Instead, he seemed stunned. He looked from me to the painting, his gaze shifting back and forth, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Finally he said, “That’s me.”
I nodded. I felt heat rising in my cheeks as I blushed. “I’m sorry. You’ve been outside all week, so I just—”
“I see,” he interrupted. He held his hand close to the paper, almost touching it. His hands were smeared with pencil lead. He’d been wearing the same clothing all week: a white cotton shirt, loose jeans, and paint-spattered Converse sneakers. He looked tired and disheveled—in other words, like a normal college student.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
I should have been scared. Maybe he was a pervert, and he was going to flash me. We were alone; it would have been easy for him to overpower me. He was taller than I was by a good six inches. His arms were thick and muscular, stretching the fabric of his T-shirt around his biceps. And who knew what he might be carrying in his bookbag?
Yet I didn’t feel the slightest bit afraid, even as he unzipped the main pocket and reached inside. Instead, I felt exhilarated.
He removed his sketchbook and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. As he held it toward me, I stared down at the paper, blinking over and over again, convinced at first that I was seeing things.
It was a drawing of me, startling in its detail and accuracy. In it, I stood hunched at my easel, my hair tucked behind my ear to offer a clear view of my profile. He’d captured my likeness down to the last details: the splash of freckles across my nose; the slight wave to my hair; my big feather earrings that grazed my shoulders.
I reached out to touch the drawing, my fingertips barely brushing the paper, almost like I was afraid it would dissolve into thin air upon contact. “It’s amazing.” I paused. “How did you see all this from so far away?”
When he shrugged, I felt the air moving between us. I thought I could sense the warmth from his body. All week long I’d been drawing him … drawing me.
“I’ve always had a good eye for detail,” he said. His breath smelled like cigarettes, but it didn’t bother me. Instead, it was oddly pleasant and soothing, maybe because my parents had smoked when I was a kid—the smell sometimes made me think of that time in my life. I remember hearing from somewhere that smell is the most powerful trigger for memories.
I smiled at him. “I’m Alice Foster.”
“Alice,” he repeated. It was like he’d never heard the name before in his life.
“I like to paint,” I added, and felt immediately embarrassed. Obviously I liked to paint.
When he didn’t respond, I asked, “So are you a student here?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m just … hanging out.” He shifted his gaze past my painting of him, toward the window. “I paint too. Oils, mostly.”
“Oh yeah? Same here.” I recognized that he was older than I was—probably a good three or four years older, if not more—but I didn’t care a bit. At that moment, the only thing I cared about was making sure we kept talking for as long as possible.
“My parents were both artists,” I continued. “It sort of runs in my family. I got my first easel when I was four years old. My mom let me use all her stuff—paints, pastels, everything. I even dressed up like Frida Kahlo for Halloween in the first grade.”
He laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not!” I insisted. “I drew a unibrow on myself and everything.”
“Did people know who you were?”
I shook my head. “Nobody. Just my family.”
“Wow. In first grade, huh? That’s pretty impressive.” He leaned against a nearby desk as he rubbed the back of his neck, which I imagined was sore from gazing down at his sketchbook for the past few days. “I’d love to see pictures of that sometime.”
I hesitated. I hated to ruin the moment, but the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. Even as I spoke, I knew I was probably getting too personal, too fast. “I don’t have any pictures.” Damn it, Alice, I thought, shut up.
“Oh … okay.” He got quiet. His gaze drifted around the room, silence filling the first awkward moment we’d shared since we started talking. The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was suddenly noticeable to the point of annoyance.
“I guess I should clean up,” I said, nodding at my dirty brushes. I didn’t want to leave him, not yet, but I couldn’t stand the silence.
“Okay,” he said, taking a step back, closing his sketchbook and slipping it into his bookbag. “I should probably get going too.”
