“Jamison is here,” I say quietly.
Ellis sits up quickly. “What?”
“He’s going to go to Alder Creek High.”
“What? Why?”
I explain that Jamison wants to go to Western University, and about in-state tuition.
“Jamison . . .” Ellis’s tone has a reminiscent, undefined quality to it. Like I can’t tell if she’s upset or excited for a new challenging conquest. “God, I haven’t heard that name in a long time. You used to talk about him incessantly.”
“Not incessantly,” I whisper to myself.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I had no idea until yesterday.”
“Jamison . . .” Again, Ellis’s tone is unreadable. “You know what this means. He needs to come to the party. We can introduce him to people. Show him a good time.”
I don’t like her tone. I don’t like her enthusiasm. The last time Jamison was in Alder Creek, Ellis gave me no indication that she liked him. Their relationship was more like frenemies, like opponents facing off, arguing over who was right, who was fastest, who knew more than the other—until I found them secretly lip-locked. I should have seen the tension for what it was: foreplay. Then maybe catching them wouldn’t have been such a surprise.
“I hope you told Zach you have a hot guy living next door to you now,” Ellis says. “Not that he has any room to complain. He’s living in a coed dorm with communal showers.”
Telling Zach about Jamison never crossed my mind. For some reason, revealing the situation feels more like a confession than the simple statement of fact.
“You’ll tell Jamison about the party?” Ellis asks. “Or do you want me to?”
“I’ll do it,” I answer quickly.
Ellis reaches to the side of the bed and grabs the bottle of lavender oil. “This year is going to be the best one yet. I can feel it.”
“Yeah. It’s gonna be great.”
But she can read my tone. Ellis knows me as well as I know her. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine.”
It’s a pretty lie—the kind of lie meant to keep the peace, to keep life comfortable. I prefer it that way. What’s the point of creating drama now? I can’t change the past. What’s done is done. I just wish I could forget that kiss.
And with that pretty lie to soothe us, we both drift off to sleep.
5
THINGS ARE NOT AS THEY SEEM
A few days later, the night before school starts, Rayne requests a family dinner. It’s not that uncommon, but I fear Jamison and Kaydene will be attending as well. Rayne better not make another pecan pie. But she sets the table for four and says she has ice cream for dessert.
The occasion for dinner is the announcement that Chris is leaving for an art show in Las Vegas in two days. After that, it’s on to Santa Fe, and then San Antonio. He’ll be gone for a month, traveling in our old Airstream van and selling his art. I can tell by the grin on his face that he can’t wait to get out of town. It’s hard not to be bothered by his enthusiasm. I knew this was coming. It’s unfair to be upset at the news, but I am. Wanting Chris not to leave is like wishing for the sun not to rise. He has been a traveling artist since before I was born. And while I know it’s good money for the family, there are days when I wish he would just open a gallery in Alder Creek and stay home with us full-time.
River is immediately pissed because Chris will miss his whole first month of football games.
“I’m starting, Dad. As a sophomore. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“I saw you play last year,” Chris says. “How much has changed?”
“Are you serious?”
“You’re only a sophomore. I have two more years to see you play.”
This tactic doesn’t ease River’s angst. He gets up from the table, shoving his chair back. “I’m going for a run.”
If Chris is fazed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes the opportunity to initiate his own exit. “Well, I’ve got a few pieces to finish before I leave. Better get cracking.” He kisses Rayne on the forehead, clears his plate, and heads back to his studio.
With family dinner officially dissolved, Rayne quietly gets up from the table, carrying plates and cups to the sink.
“Do you wish you could go with him?” I ask her. Sometimes I catch her gazing longingly at the Airstream. Bumper stickers plaster its back, a collage of all the places she and Chris traveled together. Zion National Park, Yellowstone, Graceland, the Everglades. Before Grandma got sick and Rayne got pregnant with me, that was their life for the first years of their marriage—a traveling artist and his wife, living out of an Airstream. There are so many bumper stickers they overlap, cities upon national parks that Rayne and Chris have adventured to as a couple.
“The only reason moments smell better after they’re gone is because we can’t go back,” Rayne answers. “Even the bad ones tend to smell sweeter than the pain most of the time.”
“I don’t know,” I say, piling my dishes next to the sink. “How is the memory of your mom’s death sweet?”
“Because I survived it.” Rayne winks at me.
She finds a playlist to accompany dish duty. When we finish, Rayne gets the ice cream out of the freezer.
“I miss him when he’s gone,” I say.
“I know.”
I want to put words to my thoughts, to say that at times I wonder whether if he was forced to choose between us and his wandering nature, Chris would pick himself. But Rayne is distracted by a noise outside. “What is that?”
It sounds like someone playing basketball.
When I check to see who it is, I expect to see River. “It’s actually Jamison,” I say to Rayne.
I sit back at the table. The ice cream isn’t making me feel any better.
“You know what my mom always said?” Rayne asks.
“What?”
“Anger is the thief of time. Sometimes I wonder if deep down she knew her years on earth were limited.” Rayne shrugs and picks up her phone, scrolling through music options. “Have you heard the new Avett Brothers album? It’s so fresh.”
