The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

  I miss her.

  The feeling washes over me, and I lean against the car, tilting my head up to the black sky. The stars are hidden somewhere beneath a thick blanket of clouds, but I feel their beauty as an ache inside my heart, even if I can’t see them.

  Kind of like my mom. I can’t see her or talk to her, but she’s still here, living inside me, the good parts and the bad.

  I turn to Sam, my eyes wet for no reason I can understand, and what I see in his face takes my breath away. A yearning so raw it peels away every layer of myself, leaving me more exposed than my mother’s topless photo.

  “I’m not going to kiss you,” he says in a strained voice. “After the night you’ve had, I don’t want you to mistake a kiss for anything but what it is. But I want you to know, just because I don’t kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to dream about it. Doesn’t mean I won’t want to do it, next time we’re together.”

  My heart sprints, each beat trying to outpace the other. My second almost-kiss in the space of one hour. When I can count my lifetime number of such encounters on one hand. I have to swallow twice before I can speak. “Duly noted.”

  “Good.” He grins, the lens of his glasses reflecting the moonlight. “I just wanted to make that clear. Wouldn’t be a very good investigative reporter if I didn’t set the record straight.”

  Chapter 12

  I’m late meeting Alisara at the cabin. Like thirty minutes late. She accepts my apology without saying much, and we drive most of the way home in silence. The headlights cut through the darkness, giving us disjointed flashes of the familiar. The worn wooden sign directing us to Lakewood Cabins. The dilapidated playground next to the elementary school, with its creaky swings and peeling paint. The crumbling public library on the way to Alisara’s neighborhood.

  By day, Lakewood resembles an empty tuna can—plain, rusty, and a little sad, holding traces of something that wasn’t all that great to begin with. Once the railroad pulled out of town a decade ago, so did the jobs, leaving the people to make a life out of the leftovers.

  At night, though, the town takes on an almost spooky quality, a feeling that makes me grip the steering wheel a little tighter as I navigate the streets.

  “I don’t mind that you were late,” Alisara bursts out when we turn onto her road. “But I saw you walk back into the cabin with that new guy. Are you really not going to say a word about him?”

  I jerk, and the car swings toward the curb. “What . . . what do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know, CeCe,” she mutters, looking out the window. A passing street light paints a stripe over her ear, making her look like the heroine in a slasher flick. “What you two were doing? How hot he is? If he’s a good kisser?”

  “I didn’t kiss him,” I say, heat creeping up my neck. “We hung out by the car and talked. But I, uh . . . I think he’s cute.”

  She turns to me, her features softening. She doesn’t press me for any more details, and I realize she doesn’t actually want the information. Like her running monologues by my bedside, this isn’t about gossip. It’s about giving her a sign of my friendship.

  My throat tightens. Because Alisara is my friend. Maybe, after these last few months, the only friend I have left.

  “Alisara,” I say hesitantly. “At the party, did they talk about my mom’s photo a lot?”

  “Yeah.” She glances down, but then brings her gaze right back to my face. “The guys were pretending to masturbate to the picture; the girls were saying they always knew she was a slut by the way she dressed.”

  I pull into her driveway and turn off the ignition. “And what did you say?”

  “I said sure, those button-downs and linen pants were really sexy. I’m surprised the school board didn’t come down with a ban on pearl earrings. Scandalous.” She places a hand on my arm. “She was seventeen, CeCe. You don’t know why she posed for that photo. You don’t understand the context.”

  “So, what, I’m supposed to give her the benefit of the doubt?”

  “She was your mother.”

  “That doesn’t give her a free pass.”

  Except she wasn’t a mother in name only. What about all the times she drove my forgotten homework to school? The years she served as room parent? She had less time after she went back to teaching, but she was just as attentive. Just as loving.

  Does that count for anything?

  I don’t know. Six months after her death, and I’m still no closer to an answer.

