Please Don't Tell

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Please Don't Tell Page 8

by Laura Tims


  Mom’s footsteps retreat. My note’s still on the windowsill. The blackmailer didn’t come back. Maybe his last note was the end and I’ll never have to know who he is.

  Downstairs, Officer Roseby is in our living room.

  “Sorry for coming so early. Was hoping to catch Joy before school started,” he says, clearly not sorry at all. A cop in uniform looks larger than life, like he should be in a video game, not in my house where my sister’s sleeping. He’s pale in the morning light, his blond hair scraped back over his scalp. “I’m asking around about the night Adam Gordon passed away.”

  I’m awake down to my toes.

  “I thought that was an accident,” Dad says. His socks are mismatched, and Mom’s shirt is misbuttoned.

  “The department believes so. But his father asked if I’d talk to a few kids who were at the party. Sort of as a favor. Just to be sure. We ought to know how much of a factor drugs and alcohol were.”

  I’m shaking. If he was here because I’m a suspect, he’d say so, right? If he searches my room—the notes, the knife . . . What if Grace comes downstairs?

  “Joy was grounded that night.” Mom side-eyes me. “She didn’t go to this party.”

  “It’s not like your daughter doesn’t have a history of rule breaking, ma’am.”

  I’m on his bad-kids list. If I called the cops on the blackmailer, he wouldn’t believe anything I said. I think of him finding out what happened to Grace, asking skeptical questions in our living room.

  “Did you speak to Adam at his birthday party?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say before I realize I just accidentally confirmed I was there.

  Mom stares at me, silently filling the room with poison.

  Roseby looks at our walls. Grace took down all the pictures of her, like she untags every photo of herself on Facebook. “What about your sister? Was she there?”

  “No, and she’s asleep. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Watch yourself, young lady. Especially after I was kind enough to let you go with a warning this past July.”

  I’m boiling over.

  “I have my own teenage daughter. You have to watch them round the clock,” he says to Dad, then turns back to me. “Were you involved in any drugs at this party?”

  “Since this is just a ‘favor’ for Mr. Gordon, Joy doesn’t really have to keep answering your questions. And I’m afraid we’re late for work.” Mom’s a dragon. I want to hold on to her. The urge is so strong I’m amazed to discover how much of me is still a kid.

  “Of course,” he says ironically. “Thank you for your time.”

  The minute he leaves, Mom breathes fire.

  “Really, Joy? I can’t believe you snuck out again after we picked you up from the police station this summer.”

  My eyes sting. I mash my toe into the carpet.

  “Especially to go to a party near that quarry,” Dad agrees. “What happened to the Gordon boy could’ve happened to you.”

  “You’re grounded on weekends for the next three weeks.” Mom grits her teeth. “I thought you were trying.”

  “I am trying.” Don’t cry.

  “If you were, you wouldn’t be failing American History,” she says like she’s explaining basic math. “You wouldn’t have detention every other week and police wouldn’t be in our house.”

  Go through my room, then. Find the notes. Tell me what to do.

  “Do you ever consider the possibility that stuff is going on in my life that makes it hard to focus on school?” I say.

  “It’s just homework, Joy.” Dad sighs. “It shouldn’t be that hard.”

  I can’t explain how homework zaps me with a panic that gets bigger and bigger until it feels like I have to either put it away or stab myself.

  “If anything’s going on, you can tell us. You know that,” says Mom.

  “You’re just as smart as Grace,” Dad says quietly. “You ought to be able to do as well as her.”

  I hate how furious I am. “I’m not as smart as Grace. We’re not good at the same shit, so quit holding us to the same standard.”

  “Language,” Dad snaps. “Go to your room until it’s time for school.”

  “Do you realize what a ridiculous punishment that is?” I’m barreling down the tracks. “I spend all my time in my room. What is the point of sending me there?”

  “Just . . . go get dressed,” says Mom. “Perhaps tonight we can have a mature conversation about this.”

  I storm upstairs, slam my door. Grace is probably awake and hiding. She hides from fights and that’s why I have to be the fighter.

