The Safest Lies

by Megan Miranda

  “No, no, all yours,” she said, starting the coffee. I glanced over my shoulder, saw her robe and unwashed hair, the tremor in her hand as she reached for a mug. She must’ve seen me looking, because she said, “I think I’m just coming down with something.”

  I nodded, letting the lie slide. At least she was up, and the coffee was running, and she’d moved on to scrubbing the casserole dish, which was still soaking in the sink from last night. She was okay. Not a step back. No reason to call Jan.

  “So,” I said. “I’ll call you after school, once I know when Cole and Emma plan on driving me home.” I didn’t know whether they had after-school activities, or whether Jan had discussed this already with them. I’d figure it out later.

  “What?” she said, pulling her focus from the dishwasher. “Oh, yes. Okay.”

  “Okay. Well.” I hugged her goodbye, felt the ridges of her spine pressing through her robe. She stared out the back window as I pulled away, her focus a thousand miles away.

  I slid my phone into my bag. “It was a guy named Ryan,” I said, and Mom turned to look at me. “Yesterday. On the phone.”

  “Ryan, huh?” she asked, smiling.

  “Bye, Mom,” I said, smiling in return.

  —

  I heard their car pull up the driveway, then stop, the engine still on. I could see them through the front window, through the gate. It looked like they were arguing. Possibly about who would ring the bell on the gate. And it looked like Emma was losing, as she was suddenly throwing open the passenger door.

  “Gotta go!” I yelled, entering the code to momentarily disarm the alarm system. It beeped once, and I hit the button for the gate on the way out the door, locking it behind me (as was the protocol). The gate would close automatically after I left, thirty seconds later, if someone didn’t either enter the code or a thumbprint at the fence to keep it open, or press the button inside the house, forcing it closed even sooner.

  I jogged through the metal opening, tipping my head to Emma in greeting.

  “I see nothing’s changed,” Emma said, frowning at the iron bars mechanically shutting behind me.

  But all I could think, from the unfamiliar black car with the music pounding to her unflinching gaze, was Everything’s changed. Emma kept changing, kept getting older and different and further from the girl I used to know—the one who used to play tag in the backyard and make jewelry out of gum wrappers.

  “We’re going to be late,” Cole said, still staring straight ahead.

  “We’re not going to be late,” I said. This was the time I left every day, and we lived maybe fifteen minutes away.

  But Sterling Cross had a way of seeming farther away than it actually was. Despite the name, the neighborhood was not in the shape of a cross, nor did it cross through the mountains. It jutted into them, as far as the terrain would allow—man pushing against nature, carving out a space, and mostly losing. These were not houses with views of trees and mountains. This was mountains and trees with specks of houses lost inside. It must’ve felt like another world to them.

  Emma turned down the music. “So, Kelsey,” she began, like she was trying on my name. Remembering what it sounded like. “What did your mom think of the story?” she asked as we pulled out of the neighborhood.

  “What story?” I asked.

  I caught Emma’s eyes in the rearview mirror the second before she tossed the paper through the gap in the seats. It was the Sunday paper.

  Local Student to Be Honored for Bravery

  The article had both of our pictures, side by side, both of us with fake school-picture smiles. And the article detailed the circumstances of the accident. Ryan Baker, eighteen-year-old volunteer firefighter, pulled classmate Kelsey Thomas from a car suspended in a tree branch, at the drop-off known as Benjamin’s Cliff. The mayor’s ceremony was Monday night (public, please come out to show your support!), and Ryan was going to be awarded the Mayor’s Medal of Bravery. Ryan was quoted in the paper: “Just doing what we were trained to do.” And then there was my incredibly embarrassing non-quote beside his. “I’m just happy to be alive,” says Kelsey Thomas.

  Oh. God.

  The article concluded with the few public facts of our existence: Son of a retired firefighter, Ryan lives with his parents, Jeremy and Cathy Baker, in the Pine View subdivision, along with his younger brother. Kelsey lives with her mother, Amanda Silviano, in Sterling Cross.

