Dare You to Lie

by Amber Lynn Natusch

  “Striker said to make sure you got this.”

  “Hence the errand boy comment—”

  “Do you know what’s in here?”

  “Do you know what’s in there?” I countered, knowing damn well he would have looked. The suspense would have killed him.

  “They’re copies of evidence from you father’s trial.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” I exclaimed, snatching the file from his hand. “Consider your errand complete. I’d tip you, but … I don’t get paid until next week.”

  “Why did Striker want you to have those?” he asked, totally unfazed by my jab.

  “Because I asked for them.”

  He shook his head.

  “That’s adorable. You think you can find something that a defense lawyer and a team of FBI agents couldn’t find.”

  “They weren’t really looking, though, were they? They approached his investigation as if he was already guilty. Hard to be objective when your singular focus is to bring down the fall guy.”

  “Says the girl with the singular focus of freeing her daddy,” he replied. “What a sad day it’s going to be for you when all you find in those files is the truth of your father’s guilt.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I turned to walk away from him, dismissing him entirely.

  “Striker also asked me to see how you’re doing, so I’ll ask. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, before you showed up. Be sure to tell him that. It’ll do your career wonders.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to get in the final word. Instead, I opened the front door and slammed it shut. Gramps shot me a look from the kitchen, so I put on a smile and crossed the room to greet him with a little pep in my step. Despite Agent Douchecanoe’s return, the afternoon had gone off without a hitch and I was still riding my post-workout endorphin high. Throw in my new job, and it was a total trifecta. “Did my door offend ya on the way in?” he asked, turning his attention back to whatever he was poking around at in the Crock-Pot. It smelled like heaven. I joined him and grabbed a fork from the drawer, ready to pillage the ceramic dish and abscond with its contents. Unfortunately for me, Gramps was still pretty quick for his age. He caught my wrist as I reached for the pot. “Nope. Got at least an hour left to cook. No liftin’ the lid, you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir,” I said with a nod.

  “Well, all right then. How’s about you doin’ your homework until it’s done, then we can have dinner together tonight?”

  “Great idea. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  I walked down the hall to my room and pulled my homework out of my bag. Sitting at Gramps’ desk, I started to sort through the backlog of work I still needed to get caught up on. Though I was making some headway with it, study hall just wasn’t long enough to put a dent in every subject. I had a lot of long nights ahead of me. Staying focused on the work would prove challenging, indeed, especially with everything going on.

  An hour later, Gramps popped his head into my room with a smile on his face.

  “Dinner’s all set. You wanna join me on the porch?”

  “Sure thing!”

  He gave a quick nod, then disappeared into the hallway.

  I closed up my books and made my way to the kitchen, where a plate of food was already waiting for me. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it. Gramps was filling my parental void in an epic way.

  The screen door creaked as I pushed it open. Balancing my plate in my hand and a cup of water in the other, I made my way to the porch railing and popped a hip half onto it. It was wide enough to precariously place my plate and cup on, so I did, giving me a chance to hoist myself all the way up to sit with legs dangling.

  “There’s a perfectly good chair right there,” Gramps said, indicating Gram’s old rocking chair. The one that matched his. The perfect pair.

  She’d been gone since I was little, but something always seemed wrong to me about sitting in that chair. Like I was invading one of the only memories I had of her. The one where she used to rock with me in her lap and read me stories until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  “I can see you better from here,” I lied.

  “Well, that’s good then, since you’re ’bout to tell me about your broken windows. I wouldn’t want to miss the expression on your face while you try to find a way outta tellin’ the truth.”

  “Now, Gramps,” I replied before taking a big bite of his famous pot roast. “Would I do that?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Lord, your Gram would have a fit if she saw you doin’ that.”

  “She’s probably rolling in her grave at the thought.”

  “God rest her soul, I’m sure she is.” The two of us shared a quick laugh. “Now. The windows?”

  “Someone smashed them at school. Kind of a welcome-back present, I imagine.”

  “Rolled out the red carpet for ya, did they?”

  “Apparently. Just think of what would have happened if they really didn’t like me.” I winked at him before taking another bite. That pot roast was the best damn thing I’d eaten in ages.

  Gramps dropped the subject, knowing that I hadn’t exactly left JHS under great terms. He knew I’d have some enemies upon my return. He also knew that if I wasn’t pushing the issue, it was probably best left alone.

  We ate in silence for a bit, Gramps enjoying the gradual sunset, and me running my various issues over in my head. Amy and Donovan, The Six, and my dad’s case—the one I didn’t even know how to begin solving.

  “Somethin’ botherin’ you, Ky?” Gramps asked, still rocking in his worn-out chair. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm light on his weathered old face. A face that held an edge of knowing in its expression. He knew I was upset. He saw right through me. “I know I ain’t your father, but—”

  “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Why don’t you let some of it out, then? Maybe I can help.…”

  I took a deep breath, placing my plate down carefully on the railing.

