reese’s birthday party?” he asked. “In like eighth grade?”

  Seventh.

  “Yeah, that sounds right. Wow, you look the same.”

  “Thanks. I think.” He laughed. “So you back for a little bit?”

  “A few months, actually. Practically the whole summer.”

  Micah smiled again, like he was genuinely pleased to hear I’d be around for a while. My stomach swooped again.

  “Sweet. You got any plans while you’re here?”

  “Um . . .” I became aware again of the spiral notebook in my hand. It contained, along with my laptop, pretty much the entirety of my summer plans. I thought about the list I’d made the night before, of potential interviewees. Micah’s name was at the very top of that list. Getting him to talk on record about his dad was essential. But as I looked into his face, with his dark blue eyes squinting in the sun, his long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones, it was like my entire project just flew from my mind, leaving a gaping hole behind. I scrambled to say something—anything resembling human speech at all—but the gears in my head had ground to a stop. Nothing worked.

  “I, uh . . . nothing really. I’ll be helping out at the ice-cream store a little,” I managed.

  “Cool,” Micah said.

  “Yeah. Ice cream’s the best.”

  Ice cream’s the best? What the hell was I talking about? Where was my head? Micah smiled so wide that for a moment I wondered if he was making fun of me. But no—that was just how he smiled.

  I scanned my brain for something rational to say.

  I used to write your peewee football jersey number on the back cover of all my notebooks. No.

  Remember when we played spin the bottle at Reese’s birthday party, and my spin landed on you, but I was too nervous to kiss you, and I think you knew that, so you just kissed my hand instead? Probably not.

  Hey, wanna talk about your dead dad for a minute to help me get into college? Definitely no.

  If I couldn’t even manage a regular conversation with Micah at the moment, asking for an incredibly personal interview was probably not the best move. I’d have to work up to it. And if “working up to it” required possibly hanging out with Micah this summer, well, then that was a sacrifice I’d just have to make.

  For journalism.

  “So, um . . . what are those?” I asked, trying to keep my voice bright as I motioned to a bundle of papers in his hand.

  Micah’s expression darkened. He angled the papers so I could see. The black-and-white faces of Cassidy Jones and Bryan Ryder stared up at me.

  “I’m just hanging up some more flyers,” Micah said, his voice low.

  “Oh, right. I can help with a couple if you want.”

  “Thanks, Penny,” Micah said, handing me a thin stack. “That would be awesome of you.”

  “So there’s still no word?”

  Micah shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense, you know? Everyone’s saying they maybe just skipped town, but we’ve got summer practice starting tomorrow. No way Bryan would miss that. Not for anything.”

  I nodded hard, not sure what to say. It made total sense to me that someone would give up on the glory of summer two-a-days to get away for a while. Maybe even start over somewhere new.

  Micah shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just overreacting, and they’ll show up tonight, ready to party, acting like nothing ever happened.”

  I continued nodding, as though I had any idea what Micah was talking about.

  “Now that you’re back in town, you’re coming to the party, right?”

  “Um . . .”

  “You should definitely come. It’s out at Millers’ barn. You know it?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That’s . . . a good barn.”

  Micah laughed, just a little bit harder than the nonjoke really warranted. I joined in.

  “Cool,” he said. “I hope I see you there.”

  “Oh, you will. If I go. Whic
h I probably will. So you probably will. Um. See me there.” I cleared my throat and held up the small stack of flyers in my hand. “Anyway, better get started on these.”

  “Yeah.” Micah nodded, then reached out and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks again, by the way.”

  “Oh yeah, no problem,” I responded, giving him a thumbs-up.

  A thumbs-up?

  But Micah just cocked his head a little to the side and laughed. “All right. Well, see ya later.”

  I just nodded. Nodding was safe—I should just stick to nodding.

  Micah crossed the road then, and I watched him saunter off, while I clutched the flyers in my hand. I couldn’t help smiling a little as I swung my bike around on the sidewalk, already wondering how I would get to the barn party. I was barely paying attention to my surroundings when I looked up, and my heart froze.

  Reese was staring at me from a few shops down the street. She’d grown out her wavy blond hair and was a few inches taller, from what I could tell. But her expression was exactly the same as the last time I’d seen her. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who’s looked at me like that—with an actual hatred. As we made eye contact, the look morphed into one of cold indifference. She tore her gaze from me when the door of Vinny’s Bar opened behind her. Reese’s mom, Julie Harper, stepped out into the sunshine. She looked up and saw me, and if her daughter’s face was a mask of coldness, Julie’s was one of shock.

  God, this really was a small town.

  I willed myself to pump my legs forward and ride away as quickly as possible, but I felt stuck like a butterfly under glass, pinned in the moment by Julie’s stare. Reese took her mother’s arm and turned her toward a car that was parked on the curb.

  I tried to push the Harpers from my mind as I hung up a few flyers in the window at Sweet Street and put a few more up on the bulletin board at the post office. By the time I started pedaling home, my thoughts swung back to Micah. I remembered how genuine he’d looked when he invited me out to the Millers’ barn party—like he wasn’t just being polite, but really did want me there—and I felt a smile cross my face again.

  I wondered what I’d wear to the party, and whether or not I’d find an opportunity to ask him for an interview. My notebook was heavy in my purse, pulling down on my shoulder as I pedaled. I hadn’t really gotten any new information or usable quotes; I’d gotten weirdly similar quotes from Cindy and Hector, but not useful ones.