If I Lie

by Corrine Jackson

  Carey didn’t have a tattoo of a tiny bird on his left lower back, two inches beneath the waist of his pants. Blake did.

  Chapter Seven

  Principal Barkley’s office looks the same as it did six months ago, and he doesn’t mince words when I am in front of him.

  “Some students have organized a candlelight vigil for Carey at Town Hall this evening.”

  Understandable. And most likely Jamie’s doing. In our town, Marine families stick together. The vigil is less about Carey than about showing the Breens support. But I don’t see why he would call me in to his office to tell me this. He must see my confusion, because he seems embarrassed.

  “The Breens have asked that you not attend.”

  I swallow, give a jerky nod, and tilt my head to study his water-stained ceiling so I won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

  After Barkley excuses me, I do not return to class. I head for the safety of my Jeep.

  * * *

  Blake is standing in the hall with Angel as I head for the exit, and I avoid their eyes.

  “Q?”

  Worry punches holes in Blake’s usual bitter tone, but I ignore him. I don’t stop until I am in my Jeep and pulling away from the school. It’s only when I see my reflection in the rearview mirror that I realize I’m crying.

  I’m not sure where to go. Home is out, since my father could show up there at any time. People in town would call the school to narc on me for ditching.

  I drive to the northern side of Sweethaven. At the edge of Grave Woods, I pull off the road and into a copse of trees. My tires have worn grooves into the mud over the past couple of months. In seconds, I’m parked out of sight of anyone passing on the road. Safe. Lost.

  George’s Nikon somehow ends up in my hand, and I strip it of its case, tossing my bag of equipment over my shoulder. It’s cold, but bearable, as I trek the half hour into the woods to the graveyard. With only three graves and said to be haunted, the tiny plot is little more than a few mounds of melting snow bowing to long-forgotten headstones. Nobody knows who Josephine, Thomas, or Susie were, but it’s obvious from the sad state of the stones that they died long ago. Somehow, I feel less alone when I come here.

  Snow can be difficult to shoot, but those wasting piles, untouched by tires, are where I focus. If I’m not careful, the pictures will appear too dark or the snow will come out a shade of blue. The trick is to overexpose—to fool the camera into thinking there is more light than there really is.

  Not so different from me. I’ve fooled everyone into thinking I’m more than I really am.

  I adjust the ISO setting and use my exposure compensation dial. Then I linger like George has taught me. Everyone takes the picture of the kid with the birthday cake on his face, he said once. Wait for the unexpected. That’s the magic.

  So I crouch and I wait, expelling my breath into my scarf. My right calf cramps, and my hip clicks when I shift to ease the discomfort. It’s silent, until something moves above me.

  A crow perches on a branch a mere ten feet away, unaware it is a living, breathing graveyard cliché. I snap its picture and remember a nursery rhyme my mother used to lull me to sleep when a song could still do the trick.

  One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.

  The crow looses a shrill “Ca-caw!” that is answered in duplicate. Suddenly a murder of crows is launching out of the tree tops, their blue-black feathers flicking white powder into the air. My finger is fast on the trigger, shooting as many pictures as I can.

  Unlike that rhyme, I don’t believe the number of birds I see will determine my fate. But that doesn’t stop me from counting them through the viewfinder as they wing away.

  Seven. Seven for a secret never to be told.

  * * *

  Soon my fingers are cramping from the cold, and I pack up my gear. I’ve lost hours in the woods capturing the crows, a deer, the way the ice crystallizes on the trees, the ground flattened by my boots. I don’t know if any of the pictures will be good, but sometimes I surprise myself.

  The Jeep chugs to a start, and I pray the heater works. It finally kicks in when I pass Town Hall. There are people gathering outside the white clapboard building and pouring inside the huge oak doors.

  Right. The candlelight vigil. I’d almost managed to forget about it. Perhaps that is the “magic of photography” that George describes.

  No candles are lit, but the sun is only just beginning to set. As awful as they would treat me, I want to be inside that building. I want to sit on one of the long benches beside the Breens, listening to Carey’s friends talk about him. But I am not welcome, so I keep driving, hoping I haven’t been noticed.

  I can’t go home to sit alone in the dark. I belong nowhere. Nobody wants me.

  That thought brings on a raspy laugh. Can I sound any sorrier for myself?

  Honestly, there’s only one place to go.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes of winding road later, I’m at the overlook. The last time I sat here, Carey and Blake were both beside me. We were just us, and things hadn’t blown all to hell.

  Squinting down at Town Hall, I see they’ve lit the candles. Our school is small—only 429 students total—but a lot of the students will be down there, along with their parents. I can’t make out the individual flickers, but hundreds of flames shimmer and burn together. It’s beautiful and eerie and sad. My eyes never leave the sight as I climb out of the Jeep and pull myself up to sit on the warm hood.

  Holding a vigil feels like we are saying good-bye. Giving up on Carey. I wish I could talk to him right now. Not to hash out what happened before he left, just to be with him. Wherever he is, if he is able to, he is worrying about me, Blake, and his parents. It’s his way. I squeeze my eyes closed. Carey, Carey, Carey. I think the words like a prayer. If I am fierce enough, maybe God will return my best friend.

