If I Lie

by Corrine Jackson

  Eventually, when I grow sick of my thoughts, I drag myself up and into the elevator. When the doors open on my floor, I’m surprised to find Angel hanging around in the hall, leaning against the fancy burgundy wallpapered wall.

  She sees me and rushes forward. “There you are! Where have you been?”

  I don’t realize I’m angry at her until she reaches out to touch me.

  “Hiding,” I say. “Licking my wounds.”

  There’s an edge to my voice that makes her pull back a little. She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You sound mad at me.”

  I laugh without humor. “You think?”

  She grabs my arm when I brush past her. “Wait a second! I didn’t do anything. Jamie—”

  I swing around on her. “No, you’re right. You didn’t do anything. You never do anything.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I thought we were friends, Ang. Did I imagine that? How could you let her do that to me?”

  “No, you didn’t imagine it,” she says quietly. “But what do you expect me to do?”

  “I expect you to be better.”

  Her lips tighten. “Than who? Jamie? Or you? I didn’t do this to you, Q. I’m not the one who cheated on Carey.”

  Neither did I. My mouth opens. Closes. Opens. I stare at the EXIT sign above her head so she can’t see the truth in my eyes.

  “What?” she shouts. “What are you not saying?”

  I can’t say what I’m thinking, so I tell her what I’m feeling. “I never would have let somebody treat you like that. No matter what. Your friendship meant too much to me.”

  “I could say the same.”

  She sounds so pissed at me, and I don’t get it. “What did I do to you, Ang?”

  “You didn’t talk to me! If you were thinking of cheating, why didn’t you talk to me first? You knew how I felt about this. I told you how I felt. Maybe if we had talked, I could’ve helped you. Maybe . . .”

  She blasts me until she runs out of breath. Pacing back and forth on that ugly forest green carpet, she goes on and on about how I let her down. How I lied to her. How I threw our friendship away. She sets me in my place. Part of me aches because some of it is true—I haven’t told her anything, and maybe that was a betrayal of our friendship. Part of me is pissed, though, because I wish she’d stood by me anyway.

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally. “You don’t know how sorry.”

  I scrape my hands through my hair, pulling it forward to hide that I want to cry. I’m surprised by how beaten down I sound. Even Angel hears it.

  “Quinn . . .”

  “I’m tired, Ang. And honestly, I don’t think I can take much more today. Good night, okay?”

  After a moment, she nods and walks away. I wonder if maybe I’ve been hoping too hard that our friendship could be fixed. Because this feels too broken to be put back together again.

  * * *

  The next day Mr. Horowitz and Mrs. Daniels, our government/economics teacher, steer us off the bus when we arrive at the National Mall. We trail after a tour guide to the Lincoln Memorial where a huge Lincoln stares off, permanently majestic and resolute. The tour moves us from monument to monument like herded cattle. The guide remains cheery, but our group grows more solemn with each war memorial we pass.

  Some of us have lost family members. Some of us have family fighting now. None of us have been untouched.

  At the Korean War Memorial, one wall reads Freedom Is Not Free. The cost in that war: 54,246 dead US soldiers. 103,284 wounded. 8,177 missing.

  Stainless-steel soldiers march through the garden in full combat gear, their faces molded with weary determination. Don, I think, trailing my fingers down one massive soldier’s cold cheek. Scared but dutiful; this is how I imagine Don looked with the picture of that dead soldier tucked in his pocket to remind him what was at stake.

  We move on to the simple World War I Memorial followed by the more grandiose World War II Memorial. The first is a smaller, round structure with twelve pillars, and the second is constructed of fifty-six pillars in a huge plaza. The difference in size is striking. One war already fading in our memories, and the other still fresh. The World War II Memorial features a wall with 4,048 gold stars. Each star, our tour guide tells us, represents one hundred dead Americans. An inscription near the wall reads: Here we mark the price of freedom.

  Amazing how the cost is always life. 404,800 dead. That’s an entire city wiped off the face of the map.

