If I Lie

by Corrine Jackson

  The porch light is on when I get home, even though the sun peeks over the horizon. Blake waves from his truck, waiting until I’m inside before he pulls away. I fall back against the front door for a moment, too unsteady to stand without support.

  Everything can change in a heartbeat.

  I’m in love with a boy who loves me back.

  I walk down the hall to peer into the living room. The TV drones on, tuned to an early a.m. infomercial. My father sits on the couch, his arms crossed and his chin dropped on his chest as he sleeps. Blake had called him hours before to say he’d bring me home when I was ready. He’d insisted, so a search party wasn’t sent out for us. My father hadn’t even argued.

  I leave him sleeping.

  After showering, I put on my pajamas and head for my room. My gifts from my birthday party have been piled on my dresser, including the laptop from my mother. A gift bag sits on my bed—the one my father had brought to the hospital—and I open it. He must have talked to George, too. He bought me an expensive tripod to go with George’s camera.

  “Do you like it?”

  My father stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. I can’t read his expression. He’s not cold, but he’s not giving much away, either.

  I glance at the package in my lap and nod. “Very much. It’s perfect. George told you he was giving me the Nikon?”

  His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That camera was George’s? I thought it was yours.”

  “You didn’t talk to him?” I ask, surprised.

  He shakes his head slowly. “No. You never go anywhere without that thing. I thought maybe the tripod would come in handy.”

  “It will,” I say.

  Last year he’d given me tickets to an amusement park. I hadn’t been to one since I was little, and I’d never used them, and eventually I gave them away. But he’d put thought into this gift. My father had noticed something I loved.

  “I see you,” he says, as if he’s read my thoughts.

  Maybe sometimes. It’s a start. I can give something in return.

  “Dad, you know how I applied to Boston University’s photojournalism program? I got accepted.”

  He only looks surprised for a second before he pulls me off the bed to give me a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

  And he is proud. It’s all over him, and I wonder why I waited so long to tell him or anyone else.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “How about we celebrate tomorrow? I’ll take you out to dinner.”

  “What about Mom?” I ask.

  He lets me go. “Quinn, we need to talk. Maybe after we both get some sleep.”

  “I think we need to talk now,” I argue, crossing my arms.

  He shoots me a warning look. “Don’t push it. You stayed out all night without calling, and I’m trying to cut you some slack here. Like I said, let’s get some rest.”

  I watch him walk away from me. I should let him go. My emotions are spinning all over the place. That’s exactly why I can’t let him go.

  “I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t just tell me to obey.” I raise my voice. “You said she was never coming back. I was eleven and my heart was broken and I wanted you to tell me she still loved me. Do you remember that? You told me she was gone and I needed to grow up and stop wishing she’d come back.”

  He glances over his shoulder. “You said it yourself. You’re not a kid anymore, Quinn. Adults make mistakes. I’m sorry I disappointed you, but I’ve done the best I could.”

  He leaves, closing my door behind him.

  I shout, “You should’ve tried harder!”

  Footsteps pause in the hall, and then fade as he walks away.

  * * *

  It’s a school day, but I decide to skip. I think I’ve earned it after the night before. I sleep the morning away and wake to an empty house. My father’s left a note. Quinn—Fixings for veggie omelets in the fridge. I’ll be home late. Dad. A man of few words.

  His idea of an apology?

  After eating and dressing, I head to the hospital. George is asleep, and I drop my purse and camera bag on the floor and settle in. Oxygen tubes run into his nose, and he’s hooked to an IV for the first time I can remember in a long time. His skin appears thin, as if the slightest scratch could puncture it. The signs have been there all along. I’ve just been ignoring them.

  His eyes open, and for a moment he looks lost. I step toward the bed, and he focuses on me. Then he says, “I’m not dead yet. Stop looking at me like that or you can get the hell out of here.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Shut up, old man. You scared the crap out of me yesterday. The least you can do is put up with a few tears.”