Before he left the room, he extended his hand for me to shake. His grip was warm and tight. He let it linger for a smidge longer than necessary as he smiled again. “It was good to meet you, Alice. Maybe I’ll see you on Monday.”
When he left the room, he pulled the door shut behind him. As I cleaned my brushes in the sink, I kept glancing at his painting on my easel. I didn’t want to let go of how it felt to be alone with him. It was like being by myself, only better. The feeling was familiar to me; it was similar to how I felt when I was alone with Rachel. But she and I had known each other all our lives, and we were identical twins—our bond was to be expected. This was different. I barely knew this guy.
When I left the room a good ten minutes later, he was standing in the hallway. Right there, all by himself, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder. Waiting for me.
Only then did it occur to me that our encounter this afternoon might be construed as creepy to an outsider. Here I was, in an almost empty building with a bona fide tall, dark stranger following me. Any girl with a good head on her shoulders would have been more cautious, I knew. But I also knew that caution rarely resulted in much excitement.
Without a word, he fell into step beside me, and as we approached the double doors leading to the parking lot, he asked, “So. Do you have a car?”
I grinned, nodding. “Yes.” I was driving my aunt’s car that day.
“Can you give me a ride home, Alice?”
Even a child would know this was a bad idea. I stopped walking, my keys dangling from my hand, and considered the possibility that I was being very stupid. There was nobody else around; even the parking lot was nearly empty. The phrase “nobody could hear you scream” crossed my mind.
But I wanted to do it so badly. Trying not to sound too eager, I said, “I don’t even know your name.”
The right corner of his mouth ebbed into a lopsided smile. “I’m Robin,” he said. “And you’re Alice.” His face widened into a full grin. “Now we’ve been properly introduced.”
In the months that followed, I replayed that afternoon over and over again in my mind, trying to rationalize the decision I made next. It could have ended so badly.
“Okay,” I told him, “I’ll give you a ride. Where do you need to go?”
And once I’d driven him home, taking him into the worst part of town and delivering him to a run-down duplex, I accepted his invitation to come inside and look at some of his other paintings. I stayed for two hours and drank four beers as we talked into the evening.
It wasn’t until much later that night, as I lay in bed, giddy at the thought of him, that I realized he’d never told me his last name.
Chapter Seven
As I’m driving home, I try to concentrate, attempting to get some sense of where Rachel might have gone, but my thoughts are too jumbled. In the past, we’ve both snuck off to our grandma’s house without telling our aunt and uncle, but that’s only because they don’t like us to visit her by ourselves. Depending on the day, her mood, and what medications she’s been taking, her illness manifests itself in any number of unpleasant ways. My aunt calls her “emotionally toxic.”
Despite Aunt Sharon’s efforts to distance us from our grandmother, Rachel and I have managed to remain close to her over the years. It’s not impossible that my sister could be at her house for some reason, but it’s unlikely.
Why would she sneak off without telling me? And why would she be in any danger? My grandma might be insane, but she would never dream of hurting either one of us.
It’s late morning on a Sunday, so traffic is light as I drive, but there’s construction on the highway, narrowing the road down to one lane a few miles before my exit. The cars move slowly in a messy, single-file procession. The Porsche is a stick shift. I’m okay at driving it, but not great; I know I could accidentally stall out.
Once while I’m stopped, I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My bruises haven’t gotten any worse, but they’re definitely noticeable. How am I supposed to explain this to my aunt and uncle? To the police?
As soon as I get off the highway, I dig through my backpack for my makeup bag. I spend a good ten minutes applying foundation and concealer, followed by blush and powder. I have to be careful not to put it on too heavily, and I certainly can’t wear eyeliner—Rachel never does. But the makeup looks good enough. I stare hard at my reflection. The bruises are all but invisible.
There is an odd, almost slow-motion quality to my street. Two police cars are parked outside my house, their blue-and-red lights flashing silently, making them seem innocuous somehow. My house looks so calm from the outside, so normal and wholly small-town America. The shrubs surrounding the front porch have been trimmed recently. The porch swing drifts gently back and forth, as though someone has just gotten up to go inside, leaving it to sway in the breeze.
