The Truth Beneath the Lies

by Amanda Searcy

  Jordan makes me want to skip school, skip dance team, skip work just to sit with him and sip lukewarm coffee. I feel buzzed and on edge and fuzzy and twitchy, all at the same time.

  I like that. And I want more.

  A soft rustle comes from the trees along my path. Some brave animals stubbornly make their homes in the strips of wild between the even wilder streets and housing blocks.

  It comes again. The streetlight above me blinks on and off, not giving my eyes time to adjust to the dark. I walk faster. The rustling increases. It’s following me.

  It’s probably a drunk lost in the trees, or a Halloween prank. But with what happened to the two girls on the news, I don’t want to take a chance. I run. The hood of my raincoat flops down over my shoulders. My heavy backpack slaps me, forcing extra air out of my lungs with each stride.

  At the corner of Bluebird Lane, whatever is after me isn’t trying to disguise itself anymore. It’s between me and Bluebird Estates, driving me back the way I came. I turn left and dash across the street. My right shoe is untied. The laces drag through puddles and threaten to trip me. This end of Bluebird Lane is pitch-dark and even more overgrown. I feel like I’m entering a fairy-tale woods with the big bad wolf hot on my heels.

  I risk a glance over my shoulder. A man dressed in solid black, his face covered by a ski mask, charges out onto the sidewalk.

  He crosses the street.

  Terror ricochets through my body. I run without seeing what’s in front of me. This is my night. I’m going to be Girl Number Three.

  Bluebird Lane is a dead end. An abandoned house with rotting wood and broken steps sits nestled in the tall weeds and baby trees. I leap onto the porch. Something sticks into my left ankle and almost brings me down to my knees. I don’t feel any pain, just my foot twisting and throwing me off balance. I shove it back underneath me and keep moving.

  The front door of the house is long gone. I dive into the blackness.

  I land on a mass of smelly, drooling, writhing bodies. I crawl to a corner and curl myself into a ball. A woman, eyes rolling around in her head, pats my arm. In her drug trip, I must look like a small child. Maybe even her small child.

  A tweaker with no front teeth, patchy hair on his chest, and wearing only dirty underwear, staggers over to me. The man in black is on the porch. Wood cracks under his weight.

  The tweaker flops down in front of me and blocks the door. His reeking breath blows over a split, scabby lip onto my face. His hands paw at my raincoat. All I can think about is hiding. Even here, even this way. Black boots step into the doorway. The moonlight is behind him. I can’t make out any details. I sink farther down. The man in black doesn’t come inside. He makes a sound of disgust.

  The wood on the porch cracks again, and the sound of heavy footsteps tromping over muddy earth fade into the distance. I pull my knee up tighter to my chest and kick the junkie hard in the stomach. He rolls to the floor, taking my pink-striped tennis shoe with him. I jump up. Tears run down my face. Blood seeps through my jeans above my ankle.

  I hobble to the door in one shoe and one sock, not caring about the exclamations coming from the bodies I step on. I slowly emerge. The air is cool and sweet. I suck in a lungful through my nose to try to erase the smell of rotting flesh.

  It’s too blurry to see where I’m going. I feel the pain now. My ankle burns. My sock is soaked. Sobs crash out of my mouth. I stumble down the center of Bluebird Lane. He’s waiting for me in the darkness, blocking my way home. I feel his eyes, patient, in between the trees.

  I head toward the light.

  —

  The parking lot of No Limit is empty. Not even Elton is parked in his usual corner. It glows like daytime. I sit on the curb by the front entrance. An ancient pay phone hangs on the bricks behind me. It doesn’t work. The change box was busted out years ago. Besides, who would I call? The police? Carol Alexander?

  I put my head down on the cool cement next to a round of smashed, blackened gum. At least I will see him coming. When he comes back to make me Girl Number Three, I’ll get a good look at him.

  Car tires roll over the asphalt. I’m too spent. I can barely lift my head. Somehow, I still have my backpack. Its weight presses me down farther. The driver jumps out of the car and walks with a steady gait toward me. If it’s the man in black, then I’m Girl Number Three. I don’t have any fight left.

