Friends and Liars

by Kaela Coble

  But as the girls and I collect our purses from behind the bar, where Murphy had “his buddy” the bartender keep an eye on them, someone from the other side of the bar catches my eye. It takes me a second to place her, and by the time I do she’s already made a beeline for me.

  “Ruby St. James,” she says, sneering her emphasis on the “Saint.” She is thinner than I remember her, almost sickly thin, and her hair frames her face in two greasy curtains. Her eyes are bloodshot; her nostrils pink-rimmed. The years have not been kind to her. I try to appear as if this girl’s presence is a happy surprise, but my breath is caught in my throat.

  “Brandy . . .”

  “McCallister,” she scoffs, mistaking my panic for forgetfulness. If only she knew I have never forgotten her full name. That sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with it on the tip of my tongue.

  “McCallister, right. How are you?” I smile weakly. The fluorescent lights grow brighter, doing nothing to hide the harsh reality of Brandy’s appearance.

  “It’s actually not McCallister anymore,” she says, flashing a diamond the size of a flea.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Crane. Mrs. Hardy Crane.” The name causes an instantaneous flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but she says it with a flourish, like she’s been rehearsing this moment for a decade.

  Suddenly it feels like I’m trying to swallow sand. “Oh!” I say. “How wonderful.” I risk a glance around to see if Hardy himself is here to haunt me.

  “He’s not here,” she says, following my gaze smugly, mistaking my fear for interest. “He’s at home with the kids. Girls’ night out.” She points to a posse of girls who are watching us carefully. Like Brandy, they are dressed in age-inappropriate clothing fished out of the clearance bin at the Fashion Bug off I-89. If their outfits weren’t so tight, I would have been worried about concealed weapons, the way they’re looking at me.

  “Well, best of luck to you,” I say, and turn to leave.

  She grabs my elbow, clamping down with all her might. She leans in and snarls into my ear, “If you think you can just saunter back into town and—”

  “Back off, Brandy.” Ally steps in between us.

  Brandy instantly drops her grip but doesn’t step back. “I’m just telling her—”

  “I know what you’re telling her. You’re the only person in this town who thinks Hardy Crane is some prize to compete over, but you’re embarrassing yourself. I think it’s time for you to head on home.”

  Brandy looks at Ally through narrowed eyes, drunkenly trying to decide whether to press the issue. She opens her mouth again, but then Murphy steps in.

  “You heard her, Brandy, go on home to your family.” It’s so strange to hear those words coming out of his mouth. Here we are, rehashing a drama straight out of Chatwick High as if I’d never left, but he’s talking like a grown man, to a grown woman who has a husband and children at home. The surrealism makes me queasy.

  Shaken, I thank Ally, giving her and the rest of my friends a farewell hug. How sad it is for the evening to end this way, after the already tragic day we’ve had. Who knows when I will see my old friends again, and the last thing they will remember of me is the old business with Hardy Crane.

  Murphy hovers nearby as I shrug off Ally’s attempt to further engage about what just happened. He puts his hand in the small of my back and starts to guide me through the crowd. When I look at him questioningly, he smiles sadly and says, “I’ll walk you to your car.” In that look, I know he knows I’m not planning on attending any more reunion events. And he’s not letting me leave without a private goodbye.

  Once we’re outside, I point to the farthest corner of the lot, where I’m parked. The lot is not large, but the walk seems endless. I haven’t been alone with Murphy since the summer before I left for college. I cringe, thinking about that summer. “So, Ally tells me your business is doing well,” I say. I’m trying to rebalance from the drama that just occurred, but my voice shakes. My mind is still trapped in a time I have fought so hard to put behind me.

  When he doesn’t answer me, I risk a glance at him. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, making him look like he’s mid-shrug. I try not to notice the muscles showing through his long-sleeved, form-fitting T-shirt. I prepare myself to tell him I don’t want to talk about my run-in with Brandy, but he only nods with a bemused smile and stares off. When he finally speaks, it’s not to talk about that.

  “Where you been, Tuesday?” It’s the question I didn’t think he’d ask. We walk in silence the last few feet to my car.