  We move on.

  The last stop is the Vietnam War Memorial.

  Two long black granite walls meet at a ninety-degree angle. Seventy panels listing 58,267 names. Columns of names. Rows and rows of names. Every single one a soldier who died or is MIA. No ranks are listed, and I guess this is because all men are equal in death. Equally dead.

  Wandering away from the group, I use the directory to locate one name in particular. Charlie Deacon. George’s friend who died when his helicopter got shot down over Laos. Before I left, he’d asked me for a favor—to find Charlie’s name on the wall and take a picture of it. It seems like such a small thing to ask after everything he’s given me.

  49E, the directory says. The forty-ninth panel on the eastern wall. I find that panel and read down the list until I find Charlie close to the bottom.

  I snap off a few shots and kneel down to touch the diamond engraved after his name, wondering what it means. I slide a pencil over Charlie’s name, rubbing it into a piece of tracing paper I brought with me. Something to bring back to George. Then I notice the engraving after Charlie’s. Alex Petrov. Alex is a stranger, but he has a cross symbol instead of a diamond.

  “It means he’s MIA,” a voice says from behind me.

  I twist about, my finger still on the cross. Blake stands a couple of feet away with his hands in his pockets and his black hair tucked under a baseball cap. I raise a brow, and he tilts his head toward the wall.

  “A diamond if the soldier’s confirmed dead,” he explains. “A cross if he’s missing in action.”

  “Oh,” I say, tracing the cross with my finger again. Alex Petrov has been missing for decades. His family never knew what happened to him. Maybe they still hope he will be found.

  I touch Carey’s class ring that hangs around my neck. He has to come home. I limp through each day knowing I’m in limbo—a limbo that ends when he tells the truth. Someday, none of this will matter. Not Jamie or Ang or my father. Someday, when Carey returns, these days will be a shitty reminder of a time when we weren’t the best versions of ourselves.

  But “what if” won’t go away. What if this is it—the best things will be? What if Carey is dead? What if we never know what happened to him? What if I can never tell Blake the truth about what I feel for him? Do you have to keep promises to dead people?

  I hate myself for even wondering.

  Blake’s hand covers mine on the wall.

  We are both thinking Carey’s name. It hangs in the silence that is always between us.

  The touch is meant to comfort. I know that. Yet . . . His breath heats my neck, and his thigh brushes mine where he crouches beside me. The black granite wall reflects our bodies. His eyes trained on me, he waits. If I turn my head, my lips will be near his.

  I can’t believe I’m thinking about kissing Blake again. Not here. Not now.

  I tug until I free my hand. He lets me go, but when I try to run away, he blocks my path. Others begin to notice us together. The gossip about our dance at the Spring Fling died down when we ignored each other at school as usual. But this will make it start all over again. Yesterday’s conflict at the elevator is too fresh.

  “Blake,” I say. “What part of ‘stay away’ didn’t you understand?”

  His shoulders square in determination. “We need to talk, Q. About Carey.”

  “No.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets and the muscles in his arms shift. Stupid guy wore a T-shirt and no coat, but he doesn’t look
cold.

  “We talk later,” he demands. “Or now, with everyone listening.”

  “Go to hell,” I say. It worked before, but not this time.

  His voice soft, he asks, “Aren’t we already there, Q?”

  He’s pleading with me, but I don’t owe him anything. Whatever damage I did by sleeping with him, I’ve made up for it a hundred times by keeping my mouth shut about the photo. I can’t meet his gaze, so intense and full of things I only let myself think about when I’m alone. Those eyes steal the anger I should feel. That I do feel.

  Over Blake’s shoulder, I see Jamie watching us. I flip her off, tired of feeling bashed, then wish I hadn’t given her the satisfaction of a response as she smiles like a cat. A big, predatory jungle cat hunting some poor, unsuspecting animal.

  Blake turns and sighs when he sees her. “Why do you antagonize her? It only encourages her.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I ask, crossing my arms. “She doesn’t need encouragement. She hates me.”