  I open the window, snatch my untouched note back from the mangled sill. I’ll burn all the notes tonight. Outside, the tree branch bobs infuriatingly in the morning sun. I unfold it, and my heart slices in half. Beneath what I wrote, you don’t have proof, there’s something printed in blocky, unrecognizable handwriting.

  DON’T I?

  EIGHT

  July 16

  Grace

  THE FIELD BEHIND THE MIDDLE SCHOOL IS wet, but that doesn’t stop anybody from sitting on it. Kennedy, Ben, Sarah: three out of the five artsy seniors. Cassius isn’t here and neither is Adam. I’ve never talked to them before, and they don’t seem interested in starting. They’ve barely said a word to Joy or November either, even though November’s in their grade.

  The middle school road is dark, except for the pool of yellow light from the streetlamp. It’s a bad idea to do this in the open.

  “Quit checking the road. The cops won’t come,” Joy says confidently. Like she’s smoked weed (bud? pot?) under the stars with the seniors before. Like I’m the only one doing this for the first time. She’s wearing November’s too-small sweatshirt. She rocks back on her knees, watching the seniors poke grassy stuff into a little glass pipe (bowl? bong?) and pass it in a circle.

  I miss the trick to what they’re doing. November exhales smoke, holds the pipe to me.

  “No thank you,” I say like a kindergartner.

  “No problem,” says November kindly. She turns to Joy. Moves her like a doll, adjusts her hands around the pipe (bowl?). Lights it for her. Murmurs instructions. Joy’s eyes cross. I blush for her, but Kennedy-Ben-Sarah aren’t watching. They’re on their backs, arms tangled up like they’re not conscious of their bodies. What’s it like to not be conscious of your body?

  Joy coughs. Hard. Forever. November pats her back.

  “Fuck middle school,” Kennedy says. “It’s like a crypt of bad memories.”

  I wish I could say it: fuck middle school. Anything I don’t like, just: fuck it.

  “Remember what a bitch you were, Ken?”

  “Remember all the shitty anime I watched?”

  “I was sooo depressed in eighth grade. . . .”

  There’s no way they, too, were balls of silence and fear back then, or ever. Kennedy has pastel-pink hair. Ben’s wearing a tie. Sarah’s shirt quotes The Great Gatsby. They’re like teenagers in books, and movies made out of books, with deep thoughts, quirky hobbies. They fall in love and it fixes them. They’re interesting.

  I’m never going to be broken in a way that makes someone fall in love with me. My sadness will never be interesting. I’m not a girl who makes a good story.

  Joy makes a good story.

  “I don’t know if it’s working,” she keeps saying. She rolls around in the grass. Getting soaked. “Grace, remember our lunch table by the stairs in middle school? I wonder who sits there now. What do you think Cat and them are doing tonight? Making out with an SAT prep book?”

  I haven’t seen my old friends since school ended last month. Maybe that means they’re not my friends anymore. Strange how it can happen, just like that.

  “You know that Halloween-themed fair they have every year on this field?” she asks. “We didn’t go last year. We went every year before then. We should go this year.”

  Everybody in our whole town goes to that fair. Teachers, doctors, they all make the twin
comments wherever they run into us: how we look the same but they can tell us apart. Like we’re theirs because they can see the difference.

  Joy faces November. “Did you like middle school, Nov?”

  “The people who liked middle school are the reasons why everybody else hated middle school.” November’s got one earbud in again. She’s apart from everyone.

  “How come you were gone our sophomore year?” Ben asks bluntly. There’s something aggressive in his expression. “I always wondered.”

  She plays with the rubber bands on her wrists. There’s a long silence.

  Finally Joy says, “Do you guys have any more weed? I don’t feel anything.”

  Everyone reassures her: they didn’t feel it their first time either, don’t exhale right away. She nods, mimes taking notes. She’s always been able to turn herself into a project.

  “Remember how you punched me in elementary school for making fun of your sister’s paintings?” Ben asks her, grinning. “I was a grade above you, too.”

  “I did!” She’s delighted.

  I lie on the grass. There’s peace in being forgotten. This would be a good moment to think some profound thoughts about the stars. But I’m too anxious. I want to go home.