  I sigh. “You know where I’ve been, Murphy. New York. London.”

  “No phones in New York or London? I mean, I can understand why you didn’t call me, but Ally? Emmett? Danny?”

  “I . . . got busy.” The excuse is pathetic, and untrue. I look down, my hands trembling as I search for the right key through the tears that fill my eyes again. He takes both of my hands in his and pulls me to face him. His eyes are like magnets, and I don’t know how long we look at each other before he reaches into my clasped hands, fishes out my keys, and swiftly inserts the one with the Nissan emblem on it into the keyhole. Our gaze breaks along with the tension.

  “Still drivin’ this thing around, huh? Old Blue?” he teases, his tone suddenly jovial again.

  “It’s been in my parents’ garage all these years. You know Nancy,” I say as I open the door and climb into the driver’s seat. It’s the middle of September and just cold enough for an open window to be unnecessary. I crank it down anyway, to get another few minutes with him.

  “It’s a perfectly good car!” Murphy says, in a spot-on imitation of Nancy. “No use getting rid of something that works just fine!”

  I laugh, and he crouches down and rests his arms on the windowsill. “Nice to hear that sound again,” he says. I’m starting up the car, so I don’t know if he’s talking about my sad little engine or my laugh. Again our eyes lock. Suddenly the smile is gone, and his face is moving toward me. No, I think, but my head moves toward him despite it.

  “Hey, Murphy! Wanna get a move on? The bar’s closed and I need to take a piss!” Emmett. Sweet, eloquent Emmett.

  “Yeah, I’m comin’,” Murphy says.

  He looks at me one last time, smiling, and gives his shaggy head a shake.

  “Drive safe,” he says. He stands up, but seems to change his mind and leans in again. “You know, you’ve come a long way since Hardy Crane, Tuesday.”

  I watch as he walks away with a sad smile on his face. As soon as I pull around the corner and am out of sight, I cry the whole way home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALLY

  Back then

  I don’t like what I’m seeing with Ruby and Hardy Crane. Hardy has that look in his eye, the same look my dad used to get before he went out hunting with Uncle Charlie. And he’s refilling Ruby’s shot glass like he’s looking for a tip, and I don’t mean a dollar bill. His antenna is up, for sure—the one that tells him when there’s a vulnerable girl around. Meanwhile Danny and Emmett just sit there, laughing as Ruby gets wasted, both trying to be Mr. Cool because we’re sophomores and Hardy is a senior. Who cares? It’s his second time being one, that doesn’t exactly make him Top Shit.

  I figured Hardy would leave after Danny sold him whatever it was he wanted, but he’s still here and for no good reason. I mean, he’s on the hockey team with Aaron, but they are not friends. Aaron knows what happened when Hardy and I dated. It’s actually how Aaron and I met. When I was a freshman, Hardy took me to the homecoming after-party at Dunphy’s field, got so drunk he pissed his pants, and slapped me across the face when I tried to point it out quietly. Hardy’s friends hauled him away, and I was too shocked to move. Then Aaron came out of nowhere, this handsome guy I’d seen around the halls at Chatwick High who came from the Town School. He offered me a ride home in his brother’s car, and we’ve been together ever since.

  I don’t know why Ruby is even talking to Hardy, let al
one going shot-for-shot with a guy who uses his liver like a toilet. She’s never really been a big drinker, at least not compared to the rest of us. I’m guessing because she doesn’t want to end up like her mother. I mean, she’ll have a beer or two and takes a poke of whatever’s being passed around, but I’ve never seen her drunk. That would mean she’d have to lose some control, and we all know Ruby can’t do that.

  I think I’ve been pretty good about giving her space since she’s been staying at my house (as much space as you can give when you’re sharing a bed), but clearly she isn’t dealing with her family drama as well as she’d like us all to believe. Wouldn’t you think if your mother landed in rehab and your father told you he’s not coming back until she’s sober for a year, you would want to talk about it? Especially with someone who knows what it’s like for your dad to quit on you? Not Ruby, though. When she’s going through stuff, she wants to be left alone. And if you push her, she’ll just clam up more. So I let her be, and try not to be too mad when she sneaks out of bed and brings the cordless into the bathroom to call Murphy. Ruby is usually pretty serious, especially these days, but you’d think she was at a comedy show from the sounds I hear coming from that bathroom. He’s not even that funny.