  A large hand rests on my shoulder. I blink to clear my vision and follow the hand up. A snake lined in green ink with a glowing red eye hisses at me.

  Drake doesn’t make eye contact. He doesn’t say anything as he helps me up and into his Camaro. He buckles me in. When we get to Bluebird Estates, he walks me to the main entrance.

  “Why are you helping me?” I ask in a dried-out, cracking whisper.

  “Jordan seems to like you.”

  I push open the lobby door. It clicks locked behind me. Through the scratched glass, I watch Drake walk away.

  My eyes move down toward his shoes. On his feet are heavy black boots caked with mud.

  Angie walks purposefully over to me. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Not a piece of toast or a tortilla or something?” I shake my head. She scowls. I’m taking up a table where she could be getting tips.

  It’s Saturday. Mom has to work, so I rode with her to the strip mall. The door that doesn’t jingle let me in. I sit at a corner table and sip a glass of water. I’m trying. Trying to make them see me as normal girl and not like a narc, an escaped convict, an alien, or any of the other rumors I’ve heard swirling around me. Trying to keep an eye on Adrian.

  Now that I know for sure who he is, I have to do something to stop him, even though all I want to do is be at home, curled up under the covers of my bed.

  C&J’s has a weekend breakfast special. On the table next to me is a finished plate smeared with drying yellow egg yolk. It sits on top of a twenty-dollar bill.

  I watch Adrian out of the corner of my eye. He makes small talk with customers as he refills their coffee or brings out extra toast. When his glance flits in my direction, his face tightens, his eyes narrow, his lips purse.

  He whips the eggy plate off the table and stuffs the twenty into the pocket of his apron. His clenched fists and tense biceps dare me to say something. I take a gulp of water.

  He leaves to deposit the dish in the kitchen. When the door flaps open, the sound of singing briefly fills the restaurant. A deep, rich voice carrying a melodic Spanish tune. Angie rolls her eyes and refills a glass.

  She spins toward me with the orange juice carafe and eyes the check with the ghostly impression of the eggy plate. Her glare lasers in on my face. She grabs the check and storms back to the kitchen.

  Angie thinks I’m weird. Maybe, like Adrian, she thinks I’m here to wreck her family. But her mom likes my mom, so there’s really nothing Angie can do about me.

  When Lawrence and Rosie show up, I stand to leave, but I’m too late. Rosie rips her hand out of her father’s and races toward me. She waves a piece of paper at my stomach. “I made you a picture.”

  I look down at the colorful swirls on the page. I take it gingerly between two fingers. Her little face peers up at me. It’s sparkly, gleaming, brand-new. It doesn’t have lines from worrying, a down-turned mouth, or pinched brows. For her, the world is still beautiful, still exciting. Still worth living in.

  I can’t look at her. I can’t smile sweetly back at her like everyone else. She reminds me of too much. Too much of what happened. Too much of what I did.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, and hold the page away from my body. Rosie giggles and bounces up and down, as if she’s in one of those bouncy fun houses.

  Lawrence catches her by the ponytail. “Let’s go. Giddyap.” She makes a loud, high-pitched neigh and gallops to the kitchen.

  I don’t look at the drawing again. It brushes my leg as I walk out of the strip mall. I glance behind me. C&J’s Mexican Restaurant is out of sight. I suppress the sob wanting to leave my chest, crumple
up the page, and toss it in the dark hole of a trash can.

  The black monster is in my pocket. It doesn’t fit well, and I’m wearing a long shirt to keep it hidden. I keep checking for messages. If the buzzing doesn’t alert me, I’ll miss the new deadline. Then he’ll come and kill me with his own two hands.

  I wander down the sidewalk, past the school, through one dust-covered traffic light after another. Even though it’s November, the sun still shines fiercely. It’s never stopped shining in the almost eight months I’ve been here. I push the sleeves of my shirt up.

  As I wait at a red light for the Walk man to glow, a vehicle rolls to a stop in my peripheral vision. A wave of paranoia washes over me. There are others out there who would like to make me suffer before they killed me with their own two hands. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My lungs involuntarily constrict. I am out in the sunlight on a street corner. Exposed. There’s too much cross traffic to run.

