One of Us Is Lying

by Karen M. McManus

  “You know that’s a rich-girl problem nobody else cares about, right?”

  She grins, unoffended. “I need to make a playlist to keep her motivated. Any recommendations?”

  “I doubt we like the same music.”

  “Maeve and I have varied musical taste. You’d be surprised. Let me see your library.” I shrug and unlock my phone, and she scrolls through iTunes with an increasingly furrowed brow. “What is all this? Why don’t I recognize anything?” Then she glances at me. “You have ‘Variations on the Canon’?”

  I take the phone from her and put it back in my pocket. I forgot I’d downloaded that. “I like your version better,” I say, and her lips curve into a smile.

  We head for the food court, making small talk about stupid stuff like we’re a couple of ordinary teenagers. Bronwyn insists on actually buying me a pretzel, although I have to help her since she can’t see two feet in front of her face. We sit by the fountain to wait for Maeve, and Bronwyn leans across the table so she can meet my eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” I raise my brows, interested, until she says, “I’m worried about the fact that you don’t have a lawyer.”

  I swallow a hunk of pretzel and avoid her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because this whole thing’s starting to implode. My lawyer thinks the news coverage is going to go viral. She made me set all my social media accounts to private yesterday. You should do that too, by the way. If you have any. I couldn’t find you anywhere. Not that I was stalking you. Just curious.” She gives herself a little shake, like she’s trying to get her thoughts back on track. “Anyway. The pressure’s on, and you’re already on probation, so you…you need somebody good in your corner.”

  You’re the obvious outlier and scapegoat. That’s what she means; she’s just too polite to say it. I push my chair away from the table and tip it backward on two legs. “That’s good news for you, right? If they focus on me.”

  “No!” She’s so loud, people at the next table look over, and she lowers her voice. “No, it’s awful. But I was thinking. Have you heard of Until Proven?”

  “What?”

  “Until Proven. It’s that pro bono legal group that started at California Western. Remember, they got that homeless guy who was convicted of murder released because of mishandled DNA evidence that led them to the real killer?”

  I’m not sure I’m hearing her correctly. “Are you comparing me to a homeless guy on death row?”

  “That’s only one example of a high-profile case. They do other stuff too. I thought it might be worth checking them out.”

  She and Officer Lopez would really get along. They’re both positive you can fix any problem with the right support group. “Sounds pointless.”

  “Would you mind if I called them?”

  I return my chair to the floor with a bang, my temper rising. “You can’t run this like it’s student council, Bronwyn.”

  “And you can’t just wait to be railroaded!” She puts her palms flat on the table and leans forward, eyes blazing.

  Jesus. She’s a pain in my ass and I can’t remember why I wanted to kiss her so badly a few minutes ago. She’d probably turn it into a project. “Mind your own business.” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I mean it. I’ve made it through most of high school without Bronwyn Rojas running my life, and I don’t need her to start now.

  She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I’m trying to help you.”

  That’s when I realize Maeve is standing there, looking back and forth between us like she’s watching the world’s least entertaining ping-pong game. “Um. Is this a bad time?” she says.

  “It’s a great time,” I say.

  Bronwyn stands abruptly, putting her glasses on and hiking her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.” Her voice is as cold as mine.

  Whatever. I get up and head for the exit without answering, feeling a dangerous combination of pissed off and restless. I need a distraction but never know what the hell to do with myself now that I’m out of the drug business. Maybe stopping was just delaying the inevitable.

  I’m almost outside when someone tugs on my jacket. When I turn, arms wrap around my neck and the clean, bright scent of green apples drifts around me as Bronwyn kisses my cheek. “You’re right,” she whispers, her breath warm in my ear. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. Don’t be mad, okay? I can’t get through this if you stop talking to me.”

  “I’m not mad.” I try to unfreeze so I can hug her back instead of standing there like a block of wood, but she’s already gone, hurrying after her sister.

  Addy

  Tuesday, October 9, 8:45 a.m.