  I groaned, covering my face with the open paper, wishing I could teleport myself away inside of it. The reporter must’ve pulled Mom’s former name from my original birth certificate—it was the last place it ever existed. She’d changed it, years earlier, to escape reporters.

  “I didn’t realize the accident was that bad,” Emma said. “Honestly. That picture. Wow.” Her voice was softer, like I’d remembered from years ago, and when I pulled the paper from my face, I imagined, for a moment, the little-girl version of her—all bouncy excitement and infectious giggle.

  I scanned the article again, wondering what she was talking about. And there, at the bottom of the article, was an aerial view of my car, crushed and mangled at the bottom of the cliff.

  The car is gone.

  I carefully folded the paper and placed it face-down on the seat beside me, and I folded my hands in my lap, gripping them together, listening to the whistle of air hissing through a broken window seal.

  —

  First period. Math class. I slammed my locker door and took a deep breath, trying to shake some subtle, unplaceable fear. Almost that the walls were closing in, but not that. I flattened my palms against the metal locker door, trying to focus through the haze of voices and laughter. Back when I first started high school, this hallway was a mental hurdle to clear every morning—all the noise, all the people, bodies pressing as they passed, the sounds all blurring together. I couldn’t hear myself think. Mom told me to just keep moving—one foot in front of the other—and before I knew it, I’d be back home again. And eventually, I’d gotten used to it.

  But this. This was something different. Something impending and unavoidable—butterflies in the stomach, bordering on nausea. I ducked into the girls’ bathroom and ran a wet paper towel over the back of my neck. And then I stared at the red line running across my fingers—still visible.

  I jumped at the sound of the two-minute-warning bell, my stomach flipping once more, and then I realized: math class. I was scared of going to math class. Of seeing Ryan Baker in person after our phone conversation.

  Was that normal? That couldn’t be normal.

  It had been so much easier talking to him on the phone. In person, we were awkward and stumbled over each other and never seemed to communicate what we were thinking. On the phone, he couldn’t see me blush or smile so wide it was embarrassing. I could tell him things, and he could tell me things, buried under the caption of a picture.

  Now I was going to see him—no screen to hide behind. And on top of that, there was that article. My ridiculous quote. Ugh. That was the only thing I could say to thank him?

  I stood in front of the open door, saw him already at his desk, his hair falling in front of his face as his hand gripped the pen tightly, drawing an intricate pattern on his wrist, like links of a chain interlocking.

  Ryan usually arrived at class just as the bell rang, sliding into his seat in the back row just as the sound cut off, like he’d been practicing his entire high school career. I was usually in my seat before the two-minute warning.

  Today, the situation was reversed. Because he was brave. And I was the coward. Right.

  The bell for the start of class rang, and Ryan glanced up at the doorway as I stepped inside. I waved, slight smile, and Ryan did the same.

  “Hey, Kelsey,” he said.

  I sat at my desk. “Hi, Ryan.”

  It was obvious from the other students who were all gazing up from their notebooks and twisting in their chairs that the story had circulated a few times, possibly even absorbed some exaggerations based on
the fact that Alyssa kept staring at my legs, like she was surprised they were still functioning and attached to my body.

  The teacher called for attention, and Ryan leaned back in his chair, pen twirling between his fingers. “Nice to see you alive and well, Ms. Thomas,” Mr. Graham said. “Certainly gave us all a scare.”

  I sunk further into my seat, searching for an adequate response. Just happy to be alive, sir. I settled on a mumbled “Thanks.”

  A school administrator gestured to Mr. Graham from the hall, and he excused himself. The room broke into hushed conversation, and I peered at Ryan from the corner of my eye. He was doing the same to me.