  The vehicle pulls up next to me. I keep my eyes straight ahead. My hair is short and dark. I’m super skinny. I’m covered up to my neck. I have to stay calm. Panic will destroy the illusion.

  The window rolls down.

  “Hi, Betsy!” the occupant screams. Happy hangs halfway out the window. Her growing belly throws her balance off, and she pitches forward. Tomás grabs her shoulder to keep her from falling out.

  I wave.

  “We’re going to my dad’s house. You wanna come?” Her mouth smiles like usual, but her face isn’t a happy one. It’s a manic mask of a smile. Her eyes want to cry.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” I say. The light has turned. The glowing Walk man is blinking.

  “Okay,” Happy says, and maneuvers herself back into the seat. “See you later?”

  I nod. They pull away as the light turns yellow. I mash the Walk button again and cross my arms.

  A black sedan with dark tinted windows was waiting patiently behind Tomás’s truck. It never honked. It pulls even with me now. I can’t see the driver. But I feel eyes on me. My skin crawls again. It’s not my usual, constant, surface-level panic like before. This feels real. Really bad. I clutch the top of my shirt against my neck and slap a hand over the pocket containing the black monster.

  A flash of light from inside the car. It has to be the sun reflecting off something. It can’t be anything else. Yeah, right. Thinking the best of people is what got me sent to this dot of a desert town in the first place.

  Across the street there’s nothing but empty lots and a few scattered houses. I glance over my shoulder. There’s a drugstore with a couple of cars in the parking lot.

  I throw my hands up, like I can’t wait for the light a second longer, and turn on my heels. I march through the rocks separating the drugstore from the sidewalk with purpose, as if there’s someone in there waiting for me. Someone big and tough. Possibly armed.

  I have to turn back and look. The light is green. The sedan doesn’t move. I’m overreacting. It’s probably someone texting and not paying attention.

  When I reach the doors of the drugstore, the sedan pulls away slowly. Not the quick jump-start of a surprised texter. I make sure the monster is still covered and then go inside.

  The drugstore is tiny. Not a chain. A locally owned place, where the pharmacist and the guy working the front know everyone who comes through the door. When I cross the threshold, the guy’s taken aback. “Can I help you?”

  “Tampons,” I mumble. He blushes and points to the rear of the store. I disappear into the aisles and position myself in front of the feminine hygiene products and condoms. No one will bother me here.

  My imagination goes into overdrive, and I can’t catch it. It comes up with fifty unique and interesting ways I could die. I take a breath and try to get ahold of myself. I can’t afford to have a complete breakdown in the tampon aisle. What kind of rumors would be started about me then? Pregnancy? Abortion? I will casually, nonsuspiciously browse the store until I’m sure the car is good and gone. Then I will go back to the flower shop and pretend it never happened.

  I wander to the end of the aisle, where there’s a rack of tabloid newspapers. I pick one up. Over a photo of a thick forest with police tape superimposed onto it, the headline reads “Serial Killer on the Loose?” I suck in a breath and turn the page.

  The story takes up the center spread. “Clairmont’s Lady Killer.” On the left is a picture of a rundown apartment complex. An officer holds out his hand to block the reporters from going farther.

  On the right, grainy pictures of young women sit above columns of text describing what happened to them. I don’t read it. I don’t want to know. The scariest thing on the page, the thing that makes me close the paper and hang it back on the rack, is the photo at the bottom. A tennis shoe with a pink stripe lying in the grass by the side of the road.

  A violent chill runs through my body. I retake my spot in front of the tampons. The door to the pharmacy jingles like a good door should.

  “Adrian, what’s up, man?” the guy at the front says. I hear the slapping of hands. I crouch. Make myself small so I can’t be seen from the door. I feel Adrian move around the store, but he never comes down my aisle.

  He must be in a hurry, because it’s only a couple of minutes before I hear him thud one of the red plastic shopping baskets on the counter.

  “Is Rosie sick?” the guy asks. He beeps the contents of the basket over the scanner.