  Somehow Bronwyn and Nate managed to dodge the cameras. Cooper and I weren’t as lucky. We were both on the five o’clock news on all the major San Diego channels: Cooper behind the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler, me climbing into Ashton’s car after I’d abandoned my brand-new bike at school and sent her a panicked text begging for a ride. Channel 7 News ended up with a pretty clear shot of me, which they put side by side with an old picture of eight-year-old me at the Little Miss Southeast San Diego pageant. Where, naturally, I was second runner-up.

  At least there aren’t any vans when Ashton pulls up to drop me off at school the next day. “Call me if you need a ride again,” she says, and I give her a quick, stranglehold hug. I thought I’d be more comfortable showing sisterly affection after last weekend’s cryfest, but it’s still awkward and I manage to snag my bracelet on her sweater. “Sorry,” I mutter, and she gives me a pained grin.

  “We’ll get better at that eventually.”

  I’ve gotten used to stares, so the fact that they’ve intensified since yesterday doesn’t faze me. When I leave class in the middle of history, it’s because I feel my period coming on and not because I have to cry.

  But when I arrive in the girls’ room, someone else is. Muffled sounds come from the last stall before whoever’s there gets control of herself. I take care of my business—false alarm—and wash my hands, staring at my tired eyes and surprisingly bouncy hair. No matter how awful the rest of my life is, my hair still manages to look good.

  I’m about to leave, but hesitate and head for the other end of the restroom. I lean down and see scuffed black combat boots under the last stall door.

  “Janae?”

  No answer. I rap my knuckles against the door. “It’s Addy. Do you need anything?”

  “Jesus, Addy,” Janae says in a strangled voice. “No. Go away.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I don’t. “You know, I’m usually the one in that stall bawling my eyes out. So I have a lot of Kleenex if you need some. Also Visine.” Janae doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry about Simon. I don’t suppose it means much given everything you’ve heard, but…I was shocked by what happened. You must miss him a lot.”

  Janae stays silent, and I wonder if I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth again. I’d always thought Janae was in love with Simon and he was oblivious. Maybe she’d finally told him the truth before he died, and got rejected. That would make this whole thing even worse.

  I’m about to leave when Janae heaves a deep sigh. The door opens, revealing her blotchy face and black-on-black clothing. “I’ll take that Visine,” she says, wiping at her raccoon eyes.

  “You should take the Kleenex, too,” I suggest, pressing both into her hand.

  She snorts out something like a laugh. “How the mighty have fallen, Addy. You’ve never talked to me before.”

  “Did that bother you?” I ask, genuinely curious. Janae never struck me as someone who wanted to be part of our group. Unlike Simon, who was always prowling around the edges, looking for a way in.

  Janae wets a Kleenex under the sink and dabs at her eyes, glaring at me in the mirror the whole time. “Screw you, Addy. Seriously. What kind of question is that?”

  I’m not as offended as I’d normally be. “I don’t know. A stupid one, I guess? I’m only just realizing I suck at social cues.”<
br />
  Janae squirts a stream of Visine into both eyes and her raccoon circles reappear. I hand her another Kleenex so she can repeat the wiping process. “Why?”

  “Turns out Jake’s the one who was popular, not me. I was riding coattails.”

  Janae takes a step back from the mirror. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  “ ‘I am large, I contain multitudes,’ ” I tell her, and her eyes widen. “Song of Myself, right? Walt Whitman. I’ve been reading it since Simon’s funeral. I don’t understand most of it, but it’s comforting in a weird way.”

  Janae keeps dabbing at her eyes. “That’s what I thought. It was Simon’s favorite poem.”

  I think about Ashton and how she’s kept me sane over the past couple of weeks. And Cooper, who’s defended me at school even though there’s no real friendship between us. “Do you have anybody to talk to?”

  “No,” Janae mutters, and her eyes fill again.

  I know from experience she won’t thank me for continuing the conversation. At some point we need to suck it up and get to class. “Well, if you want to talk to me—I have a lot of time. And space next to me in the cafeteria. So, open invitation or whatever. Anyway, I really am sorry about Simon. See you.”

  All things considered, I think that went pretty well. She stopped insulting me toward the end, anyway.