  I close my eyes. I hear the lighter flick on. Joy coughs again. Then the darkness glows behind my eyelids. Headlights. I shoot upright, but it’s not cop lights.

  “I invited Adam,” Ben says. “Hope that’s cool.”

  Oh no. I have to fix my shirt. Have to fix my hair. I’m wearing too much makeup. Maybe he won’t notice in the dark. Of course he’ll notice.

  And then Joy’s arms fall over my shoulders. “Oh my God, this is your chance.” Her eyes are red.

  By the road, Adam hops the little fence. His guitar case bounces against his back with each step.

  “’Sup, all,” he says once he reaches us. Does he see me?

  “Help us out with this.” Ben hands him the pipe. Adam lights it easily. He knows. I have to pretend I know. He inhales smoke and holds it out to me, ignoring everyone else.

  He does see me!

  “I didn’t know you knew Ben and them,” he says.

  I shrug. Cringe. “I don’t. Not really.”

  “Don’t make me smoke this alone.” He sits cross-legged. Next to me. “There’s a shit ton in here.”

  I look at him. He looks back with his dark eyes, darker at night. He lights the bowl for me. Does he know this is my first time? His chest brushes my shoulders. I do what everyone told Joy to do: breathe in, take my thumb off the hole, don’t breathe out—

  “Hey, you wouldn’t do it with me!” Joy’s next to me suddenly, upset. I breathe out the smoke too early.

  “Can you two get a ride home?” November says to us. She’s glaring at Adam. “I feel like going to bed.”

  “Oh, let me guess,” he groans. “In the last two seconds I’ve managed to do something that contributes to the worldwide oppression of women, gay people, and everyone else probably.”

  “Or sometimes people just want to go to sleep,” she says coolly, but her eyes are knives.

  “Fine.” He fake salutes. “Night. Miss ya already.”

  “You are such an asshole.”

  His eyes get darker. Kennedy-Ben-Sarah clump together, useless. Joy’s normally the first to join a fight, but her gaze is unfocused.

  “Can you not?” I say to November.

  Adam grins at me. My stomach swoops. November scowls hard. She whispers something to Joy, hugs her quickly, turns to go.

  “What, I don’t get a hug?” Adam teases.

  “Die.”

  Her hate is so pure that I’m amazed Adam doesn’t bleed.

  “Do you guys have any idea what her problem is?” he asks once she’s gone. “Hasn’t she always been a bitch to me, Ben? Pretty sure she just hates me because I’m a straight white guy.”

  “She used to like you,” says Ben, smirking.

  Joy stares after November as she walks alone across the field.

  “Thanks for sticking up for me.” Adam gives me a brief tight squeeze. I’m warm everywhere. Blossoming.

  Joy scoots toward us. She pulls me aside, down into the grass, away from Adam.

  “Nov said to make sure we didn’t go anywhere with Adam alone,” she whispers.

  “She hates him.” I feel brave. “It’s like she hates every guy. It’s stupid.”

  “Nov’s our friend.”

  “She’s your friend,” I say. She blinks at me. I sigh, murmur, “Joy, I like him.”

  She rubs her eyes. “Just be sure you don’t put him before us.”

  I don’t think she’s paying attention to what’s coming out of her mouth. “You’ve been putting November before us.”

  “Are we fighting? I’m confused.”

  “You said you’d give him a chance. You’ve never even talked to him.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to him.” And then she’s wobbling back toward the group. “Where’s Cassius tonight?” she asks Adam, like a challenge. My scalp gets hot.

  “Fuck if I know.” He’s stretched out, shirt riding up. “I need a break from him sometimes. Guy has a lot of weird thoughts.”

  Next week is when he wants to paint me. I haven’t told Joy—she wouldn’t understand that I’m doing it for her.

  “Don’t say that about your husband!” Sarah chirps. “You guys are so married.”

  “He’s not my type.”

  He looks at me and smiles!

  After awhile, Joy brings out a whiskey bottle—how she had that in her bag I don’t know. But now we’re drinking and the night’s blurring.