  “I miss you, Carey,” I whisper.

  “Do you think he misses you, Q?”

  The voice startles me, and I nearly fall off my perch. Angel stands beside my Jeep, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. Her car is parked behind mine on the shoulder, though I didn’t hear her arrive.

  She dangles a six-pack of beer from her forefinger. “Mind if I join you?”

  It could be any Saturday night from our past. Out of habit, I shrug, and she passes me the beer so she can hoist herself up next to me. She retrieves the six-pack and offers me one. I take it and crack the top, not because I want it, but because it’s the first thing she has offered me in months.

  Sipping from her can, Angel studies the town below. The moon is bright, and her makeup has faded enough to reveal a pink zit on her chin. Her blond hair is tucked under a ski cap, and she looks like my old friend, the one I bumped hips with at a party almost a year ago.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I hesitate, picking my words with care. “Yes. He misses me.”

  She tilts her head back and shoots me a knowing look. “You’ve talked to him.”

  It’s not a question, but I nod. There’s a long pause as she studies me. I’m not sure what she sees before she turns back to the town. Silence falls, and it is the uncomfortable kind I hate.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I blurt out, “Why aren’t you down there with everyone else?”

  It’s her turn to shrug. “It’s the Jamie Show down there. Carey didn’t particularly like her, so it didn’t seem right to . . .”

  She drifts off. I get that. I’ve been drifting for months. We sip our beers.

  “We all thought you would get married. Nikki and I had a bet going that he would propose before he left.”

  I say nothing.

  “It should be you down there, Q. Comforting his parents. Helping Blake hold it together.”

  Her eyes are narrowed in accusation.

  What is there to say besides “I know, Ang.”

  My admi
ssion is not enough for her. She slides to her feet and faces me. “Then why aren’t you?”

  I shake my head. My fingers quiver around the cold can, and I want to answer her so badly. She steps forward and touches my foot, nudging it gently.

  “It’s not that easy,” I say helplessly.

  Any secret I tell her, she will be forced to keep. As shitty as the last year has been, I don’t want her to share in the hatred toward me, especially now that it’s been reignited with Carey’s disappearance. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to her.

  Disappointment replaces the hope that widened her eyes. Her hand falls from my foot, and she walks away, leaving the beer behind.

  “Ang?” I call to her. “I’m not a whore. You know me better than that.”

  That’s it. My only defense. The only truth I can say.

  Her steps never falter. She doesn’t believe me. I’ve lost my chance. Her car’s headlights temporarily blind me as she leaves.

  I’m alone. Again.

  Chapter Eight

  I should have guessed Carey was gay.

  At least that’s what I tell myself in hindsight, but his brilliance blinded me. The way he cared for everyone around him with this huge, open heart. How he could tease anyone—even my father—into smiling.

  When we first started dating, we kissed. We made out in Grave Woods. At my house, at his house, walking between our houses. And when he got his license, we took our lips to the overlook like all the other couples.

  It’s screwed up how I thought we would always be together, but I never questioned why his arms cradled me without heat. His hands did not test my will or pull at the zipper of my jeans. His fingers did not trace my ribs up, up, up until bone gave way to breast.

  What kind of boyfriend doesn’t try to race the bases? What kind of girlfriend doesn’t care? I thought, He loves me. He respects me. We’re taking our time because we have all the time in the world.

  And then his early graduation snuck up on us. He enlisted in the Marines in January, his years of ROTC and physical training finally paying off. Basic training and SOI—the School of Infantry—commanded his focus for months, while I finished up my junior year. Then there was that short visit in May, and waiting and waiting for his leave in August. The wondering if he’d propose before he deployed. Pride. Worry. Fear. An unnamed twist in my gut. My emotions tick-tick-ticking like the timer on a bomb counting down to desperation.

  So I pushed him. The night he came home during his last leave, I stood back while he greeted his family. Waves of pride poured off his father and spilled onto everyone. We watched him hug Carey, who looked handsome and strange in his uniform. His mother’s smile reminded me of a snagged sweater. Pull the loose thread and the whole thing would unravel. She hadn’t wanted Carey to enlist, but she was doing her best to keep it together since he was getting deployed.

  After dinner, when the Breens were finally tired, Carey drove me home and we sat on our porch swing. I lay with my head on his lap, his thigh muscles shifting beneath me with every lazy push. His fingers toyed with the thin strap of my dress, caressing my shoulder. My father had stayed overnight on base since they needed him for training exercises in the morning. The only company Carey and I had were the cicadas rattling like a thousand rusty watches being wound.

  Turning my head, I studied Carey, trying to discover how he had changed. Some differences I had noticed in May: The hair, of course, buzzed, and unveiling a smattering of freckles on his scalp. His posture had changed, too. His shoulders were now straight and squared, like my father’s. But more than just his physical appearance had transformed over the summer.