  “Not a chance,” he says, but he squeezes my hand. He gestures to his table, and I pour him a cup of water from a plastic pitcher. He’s more worn-out than he’s letting on, because he lets me tip the straw to his lips while he drinks. He frowns. “Not much of a birthday yesterday, was it?”

  I pull my chair closer so I can hook my legs on the rail of his bed. “The best-laid plans . . .”

  “What happened?”

  He grills me on everything that unfolded after he collapsed. I blush when I get to the part about Blake finding me in the woods, even though I leave out most of the details. I don’t fool George.

  “So it’s like that, is it?” He chortles when I suddenly find the wall behind him fascinating. “You’re in love with this boy. Blake.”

  He doesn’t sound judgmental. In fact, he doesn’t even sound surprised.

  “You knew,” I accuse.

  “I guessed. Something in your voice whenever you mention him. How you mostly avoid talking about him. He the boy in the picture?”

  I say nothing, giving him an obstinate look.

  “Geez, you’re a mule. Keep your secret then.”

  “Are you mad?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Nah. Whatever you are, you’re honorable, kid. If you won’t talk, you have your reasons. Mysterious and screwed up as they might be.”

  I shoot him a relieved smile. “Quit being mean to me or I won’t tell you my news.”

  “There’s more? I’m not sure I can take it.”

  I tell him about Boston University, and he lets out with a whoop that sets off a spate of coughing. A nurse I don’t know pops his head in to check on us, and as soon as George has breath, he tells the nurse the news. He’s like a proud papa. A warm glow settles over me, one I didn’t feel even when I shared the news with my father.

  It hits me.

  George won’t be alive to see me graduate college. Maybe not even high school.

  The amused nurse wanders off, and George notices how quiet I am.

  “You’ve finally figured it out, haven’t you?” he says.

  “How long, George?”

  For once, he doesn’t put on a brave face. I need an answer, and he understands that.

  “The docs say a few weeks if I’m lucky. Things are happening fast now, kid.”

  I clamp my jaw tight. George hasn’t asked much of me. Honesty and friendship. I can avoid the tears and the whole maudlin scene for him.

  “Well, that’s a pisser.” I inject as much humor in my voice as I can, but my words fall flat.

  He attempts to sit up, and I jump up to help him, shoving pillows behind his back. “I’m being serious,” he says when I back away. “I think maybe you shouldn’t keep coming here. I don’t want you to see this.”

  I fall back on my heels. He’s trying to send me away. For my own good. That’s the only thing that enables me to rein in my anger.

  “Fuck you,” I say. He glares, but I cut him off before he can speak. “Listen up, old man. I’ve put up with a lot of shit this year. I’m not going to take any from you. And I’m not leaving. I thought you knew me better than that.”

  “This isn’t about being a good friend—”

  “No, you’re right.” I busy myself, tucking his blanket around him. “It’s about family. You’re my fam
ily, stupid.”

  George’s eyes well up, and I look away. It sounds cheesy, but it’s the freaking truth: I love the old guy.

  I clear my throat. “Can we agree not to talk about this again?”

  He huffs. “Are you kidding? I’m about to go into diabetic shock from all the sweetness.”

  “You’re not diabetic, George.”

  “Exactly.”

  We change the subject. He asks, “Did you bring your camera?”

  My camera, I think, and glow at the thought. I nod, and he says, “Get my tape recorder out of my dresser, will you?”

  The Veterans History Project is the last thing I want to think about today, but I do as he asks. “You’re not thinking of doing any interviews today, are you? You need to rest.”

  He pushes the recorder into my hand when I try to give it to him. “There’s one interview we haven’t done,” he says.

  He stares me down, challenging me to turn away. I don’t get it at first. And then I realize.

  We’ve never collected George’s story.

  He doesn’t pressure me. Doesn’t remind me that time’s winding away from us. He gives me a chance to refuse. But it’s too late for that. I’d already decided to stay.