  He resumed doodling on his wrist, his knee bouncing under his desk—and I wondered if he was as nervous as I was. I pictured his friends coming into the Lodge, the way he’d laugh along with them, agreeing to meet up later, saying goodbye with pats on the back, getting messages on his phone from girls like Holly—all of which should have made him confident. And he was, he must’ve been, to become a firefighter, to climb into my car. But I also remembered his voice, his words…Don’t be afraid.

  I tried them out. Don’t be afraid, Kelsey.

  I leaned across the aisle toward him. He raised an eyebrow, and then the corner of his mouth. “Congratulations,” I whispered.

  His leg stopped bouncing. The pen paused over his arm. “For what?”

  “The ceremony,” I said. “For the medal.” He went back to the pattern on his wrist, peered at me from the corner of his eye, like he wasn’t sure whether I was serious or not. “Tonight?” I added.

  He shook his head, not making eye contact. “It’s stupid. I told them not to do it. I told them I didn’t want to,” he said.

  “It’s not stupid,” I said. He had crawled into a car dangling over a cliff. It was brave. He deserved the medal.

  Mr. Graham strode back to the front of the room. “Books away! Pop quiz time.” He rubbed his hands together.

  A collective groan rose from the class, and someone mumbled, “You don’t have to look so excited about it.”

  Mr. Graham paused at my desk as he passed out the papers. “Do you need an extension, Kelsey?”

  “No,” I said. I should’ve probably been in a higher-level class than this—Mom had gotten me ahead with all the years of homeschooling—but then I’d have nothing to take next year, as a senior.

  Ryan didn’t look at me for the rest of class, and he didn’t ask me to wait up for him as I quickly gathered my books at the end of the period. He didn’t say he’d see me later, and he didn’t send me any random texts throughout the rest of the day. It was like the Ryan on the phone was one that only existed when nobody else was watching.

  I’d been so sure he’d gotten to class early just for the chance to talk to me. I thought the phone conversation meant something. I thought we’d become friends, somehow. I thought I just had to be brave.

  —

  “I’m not a chauffeur service.” Cole was arguing with his mother on the phone as we stood beside his car in the parking lot. He was supposed to drop me off and then go back for Emma after soccer practice. I stood outside the passenger door, unsure whether I should get in or wait for some sign from him.

  I saw Ryan striding across the lot with AJ and Leo, and he slowed when he saw me.

  “Let’s go,” Cole said, pulling my attention.

  We drove in silence, which I thought was probably better than the alternative.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said when we pulled into my driveway.

  He leaned forward, taking in the gates, the house, and he let out a sigh. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I’ll be here,” I said as I exited the car.

  “Hey, Kelsey?” he called after me through a lowered window.

  I paused in front of the iron bars.

  “For the record, I am glad you’re okay.” And then he drove away.

  I saw Mom’s shadow at the window, curtains pulled aside, then falling back into place, as I pressed my thumb to the security screen at the gate. She’d already unlocked the door as I was walking up the front steps. She stood back from the entrance, watching Cole drive away, then shut and locked the door behind me. Except shut was kind of an understatement. The door slammed, and the pictures on the entrance table shook.

  I took a step backward. The house smelled like green beans and syrup, and I needed both space and air.

  “So,” I said, “I guess you saw.”

  There was something almost unrecognizable about her, this person I knew better than anyone. Something about the way she was standing, the way she was looking at me. Her hands were tightened into fists. “What? Your picture, and my name in the paper with a quote from you? Yes, I saw.”

  “I barely said anything, obviously,” I said. “I didn’t tell her your name. I mean, I told her no comment, but she just kept talking, and—”

  She held up her hand. “What I’m upset about, Kelsey, is that you didn’t tell me. You talked to a reporter, even though you knew I wouldn’t want you to, and you thought I wouldn’t find out? The story was picked up by the state news, for Christ’s sake! It’s a human-interest story now, and it has our address!”

  “No,” I said, “you don’t understand. She called and—”

  Mom fixed her eyes, cold and hard, on my own. “She called? Where was I during this phone call? Were you trying to hide this from me?”

