The Good Lie

by Robin Brande

  THE GOOD LIE

  By Robin Brande

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Ryer Publishing

  Copyright 2014 by Robin Brande

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo Dreamstime.com

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

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  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  About the Author:

  Robin Brande is the award-winning author of EVOLUTION, ME & OTHER FREAKS OF NATURE (2007), FAT CAT (2009), DOGGIRL (2011), the PARALLELOGRAM series (2011-2014), and the SECRET SECURITY SQUAD series (2012-2015); REPLAY (2012); and THE GOOD LIE (2014).

  Robin is a former trial attorney, entrepreneur, community college instructor, black belt, yoga teacher, outdoor adventurer, and certified wilderness medic. You can find Robin on-line at:

  http://www.robinbrande.com

  http://twitter.com/RobinBrande

  https://www.facebook.com/robinbrande

  FOR MATURE READERS. Some language and situations not suitable for younger readers. Parental guidance advised.

  Genesis

  I read this book once where there was this semi-crazed woman who never did anything important on a Friday because that was the day her lover left her. And she never did anything with her left hand, because that was the hand that had borne the ring given to her by the lover who had left her. And so her arm hung useless at her side, and on Fridays she didn’t leave the house or answer the phone or eat or drink or even get up to pee, and eventually she died of a burst appendix because it was a Friday and she refused to call the doctor.

  So we won’t be that extreme. Let’s just say that on all April 23rds I will take to my bed, pull the covers over my head, and wait it out until morning. Because April 23rd is a cursed day.

  It was the day of my prom, thank you very much.

  But there’s more to it than just the prom. I wouldn’t cross an entire date off my calendar for just that. There’s the whole betrayal and disaster and death part of my life that followed soon after. And the lawyers and the perjury and the wondering whether I should stay a virgin and my little brother accusing me of murder.

  Now those are reasons to hide under the covers.

  My best friend Posie and I were hanging around her pool a few weeks ago, after everything had already blown up and completely gone to hell, and Posie was in her green floral bikini with a towel over her face to keep from wrinkling prematurely, and I was in my full-coverage tankini and SPF 1000 hoping I wouldn’t burst into flames just from being out in actual sunlight for more than ten minutes, and I was lying on my stomach on Posie’s deck trickling my fingers in the pool, trying to decide if I should tell her. But of course I was going to tell her.

  “My mother thinks I should see a psychologist.”

  Posie lifted her towel and squinted at me. “Ex- cuse me? You’re the one who’s supposed to see a psychologist? What about her?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Or Mikey?”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not your fault, Lizzie. Please.”

  (This is why we love Posie.)

  She lay back down and covered her face again, but half a second later she jolted up.

  “And what’s a psychologist supposed to do? ‘How do you feel about that, Lizzie?’” she mocked. “‘Tell me about your father, Lizzie. Tell me about your mother.’ Please. What’s the point?”

  Exactly.

  It happened, it’s done, so why keep going over it? Nothing will change.

  But maybe it’s like any story you think you know. You like to go back to the beginning, like re-reading Genesis, and remind yourself who did this and who said what, and maybe you’ll see something this time you didn’t see before. Maybe the ones you thought were to blame weren’t after all. Or maybe everybody played their part in what happened, God and humanity included.

  So I’ll try to tell it again.

  In the beginning God created Lizzie.

  And Lizzie was without form, and void, and darkness was upon her. And the Spirit of God moved within her.

  And God saw Lizzie was good.

  And then everything went wrong.

  If You Could Change One Thing

  [1]

  I wrote this play my freshman year—it actually won second place in a national contest ($500 in prize money!)—about a fortune teller who foresees her own death. She does everything she can to avoid all the steps she saw leading up to that moment, and she almost succeeds, but...

  But.

  It’s the same with all of us, right? I think that’s why the contest judges liked my play. We’ve all had those experiences where we think, “If only I had done that one thing differently. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  But I’ve thought a lot about that day, and I honestly can’t see where I could have stopped it all from happening.

  I woke up early. My mother was up, too. I guess neither of us could sleep. She sat at the kitchen table in her bathrobe and nightgown sipping coffee and staring out the window onto our garden. She rubbed her eyes when I came in.

  “Morning, pumpkin.”

  “Morning.” I kissed her cheek and stole a sip of her coffee.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Tired,” I answered. “Excited.” I took down a bowl from the cupboard and filled it half with coffee, half with skim milk. It’s something I saw in a French movie once. It works best if you dip your toast in it too, but I wasn’t hungry.

  “What time is Posie picking you up tonight?”

  “Around seven. We want to be there by quarter to eight.” I sat across from my mother and sipped from my bowl. “She’s coming over this morning, too. We’re going to work on the outfit some more.”

  “I thought it was all ready.”

  “Posie has accessories.”

  “Do you want me to fix your hair?”

  “Sure. I haven’t decided how to wear it yet.”