“Nice, Mom.”
“Just trying to stay relevant.”
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. The basketball echoes through the kitchen window.
“I think I need some fresh air,” I say.
And Rayne says, “I think that’s a great idea, Amoris.”
Jamison stops dribbling when I walk out the front door. The sun is setting, the sky painted in violet and magenta and orange. We stare at each other, a string of tension between us.
He bounces the ball to me. “H-O-R-S-E?”
The evening breeze still carries the warm scent of summer. “You sure? If I remember correctly, you kind of suck at this game.”
Jamison gives me a familiar smile. It pulls me closer to him, the setting sun on his face. “You know me, I’m better with words than with a basketball.”
“I do know you,” I say quietly. I want to tell him that I miss him reading to me. I miss his different voices for different characters. How he reads with emotion, like books aren’t just meant to be read, but felt.
At least, that’s how he used to do it. I don’t know what his favorite book is anymore.
“You gonna shoot or what? It’s getting dark,” Jamison says.
River would say I shoot like a girl, to which I’m quick to point out the obvious sexism. My technique may not be refined, but the ball sinks through the hoop with ease, and I grin as Jamison rebounds.
“Right here,” I say, pointing down.
Jamison dribbles over to me. “I know the rules.”
“Just making sure.”
We haven’t been this close since the first night he arrived. I was so rude to him while we washed dishes. It’s only just hitting me tonight that Jamison left everything he knows—his friends, family, school.
He shoots, the ball hits the backboard, and for a moment, I think it will topple through the net, but at the last second
it falls the other way, out of the hoop.
“I believe that earns you an H,” I say.
“I believe it does.”
Jamison passes me the ball. I dribble to another part of the key. “Don’t worry. I’ll take it easy on you.”
Jamison smiles. “Don’t. I’ve always liked a challenge.”
The sun has set, and the backyard is blanketed in twilight. The basketball rests at my feet. Jamison and I sit in Adirondack chairs, the scent of full-bloom flowers in the night air. Twinkle lights hang over the fairy garden Rayne created years ago, giving the yard a magical, wild feel. The lights illuminate his face as he tosses raspberries from the garden high into the air and catches them in his mouth.
“That guy at the bookstore . . .” Jamison says.
“You mean record store?”
“That guy at the bookstore. Do you know him well?”
“Terry? Yeah, I’ve known him for like . . . ever. He’s a good guy.”
“A good guy. Really?”
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” The more H-O-R-S-E we played, the more we seemed to settle back into our old comfort. But now . . . he’s closing himself off?
“Are you nervous for school tomorrow?” I ask.
Jamison rolls a raspberry between his fingers. “A little.” He throws the berry into the air. It lands perfectly in his mouth.
I laugh. “You’ll be fine.”
“What makes you say that?”
I gesture at him. “You’re just . . .” I fumble for the right word.
“What?”
“Things come easy to you,” I say.
“That’s not true. Basketball doesn’t.”
It was a close game, but in the end, I beat him on a three-point shot.
“Most things,” I amend. “When was the last time you got anything below an A?”
Jamison inspects the raspberry in his hand. “I got a C in art.”
“Seriously?”
He smiles at my surprise. “Nah. You’ve seen me draw. I would never take art. I’d fail.” I shove him playfully. “There’s a lot more to high school than just academics, Amoris.”
“I doubt you’ve ever had a problem with the ladies.”
We both freeze. It came out before I could think better of it.
“I appreciate the compliment, but that’s not what I mean,” he says finally.
“Then what?”
“I’m different than most of the people in this town.”
“Different how?”
“I’m Black.”
I laugh. “You are? I thought that was a summer tan.”
“I’m serious, Amoris. No one here looks like me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? How many Black kids go to Alder Creek High?”
“A few,” I counter, feeling slightly defensive of my town. On some level, Jamison is right. We don’t have the most diverse population of students, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the number that matters, but how they’re treated, right? And I’ve never heard of anything bad happening to the kids of color at school.
“A few,” he repeats flatly. “Well, at my old school, you would have been the minority.”
“No one here cares that you’re Black, Jay.” I state it with confidence. “This is Alder Creek we’re talking about, not Boondocks, Mississippi. It doesn’t get any more liberal than this town.”
“Sure,” he says. “No liberal was ever racist, and people don’t see color.”
“Look, when my friend Sam came out, it was no big deal. No one cared. In fact, I think it only made him more popular.”
“So, Sam is gay.” Jamison throws me a quick glance. “You failed to mention that.”
“Technically, Sam isn’t into labels. They’re limiting. He’s into attraction. Feelings. Love. Right now, he’s dating a man. And might I remind you that you were being a butthead at the record store.”
“A butthead?” Jamison asks skeptically.
“Yeah, a butthead.”
“I can’t believe you just used that word.”
“What’s wrong with butthead?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, “if we were still in third grade.”
“You’re just mad I kicked your ass tonight.”
“You did not kick my ass. You beat me by one shot.”
