Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
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About the Author
Books by Romily Bernard
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Three years ago . . .
When I was six, my parents moved us to East Bumble, Alabama, because my dad found work as a truck mechanic. In terms of life events, this was basically an alien abduction minus the anal probe. Nothing I had learned up until that point worked in East Bumble. I got my ass kicked regularly by older kids in Wranglers. I had no friends.
But it ended up not mattering because Dad got fired within eight months and we were off again. By the time I was fourteen, we’d lived in eleven different places—twelve, if you count here, which I almost don’t because it’s my aunt Charlotte’s unfinished basement and my mom won’t stop crying.
She’s locked herself in the bathroom again. That makes three times this week.
Not that I’m counting.
“Mom?” I lean into the door, test the handle. Locked. “Mom?”
No answer. Coming to stay with Aunt Char was my mom’s idea. She said it would make her better, but her crying—sobbing, really: the kind that rips from your gut and rolls through the air—is a regular thing now.
Usually, I can get her to stop. My dad says I’m good at it, but this time, she won’t listen and I’ve stopped talking—and that scares me almost as much as realizing it’s pointless to try getting her to stop.
When she gets like this, nothing makes her feel better, nothing makes it up to her, and if I’m lucky, crying will be the worst of it.
Doesn’t stop me from sitting outside the bathroom door though. She might need something.
Plus, Dad could be here any minute now. He took an overnight job and is supposed to be headed back to the basement, should already be on the road. If he were to come in and she’s like this . . . well, he hates Mom’s tears even more than I do. It just kills him.
And that kills what’s left of me, so I wait. After ten minutes or so, Tucker, my cousin Ben’s golden retriever, comes downstairs and sits beside me. His fur is rabbit-soft and his breath smells like ass.
“What do they feed you, buddy?” I scratch Tuck under the chin, watch his eyes roll in his head. At least I can make someone happy.
“Will?” It’s Aunt Charlotte. Tucker’s ears prick and he dashes toward her voice, bounding up the steps three at a time. “Ben’s almost ready to go.”
Which means I need to be ready too. It’s the first day of school—my new school. Ben’s supposed to take me.
“Coming!” I stand, wait with one hand on the door handle, hoping she’s going to turn it, come out so we can say good-bye.
She doesn’t.
I grab my book bag from the table and double-check that my sketch pad and pencils are inside before swinging it over my shoulder.
“I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” I head for the stairs before she can answer. It’s easier to pretend I didn’t hear her than know she didn’t respond.
Aunt Charlotte’s waiting for me at the top of the steps. Her eyes are creased with worry . . . or maybe that’s how they usually look. I don’t really know. Charlotte’s my mom’s older sister, and supposedly they were super close as kids, but this trip is the first time I’ve ever met my aunt.
“Do you want breakfast?” Charlotte asks, gaze skittering past my shoulder to the stairwell.
“No, thanks. I’m not really a breakfast person.” I smile and my aunt frowns. I have no idea how to talk to her. Every time I say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, thank you,” she gets all focused. It’s like she’s trying to find something else underneath the words. I don’t want to brag, but usually adults love me. It’s a talent. This one though? No luck.
“Everyone is a breakfast person, Will. It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“Griff.”
“What?”
“I go by Griff.” I keep the smile so she knows I’m not being an ass, even though I’m kind of willing to be on this. My full name is William Reed Griffin. I go by Griff. Always.
Charlotte’s attention swings to the stairwell again. Her hair’s darker than mine or my mom’s. It’s completely black in this light, like a bruise. “Your mom isn’t coming to see you off?”
“She’s tired.”
Her frown deepens.
“It’s been a really hard week for her. She’ll be better with some rest.” Charlotte’s gaze shifts to me and I can see I’m hitting all the right notes: My aunt’s shoulders are relaxing, her face is smoothing. I sound like my mom’s behavior is no big deal. It’s a lie I’ve used so much, I almost believe it myself.
“Come get something to eat,” Charlotte says at last, motioning me toward her bright yellow kitchen. “You look like you need it.”
I always look like I need it. Thanks to a summer growth spurt, I’m six feet and weigh only 160 pounds. Some of this is my build—my dad is tall and skinny too—but, yeah, we have grocery issues.
I can’t admit it to her though. We’re responsible for our own food. It was one of the conditions of moving into Charlotte’s basement, and Dad spent our last fifty on gas for his truck.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, forcing my smile from Friendly Nephew into Vote for Me Politician. I pat the front pocket of my book bag. “I have a really big lunch.”
Again, she believes me, and I get to wait for Ben outside. For about two seconds, I feel like a genius (It’s quiet! No one’s asking questions! Pretty trees to draw!), and then the humidity sets in. We’ve spent the last two years following work in the Northwest and I’d forgotten how southern summers make you feel like you’re never going to be dry again—still better than sitting inside though, watching Ben finish his cornflakes or whatever while my aunt eyeballs me.