Across the street, TJ is still working on his car, vacuuming the trunk with a hand-held Dirt Devil. He’s shirtless, as usual. As he leans over, his muscles flex beneath his tan skin. There’s a tattoo on his upper back that he must have gotten recently—I don’t remember ever seeing it before. It’s a phrase of some kind, but I can’t make out what it says.
TJ and I have never talked much at all, but as I drive past, he stares at me, his gaze long and deliberate. He mouths something. I think he asks, “Where were you?”
The fact that he probably assumes I’m Rachel is not lost on me. What would he want with my sister?
His parents are sitting on their front porch. Mrs. Gardill—Trish—is a tall, heavy woman with short brown hair who almost never smiles. Her husband, Ray, is short and rail-thin. He keeps a large, carefully maintained vegetable garden in his backyard. He’s a lot nicer than his wife; he’s known on our street for giving out his surplus of tomatoes and zucchinis and peppers to his neighbors, often leaving bags filled with produce on our porches early in the morning. Every time I see the two of them together, I think of the nursery rhyme that goes, “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean …” More than once, my sister and I have giggled at the idea of the Gardills having any kind of sex life.
Mr. Gardill raises his hand in a wave. Mrs. Gardill gives me a look of disapproval. They obviously see the police cars and are probably wondering what “Alice” did to get into trouble this time.
Farther down the block, a real estate agent fusses with an OPEN HOUSE sign in front of a brick Colonial that’s been on the market, vacant, for over a year. About eight weeks ago, Robin and I broke into the house late on a Saturday night. We sat in front of the unlit fireplace in the master bedroom and shared a gallon jug of cheap white wine. We pretended the house belonged to us, that it was our bedroom, and that we were sitting before an actual fire. I held out a hand toward the imaginary flames and could almost feel their warmth spreading to my body. Much later that night, both of us tipsy and happy, we climbed the stairs to the attic and stared at the quiet, empty street, absorbing the silence all around us. Right before we left, Robin used his fingertip to write our initials in the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on the kitchen window.
The night was like magic. I remember every detail, right down to the silver hoop earring I lost at some point as we strolled around the house, unafraid of getting caught trespassing. Someone must have cleaned the house a few days later, because the next time I passed by, our initials were gone. I often wonder if my earring is still somewhere inside.
I turn into the alley that runs parallel to our street, behind our house. The garage door is open; I must have forgotten to close it this morning.
The garage is dark and silent, except for the low buzzing sound of a huge chest freezer against the far wall. I stand beside the Porsche for a few minutes, afraid to go inside my house and face the people who are waiting for me. Everything hung on the walls around me—gardening shears, an old saw, a neat row of screwdrivers, a throng of empty picture frames—seems angular and menacing, like they could come to life at any moment and attack me.
But I know it’s all harmless. I know I’m safe for the moment. Wherever she is, Rachel is almost certainly not safe, and it’s probably my fault. Any fear that I’m feeling, spurred by my anxiety and my imagination, is nothing compared to what she might be experiencing right now. As much as I’m dreading it, I know that I have to go inside and face the police. I have to find Rachel.
Once I’m outside, in the yard between the garage and the house, a calmness seems to settle across the landscape. Past the house and across the street, I can hear TJ’s car radio still playing, notes of the Rolling Stones’s “Wild Horses” in the air.
Everything seems so peaceful and ordinary. From all the way across the lawn, I notice a furry yellow caterpillar inching along the iron railing of the back porch. Through the picture window, I can see my aunt and uncle sitting at the dining room table. Two uniformed policemen are seated across from them. But since I can’t hear what they’re saying, and since it is such a bright, lovely day, I can almost pretend they’re discussing something easy and relatively harmless, like an unpaid parking ticket.