  * * *

  My phone rings as I slide my key into the front door. The “suspense” ring tone. I push the button to end the call. It rings again as I tiptoe up the stairs. I switch it to vibrate.

  A light shines underneath the door to the guest room—where Gram sleeps. But she’s not waiting up for me, no siree.

  “Gram, I’m home,” I stage-whisper as I push open the door.

  She’s at her desk, spectacles perched on her nose and laptop in front of her. “I’m not waiting up for you.”

  “Didn’t say you were.”

  She scowls. “Your father’s puttering in the den, doing god knows what, and I’ve been here all night, losing my life’s savings to a bunch of yahoos who can’t tell a flush from a straight. I’m not going to ask if you’ve had a good time. I don’t want to know if you’ve been drinking. And I really don’t care if you’ve climbed into the backseat with any boys.”

  I smile. “No, no, and not really.”

  She takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes. “You’re a good girl, CeCe.”

  I bend down and kiss her forehead. Her skin is as soft and warm as bread dough. With Gram, I have a bit of the same relationship I had with my mom. Even though she’s my paternal grandmother, she charges headlong into life the way Mom did, and the only time I ever relax anymore is in her presence. “You haven’t really lost your life’s savings, have you?”

  “Nah. I’ve got that trip to Vegas in a week and a half, remember? Gotta save for that.” She hands me a five-dollar gaming chip she won at a Kansas City casino. “Here. For your bank account.”

  My bank account, as she calls it, is a briefcase under my bed, filled with the clay discs Gram dispenses like candy. “This is an investment in your future,” she explained a few months ago. “When you’re of age, you can decide if you want to redeem your chips—or if you’re going to follow in your Gram’s footsteps and gamble it all on a single hand. You could lose it all, or turn a single coin into a hundred. But what is life if not a risk?”

  For her, maybe. Not me. Life’s hard enough without betting it all on something I can’t control.

  “CeCe?” Gram says as I turn to leave the room. “Your father tells me you’re not applying to Parsons. Is that true?”

  I frown. “You’re on the verge of hovering, Gram.”

  “Not even close. In my profession, we can’t afford to hover. We have to go all-in with our pocketbooks—and our hearts.” She drums her fingers on the laptop. “What I’m trying to say is: If you’re staying in Lakewood on account of your father, don’t. He can take care of himself. And I’ll be around.”

  “No offense, Gram, but your version of a home-cooked meal is a Lean Cuisine. And you dry-clean all of your clothes, even your underwear. You probably haven’t touched a laundry machine in the last decade.”

  She flashes me a smile. “Made it sixty-five years, didn’t I? Life only deals you one hand, CeCe. But how you play it is up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, more to get her off my back than anything else.

  She turns back to her computer. “Good.”

  I go to my room and lie on my bed, the phone nestled against my chest. It vibrated a couple more times while I was talking to Gram, but I don’t bother to check the number now. Probably a random student calling the hotline after the party, wanting to gossip.

  Instead, I sit up and type the Web address for the Parsons School of Design into my phone’s Internet browser.
Once the page opens, I read about the Parsons Challenge, an exercise all undergraduate applicants must complete. This year’s challenge is to explore something that you normally overlook in your daily life.

  As always, my insides clench as I read the words. Because there’s one thing I’ve been deliberately, systematically overlooking for the last six months. My mother.

  Her picture is facedown on my dresser. The clothes we shared are shoved to the back of my closet. Even the sandalwood jewelry box is buried in the mix of old shoes under my bed.

  Sighing, I lower my phone. Even if I were willing to share such a personal viewpoint with a random admissions officer, I can’t leave my dad now. Maybe he takes the laundry and the meals for granted, but at least he’s clean and fed. That’s what Mom would have wanted—if she bothered to think of us at all in her last moments.

  The phone pings in my hand. Not a call this time, but a text message. That’s different. Must be Alisara, wanting to see if I’m still awake.