I flip open my sketch pad and focus on the ancient oak tree in the neighbors’ yard. Seconds later, my breathing starts to smooth. Minutes later, my chest unwinds. Drawing and computer work do that. They’re the only things—aside from my nickname—I’ve been able to keep with me move after move. Behind me, the door slams and I tuck the notebook into my bag. I’m fast, but not fast enough.
Ben flicks my ear as he passes. “Aren’t you a little old for coloring?”
I get up, follow him to the faded-blue SUV his parents gave him. “Do that again and you’ll have to jerk off with your left hand.”
He laughs and we pile in, pulling away from the curb before my seat belt’s even fastened. Ben drives the whole way to school with his foot mashed on the gas and his hand on the radio dial, switching stations every few minutes. The silence between us should be uncomfortable, but I’m used to it by now.
Most people think it’s nice I have a cousin so close in age, but honestly, the only thing Ben and I have in common is his hand-me-downs. His mom has been shipping them to us for years. In fact, I’m wearing one of his old polos now.
“Heard your mom crying,” Ben says suddenly, eyes still on the road.
“She doesn’t feel well.”
“She doesn’t feel well a lot.”
There’s a pause and I know I’m supposed to fill it, but I watch the houses pass instead. Ben can shove it if he thinks he’s getting me to spill more details. She’s my mom. He should get that.
H
e should also get that you’re not supposed to put on an entire bottle of Axe body spray. My eyes are watering.
We two-wheel it around a bend in the road and make a hard right into a school parking lot. Ben screeches into a nearby space and slams both feet on the brake.
“Welcome to hell,” he says, panning one hand.
I lean forward, look through the windshield. Eh, it could be worse. Most public schools look like prisons. It’s all institutional brick on the outside and washed-out gray on the inside. This one? Well, it’s the same stuff, but at least there are wide banks of windows. I appreciate the effort.
“C’mon,” Ben says, swinging open the driver’s-side door. “Mom’ll kill me if I don’t make sure you find your homeroom.”
I shrug, throwing my bag over my shoulder and following the other kids dragging into school. It’s still pretty early and this side entrance shouldn’t be that popular, but as soon as we’re through the double doors, I realize the hallway’s clogged with people. We have to push through the crowd, making it maybe ten steps before Ben comes up short, staring.
“Girl fight,” he says.
I crane my head, get a better look. More like girl beatdown, because the first girl is way bigger than the second. Hotter too.
If they start rolling around, First Girl is totally popping out of that top.
Ben elbows my side. “That’s Jenna Maxwell.” He bumps his chin toward the hot girl. “Nice, huh?”
“Definitely.” Jenna is a pale blonde with curves in all the right places. The other girl has . . . violently purple hair. She bounces to her feet, saying something I can’t hear, but the crowd laughs and Jenna’s face flushes.
Ben whistles softly. “She’s going to beat the shit out of Wick for that.”
Wick? I glance at him. “Who names their kid Wick?”
“Trash.”
Ben says it easily, like it doesn’t apply to either of us. I guess he’s already forgotten my dad filled out a trailer rental application yesterday.
Ahead of us, Jenna gets the purple-haired girl—Wick—in a headlock, driving her skull toward the floor.
I stiffen. “Do something, Ben.”
“Like what?”
The crowd shoves both of us forward. Everyone’s trying to get a closer look. They’re staring at Jenna and I’m staring at . . . Wick. She’s thrown off Jenna now and should be booking it, but she’s not. She’s waiting for the other girl to make a move.
As they circle each other, I see Wick’s face for the first time. It’s all sharp edges—razored cheekbones, a pointed chin. She looks like the kind of girl you’d cut yourself on.
“What’s going on here?” It’s a female voice, pissed off and loud. Immediately, everyone starts to scatter. “Don’t. Move. Any of you.”
People to my right jostle as an older woman steps into the circle. “What is this?”
Jenna’s breathing hard, one hand working through her hair to smooth it. “Nothing. We were just messing around.”
That’s her excuse? I almost laugh. No one’s going to believe . . . wait. Wick’s nodding. She’s smiling like it’s the truth, and when she tucks hair behind her ear, our eyes meet.
Linger.
Say something, I think. Do the right thing and tell the teacher what Jenna did to you.
“Is that true, Wicket?”
Wick turns. She has to tilt up her chin to face Jenna. “Yeah, just messing around.”
Typical. I’m more disappointed than I should be. She’s too scared to do what’s right. She’s too—there’s a twitch of movement at Jenna’s back. Wick has her arm around the girl and is digging her fingers into Jenna’s rib cage, making the taller girl smile through the pain.
“We just haven’t seen each other all summer,” Wick continues, and her hand twists, knuckles going white.
Damn. That bruise Wick’s leaving will match the ones Jenna gave her. Even from here, I can see how the skin along Wick’s collar is purpling. It’s going to match her hair.
“All of you”—the teacher jabs a finger at us—“get to class.”
Everyone shuffles off, going in ten different directions at once. Ben grabs my upper arm and hauls me toward the stairs.
“Welcome to the Bubble,” he says.
“Are all the girls like that?”
“Like Jenna?”
