Friends and Liars

by Kaela Coble

  “To my old friends,

  So here you all are. Nice to see you can show up for a person once he’s dead.”

  Charlene stops, her mouth open, her eyes horrified at the abrupt change in tone. Her expression almost exactly matches those of Ally, Aaron, Emmett, and Steph. My face and Murphy’s have not changed; he and I were expecting this. Probably because we know we deserve it. Charlene’s eyes scan the rest of the page, and then she looks at me, as if she’s asking permission to continue. I nod my head to grant it.

  She looks down at the page again, her hands shaking visibly. She looks back up at me and shakes her head. The first note was bad enough. She doesn’t want the last memory of her son to be this. I stand up, grab the box of tissues from the top of the TV, and guide her back to my seat with them. Murphy takes one of her hands. With the other, she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. I take Charlene’s place at the head of the class and continue reading:

  “I haven’t heard from any of you in a while. Some of you I see down at Margie’s Pub every weekend, so I don’t know what makes you think you’re so much better than me. I doubt Ruby and Murphy are even here. They’re both really good at ignoring problems.”

  I look at Murphy, who glances at me and then returns to staring straight ahead.

  “If any of you actually showed up at my funeral, don’t feel like you deserve some medal. None of you bothered to try to help me when I was alive, when it counted.”

  Ally is crying audibly now, her head in her hands, slumped into Aaron’s chest. Charlene’s eyes dart between each of our faces guiltily, as if she were the one who wrote the hateful words. “I’m sorry,” she says to us. “I didn’t know. I thought it would be like mine, not . . .” She waves her hand at the letter in mine. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  But something in me tells me that Danny’s last words deserve to be read. Maybe the part of me that feels I contributed to his demise by abandoning him all those years ago. I turn my eyes back to the page and continue:

  “You always talked about ‘the crew, the crew, the crew,’ like we were some untouchable entity. But when it comes to things that really matter, you guys barely even know each other. I think it’s about time you did, if you’re going to continue to pride yourselves on being friends since the womb. I know things about most of you that you didn’t trust the rest of ‘the crew’ to know.”

  Here I pause, a hot spring of acid appearing in my throat. But I know if I choose not to continue reading, someone else will snatch this piece of paper away from me. If I read it, I can control the information if it reveals too much.

  “There is one envelope for each of my dear friends who once pledged always to be honest with each other, and each envelope contains evidence of your betrayal of that pact. I’ll leave it up to you. You can either share the envelopes with each other, or keep them to yourselves. Just remember that all things done in the dark have a way of coming to light. If you don’t tell each other your secrets, you never know how, or when, I might have arranged for them to come out.”

  He didn’t sign the letter “Love, Danny,” which is no surprise after the content. He simply dashed off a large, loopy “D.” I’m not sure what to do with the piece of paper. I don’t want to give it back to Charlene, so I place it on top of the television, next to the pile of envelopes, which I pick up. Each has a name on it. There is one for me, one for Ally, one for Emmett, one for Murphy, and one, oddly enough, for Danny himself. I hold them in my hands, little grenades of paper. If I tear them up now, will it stop them from detonating? Judging by the ferocity of Danny’s letter, I’m guessing not.

  I hand out the envelopes, and as I do so each person looks at me, searching for answers to the questions on all of our minds. I drop the envelope with my name on it back on the TV set, left now only with Danny’s envelope in my hands, which says, “I’ll go first.” I know what it will say, and I wish I could somehow shrink down and disappear inside the envelope so I don’t have to deal with any of what’s about to happen. But I don’t debate with myself if I should open it or not, or if I should give it to Charlene for her to sort out instead. I just rip open the seal and pull out a small piece of paper. It says what I thought it might say.

  I read aloud the truth that changed everything for Danny:

  “I killed my stepfather.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  RUBY

  Back then

  I’m used to waking up in the middle of the night. Danny throws rocks at my window every couple of weeks. So tonight, when I bolt upright in bed, I wait to hear the next pebble before I bother getting up. I hold my breath, waiting for the ping! against the glass to slice through the thick summer air, but I don’t hear it. I draw the curtain to look out to the street, but no one’s there.