  “You go out of your way to mess with her. You always have.” He sounds like the old Blake, not giving me any slack, but it pisses me off because I’m not the old Q and he’s not the old Blake. We’re two used-to-be-friends who betrayed each other and made a huge mistake one night.

  “Because she was always trying to steal my boyfriend!” He doesn’t look happy that I’ve brought up Carey in that context, and I’m glad. I glare at him. “Why do you do this?”

  “What?” he asks, confused.

  “This,” I say, gesturing between us. “Antagonize me.”

  I walk away, but he clasps my arm with just enough pressure to stop me. Finally, he’s angry too.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hey, you two. Everything okay here, Quinn?” Mr. Horowitz approaches, a belated champion. He glances at me with concern. I can feel everyone pressing in closer to eavesdrop, and it’s like yesterday with the room keys all over again.

  “Sure,” I say. Blake drops his hand and I add, “Just a friendly disagreement over Blake’s hat.” He’s wearing an Atlanta Falcons cap that’s offensive to any die-hard Carolina Panther fan. But he’s one of the few guys at our school who could get away with wearing it.

  Horowitz latches on to my explanation after I give a nod of reassurance. Enough of Sweethaven’s population are rabid sports fans to make what I said plausible if not believable. My classmates—denied good gossip—react with disappointed sighs when he begins shepherding us all back to the bus.

  Before I slip among them, Blake’s fingers brush mine and he whispers to me, “I need to know what happened with Carey that night you came to my house. Please, Q.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jamie gets her revenge that night, and I hate that Blake was right about antagonizing her.

  After volunteering to get ice (anything to escape Night #2 in a fifteen-foot by fifteen-foot box shared with three other girls doing their best to ignore me), I’m locked out of our hotel room. I know it’s not an accident. I figure it out after my fifth knock elicits a spurt of laughter from the room, and one of the mocking voices belongs to Jamie.

  I seriously loathe high school and wannabe mean girls and idiotic field trips.

  A quick walk down the hall to Mrs. Peringue’s room and my roomies will be in a load of trouble. Then I could look forward to sleeping with my eyes open while Janet, Amery, and Danielle plot to do me in after a little prodding from Jamie. The others are not as malicious as she is, but Jamie has a way of looking like a leader to the clueless, and they’re happy to follow. What’s the point?

  I sigh. Nothing to do but wait them out and hope they eventually let me in. No sense in desperately hanging out in the hall, though. Barefoot, I turn on my heel, taking the ice bucket with me. I hope they really wanted that ice and die of thirst.

  A bellman eyes me when I step off the elevator, and I hold up the ice bucket and shrug as if to say, My parents sent me to get ice. What’re you going to do? There’s a sign for an indoor pool, so I head down the hallway. I test the door to the pool, thinking it will be locked, requiring a room key which I obviously don’t have, but it opens under my touch.

  The shrieks of two kids echo in the long, well-lit windowed room as they play Marco Polo in the shallow end of the pool. Their parents watch from a nearby table, but the room is otherwise empty. This seems as good a place as any to hang out for a while.

  I pad to the edge of the deep end, set my ice bucket down, roll up my jeans, and plunk both legs into the heated water. Leaning back on my forearms, I stare out the wall of windows where my reflection is superimposed on the night skyline.

  I’ll give the girls an hour to get over their prank, and then I’ll sick Mrs. Peringue on them. And then they’d better hope they don’t fall asleep, because I have a camera and plenty of batteries. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch them drooling. Hello, Yearbook. We’ll see how they like having their pictures posted for the world to see.

  “Hey. Mind if I join you?”

  Blake stands over me in olive green board shorts and a T-shirt that says IF LIFE GIVES YOU MELONS, YOU MAY BE DYSLEXIC. I’m not even surprised to see him. It’s that kind of night, that kind of week, that kind of life. I shrug, too tired to fight the overwhelming tide, and he sits, sinking his legs into the water too.

  He nods at the ice bucket at my side. “What’s up with that?”