  I return to history but it’s almost over, and after the bell rings it’s time for lunch—my least favorite part of the day. I’ve told Cooper to stop sitting with me, because I can’t stand the hard time everyone else gives him, but I hate eating alone. I’m about to skip and go to the library when a hand plucks at my sleeve.

  “Hey.” It’s Bronwyn, looking surprisingly fashionable in a fitted blazer and striped flats. Her hair’s down, spilling over her shoulders in glossy dark layers, and I notice with a stab of envy how clear her skin is. No giant pimples for her, I’ll bet. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Bronwyn looking this good, and I’m so distracted that I almost miss her next words. “Do you want to eat lunch with us?”

  “Ah…” I tilt my head at her. I’ve spent more time with Bronwyn in the past two weeks than I have the last three years at school, but it hasn’t exactly been social. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Well. We have some stuff in common now, so…” Bronwyn trails off, her eyes flicking away from mine, and I wonder if she ever thinks I might be the one behind all this. She must, because I think it about her sometimes. But in an evil-genius, cartoon-villain sort of way. Now that she’s standing in front of me with cute shoes and a tentative smile, it seems impossible.

  “All right,” I say, and follow Bronwyn to a table with her sister, Yumiko Mori, and some tall, sullen-looking girl I don’t know. It’s better than skipping lunch at the library.

  —

  When I get out front after the last bell, there’s nothing—no news vans, no reporters—so I text Ashton that she doesn’t have to pick me up, and take the opportunity to ride my bike home. I stop at the extralong red light on Hurley Street, resting my feet on the pavement as I look at the stores in the strip mall to my right: cheap clothes, cheap jewelry, cheap cellular. And cheap haircuts. Nothing like my usual salon in downtown San Diego, which charges sixty dollars every six weeks to keep split ends at bay.

  My hair feels hot and heavy under my helmet, weighing me down. Before the light changes I angle my bike off the road and over the sidewalk into the mall parking lot. I lock my bike on the rack outside Supercuts, pull off my helmet, and go inside.

  “Hi!” The girl behind the register is only a few years older than me, wearing a flimsy black tank top that exposes colorful flower tattoos covering her arms and shoulders. “Are you here for a trim?”

  “A cut.”

  “Okay. We’re not super busy, so I can take you right now.”

  She directs me to a cheap black chair that’s losing its stuffing, and we both gaze at my reflection in the mirror as she runs her hands through my hair. “This is so pretty.”

  I stare at the shining locks in her hands. “It needs to come off.”

  “A couple inches?”

  I shake my head. “All of it.”

  She laughs nervously. “To your shoulders, maybe?”

  “All of it,” I repeat.

  Her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, you don’t mean that. Your hair is beautiful!” She disappears from behind me and reappears with a supervisor. They stand there conferring for a few minutes in hushed tones. Half the salon is staring at me. I wonder how many of them saw the San Diego news last night, and how many think I’m just an overly hormonal teenage girl.

  “Sometimes people think they want a dramatic cut, but they don’t really,” the supervisor starts cautiously.

  I don’t let her finish. I’m beyond tired of people telling me what I want. “Do you guys do haircuts here? Or should I go somewhere else?”

  She tugs at a lock of her own bleached-blond hair. “I’d hate for you to regret this. If you want a different look, you could try—”

  Shears lie across the counter in front of me, and I reach for them. Before anyone can stop me, I grab a thick handful of hair and chop the whole thing off above my ear. Gasps run through the salon, and I meet the tattooed girl’s shocked eyes in the mirror.

  “Fix it,” I tell her. So she does.

  Bronwyn

  Friday, October 12, 7:45 p.m.

  Four days after we’re featured on the local news, the story goes national on Mikhail Powers Investigates.

  I knew it was coming, since Mikhail’s producers had tried to reach my family all week. We never responded, thanks to basic common sense and also Robin’s legal advice. Nate didn’t either, and Addy said she and Cooper both refused to talk as well. So the show will be airing in fifteen minutes without commentary from any of the people actually involved.