From the yard next door, I hear a rhythmic swishing sound. I glance over to see our neighbor, Jane, sweeping leaves from the cement walkway that surrounds their in-ground pool. Her head is down, her long black skirt swirling around her full hips as she works, absorbed in her task. The smell of chlorine is unmistakable and powerful, but not unpleasant. In the upstairs of our house, I can see Charlie’s tall silhouette through the translucent yellow curtains hanging in his bedroom window.
My aunt has noticed me in the yard; she’s left the dining room and is now looming in the doorway to the back porch. I don’t know how long she’s been there. She watches me, her expression worried and confused, as I stand in the middle of the lawn, staring at my surroundings.
From the street outside our house, TJ’s radio plays David Bowie’s “Young Americans.” In the yard next door, the broom continues to go swish, swish, swish. I glance over and make eye contact with Jane, who stops sweeping for a moment to squint at me, probably trying to determine whether she’s looking at Alice or Rachel. Thinking I’m Rachel, she gives me a smile that seems full of pity, as if to say, “I’m sorry your sister is such a mess.”
Several months ago, only a few weeks after we met, Robin and I stripped down to our underwear and dove into the shallow end of Jane’s swimming pool in the middle of the night. We’d been drinking for hours, sharing a bottle of high-end citrus vodka that went down quick and easy. By the time we had the idea to go swimming, I was so drunk I could barely walk, never mind swim.
When we noticed the police lights coming around the corner, we hurried out of the pool and took off into the dark, trying to hide. Robin got away; I didn’t. I was still in my bra and underpants when the cops found me crouched behind a toolshed down the street; I’d left the rest of my clothes beside the pool. One of the officers wrapped a flimsy blue blanket around my shoulders and helped me to my front door while the neighbors looked on in stunned disbelief.
I called the cops assholes, screamed at Jane that she was a rotten bitch. It was a warm night; I didn’t want the blanket. When my uncle saw me, he would barely look at me as I stumbled past him into the house. My aunt spoke to me in fierce, hushed tones in the dim light of the kitchen. I slumped against the wall and tried to drink a glass of water, spilling it everywhere. “What if your cousin
wakes up?” she demanded. “Do you care about anybody besides yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
She glared at me. “You think you’re sorry now? You wait to see how sorry you feel tomorrow morning.”
When I made it to the third floor and stumbled into our bedroom, I found my sister, Rachel, sitting calmly on my bed. She’d been crying. She watched for a while as I looked through a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and finally settled on a wrinkled white button-down shirt. But I was too drunk to do the buttons. My sister slid off the bed to help me. Her breath smelled like black licorice. Her taste for it was one of our differences; black licorice makes me gag.
“Are you going to be sick?” Her small hands, identical to mine right down to the grooves in her fingernails, worked my buttons into place.
“No. I’m not that drunk.”
“Sure you aren’t. Look at me.” She cupped my face in her hand. Her eyes were red and puffy. “I could see you from the guest room window, you know. You looked ridiculous.”
I pulled away from her. “We were just having fun.”
She paused. “We?”
The room was beginning to spin. I suspected that the vodka wouldn’t taste quite as pleasant coming up as it had going down. “Yes, we. I was with Robin.” I gave her a sharp look. “Don’t tell Aunt Sharon.” The last thing I wanted was a lecture on safe sex from my aunt, the woman who referred to sex as “intercourse” and virginity as “a special gift.”
“Where did he go?” Rachel asked.
“Robin? I don’t know. We ran in different directions.”
“Alice …,” she began.
“What?”
Rachel looked ready to cry again. “Nothing. It’s not important right now.”
I stumbled to my bed, where Rachel had been sitting, rereading her dog-eared copy of Little Women. I lay down and closed my eyes for a moment, but it only made the room spin faster, so I sat up, wide-eyed, and began to take deep, steady breaths.
Beautiful Lies Page 8