  “Fool’s errand,” I mutter. He looks confused. “Jamie. She and the others locked me out of our room.”

  He winces, but at least he doesn’t say “I told you so.” “Sorry.”

  “You should be,” I say. My nasty tone startles him, but he relaxes when I add, “Now you’re subjected to my ugly feet.” I wave them, swirling the water. “My shoes are in the room, probably filled with lotion or toothpaste.”

  Straight-faced, he shakes his head in pity at my submerged legs, but his eyes smile. “You do have the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen. Your right pinkie toe creeps me out the way it looks like it’ll swallow the others.”

  He’s said this to me before, making Carey and me laugh while we lazed about his house watching TV. That day, he’d wiggled the toe in question and I’d fought back a shiver, pretending his touch had no effect on me. Now I shove him with one foot, splashing him a little.

  “Shut up, jerk.”

  His laugh sands the rough edge inside me, and I smile.

  He stills, staring at me in that intense way he does. “I missed that,” he says finally, lifting his eyes from my mouth.

  “What?”

  “Your smile. You never smile anymore.”

  And just like that, reality dismisses my smile. “Yeah, well, I don’t have a lot to smile about.”

  We’re both silent then, watching the mother call her kids out of the pool. The family gathers their things, the youngest whining the whole way to the door about life not being fair. I swish one leg in a circle and then the other, watching the water ripple toward Blake in chaotic rings. How wrong is it that I missed the way he stares at me?

  “I got a letter from Carey,” I say without thinking.

  He sucks in a breath, the only sign he’s heard me, until I turn to look at him. He’s choked up and way too happy about a simple letter. It hits me what he may be thinking—that Carey was found. I grab his hand.

  “No! He sent it before he went missing.”

  In less than thirty seconds, I’ve managed to take him from joy to grief. He loves Carey like a brother and looks after Carey’s parents as if he is their son. He turns his head to get himself under control and clenches his jaw so tight I can see the bones working.

  “I’m sorry,” I say when he swipes a hand across his face. “I didn’t think about how that would sound.”

  He nods and squeezes my fingers. “No, I should’ve known better. I just . . . you know.”

  Wished for it so hard, you thought it might be true.

  “Yeah, I know.” I let him go.

  “What’d he say?” he asks, ch
anging the subject.

  “That he missed us.”

  “That’s it?” He bumps me with his shoulder and gives me a doubtful look. Carey tends to be long-winded in his letters.

  “No. There was other stuff. Personal stuff.”

  Blake seems to guess I’m leaving the important things out. He searches my face for an explanation, but luckily he’s not Carey who can read my thoughts.

  “Before . . . when Jamie was giving you a hard time . . . you said he knew about the picture. He saw it, then? He knows it was me.”

  It’s not a question, but I nod.

  “The tattoo,” I say slowly.

  A longer answer isn’t really necessary. The three of us got tattoos together before Carey left for basic, sneaking to Blake’s tattoo-artist brother since my father would never have agreed to me getting one. Only three people in the world could recognize the ink on Blake’s back. His brother, Carey, and me. His mom hated tattoos, so he’d purposely placed it low enough on his back that his clothes had to be coming off to see it. Say, like in a picture, with a half-naked girl all over him. I still don’t know what the bird means to him. We’d all agreed that the tattoos had to mean something we could live with for a lifetime, but he wouldn’t tell us about his.

  “But . . .” He sounds puzzled, and I glance up to find him staring into space. “I talked to him, Q. We talked after the picture came out. He didn’t say anything. Why?”

  I shrug. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “What’s going on? He acted like everything was fine with you.”

  Two guys and I love them both. Loyalty divides and subtracts me from both of them.

  “We were friends before all this,” he whispers. “That has to count for something.”

  Carey comes first. Right now, he has to come first. But there has to be a middle ground. What can I say without breaking my promise? I weigh my words.

  “He doesn’t have the right to be upset.” He’s gay. “I told you we broke up that night.” That much is true.