  I check the number. I don’t recognize it, but that doesn’t mean anything. I wouldn’t be able to call Alisara if her number weren’t in my contacts. And then, I read:

  Mind your own business. Or you’re next.

  The breath bursts in and out of my lungs. I throw the phone across the room before I crush it beneath my fingers. I’m NEXT? Next for what? And how exactly am I poking into anybody’s business? I’m like one of those turtles who lives her whole life inside her shell, afraid to venture five inches in front of her.

  And then I remember I’m volunteering at the hotline. Trying to uncover my mother’s secrets. Confronting Tommy Farrow. So maybe not such a turtle, after all.

  I cross the floor and pick up my phone, where it bounced harmlessly on the shaggy carpet. Getting back into bed, I type “Hotties We Love” into the browser, and my mother’s topless photo pops up.

  We look at each other, her seventeen-year-old self and me, and I see something her naked breasts distracted me from before. Her eyes. Help me, they seem to implore through the photo, across the years. Find out my secrets. Don’t let them get away with this.

  And before I can think clearly about what I’m doing, my finger flies over the screen and I text back:

  Try me.

  Chapter 13

  Something’s poking me in the hip. I roll over to get more comfortable, but it only jabs me more. What on earth?

  I crack my eyes open. The sun streams in through the windows, making rectangular rays of light on the floor. I didn’t close the blinds last night. Didn’t brush my hair or change my black dress, either. I was so emotionally wrung-out I fell into bed, the message from my mysterious texter playing in a continuous loop through my brain.

  I shift, and the object digs into my side again. Is it a tag on my dress? One of Gram’s poker chips?

  I scrutinize the smooth expanse of my paisley bed sheets. Nothing. Which means whatever is trying to drill a hole in my hip is inside my dress. Probably ensconced in the hidden pocket.

  Of course. How could I forget?

  My mom and I both loved this dress, not only for its flattering fit, but also because of the hidden pocket sewn into the lining. We used to leave notes for each other, little messages like “I love you” or “Good luck on your art show.” Or, on the night of my sophomore Homecoming dance: “Don’t forget—a girl does kiss and tell, especially if the captive audience is her mother.”

  My fingers tremble like a bird learning to fly, and excitement darts around my heart. I don’t want to hope; I can’t bear to be wrong. But maybe . . . Could she have . . .

  This was always our secret way of communicating. It would make sense if she left a note in my pocket, in a place only I can find.

  Carefully, I peel the dress off and skim my fingers over the lining. Searching for a piece of paper folded in that special triangular way.

  Another one of our codes. Silly, maybe, but I’ve been a sucker for secret codes ever since I was a little girl, and my mother always indulged me.

  I don’t find any paper, folded or otherwise. Instead, my hands close around a key. A delicate silver key, about half an inch long. I’ve never seen it before, and I can’t imagine what it could fit.

  Disappointment swells in my chest. No note. No final words. How many times does my soul need to be crushed before I finally learn?

  I squeeze the key in my fist, and when I open my hand, dropping it onto the bed, my palm is creased with the indentation of the metal. That’s me—scarred with the traces of my mother’s scandal.

  Unless ... my mother left that key for me. Unless this is the first clue in one of her treasure hunts, the very last one she set up for me.

  Maybe the most important one of all.

  * * *

  “Holy crap, CeCe. Did you decide to redecorate and forget to tell me?” Gram asks as she strides into the living room. I haven’t seen my dad this morning, which means he’s already left for the cemetery—or he’s locked himself in the den again.

  I rock back on my heels. Every paper clip and rubber band has been emptied out of my mom’s old desk. The carpet is covered with reams of paper, stacks of dusty photographs, and clusters of faded wedding favors.

  The pantry and dining room don’t look much better. I’m not exactly sure what I’m searching for. A hidden compartment, a portable safe. Maybe a locked drawer I don’t know about.

  But so far, nada. Not a single secret keyhole, much less one that fits my silver key.