  I lie down and try to fall back to sleep. Sometimes my ceiling fan, tired from the effort of keeping my room cool in the humidity of the Vermont summer, starts to creak in the middle of the night, and in the past I’ve mistaken the noise for Danny’s SOS. But my fan hasn’t been on since the storm knocked out the power hours ago. My phone call with Ally cut off mid-sentence after a flash of light, which I’m sure made her more worried. The first night I had a sleepover at her house—we were maybe five or six—there was a thunderstorm so big I couldn’t help but tell her I was scared, and she stayed up with me all night playing Go Fish, giving my hand a squeeze with every boom of thunder. Ever since then, she calls me to make sure I’m okay when it storms. Even though I’m over the fear, I love that she still checks on me.

  After we lost power I tossed and turned, replaying a much more powerful storm that swept through earlier: Hurricane Nancy. She’s off her meds again. “You don’t understand how they make me feel sweetheart,” she raced to say as she paced my room, gathering discarded clothes from the floor and hanging them in my closet, picking up items from every surface to wipe imaginary dust away with her hands. “I just can’t live underwater anymore. You know what they say: water is for fish and seaweed and coral and speaking of Coral that sister of yours keeps antagonizing me she’s so ready to get out of this house well she’s in for a surprise when she gets out into the real world and realizes there are people in this world a whole lot crazier than me and . . .” On and on she went, climbing farther up the ladder of hypomania without taking a breath.

  The power must have come back on just before I fell asleep, because I could hear her banging pans and cabinet doors in the kitchen, preparing to bake. When I was little, I used to sneak into the pantry and watch her as she kneaded and rolled out the dough in perfect, flat circles. Her baking was magic to me. Now that I’m almost a teenager and have been through this enough times, I know I will wake up in the morning to fresh scones and a mother who has crashed so hard she can’t get out of bed.

  I am so sure I feel trouble that I keep sitting back up to check the window. Finally, I get out of bed and tiptoe downstairs. Sure enough, a tray of baked goods cools on the counter, although the kitchen is dark except for the blinking digital clock on the stove and microwave. I open the back door—slowly, so the creaks in the old hinges will be quieter. I don’t turn the back porch light on. I never turn it on, even though the dark scares me, because I can’t risk waking anyone up. The earth smells damp and clean, but the humidity hasn’t broken. Steam rises from the driveway. Wind chimes collide on the Bronsons’ porch, but there is no breeze. A chill runs down me in spite of this.

  Danny is not on the rocker where he usually waits for me. I suppose it’s possible I woke out of habit, or heard the clinking of Nancy washing her dishes before turning in for the night. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s out of place. I’m about to chock it up to paranoia and go back to bed when I hear a rustling coming from the lilac bush in the farthest corner of the backyard. I stand on the rough wood of the deck, staring at the bush and telling myself I’ll be thirteen next week—too old to believe in monsters in the bushes. But I hug my arms to my body anyway, goose bumps popping up on my arms despite the
heat, too scared to move. Feeling stupid, I whisper, “Hello?” into the darkness.

  I hear the noise again, and right when I’m about to wet my nightgown, I hear, “Don’t be scared, it’s me.” A few seconds later, I make out Danny’s figure coming out from behind the bush.

  “Jesus, Danny, what are you doing?” I whisper-yell at him. I want to punch him, but by the look of the bruises on his cheek, he’s gotten it bad enough tonight.

  “I just needed a place to hide out for a while,” Danny says. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

  This is weird of him to say, considering he’s been “dragging me into” every beating his stepfather has handed him since we were in second grade. When Charlene started dating Roger Deuso, our parents told us how lucky Danny was to finally be getting a father. His real dad left when Danny was only a baby. And Roger, who owns the below-the-tracks landmark Deuso’s Deli, is practically famous for his charity. He’s always giving free subs to “neighbors in need,” and considering where the deli is, I’m surprised he makes any money at all. He became even more of a hero when he married Charlene—“A single mother and her ‘troubled’ child?” the Chat said. “That Roger Deuso sure is a saint.”