  So I turn all business, having watched him do this dozens of times. I grab my camera. I set up the recorder on his rolling tray table. When everything is ready, I hit record and begin speaking.

  “Today is May fifteenth and I am interviewing George Wilkins at the Fayetteville Veterans Hospital. My name is Sophie Topper Quinn and I’ll be the interviewer. George, could you state for the recording what war and branch of service you served in?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  School is an afterthought. It’s the blockade standing between visiting the hospital and a future away from Sweethaven. The only thing I’m looking forward to at school is seeing Blake again. We haven’t talked since he followed me home from Grave Woods. It’s more my fault than his, since I took a few days off of school to spend time with George. I’ve tried calling him, but he hasn’t called back.

  Walking on Sweethaven High’s campus, I feel like a ghost, existing between two planes of reality. I don’t belong here anymore. It’s at once bittersweet and triumphant. Somehow I miss seeing Blake all day. Then it’s time for Yearbook.

  Today’s the last day to turn in photos. Most everything has already been submitted, but Mr. Horowitz begged the printer for a deadline extension in order to get my pictures in. He takes the flash drive from me and plugs it into his computer. Rubbing his hands together with glee, he begins the process of clicking through the hundreds of photos I’ve taken these last weeks. A group of students crowd around his oversized monitor to see them over his shoulder.

  The dance. The shots from DC. Static team photos. My favorites are the ones I took on my own without an assignment. The weeks everyone pretended to ignore me had led to some great images. A couple kissing. A shot of another couple’s hands. A senior basketball player showing a freshman how to do a layup during gym.

  A sophomore I don’t know that well gives me a look of respect. “These are really good.”

  Then Jamie says, wrinkling her nose, “What’s that supposed to be?”

  For some reason—maybe a desire to prove I’d survived this year despite her best efforts—I’ve included photos of the damage to my locker. A shot of Jamie sneering as she said something awful about me to Nikki and Angel. One of Josh looking menacing as he watched me when he thought I didn’t notice. And a collage of all the comments people had made about me on Facebook and elsewhere with the picture of me and the faceless Blake in the center. My mom was right. Photoshop was handy.

  An uncomfortable silence falls over the room. I’d taken these pictures without ever planning to show them to anyone. George had taught me to always have my camera ready, then let my instincts take over. My instincts had made a record of what happened to me—the good and the bad.

  “We should delete those,” Jamie says, reaching for the mouse. “I told you she was a wreck.”

  Mr. Horowitz politely but firmly intervenes. “Miss Winter-burn, I asked Miss Quinn to share all her photos. Not just the pretty ones she thought we’d print.”

  Jamie’s jaw drops, and I realize my own mouth has fallen open too. I try to hide a small smile, but I can’t help it. I’m savoring this moment.

  Mr. Horowitz leaves up the collage, and then turns his heavy gaze on my classmates. They shift and fidget to varying degrees, and he lingers longest on Jamie. “What don’t you like about these pictures, Miss Winterburn? Is it because they don’t show us as the best version of ourselves?”

  Frustration colors her cheeks a brilliant red, and Jamie looks away, refusing to answer. Mr. Horowitz finally closes out the screen and rises. I’m about to go back to my desk when he holds a hand out to me.

  “Miss Quinn, you once said that I didn’t know you. I’m very sorry for that.”

  I give an unsteady nod and shake his hand.

  He smiles and adds, “Please tell me you’re going to do something with all this talent. I’m going to be sick if you tell me you’re planning to be an accountant.”

  I smile back. “I got accepted into Boston University’s photojournalism program.”

  “Ah! War correspondent?” he guesses, his brows disappearing into his curly mane.

  I nod, pleased he remembered our conversation on the bus and my passion for telling the stories of our soldiers.

  “Congratulations. I see great things in your future.”

  Mr. Horowitz claps his hands, bringing the moment to an end. He whips our class back into action, dividing everyone into teams to go through the photos and decide which ones should go where.