  “I think it looks best up, don’t you?” My mother demonstrated with her own long hair. Hers is lighter than mine thanks to all the highlights, but beneath those she’s dark auburn just like me.

  “I have to see what Posie says.”

  “Well,” my mother agreed, “Posie’s the boss.”

  “It has to be down,” Posie told me an hour later. “And curled.” She lofted my hair and let it fall against my back. “Definitely down. Here, try these on.”

  She observed from my bed while I went through the various combinations: black lace shawl, no shawl; long chandelier earrings, modest fake diamond studs; short necklaces, long; wrist-length gloves, elbow-length; white gloves, black; and finally the shoes.

  I modeled the black high-topped Converses I had in mind.

  “No,” Posie objected. “No dressing like a tomboy.”

  “But they’re comfortable.”

  “This is your prom. Comfort is secondary.” She produced a bag of shoes she had borr
owed from our high school’s Drama department. Posie has always treated the clothes there as her own personal wardrobe. “Any of these will do.”

  We settled on a pair of black ballet slippers. They were slightly too large, but I could stuff the toes.

  My eight-year-old brother Mikey, still in his pajamas, wandered in with a bowl of cereal. He perched on my desk chair and swung his legs back and forth, watching me like I was a Saturday morning cartoon.

  “What do you think?” I asked him, twirling around.

  “Isn’t your sister gorgeous?” Posie asked.

  Mikey nodded and shoveled in more cereal.

  “Put the bowl down,” I ordered. I held out my arms. Mikey smiled and shook his head.

  “Come on—for me? I need to practice.”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “If I pay you a million dollars?”

  “Come on,” Posie coaxed. “If you don’t dance with her, you’ll have to dance with me. And I may kiss you afterward.”

  Mikey vigorously shook his head. He hopped off the chair and accepted my waiting arms. I bent low, clasped his right hand in mine, and performed my best imitation of a waltz.

  “Some day,” I said, “when you’re in high school, you’re going to fall in love with a beautiful, smart girl—”

  “Who plays drums,” Posie added.

  “—who plays drums,” I agreed, “and knows the entire periodic table by heart—”

  “—and sings opera—” Posie said.

  “And who has a motorcycle,” Mikey said.

  “Okaaay,” I agreed with a shrug toward Posie. “And one day you’re going to ask her to the prom, and you’re going to dance with her just like this.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I halted and eyed him sternly. “What was that?”

  Mikey grinned. “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry, you said yes?” I picked him up and twirled him in a fast circle. Mikey laughed like he was on a ride.

  “No!”

  “What was that?” I swung him again, twice as fast.

  “No!”

  I picked him up and turned him upside down and gently bounced his head against the carpet.

  “Say it!”

  “No!” he shouted. “Do it again!”

  I was afraid his cereal might come up. “Then now we must add . . . the tickler!”

  Posie leapt into action, and soon it was all over. Mikey conceded that he would, in fact, one day ask a girl to the prom, whether or not she had a motorcycle. I swatted him on the butt. “Scoot. Posie and I have major planning to do.”

  He paused at the door and stuck out his tongue at Posie. She wiggled her fingers in the air, ready to tickle again. Mikey shot out of the room.

  Intermission over, Posie went back to business. “Let’s talk about the kiss.”

  “What kiss?”

  “Obviously Chris will kiss you.”

  “Obviously not. Posie, get it through your head: Chris is gay. Everyone knows he’s gay.”

  “He’s not gay. He’s just shy.”

  “Shy? He has a total boy crush on Jason. That’s the only reason he’s going.”

  “He’s going because he has a crush on you,” Posie said. “You just can’t see it.”

  “I can see where his eyes go whenever we’re together. Straight to Jason’s pants.”

  “You’re delusional,” Posie said, “and wrong.”

  “You’re blind,” I returned.

  Here’s the thing with Chris. He’s a very nice guy—really the nicest—but even if he were totally hetero, he’s not in the least my type.

  First of all, not to be mean, but he’s not what you’d call a looker. Shortish, skinny, nerdy in a not-too-offensive way—you know the type.

  And even if he were totally hot, there’s the problem of him not even coming close to meeting Criterion Number Two on my Perfect Man list, which is that the guy has to be big enough to carry me. Not that I want to be carried, necessarily, but there’s some comfort in knowing that if I have to be—like in a Scarlett and Rhett moment where the man decides to haul me up a long flight of stairs to our bedroom—the guy can pull it off.

  Not to mention the subrequirement that my mate not be able to fit into my same size of jeans. Chris beats me out by a few sizes. I could crush his little bones like a bag of potato chips.

  “What about you?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “What, a kiss? Of course not.”

  “He thinks it’s a date, right?”

  “We’re going as friends,” Posie said. “That’s the arrangement.”

  I shook my head as if she were so naive, but I truly hoped she was right.