  “Sorry, Gram.” I wince at the paper dots from the hole puncher, sprinkled on the floor like confetti. “I’ll clean everything up, promise.”

  She waves off my apology, which isn’t surprising. I’m the only one who ever seems to notice—or clean up—the clutter.

  “Did you stay up late gambling?” I ask.

  “I stayed up late, all right, but it wasn’t to play poker.” She yawns, covering her mouth with coral fingernails. “One of the gentlemen admired my style. So much that he invited me to chat after the game.”

  My mouth falls open. “How old is he?”

  She shrugs. “He didn’t say, but his photo looks like he’s in his forties.”

  “How old does he think you are?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  “Gram!”

  “Oh, lighten up, CeCe. A bit of cybersex never hurt anyone.”

  I grind my teeth. I highly doubt any such thing happened, but that’s Gram. Always trying to get a reaction out of me. “What if word gets out? If people hear you’re dating a younger man, they’ll say you’re just like . . . You’re just like . . .”

  “Tabitha?” Her voice slides into my sternum like a blade. “You can say her name, you know. She’s not the devil.”

  I close my mouth. Maybe it’s because she’s a newcomer to Lakewood, but Gram has never seemed affected by the gossip. And like my dad, she’s always been one hundred percent on my mother’s side.

  “Besides, the situation isn’t even remotely similar,” she continues. “We’re two consenting adults. Even if people talk, what does it matter, so long as you and I know the truth?”

  Truth. Problem is, the word’s slippery—too slippery. There’s the truth in the police report, the truth the kids at school whisper. Then there’s my mom’s truth, which I have yet to uncover. And my own truth, which morphs from day to day.

  “I found this key,” I say, changing the subject. “I’m trying to figure out what it opens. Is there anything in your room it might fit?”

  She rakes a hand through her hair, and I glimpse the silver growing in at her roots. “I don’t think so. But you’re welcome to look.”

  I grin. Gram may not be much of a guardian, but she has an open-door policy to her life. I thank her and dash up the stairs, two at a time.

  Still, I find nothing. I paw through her drawers, tunnel my way to the back of the closet, even tug on patches of carpet to see if anything budges. Zilch.

  I turn the key in my hands. It didn’t get into my pocket by accident. If my
mother put the key there, it must belong to something.

  I’m still squinting at the key as if it holds the secrets of my universe when Gram comes into the room. “CeCe, you have a caller.”

  The key drops soundlessly to the carpet. “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “Not that kind of caller. A young man is at our front door.” She leans against the doorjamb, sipping from a mug of coffee. “And he’s cute. Very cute.”

  Chapter 14

  Sam’s standing on my front porch, fidgeting with an aluminum scooter. As soon as he sees me, he grins widely—and then his smile folds inward like one of those flowers that close when you touch it.

  “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” he says, as if he’s not sure how I’ll react to his presence. And how could he? Even I don’t know how I’ll respond these days.

  Behind him, a Pontiac Grand Am backs onto the street. The girl at the wheel honks twice and then drives off, leaving an impression of exhaust and curly black hair. A tuft pokes out the open window, fluttering in the wind as if to say “good-bye.”

  “Was that your ride?” I tug at my limp ponytail and attempt to smooth my sweatshirt, which looks even more worn in the glaring sunlight.

  “Yes. I mean, no. That’s my sister, Briony. She’s a junior, and apparently, her need for the family car is way more pressing than mine. She couldn’t wait two minutes for me to talk to you. No matter. I have another mode of transportation.”

  He holds up the aluminum scooter, and I burst out laughing.

  “Seriously, Sam, I’ve never seen anyone past the sixth grade ride on one of those things.”

  “That’s about how I look when I ride on it. Like a sixth-grader.” He smiles again, clearly more comfortable, and holds up a hoodie. It’s the one Liam lent me. “I must’ve grabbed the wrong sweatshirt last night.”