  I peek up over the panty liners. Adrian has several different kinds of children’s medicine splayed out on the counter.

  “Yeah, she must have picked something up from preschool. Poor little thing.” His voice is steady, practiced. He’s a good liar.

  “Give her a hug for me,” the guy says, and hands Adrian the change from the crumpled twenty he used to pay.

  “I will. Thanks.” Adrian glances behind him. I duck.

  The guy has forgotten about me. He jumps when I emerge. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I shrug and place a pack of gum on the counter. I have to buy something. I don’t want him getting suspicious and calling the cops.

  Teddy gave me ten bucks. Like an allowance. Like I’m supposed to be able to buy anything with ten bucks. I lay the bill down on the counter and collect my change.

  I turn to go, but Adrian hasn’t left. His Bronco still sits in the parking lot. “I forgot something,” I say to the counter guy, and dive into the first aisle. I walk to the end and peer out the window at Adrian. The guy is still watching me, so I finger a pair of big socks for people with diabetes.

  A dusty silver hybrid pulls up next to Adrian. A woman steps out. She is probably in her midtwenties. No makeup. Glossy black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Standard T-shirt and jeans. She’s gorgeous without even trying. I feel a prick of envy in the middle of my gut.

  Adrian unloads things from her car into his. I can’t see what they are from my vantage point, but the woman twitches, like she’s nervous to be out in the open. When Adrian slams the door, the woman takes another look around. She presses something into his hand. The sun catches it before it disappears into his pocket. It’s round and glows amber. Like a prescription bottle.

  The woman doesn’t look like a dealer. Her face is set in fierce determination, as if she’s going to fix the world and doesn’t care who gets in her way. She pats Adrian on the shoulder. He lights up like a little boy being promised a puppy.

  That thing pricks in my stomach again.

  Counter Guy is still watching. Adrian pulls away. I take the diabetes socks up to the front and put them and the rest of my allowance down.

  “You should be careful,” he says.

  My heart that I thought had exhausted all its beats for the day revs up again. I look up at his face. Does he know? Does he know who I am?

  He hands me the socks and my receipt—no bag. “There’s some pervert driving around taking pictures of kids. I bet he’d want to get a picture of a pretty girl like you.”

  I don’t think he’s flirting. It’s mor
e like he wants to protect me from the big bad world.

  No such luck, dude. It’s way too late for that.

  —

  Happy is sitting alone in Tomás’s truck in front of C&J’s. She doesn’t notice me coming up behind her. In the side mirror, I see her swipe a finger under her eye.

  When I appear in her vision, her face cracks open into her Happy whole-face smile. She rolls the window down. “Hi,” she says. “Cute socks.” She points to the industrial black knee-highs in my hand.

  She turns away and wipes her eyes again. “Do you want to see what my stepmother gave me for the baby?” She turns back around with a white onesie—the kind that come three to a pack at Walmart.

  “Wasn’t that nice of her?” There’s no snark in her voice. She’s actually asking. Seeking confirmation. I nod.

  “We couldn’t stay long. They had to take the girls to their soccer game. My stepmom has two daughters. They are five and seven. They’re cute. The house only has two bedrooms, so they have to share.” Happy is talking more frantically than usual. I don’t think she even realizes that the words keep leaking faster and faster out of her mouth. “That’s why I can’t live with my dad. They don’t have any room.” She pauses and bites her still smiling lip. “Plus, my stepmom hates me.”

  Watching Happy crumble is like watching rainbows and kittens and birthday cake rot and turn black.

  Adrian has resumed his busboy duties inside C&J’s. Through the window, his eyes shoot daggers at me, like I made Happy cry.

  “Do you want to come inside the flower shop?” I ask her. She nods and opens the truck’s door. My eyes can’t help but slide to her lower half as she maneuvers herself down to the pavement. She sees me looking and wraps her arms around her stomach. She blinks hard. For the first time, I see it in her face. Shame.

  My cheeks burn. “I didn’t mean to…” I really didn’t. The last thing on earth I want to do is to make Happy feel bad. Tears well up in my eyes.