  Her dad made arrangements for her to stay with us and left her plenty of money, but Ruby still insists on working at that second-hand store. I used to think she just liked having clothes different from the rest of the kids at school—although I personally don’t see what’s wrong with shopping at the Gap or American Eagle at the Drummond Mall for brand-new clothes that haven’t been sweated in and who-knows-what-else by some stranger. But now I think it has something to do with the old ladies she works for. They’re like forty and fifty, I don’t know what they could possibly have to talk about, but every time I walk in there to visit Ruby, they’re chattering away. Maybe it’s because she’s like an old lady herself. No one knows that about her, because she’s been through so much and talks tough and smokes cigarettes like a chimney. But underneath that, all she cares about is getting good grades. I swear when we used to ride the bus together, she would pull out a book and just sit there and read. What a nerd! I mean, I’m sitting right there for her to talk to and she’s got her nose stuck in a book. How rude!

  And speaking of rude, the boys are offering no help in this situation. Danny’s already passed out in his room, Emmett and Tara left twenty minutes ago to take advantage of Tara’s empty house, and Aaron and Murphy, Ruby’s so-called best friend, haven’t gotten back from their munchie run to the Quik Stop, leaving me all alone as Hardy moves in on Ruby. I have to do everything around here. When Hardy goes to refill Ruby’s glass again, I finally say, “Ruby, I think you’ve had enough.”

  Ruby just glares at me—like I’m the bad guy here!—and Hardy says, “Oooh-hooo, looks like someone’s jealous she’s not getting all the attention anymore.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Hardy, that has nothing to do with it. Look at her! She can’t hardly stand up!”

  “Ally, I take care of m’self,” Ruby slurs.

  “Clearly,” I say. She nods her head self-righteously, not picking up on my sarcasm.

  Hardy mutters something about being “over this business,” and makes like he’s going to leave. Good riddance to white trash. This town is crawling with it, and Hardy is just one example of white trash who happens to be good at something (okay, two things: hockey and funneling beer), so he’s actually popular in spite of it. When I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, he turns to Ruby. “Wanna get out of here?” he asks, like he couldn’t give a shit whether she said yes or no.

  Ruby just nods. I stand in front of her as she goes to follow him. “Ruby St. James, you are not getting in a car with someone who’s been taking shots all night.”

  She pushes past me, says again that she can take care of herself. “You’re not my mother!” she yells as she struggles to slip on her shoes.

  “Yeah, I know. Because if I were, I would be in REHAB!” I yell back. Maybe that’s mean, but for one, it’s the truth; for two, she’s treating me like shit just because I’m trying to protect her from being killed; and for three, I’m hoping it will make her mad enough that she’ll stay here and fight with me.

  It doesn’t work. She slams the door behind her, and I hear the tires screech out of the driveway a minute later.

  It isn’t till 4 a.m. in the morning that Ruby comes back to Danny’s house. I know because I’m sitting up in the living room, waiting for her like her goddamn mother should be doing.

  The thing you should know about Nancy, in case all this comes back around to me, is that she’s not always a useless crazy drunk. Most of the time she’s like June frickin’ Cleaver. Like bake-sale director, food-drive organizer, Halloween-costume seamstress for Ruby and me (because my mother has a job, and zero sewing skills), cheerleader at Ruby’s debate club and my tennis matches and Murphy’s baseball games and Emmett’s basketball games and Danny’s . . . well, Danny isn’t heavy into extracurriculars that don’t involve getting high, but you get the point. And the St. James’ house is so neat, with every last thing always in its proper place. Sometimes we rearrange her trinkets just to see if she’ll notice. She always notices.