  Because if Jason were going to kiss anyone, please let it be me.

  [2]

  Here’s the problem with Jason.

  I want to do the right thing. I’m committed to doing the right thing.

  But when I’m around him, I can’t help but think about doing everything I really want to do.

  Like showing up at his house some day and not saying a word, but simply taking him by the hand and leading him downstairs to his basement bedroom, and—

  And?

  Posie says my image of my wedding night is me in the bathroom, brushing out my hair, while my husband nervously paces in the next room. He turns down the sheet, plumps up the pillows, then climbs in wearing his pajamas and waits with the sheets drawn up to his chin for me to emerge from the bathroom wearing my long white satin robe cinched in at the waist, and then I untie it and let the robe fall to the floor, revealing my white satin nightgown with the low-cut front, and the music swells and the lights fade as I slip into bed next to my husband and we embrace. The end.

  Yep. Sounds about right.

  The point is, it’s hard to imagine the actual Act. I understand it technically—Part A goes into Part B—but it’s like reading a manual on horseback riding and then thinking you’ll know how to actually control a horse. I knew Jason was way too experienced for me. I knew things would get out of hand almost right after the first kiss.

  But I still couldn’t stop hoping for that first kiss.

  And it didn’t help that night when Posie and I met him and Chris at the Doubletree Hotel where the prom was being staged that he smelled like Irish Spring and aftershave, and that he was wearing a tux—what man doesn’t look amazing in a tux?—and that his black hair was all tousled from the wind and his lips spread into this sexy smile the minute he saw Posie and me come through the door.

  “Wow,” he said with genuine appreciation.

  I turned to look at Posie, because of course he meant her. She was absolutely stunning. She wore a floor-length silver gown, straight from the Drama department’s 1940s collection, so tight it showed every curve and rib and even the contours of the front of her thong. She might as well have spray-painted herself. Her long curly hair fanned out over her shoulders like a luxurious brown cape. She had done some cat eye thing with her eye liner, and it made her blue-gray eyes look almost transparent.

  When she showed up at my house to pick me up, both my parents gawked at her and I thought my mother would never stop oohh-ing and hugging her. My father was totally stricken. He grabbed his camera and snapped away at both of us, which is why I have so many nice memorials of one of the worst days of my life.

  But Jason’s wow wasn’t for Posie. It was for me. For my cleavage, to be exact.

  Jason grinned when I met his eye. “’Bout time, Lizzie.”

  I quickly drew my shawl around me.

  “Too late,” Jason said. “I saw ’em. Now I know you’re a girl.”

  “Shut up.” But secretly I was pleased. The dress had done its job. It was a Southern belle gown, black satin, with a huge hoop skirt underneath. A dozen circus midgets could have hidden under there. The sleeves started midway down my arm, leaving my neck and shoulders bare. For once in my life I was showing some skin.

  “You look beautiful,” Chris said. Posie shot me a look, as
if a compliment alone were proof of a guy’s sexuality.

  Chris offered me his arm. He was wearing a tux, too—both guys’ outfits, I realized, like mine and Posie’s, were courtesy of our Drama department (the pancake makeup on the collars was the giveaway)—and he didn’t look bad, for Chris. I’m sure some nice boy will see him some day and totally fall in love.

  When we entered the Doubletree ballroom, heads actually did turn. Posie can do that anywhere, any time. Her prom dress was spectacular, of course, but really anything she wears is worth looking at. She never just throws something on. She always thinks it through: what mood she’s in, what part she wants to play at any given moment. During midterms she chooses among a variety of school uniforms she picked up the thrift stores. She says they help her maintain her discipline.

  “I don’t really dance,” Chris confessed to me as we penetrated the crowd.

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  “So . . . just the slow ones?”

  “Sure.”

  We had lost Posie and Jason. They were already on the dance floor. Chris and I staked out a table and sat back to enjoy the show.

  I know they must have rehearsed. No one can come up with moves like that on the spur of the moment. It was better than watching Dancing with the Stars. It helped that they’re both so tall—Jason is 6’1”, Posie 5’8”—and so they were going to stand out anyway, but they made sure people got their money’s worth when they looked.

  I watched in awe, wishing I could be her for even a fraction of a second. She was so graceful. So uninhibited. And the way they moved together, it was like they were parts of the same body. Everything of hers fit perfectly against his, like puzzle pieces.

  Chris and I, on the other hand, when we finally hit the floor, danced like we were both in full body casts. What is it about some of us? We just don’t know what to do with our arms and legs. The music plays and suddenly we’re made out of wood. It probably doesn’t help that growing up my church drilled into me that dancing is sinful and leads to pregnancy (I’m not kidding—there was a whole flow chart that proved it), so I guess I didn’t do too badly that night, considering.

  Finally Posie and Jason took a break and joined us at our table. Posie’s face streamed with sweat. Her dress clung to her even more, if that were possible.