  “I thought that maybe after all this time that the backlash of those pictures would have faded, but it hasn’t. I can’t escape it, Gramps. Everywhere I turn there’s a reminder of it, whether it’s a glare from some judgmental prick or the leer of some perv. The girls aren’t much better. Most just look at me like I’m a whore, which is highly ironic given some of their sexual histories,” I said, looking past him. I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I just—I just don’t think anyone will ever let it go unless I can prove that I had no part in it.”

  “Junebug—”

  Junebug. Gramps only called me that when he was worried or wanted me to feel better about something—when he wanted me to feel safe and secure like I did as a kid. I don’t think he even realized he did it. But I’d had a lot of Junebugs over the past two and a half years. The pattern was undeniable.

  Junebug, your daddy’s gonna to be okay.

  Junebug, your mama’s just stressed ’bout the trial.

  Junebug, don’t worry, your mama will come to her senses.

  Gramps didn’t realize that he couldn’t Junebug everything into being okay, but he sure did try.

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm my rising unease.

  “I know I should learn to let it go. I tried to. It was easy to in Columbus. But here? It’s just too hard. I need to put this to rest.”

  I finally let my eyes drift over to him. He was staring at me, brow furrowed.

  “If that’s what you need, then put it to rest, girl.”

  I smiled.

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good, now, what else is going on over at that school that I need to know about?”

  “Well, one of the football players is taking steroids and has all the side effects that go along with it.”

  The crease in his brow deepened.

  “Like what?”

  “Like beating on his girlfriend and trying to beat on me.” Gramps shot from his chair
like a threat had snuck up on us both. “Don’t panic,” I said, trying to calm him. “The day a man lays his hands on me is the day he’ll find himself taking one long-ass dirt nap.”

  Gramps sat down. “Damn right.”

  “She stays with him, too.… I think that’s the part I’m struggling the most with. How you could let someone treat you that way and still stay. I mean, I get that our culture breeds a certain amount of this, but I don’t feel any pressure to tolerate it. How does it get so bad for someone that they’d rather live in fear than leave?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, scratching the stubble on his chin.

  “Because sometimes the leavin’ is far more dangerous than the stayin’.” I let that thought sink in while he continued. “I’ve seen a lot in my years workin’ at Logan Hill. People always ask me about the prisoners, but I tell you, it’s the visitors that are always the most interesting people in that building. I’ve seen women so cowed by their men that even with them locked away, those girls are too scared to start a new life for themselves. I’ve put a lot of thought over the years into why. Tried to sort out why a person would choose that life.”

  “Did you come up with any answers?”

  “Too many to count.” He reached over and took my hand, holding on to it while he spoke. “Kylene, you can never assume that people got it as good as you do, and that says somethin’, given what happened to you and your father’s current situation. But even if they do, that don’t mean it can’t happen to them too. Some of these girls—they’ve never known love at all, let alone from a man. Hell, half of them probably don’t even know who their daddies are. It’s damn shameful, creatin’ a life and then walkin’ away from it like it ain’t nothin’. You think about that long and hard, Kylene. You think about what that would be like. What your life would have been without your daddy around teachin’ you like he did. Takin’ care of you when your mama couldn’t.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. If any parent was absent in my life, it was her, not him.

  “And if they were ’round in the beginning, God knows they left when those girls were too young to understand—and they blamed themselves.”

  “But can’t you change that? I mean, there are tons of girls in single-parent homes that aren’t this way.”

  “Well, now, that’s true, but you see, that’s how it often starts. If not that, then somebody ain’t done right by those girls. I can’t tell you the things I’ve heard from inmates—vile things that I will take with me to my grave. Girls aren’t kids anymore. They’re women in smaller bodies. It sickens me to think that it’s true, but I’ve heard hundreds of stories that tell me it is. And then you throw the TV and that damned internet into the mix, and it only gets worse.”

  “I know you don’t think girls dressing a certain way means they’re asking for unwanted attention, Gramps. Otherwise, you’d think those pictures were my fault.”

  “Hell no, Kylene. I don’t care how a girl dresses; it ain’t an invitation for someone to treat them like they ain’t a person with rights. I’m sayin’ that sometimes these girls with low self-esteem don’t know any other way to get attention, so they try to get any they can. It’s sad and it’s wrong, but that don’t make it any less true. They don’t think they’re worth nothin’, so they let people treat ’em that way.”

  “Geez…”

  “I know this is hard for you to wrap your head around, ’specially because you’re a fixer, just like your daddy. And you crave a sense of justice that few these days still do. I don’t know that you’ll ever really be able to understand the why in this, Kylene, any more than you understood the why in this town turning its back on you after those damn pictures were taken.”

  “What if I could prove what Donovan is doing? Just like I’m going to prove what happened the night those pictures were taken.”