  Then every once in a while, Nancy will get in this mood. Ruby calls them black periods, and it has something to do with being manic-depressive. She stops coming to our games and she stays in her room when we come over, and she stops doing all the stuff that makes her Top Shit Mom. After a week or so of that, she starts drinking. I don’t know if she’s trying to cheer herself up or what, but she drinks at home for a few days before she runs out of booze at the time of night when it’s too late to restock at the gas station. When that happens, she heads down to Margie’s and doesn’t leave until she’s forced to. It used to be Mr. St. James who would fish her out, but if the rumors are true, he said he was done rescuing her the night he found Nancy making out with some ’necker. So since before either of us even had permits, Ruby’s been taking her dad’s Beamer to drive the four blocks down to Margie’s and back. The whole town knows she does it, but they don’t say anything, because she can’t be expected to drag Nancy up that hill all by herself, and it’s better than Nancy’s drunk ass driving home.

  Aaron and Murphy get back and have already devoured the entire food supply on the way back. Aaron is so stuffed he’s too tired to stay up with me, so he goes to bed in the basement. I love him, but sometimes I could pop him one. Murphy asks where Ruby is, and I tell him exactly. He looks all worried for a second, but then he just goes to the spare room to sleep. Now I’m sitting here in Charlene’s La-Z-Boy, flipping between the “Are you my daddy?” talk show and an infomercial for this vibrating belt that you strap to your stomach to lose weight. As I’m about to give up and go to bed, Ruby waltzes in.

  She’s not drunk anymore. At least, she’s not stumbling all over the place. But she does look like hell. Her hair’s all messed up, her eyes are puffy, and her shorts and tank top are wrinkled to shit. It doesn’t take a genius, but I still can’t believe it. Ruby St. James, Miss Top Shit Honor Roll, losing her virginity to some dumbass second-year senior?

  “Have fun?” I ask, in a way that should tell her I’m pissed. I worried all night, and here she just strolls in without a word.

  She pretends she’s real into the talk show, even though she always teases me for watching this shit. “Yeah,” she says, casual as anything. “Hardy is actually pretty cool. We talked about our parents. His are even more fucked up than mine, if you can believe it.” She says it like she rehearsed it. “Hey, are there any smokes left?”

  Oh, and now she’s going to lie to me and act like nothing happened? I’ve been walking on horseshoes for two weeks while she pretends everything is fine, and now she’s going to treat me like I’m stupid? “Really?” I say. “In all this time you spent ‘talking,’ did Hardy tell you all about his girlfriend?”

  That gets her attention. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head. “He sa
id he wasn’t seeing anyone. That he just broke up with—”

  “Brandy McCallister?” I say. Ruby nods. “Well, that’s funny, because Brandy McCallister called here about two hours ago. She said she was waiting for her boyfriend to get back with the weed. Wanted to make sure he was okay.”

  Ruby’s face gets even whiter than usual. She swallows. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her he got you drunk and fucked you, Ruby,” I say sarcastically. “What do you think? I lied! I told her he left hours ago and I didn’t know where he went. She was probably worried out of her mind he was in a ditch somewhere. Too bad she was right.”

  “Ally, cut it out,” I hear from the doorway behind me. Oh, perfect. This is when Murphy decides to make an entrance, swooping in just as Ruby starts crying, so I look like the bad guy and he gets to be the big hero.

  Ruby crosses the room to Murphy and he hugs her. Without a word, he leads her into the spare room where he’s been sleeping while I’ve been up worrying. I’m about to sneak over to the door to see if I can hear them talking when Murphy comes back.

  “Ally, what the hell is wrong with you?” he whisper-yells at me.

  “With me?” I whisper-yell back. “What’s wrong with me? I’m the one who’s actually looking out for her, Murphy. What the hell did you do to help?”

  “I wasn’t even here!” he says.

  “Exactly. You’re supposed to be Ruby’s ‘best friend,’ and you didn’t think it was important to stay close and protect her, when she’s obviously going through a rough time?”

  “Protect her from what? As far as I knew, our friends were supposed to be here shootin’ the shit in Danny’s basement, like always. Was I somehow supposed to know some predator would be here, just waiting to get Ruby drunk so he could—” He swallows. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to think of Ruby acting so . . . well, I don’t need to say it out loud. You know what I’m thinking.