  “Okay, everyone. I have an announcement to make.” Joy struggles to her feet. “I hate secrets. Secrets are shit. Can we agree on that? Oh, wait.” She bends over, takes off her shoes, and throws them several feet away before continuing. “Secrets keep people apart.”

  Kennedy-Ben-Sarah crack up. Adam grins. I grin, too. My dumb cute sister.

  “So in the interest of that, all of you should know . . . wow . . . Okay, this grass feels amazing. All of you should take off your shoes right now, and then after that, you should know that she”—she points at me—“likes him.” She points at Adam. “And you, Adam, you be good to her, or I’ll kick your ass.”

  I freeze.

  I’m dying.

  I hate her.

  “Aw,” Sarah coos into Kennedy’s shoulder. “That’s so cute.”

  I can’t look at Adam. But I feel him sidle up.

  “So you like me?”

  “She’s high,” I say weakly. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Except she does. I don’t get why she always screws things up for no reason.

  But he’s not laughing. Not reassuring everyone he only dates thin girls. He’s still looking at me. And it’s really nice to have him look at me.

  I’m sorry, I tell Joy in my head. She’s picking at blades of grass, giggling. I don’t hate you. I’m not mad. Not ever.

  “Talk to me, Grace Morris.” Adam brushes my shoulder. “Tell me your story.”

  I don’t have one.

  “I’d rather hear yours,” I manage.

  “I’m still writing mine. It’s going to be a good one. There’s a lot I plan on getting done in this life. You ever thought about what you want to do?”

  Get good grades. “I don’t know. Be a doctor. Help people, I guess?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m not one of those people who talks about wanting to help others. That’s very naïve. They’re doing it to make themselves feel good. I want to get famous for my sake, and I’m going to be honest about that.”

  I wish I hadn’t said anything.

  “Not one single person who lives in this town is interesting,” he says.

  Don’t disappoint him. Be interesting.

  “It’s like we get held to a different set of standards . . . because we’re smarter,” I say. Cringe. I’m not smarter than anyone, not in any way that counts.

  But he says, “
Fuckin’ right.”

  If I can curl and uncurl my fist thirteen times before anyone stands up, I won’t screw up the next thing I say, either.

  “I’m having these assorted losers over my house at the end of the month,” he says. “You should come. Raise the average IQ. There’s not enough smart people in my life.”

  My stomach leaps. It takes me a second to recognize it: happiness.

  “I’ll show you my bed. It cost, like, two thousand dollars. Tempur-Pedic.” He pushes his shoulder into mine and winks. “You’d look good in it.”

  It’s so hard to tell when he’s joking. Would a normal girl be annoyed or flattered? What would Joy do?

  “I wanted to tell you, um,” I start. Bad transition. “You . . . you should never feel like you have to live up to your grandfather. That’s a lot of pressure—”

  “What are you talking about?” He laughs, but it’s mean. “What do I care what music some old dude made a billion years ago? He’s dead and irrelevant.”

  His warmth is gone. I ruined it.

  He looks around restlessly, glances at Joy’s goofy smile. He mean-laughs again. “Is this her first time?”

  “It’s mine, too,” I say defensively.

  “Don’t get all November on me. I like you sweet.” He looks at me more closely. “Lemme pack another bowl.”

  This time, when he lights it, I suck in hard, determined to do it right. His face, so close: “Don’t breathe out yet.” I don’t. A fire builds in my chest. My eyes water. I cough loudly. Can’t stop. He pays no attention, takes a long hit, holds the pipe out to me again. I don’t want it. I take it anyway.

  My thoughts are tangled. I’m wearing too much makeup. Gross. I’m gross.

  “Quit hiding your face.” He pulls at me. No. Don’t look. Even if someone saw what’s inside me, they wouldn’t want to help.

  Adam disappears at the end of a long tunnel. Then Joy’s with me. In the grass. “Grace?” She’s the sky. I’m underground. She’s so tall. My eighteen-minute-older sister. Protecting me from monsters. But the real monster’s in me, and while she’s waving her sword, it’s eating me.

 

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