  So when, a couple of months after they got married, the neighbors started hearing Danny screaming bloody murder, they decided he is just “a little hell-raiser,” and “God bless Roger for putting up with it.” Danny’s bruises and cuts are waved away. “Must have gotten into a scuffle at school,” they say. He’s called a “sour one” and a “bad egg,” and even though he’d never exactly been an angel, it wasn’t long until Danny really started living up to his reputation. Murphy, who’s been his best friend since First Communion, has to pull him off boys at recess more days than not. Danny is not even allowed at Emmett’s, and while Ally never comes out and says it, when Danny is with us we always play in her back field instead of going into the house. It makes me so angry he gets all the blame, but Danny made me promise not to tell anyone. I think he’s afraid his mom will pick Roger over him. Can you blame him? She’s not deaf, dumb, or blind. In a way, it’s like she already has.

  That’s why Danny comes to me. He knew I understood discretion, back before that was one of our vocabulary words in fifth grade. I know how to hide stuff, because my family’s almost as screwed up as his. Almost. I’ll take my mother, and her tendency to medicate her bipolar disorder with alcohol, over Roger any day.

  We sit on the rocker, and he winces when I reach out to examine his face. Because I wasn’t sure Danny was here, I am not prepared with the first-aid items I usually meet him with—a towel of ice, Neosporin, and some Band-Aids. His eye is swollen shut. If I hadn’t seen him from the other side, I would barely be able to tell it’s Danny. I get up to go inside and retrieve my supplies, but he grabs my hand.

  “Don’t go.” He whispers it so quietly I’m not sure he really said it. He starts to shake, so I sit down and wrap my arms around him sideways, to warm him up, to steady him, whatever he needs. But he jumps away from me. He usually flinches when people get too close to him—in fact, that’s what most of his recess fights are about—but he’s not usually like that with me.

  “What set the asshole off this time?” I whisper, savoring the feeling of the swear word on my tongue.

  “Don’t call him that,” he snaps.

  This is also new. Usually Danny doesn’t start defending Roger until he’s already called him every name in the book and is trying to prepare himself to return home. He’ll say stuff like “I shouldn’t have left my skateboard in front of the shop, he says it looks trashy,” or, “I shouldn’t have left the laundry basket open, he’s told me a million times to keep it shut.” I mean, my house has a lot of dumb rules like that, too, but if I break one of them, I get yelled at. I don’t get hit.

  “What happened?” I demand. I don’t usually push like this, I wait until Danny’s ready to talk, but tonight something is off. 1) He didn’t wake me up. 2) He was hiding in my backyard, not sitting on the rocker like usual. 3) He said he “didn’t want to bring me into it,” but he’s been bringing me into it for years, so why is tonight any different?

  The eye that can still open looks around wildly before settling on my face. “I think you should call Murphy.”

  It’s only when Roger is so fired up that he screams at Danny to “never show his rotten face here again” as he (literally) kicks him out on the street, that we call Murphy. Danny always comes to my house first, because he knows I’ll tend to his wounds and let him cry if he wants to. After that, we assess whether it’s worth waiting it out, giving Roger some time to cool off before he sneaks back in, or if we need to give Murphy the warning call that Danny’s on his way and he’ll need to be snuck into the basement again.

  The first time we called him for help, his terrifying mother screamed at us in French and hung up before even asking who was calling. Since then, Murphy’s learned to keep the portable phone next to his bed. So I’m not surprised when he answers on the first ring.

  “Yeah, I’ll wait for him on the side porch,” Murphy says groggily, before I even speak.

  “No, Murph,” I say. “He wants you to come here this time.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. He’s acting really weird. Just get the hell over here!” I whisper-yell into the phone.