  Unless one of us is lying. Which is always a possibility.

  The local coverage was bad enough. Maybe it was my imagination, but I’m pretty sure Dad winced every time I was referred to as “the daughter of prominent Latino business leader Javier Rojas.” And he left the room when one station reported his nationality as Chilean instead of Colombian. The whole thing made me wish, for the hundredth time since this started, that I’d just taken that D in chemistry.

  Maeve and I are sprawled on my bed watching the minutes on my alarm clock tick by until my debut as a national disgrace. Or rather, I am, and she’s combing through the 4chan links she found through Simon’s admin site.

  “Check this out,” she says, angling her laptop toward me.

  The long discussion thread covers a school shooting that happened last spring a few counties over. A sophomore boy concealed a handgun in his jacket and opened fire in the hallway after the first bell. Seven students and a teacher died before the boy turned the gun on himself. I have to read a few of the comments more than once before I realize the thread isn’t condemning the boy, but celebrating him. It’s a bunch of sickos cheering on what he did.

  “Maeve.” I burrow my head in my arms, not wanting to read any more. “What the hell is this?”

  “Some forum Simon was all over a few months back.”

  I raise my head to stare at her. “Simon posted there? How do you know?”

  “He used that AnarchiSK name from About That,” Maeve replies.

  I scan the thread, but it’s too long to pick out individual names. “Are you sure it’s Simon? Maybe other people use the same name.”

  “I’ve been spot-checking posts, and it’s definitely Simon,” she says. “He references places in Bayview, talks about clubs he was in at school, mentions his car a few times.” Simon drove a 1970s Volkswagen Bug that he was freakishly proud of. Maeve leans against the cushions, chewing on her bottom lip. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’m going to read the whole thing when I have time.”

  I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. “Why?”

  “The thread’s full of weird people with axes to grind,” Maeve says. �
�Simon might’ve made some enemies there. Worth looking into, anyway.” She takes her laptop back and adds, “I got that encrypted file of Cooper’s at the library the other day, but I can’t get it open. Yet.”

  “Girls.” My mother’s voice is strained as she calls upstairs. “It’s time.”

  That’s right. My entire family is watching Mikhail Powers Investigates together. Which is a circle of hell even Dante never imagined.

  Maeve shuts her laptop as I heave myself to my feet. There’s a slight buzzing from inside my end table, and I open the drawer to pull out my Nate phone. Enjoy the show, his text says.

  Not funny, I reply.

  “Put that away,” Maeve says with mock severity. “Now is not the time.”

  We head downstairs to the living room, where Mom has already settled into an armchair with an exceptionally full glass of wine. Dad’s in full Evening Executive mode, wearing his favorite casual fleece vest and surrounded by a half-dozen communication devices. A commercial for paper towels flashes across the television screen as Maeve and I sit side by side on the couch and wait for Mikhail Powers Investigates to start.

  The show focuses on true crime and it’s pretty sensationalistic, but more credible than similar shows because of Mikhail’s hard-news background. He spent years as an anchor with one of the major networks, and brings a certain gravitas to the proceedings.

  He always reads the beginning hook in his deep, authoritative voice while grainy police photos play across the screen.

  A young mother disappears. A double life exposed. And one year later, a shocking arrest. Has justice finally been served?

  A high-profile couple dead. A dedicated daughter suspected. Could her Facebook account hold the key to the killer’s identity?

  I know the formula, so it shouldn’t be any surprise when it’s applied to me.

  A high school student’s mysterious death. Four classmates with secrets to hide. When the police keep running into dead ends, what’s next?

  Dread starts spreading through me: my stomach aches, my lungs compress, even my mouth has a horrible taste. For almost two weeks I’ve been questioned and scrutinized, whispered about and judged. I’ve had to deflect questions about Simon’s allegations with police and teachers, and watch their eyes harden as they read between the lines. I’ve waited for another shoe to drop; for the Tumblr to release a video of me accessing Mr. Camino’s files, or for the police to file charges. But nothing’s felt quite so raw and real as watching my class picture appear over Mikhail Powers’s shoulder on national television.