  Reaching up, I touched his cheek, trailing my fingers across his whiskers, and when his eyes met mine, I saw it—that thing that had bothered me since we had picked him up at the airport. The thing I hadn’t wanted to notice in May: Distance. Even as his body touched mine, I couldn’t feel him.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  The void between us widened when he grasped my hand, casually placing it back on my stomach. I sat up, letting my feet fall to the porch.

  “Carey?”

  He reacted to the tremor in my voice. The muscles in his face worked as his jaw clenched to hold back whatever words were trying to escape. He rarely withheld the truth, and suddenly I thought of ten things horrible enough for him to want to protect me. Most of them centered on where he was going in a couple of weeks and if he would come back.

  “I have something to tell you, Quinn. Don’t freak out, okay?”

  I hesitated, waiting.

  He rubbed both palms on his jeans. “Geez, this is hard.”

  The swing jerked beneath me when he rose, and I grabbed for the chain to keep my balance. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Carey didn’t pace. In control of his body, if not his emotions, he walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the railing, putting a mile of space between us.

  A bead of sweat trickled in an S curve from his forehead to his cheek, and I eyed him with worry.

  “You know I love you, right, Quinn?”

  He cheated on me, I thought. He didn’t want me anymore, and this was his way of telling me. I couldn’t take the stalling. “Just say it already.”

  His hand rasped over his head, and he tucked his arms over his chest like he did when he was nervous.

  “I’m gay.” He expelled the words on a long sigh.

  I froze. No, no, no. Hell no.

  His eyes locked on my face, searching. Everything in me wanted to reject his words, and I could see he knew it by the way his lips pressed together. So I shut down, clamping down tight on any emotion so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. Because for one tiny moment, when I thought he might confess he’d cheated, I’d mostly felt relief. And because somehow his news wasn’t unexpected.

  “Say something,” he whispered.

  Like what? How could I tell him the things running through my head? It’s my fault. How long has he known? Why now? Why is he telling me now? Has he met someone? Who else knows? How could he love me and still be gay? Because I didn’t doubt he loved me.

  “You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

  “I’m . . . thinking.” And I was. My mind raced through conversations and kisses, trying to figure out how I could have been so stupid. Two years we’d been together and never once had sex, or even come close to it. Why did I think that was normal? All our time together, and he’d never wanted me. And what about me? Why hadn’t I pushed harder?

  “You lied to me.” I winced when I heard my voice sounding tiny and pathetic. Worse, I started crying.

  “Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” he said, and I heard, I thought about not telling you.

  “Have you met someone?” I asked, and instantly I could see he had.

  Guilt. From the tips of his red ears to the white lines at the corners of his mouth pinched into a grimace, he looked guilty. He shrugged.

  “Geez, you’re an asshole, Carey. You were really going to leave me here waiting for you?”

  He’d considered leaving me here, pining after him, not knowing the truth, waiting for him while he risked his life overseas. Something had changed his mind, though.

  “I’d thought about it, but I couldn’t do that to you.” He crouched down, his thigh muscles shifting from the strain as he balanced on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I fought against it for so long. Hoping I could be . . . normal.”

  Honesty. Pain. Shame. His emotions battered me, leaving no space for me to breathe, and through it all, he kept watching me, his brown eyes terrified.

  “I didn’t want to be different. Not like this.”

  Then he was crying too. I choked out sobs, torn between wanting to comfort my best friend and feeling betrayed by his sadness when I was the hurt one.

  My stomach heaved, picturing him kissing another guy like he’d never kissed me.

  I ran for the screen door, but his arms encircled me from
behind, pulling me back against his chest.

  “Quinn, please,” he begged. “I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”

  For one moment, I let him hold me. And then I remembered the first time he kissed me. I won’t ever let you down.

  “No!” I fought him until he let me go, then whipped around to glare at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but I didn’t care. He reached for me again, and I shoved him as hard as I could.

  “Get the fuck away from me, Carey.”

  He didn’t try to stop me again.

  I went into the house, closing and locking the front door behind me. It took ten minutes—ten agonizing minutes—before I heard his boots scrape across the porch and his car drive away.

  Two hours after that, I backed my Jeep out of the driveway, knowing I needed to get away but unsure where I was going until I ended up parked outside Blake’s house.

  * * *

  In the days after the candlelight vigil, I am stoic. My classmates can’t hurt me worse than they already have. I carry my books in my backpack and avoid my locker and any nasty surprises it might contain. I arrive early to class so I can pick a rear seat where I can put my back to the wall and nobody can fuck with me. The whispers are easier to blast out with earbuds and loud music on my iPod. When they shove me or trip me, I pick myself up and move on. Blake doesn’t exist when I keep my eyes straight ahead and my focus on praying for Carey’s return.

  I know life here is not the norm. But in our town, there are three classes—poor, middle, and Marine. When money runs in short supply, so do your options. You want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to get your education paid for. You don’t want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to learn a trade that can get you out of Sweethaven. Otherwise, you’ll end up slinging pancakes at the diner.