  While we wait for Murphy to arrive, I hold Danny’s hand and use my feet to keep the rocker moving back and forth. I hope the motion will soothe him, but I get no sign either way. He is silent, staring down at the pool like he’s thinking of jumping in and never resurfacing. It seems like hours that we wait for Murphy, but it can’t be that long because he only lives three blocks away. None of us live more than three blocks away from at least one other member of our crew, except for Danny, who is ten blocks. The deli is below the tracks.

  Finally Murphy climbs the back steps and joins us on the deck, wearing the same shorts and T-shirt he wears to my house to swim in to cover up the baby fat he hasn’t shed yet. He looks at our clasped hands, confused. I realize he probably thinks he’s been called here so Danny and I can announce we’ve become a couple. Or maybe ask permission, since Murphy and I were boyfriend and girlfriend for like a week last year before we realized we can’t stand each other when no one else is around. He would think that’s what this is about, despite all the times Danny has been our mutual crisis. What an idiot!

  Then, without looking at Murphy or me, Danny starts talking. “It was just like always,” he says. “I was sleeping, and then suddenly Roger busted open my door and yanked me out of bed. He lifted me by my shirt,” and he grabs the top of his shirt at this, twisting it into a knot, “so I was looking right into his eyes, and he had that look, and I knew I was in for it. He asked me what the hell was wrong with me, and when I didn’t say anything, he dragged me into the living room and pointed at the Sega. I forgot to put the controller away. I said I was sorry and went to wrap the cord up and put it in the drawer under the TV, but he smacked it out of my hand and picked it up and started hitting me over the head with it. Hard.

  “My mom woke up from the noise. I always try to be quiet, to keep her out of it, but when he hit me this time, it felt like my skull was cracked open. When she yelled at him to stop, he turned on her and started shaking her. ‘This little bastard has no discipline! I take you into my home, and this is the thanks I get?’ Same as usual. When she begged Roger to leave me alone, he slammed her head into the wall. He went to do it again and then, suddenly, he stopped. Roger never stops hitting until someone’s on the floor crying, so right away I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see his face, but his back kinda stiffened up, and then he bent over, grabbing his arm. When he dropped to the floor I could finally see his face, and it was redder than I’ve ever seen it. Including the time I called him a ‘dickhead’ and he broke two of my fingers.

  “My mom called out his name and kneeled next to him, crying. She told me to call nine-one-one, say that Roger was having a heart
attack, but I didn’t move. She asked me again, but I just stood there and waited for her to look at me. Roger was rolling around on the ground, begging us to help him, but I simply looked at my mother and told her to go back to bed. She shook her head at first, saying we had to do something, and I yelled at her to get back in her room and not to come out until I told her to. I sounded just like Roger did when he yelled at her for not loading the dishwasher right. But she listened. She got up, went back to her room, and closed the door.”

  My hand is over my mouth now. I know how the story is going to end, but Murphy either doesn’t know or he needs to hear Danny say the words, because he asks, “Dan, what happened to Roger?”

  Danny looks at Murphy like it’s the first time he’s really seeing him, then he answers. “After a few minutes, Roger stopped rolling around. He just looked at me, mad as hell, but scared, too. And I sat down on the couch and looked right back at him. Until he stopped moving.”

  I wait a beat before I ask, “And then you left?”

  Danny nods. “I knocked on my mom’s bedroom door and told her she should call nine-one-one. I knew it would . . . look funny if she didn’t.”

  Murphy and I look at each other. We both know this is way over our heads. My hand is still on top of Danny’s, and the squeeze I give him is like the flip of a switch. His face crumbles and he starts crying. He cries so hard I’m worried he’s going to choke.

  “Breathe, Danny, breathe,” I say, rubbing his back.

  “I just wanted it to stop,” he says between moans. He repeats it over and over, and I pull him to me. Finally, he lets me. He feels so small. He sounds like he did in kindergarten, when Emmett used to steal his lunch, and I realize the part of Danny that was still in any way a child an hour ago is making its final appearance tonight. And the parts of Murphy and I that are supposed to be children—supposed to be worrying about whether we’re going to make the baseball team, or who we’re going to take to the end-of-year dance—they’re gone now, too. We can’t ever unknow what we know.