  “God, Mom, you’re completely overreacting! You were in the office with Jan!”

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, but I could tell it wasn’t working. “You don’t just pick up the phone,” she said, like I’d done something akin to handing over the nuclear launch codes to an enemy state. “That’s what the answering machine is for.”

  “I thought it was someone I knew,” I said. “Sorry!”

  “Who? Did you think it was that boy?” I was starting to see my mother like someone from the outside—like she was being completely irrational, like this whole conversation was embarrassing and frustrating and not normal. Which was completely and totally true. “I raised you better than this. I raised you to think—”

  “I thought it was Annika,” I said. “Because I wasn’t answering my cell.” I wanted to tell her to get a grip, to listen to herself, but her hand kept reaching for the scars on her back, and I remembered that she had limitations, that it had taken her seventeen years, and this was as far as she’d come.

  Something impossible to shake, a memory she could not reach—proof that bad things did happen. People were taken, hidden, hurt. Danger was everywhere.

  And here I was, standing before her, living proof.

  The oven dinged, and she strode back to the kitchen and pulled out a pungent casserole. I couldn’t be in a room with this stench anymore. I couldn’t be in a room with her anymore.

  “I have homework,” I said. But she reached for me with an oven-mitted hand, and I lingered near the sink.

  “I feel like I’m…” She let the thought go, but I could tell, with the way she was still reaching for me, and the way I’d been moving back. Like I’m losing you.

  Like I was slipping, falling…

  It was the car, and the pictures, and me in the paper—everything out of her control.

  “I’m here,” I said. “And I’m fine.” I took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat, hated that I had to say the next part. But I did. “We’re safe.”

  She nodded, but her hair fell in front of her face, and I couldn’t read her expression. She took a knife and started hacking at the dish, and I left.

  —

  We ate in silence, both of us pushing green beans around the plate. “Mom,” I said, seeing as she’d had some time to cool off. “I’m sure you saw, there’s the mayor’s ceremony tonight, and Ryan—”

  “So, this Ryan in the paper. Is this the same Ryan that had you glued to the phone yesterday?”

  “I guess,” I said. “We’re…friends.” At least, I’d hoped we were. Now I wasn�
�t so sure. Which was part of the reason I wanted to be there tonight. It felt like I needed to—the moment had become something bigger than the both of us. It had left its mark on him, too, and I was pretty sure I was the only one who could see it.

  She raised her eyes, sharpened them, like she knew what I was about to ask.

  “I should be there tonight,” I said. “I was going to see if Annika could take me.”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “I don’t want you on television,” she said. “You know how I feel about privacy.” Oh, didn’t I.

  And then the walls felt too close, and the gates too high, and everything too narrow and constricting. And I wondered, for the first time, whether Jan was right—whether Mom made me this way. Whether she kept me this way, so I wouldn’t want to leave her.

  “You have to let me out of the house,” I said. “You have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Kelsey. You were just at school. That sufficiently counts as out of the house. The rest? That’s up to the parent. That’s up to me.”

  This was the first fight that I could remember truly having with her. Usually I agreed with her decisions, her ideas seeping into me, becoming my own, like fear itself.

  “Just let me explain—”

  “You’re not going. From now on, you go straight to school, you come straight home. The discussion is over.”

  I took my dish to the sink well before she was finished, and slammed my bedroom door.

  I turned on the music, turned it up loud enough to rattle the windows.

  I called Annika and asked her what she was doing tonight.

  And I prepared to do the one thing that every normal teenager must do at one point or another: I was going to sneak out.

  I set the music on a loop and kept it loud, hoping Mom would let me wallow in my anger. Sometimes the house felt too big for just the two of us—each of us on a separate hallway—but other times, like now, it felt too small. Walls closing in, stale recirculated air, doors opening, doors closing, in unnecessary ceremony.