“Turns out that’s all you need to be a winner, loser,” I say dramatically. I pick up the basketball and chuck it at Jamison—harder than I intended. It hits his shoulder with a thud.
“I think you owe me an apology,” Jamison says. “First you call me a loser, and then you throw a ball at me. I know your mother raised you better than that.”
I keep my lips sealed, but I’m dying to laugh.
“Apologize, Amoris.”
I shake my head.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Jamison says. “Apologize.”
“Or what?”
“That’s it.” Jamison is out of his seat and coming toward me. I yelp and bolt down the driveway. Speed is not on my side, though. Jamison’s long legs give him an advantage. Always have. Every game we played as kids—tag, ghost in the graveyard, manhunt—he would catch me, every time.
Jamison grabs me around the waist, holding me to him. He’s too strong for me to break away. He hoists me up, wiggling, over his shoulder, carrying me like a fireman would.
“Who’s winning now?” he taunts. “You never were very fast.”
“Put me down, Jay!”
But he doesn’t. He starts to spin, his arms wrapped tightly around my legs. It’s a move he’s done more times than I can count. My curls fly everywhere, and I can’t stop laughing as I spin. God, I’ve missed this feeling, like a little girl playing with her best friend again, hoping our parents don’t call us in for the night.
“Apologize!” he hollers.
But I’m stubborn, and he knows it. “Never!”
He spins faster. I can hardly breathe, partly from laughing and partly from being squished against him. It feels too good.
“What the hell is going on?”
Jamison stops. I move my tangled hair from my face, still propped on his shoulder.
River stands sweating in the driveway, just as annoyed as when he left the dinner table.
“Get a room,” he groans before disappearing inside.
Jamison sets me down, his breath labored. “Shit, you got heavy.”
I slap his arm. “I am not heavy.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not a little girl anymore.”
“Yeah, but you’re still a butthead.”
Jamison laughs deeply, his voice more mature than it was three years ago. He sounds confident, like a grown man. “Are we cool now, Amoris?”
There’s so much more to say. I owe him an explanation for the distance I put between us, but I can’t bring myself to confess why I’ve been withdrawn, the kiss I saw, the damage it did.
My phone rings in my pocket.
“Shit.” I yank it free. Zach attempting to FaceTime me.
“Need to get that?” Jamison asks.
Annoyed, I silence the phone. “No. It’s nothing important.”
“Does he know that?” Jamison’s question isn’t judgmental.
“Let me know if you ever want a rematch,” I joke. “I’m happy to kick your ass twice.”
Jamison smiles wryly. “I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”
And with that, we go back to our respective houses. I don’t call Zach back. Instead, I sleep peacefully for the first time in days.
6
AM I MISSING SOMETHING?
I’m called down to the guidance office during my third-period Spanish class on the first day of school. I’ve never actually been to see the guidance counselor before. Never had the need. Ellis was required to meet with Ms. Collins our freshman year. She bitched about it incessantly. “The school thinks I have dead mommy issues,” she said. “No shit. But I don’t need a state-issued grief couns
elor who probably works at Chili’s on the weekends. If I wanted therapy, I’d hire a real shrink.”
On first inspection, Ms. Collins’s office is a bit of a mess. Papers and files are stacked on her desk. Her laptop is open, and she’s typing furiously as I enter. I take a seat in the chair opposite her desk. Pictures hang on the walls, along with framed degrees. I notice she has a doctorate in psychology, which is counter to how Ellis described her. She seems like a real shrink to me, but that still doesn’t answer the question of why I’m here. I don’t think I need . . . shrinking.
“Amoris Westmore . . .” Ms. Collins says.
“Yes.”
“Amoris Westmore . . .” Her face is still stuffed behind the computer. The longer she avoids eye contact, the more nervous I get. “Westmore . . .”
“Yes. That’s my last name.”
She finally looks at me, her blue eyes bright behind a pair of thick-framed black glasses. “You know, I have this theory about kids with last names at the end of the alphabet.”
“Really?”
Her brown hair is cut short and tucked behind her ears. She’s young, with a disregard for fashion, which actually makes her quite fashionable in an oddly hip way.
“You have to wait your turn while the whole alphabet goes before you,” she says. “You’re so used to being last all the time, you think it’s OK for people not to pay attention to you. You let others shine. Wait your turn. Let others take the lead, because you’ve always stood at the back of the line, while Allison Arnold never had to stare at the back of someone’s head or try not to step on someone’s heels. But you’ve been cautious about stepping on people your whole life, simply because teachers like alphabetical order. But alphabetical order is bullshit. And you deserve the front of the line as much as any other student. Am I right?”
What do you say after a speech like that? I just sit still, stunned.
“It’s just a stupid theory.” She waves it off. “What do I know?”
Judging by that doctorate, she knows a lot.
“Is that why I’m here? Because of my last name?”
“No,” she chuckles. “That’s my way of telling you that I like to start at the end of the alphabet when meeting with students. It’s just my little way of fucking with the system. So, Amoris Westmore, have you thought about your future after high school?”
Only the Pretty Lies Page 5