“No, like the other one.” I don’t want to say Wick’s name. For some reason, it feels personal, like I would be giving Ben something to use against me. “The purple-haired girl.”
“God, no. She lives near that new place you’re going to rent. Couple streets over.” Ben’s gaze slants to mine, brows raised. “She’s probably an easy hit if you want it.”
“That’s not why I asked.”
He snorts. “What else would you want with her?”
I have no idea how to explain it. There was just something about the way Wick looked at Jenna and the teacher and, hell, at all of us as we stared. She didn’t look scared. She looked like she was going to set something on fire.
No. No, that’s not right. I’ve seen plenty of pissed-off chicks over the years. It’s the way she looked alone. Surrounded by all those people, she was still alone. I get that.
I feel it all the time too.
So, yeah, that’s how I came to Peachtree-freaking-City, that’s how I got to know my cousin, and that’s the first time I saw Wick. Stupid if you think about it, but I haven’t been able to look away from her since.
1
Yesterday . . .
So the thing is, my mom won’t get out of bed again. This is the worst it’s ever been—four full days now—and I don’t know what to do. My dad’s still looking for work, we’re almost out of food stamps, and her work’s called twice. I told the manager, some guy named Sipkins, that she had the flu.
“There are a lot of people out there who would like her job, son.”
“I know.” I stare at my mom’s bedroom door, remembering how she complains about this guy. She’s right. He is a mouth breather.
“I’m being very generous here.”
“We really appreciate your patience, sir.” I hate how I have to suck up to him, act grateful for a job that pays only half our trailer rent. At most. Even though we’d be even more screwed without the money, I’m instantly pissed at Sipkins. Then again, I should probably be more pissed at myself. I suck up easily. I’m good at it—especially with people like him. I’ve had way too much practice.
“Well.” Sipkins heaves a heavy sigh. “I’ll let her slide this time.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you, sir. We’re really grateful.” I hang up, but can’t seem to let go of the phone. If we go on much longer like this, Sipkins won’t even be able to call us. If I picked up another lawn-mowing job, I could probably—a car pulls into our driveway, parks.
My heart jerks into my throat. Is that Dad? Is he home?
I part the flower-patterned curtains above the sink and sag. It’s not my dad. It’s my cousin Ben, and I have to take two long breaths, pretend Sipkins never happened so I can get through the next fifteen minutes.
“Griff?” Ben shoulders through our flimsy metal door, paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of his arm. He bumps the door closed with his hip, bumps it again because you can still hear the wind whistling around the frame.
“That’s as closed as it gets,” I say.
“Oh.” Ben puts the grocery bag on the table and both of us pretend it isn’t there. In the beginning, we had this awkward exchange of thank-yous and you’re-welcomes. As time went on, the politeness kind of fell off because it made us both feel weird. It’s hard enough receiving charity from your extended family, but giving it, I guess, can be just as awkward because I could see how much Ben hated each of my thank-yous.
Almost as much as I hated giving them.
“What’s the deal with your neighbors?” Ben drops into the nearest chair and pushes a hand over his close-cropped dark hair.
“Which one?”
My co
usin’s laugh is short and hard. “The fact that you have to ask proves my point that this neighborhood is a shithole. You need to get out of here. I’m talking about the ones who look like meth addicts. You have any anonymous tips you want to give me?”
“Not really.” Couldn’t if I wanted to actually. I know who he’s talking about—young couple who come and go at all hours of the night—but I don’t know their names. The renters in that trailer never stay long. There’s no point in making friends, even if it is to throw my cousin a tip. Ben’s been with the Peachtree City Police Department since graduating high school two years ago. He loves it and is always looking for a way to impress his bosses.
“You want some water or something?” I ask. I sound like I’m on the phone with Sipkins again. It’s like I can’t turn it off sometimes.
“Nah.” Ben nudges his chin toward my mom’s bedroom door. “So is she still . . . ?”
“Yeah.”
My cousin sighs in a way that always makes me want to punch him. “You should come home with me.”
“Then she’d really be alone.”
“You can’t save her, Griff.” Ben shakes his head, turning the words carefully like he’s imparting great wisdom to me. “Women like that . . . you can’t save them. You have to save yourself.”
“By ditching her?”
“Maybe it would wake her up.”
“Maybe it would make her worse.”
“Look, Griff, she’s my aunt. I care about her too, but I’m getting really close to calling DFCS. You’re a minor. It’s my duty.”
Duty as family? Or duty as a police officer? I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. I’m suddenly so tired I want to sink through the floor. I want out of here—not just on my own, but with her, with her the way she used to be. Maybe it’s staying here that’s killing her.
I push the small of my back against the countertop. “You’re going to call Child Services and get me put into foster care? Not likely. Then she’d be your problem.” I didn’t realize how true it was until I said it, watched Ben shudder. It’s so like my own, I pause.
Is that how I look when I stare at her? God, I hope not. Ben and I may have the same blood, but we’re not the same people. Or at least I don’t want us to be.
Lie for Me Page 1