  After class, I rush out, intending to find Blake.

  Jamie’s voice stops me. “You don’t deserve it.”

  I spin to face her. Everything about her is brittle and cruel. I don’t ask what she means, but she continues anyway.

  “To profit from what you did to Carey. You don’t deserve it. Not that college or the attention.”

  On our field trip, Blake told me that I egged her on. He’s right. She pushes, and I push back. I don’t need to do that anymore. Jamie doesn’t matter. With everything she has going for her, she’s loved a boy who would never love her back. Maybe she’s moved on now with Jimmy Manning, the boy she kissed on the bus. Then again, she’s always loved Carey, even when she dated others. Jamie’s stuck in this ghost world, and I’m busting out.

  I smile, and she looks wary. I think, Just try to stop me from taking what I want.

  In the end, all I say is “Good-bye, Jamie,” before leaving her behind.

  * * *

  I find Blake at the auto shop.

  He’s lying on his back on a dolly with only his feet visible like the Ford 4Runner’s eating him alive. After a quick glance around for Mr. Breen, I bend down to tug on his leg to get his attention. A thud followed by a curse bursts from under the hood.

  I almost giggle, but the glare on his face when he rolls out the dolly stops me.

  “Q, you scared the shit out of me. I thought I was alone.”

  “Sorry.”

  He sits up, rubbing his head, and I watch him, trying to gauge his mood.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  Blake stands and walks over to the counter against the wall that’s covered with tools. He picks up a dirty rag, wiping grease from his fingers. I’m at a loss. When he left me Monday morning, everything was good between us. More than good.

  “Everything okay?” I ask hesitantly. “You seem upset.”

  “I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound believable.

  When I called and left messages during the past few days, I thought maybe he was too busy with the Breens and work to call back. Maybe I’d been too caught up with George to notice when he didn’t return my messages. Now it occurs to me that I should have paid more attention.

  “What’s going on, Blake?”
>
  He sighs. “Nothing, Q. I told you. I’m just busy. I have two more cars to look at after this truck, and I’m a little shorthanded.”

  I try again. “So, let me help. Tell me what to do.”

  “And if Mr. Breen shows up?” he asks. “Listen, I have a lot to do. I’ll call you later.”

  “Wow.” I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets so I won’t hit him. He sounds dismissive, as if I’m some girl making an unwanted pass. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What did you expect?” he says belligerently. “I work here. This is the Breens’ shop. Did you think we’d kiss and hug and be the perfect couple?”

  That hurts. It stings like a bitch, actually. He’s trying to pick a fight with me, and I don’t understand why. I refuse to bite. “You said you loved me. I guess I expected that hadn’t changed since Sunday.”

  The anger fades as suddenly as it flared.

  “Look,” I say, holding out my hands palms-up, “you don’t want me here, I’m gone. But don’t screw with me. Be a man, Blake.”

  He rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind a smudge of grease. “I do love you, Q. I swear it. But how can we be together? Nothing’s really changed, has it? We both have promises to keep.”

  My eyes water. Two steps forward, eight steps back into the hole I’ve been trying to crawl out of. He sees my expression and starts toward me, but I wave him off. I don’t want to be touched. I’ll fall apart completely if he touches me.

  “No. You’re right. I mean, it’s not like we had a chance anyway, right?” I try to smile, pretending for all I’m worth that I’m not crying, too. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  A phone rings from the counter, and Blake picks it up, snarling a hello. It’s the Breens. I can see it in his tight, guilty expression and the way he gives me his shoulder.

  He tells them, “Sure. I’ll close up right now. Is that Mrs. Breen crying?”

  A pause while he listens. The color drains from his face. I’ve never seen Blake look so scared. “What did they say?” Another pause and he’s scrambling for the TV remote on the counter. “What channel?” he says as he flicks on the shop’s old beater TV.