  Gramps looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “I see where you’re goin’ with this, but I’m not sure it’ll help her in the way you think it should. And if it means stickin’ your nose in a dangerous place, I don’t want you doin’ it.” His eyes narrowed and he shifted forward in his seat. “You need to mind yourself where this boy and girl are concerned. It ain’t your fight. Your daddy’s in jail and your mama’s off living her new life. I can’t have nothin’ happen to you, you hear me?”

  I did. I forced a soft smile as I got up and closed the distance between us to hug him.

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Gramps. I promise.”

  “I love you, Junebug, but don’t you make me promises you ain’t got no way of keepin’.”

  “I’m not. I swear.”

  “On your daddy’s life?”

  “On my daddy’s life.”

  When Gramps finally released me, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and headed for the door. I stopped short, holding the knob for a second while I got control of my rising emotions. Swearing on my father’s life seemed a grim reminder of where he was and the danger he was in—at least until his paperwork went through.

  “He’s going to be okay, right, Gramps?”

  I couldn’t look at him. I just held on to that knob and prayed for an answer I could cling to.

  “I’m not allowed to work in his section of the prison, but my friends are keeping me posted. They’re watching out for him as much as they can. He’s gonna be fine, Junebug.”

  My grip on the door tightened.

  “Thanks, Gramps,” I said before heading inside.

  I made my way to my makeshift room and plopped down on my cot, bouncing a few times before it finally stilled. I stared at the wall of photos in front of me, zoning them out until they were just a big messy blur.

  I was too busy thinking to process anything else.

  Gramps had tried to reassure me about my dad, but the truth was he couldn’t, and deep down, I knew that before I asked. Maybe the little girl in me just needed to hear it—needed to believe it would be all right, even if the jaded teen knew it was a lie. Until I could find evidence worthy of reopening his case, I had to hope his paperwork went through sooner than later.

  Or that Gramps’ friends really could help keep him safe.

  I closed my eyes and took a breath, trying to force my mind to focus on something other than my father. Distraction was often the only way to derail its train of thought. So I thought about what Gramps had said about Donovan—that going after him would only get me in trouble, more trouble than I was already in. And judging by how quickly things had escalated, another encounter with him wouldn’t end favorably for me. But then I wondered if there was an easier solution: one that didn’t involve going directly after him. What if I could just get enough leverage to keep him off my back—maybe off Amy’s, too?

  I lay back on the cot and folded my hands behind my head. A plan was brewing in my mind—one that could put an end to Donovan’s behavior. In the morning I’d schedule an appointment at the Appalachian Valley Medical Center. Dr. Carle, prescriber of questionably legitimate medications, and I were going to have a little chat.

  FOURTEEN

  “Appalachian Valley Med Center; this is Sheila. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Sheila. I would like to schedule a new-patient appointment.”

  “Excellent. I’m happy to help you with that. I just need to get some information from you first.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there a particular doctor you would like to schedule with?”

  I smiled. “Dr. Carle, please.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Carle only works part-time and rarely takes on new patients.”

  “Really?” I replied, sounding as disappointed as I felt. For once, I didn’t have to put on an act.

  “Our other physicians are just as wonderful.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they are; it’s just that some of my friends at school rave about Dr. Carle.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s by referral only.”

  Interesting …

  “I had a cancellation for later
this afternoon with Dr. Frye. She’s new here but an excellent doctor. Would that work for you?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  I hung up, wondering exactly how one could get a referral to Dr. Carle. I had little doubt it was something sketchy.

  * * *

  School went by that day without too much of a hitch. Mr. Callahan continued to be a douche. Donovan sneered at me all through gym class. And Tabby and Garrett made me laugh at lunch. Everything was going great until my afternoon English class.

  Ms. McManus started the class off with a discussion about classics with semicontroversial subject matter. It wasn’t long before The Scarlet Letter came up and I found Eric Stanton and Scooter Brown whispering to themselves and staring at me like a couple of gossipy girls. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. The second Ms. McManus opened the floor for commentary, it was game on.

  “I don’t get what the big deal is with this book,” Scooter said, not waiting to be called on. “I mean, she did what she was accused of. Why should we feel sorry for her?”

  He made a point of staring at me.

  “I think the question you need to ask yourself is whether or not it was an injustice to be publicly vilified for a private matter,” Ms. McManus said. “Should she have been forced to wear the mark of her crime for all in town to see?”

  Scooter shrugged.

  Eric chimed in on his behalf. “That was the punishment at the time—an accepted practice. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  My hand shot up in the air.

  “Yes, Kylene?”

  “So the letter was essentially an olden-times way of slut-shaming, right?”

  “Well, yes. That’s one way to look at it.…”

  “She cheated. She was branded a cheater. It didn’t matter the consequences surrounding her situation; it was boiled down to logistics. She had sex with someone else while married. She was an adulterer. End of story.”

  “I guess.…”

  “So, my question is: Did men ever have to wear the letters, or just the women? I mean, if they did the same, shouldn’t they be viewed the same way in the public’s eyes? As cheating whores?”

  “No,” Scooter said with a laugh—like I’d said the most ridiculous thing ever.