by Pintip Dunn
“Thanks. But I could’ve gotten it from you at school.”
“I thought your boyfriend might want it back?” His tone is casual, but I can tell he’s asking more than the stated question.
“Boyfriend? Liam’s not my boyfriend.”
Everything I’m saying is true. Sam didn’t ask if I felt a connection with Liam. Or if I ever thought about his winter-blue eyes. So there’s no reason for the guilt snaking through my stomach. There’s not.
Flustered, I sit on the two-seater swing, and he joins me.
“I wasn’t sure.” He pushes off the wooden porch slats with his foot, and his arm stretches along the back of the swing. Six inches from my neck. If I leaned against the seat, we’d be snuggling. “The hoodie smelled like fresh cologne, and you didn’t have it on when you first came into the party.”
“You saw me?”
“You’d be surprised what you can learn by paying attention.” He gives the swing another push, and his fingers brush my shoulder. My breath catches. The touch is as light as the graze of a butterfly’s wing, and yet, I can pinpoint exactly where his hand landed—and for how long.
“Take my sister, for example,” he continues. “You see how she took off like that? She’s definitely meeting some guy.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “Make-up. Hair. Most days she tosses it in a ponytail and lounges around the house in yoga pants. Did you see the shirt she was wearing? It’s a guy, for sure. Weird thing is, she wouldn’t tell me anything about him. So I’ve got to think he’s older or into drugs or something.”
“Does she usually tell you?”
“Yeah.” The word drags out to four syllables. “I know it’s not exactly cool, but Bri and I have always been close. Our family situation being what it is, I guess you could say we’ve always relied on each other. The whole us-against-the-world kind of thing.”
I want to ask about his family situation. Everything in me is dying to know. But the pesky thing about conversations is that you’re expected to reciprocate. If he spills about his family, then I’ll have to dish about mine. And I’m not quite ready for that yet.
“The article’s not going so hot,” he says, as though reading my mind. “I’ve only got a week and a half before the story’s due, and I’m having a hard time getting any of the key players to talk to me. Tommy Farrow and Mackenzie Myers stonewalled me at the party. Luckily, I’m meeting Mr. W. later. He’s my last lead.”
“Not quite,” I say. “You’re talking to me. I’m a key player.”
His eyes widen. “This isn’t for the paper. Everything you say to me is off the record, I swear.”
The swing creaks back and forth. I want to believe him. I want him to be everything he seems to be. But out of all people, I should know appearances are deceiving. He doesn’t seem like the type who would lie to me. But my mother didn’t seem like the type who would sleep with a high school boy, either.
“That’s another reason I’m here.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “We have the same goal. I need an angle for my article. You want to find out what happened to your mom. If we share information, we’d be better off. What do you think about working together?”
I blink. That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “I . . . I’m not sure.”
“We’d be good together. I’m good at research. I have access to resources at the Lakewood Sun. And you have inside knowledge nobody has.”
It makes sense. If I wanted an ally, he’s not a bad choice. He’s smart and inquisitive. And I’d rather not do this alone. But if we keep digging into my mom’s past, who knows what we’ll find? The reasons for her actions might be as sordid as everyone thinks. How can I share that information with anyone, much less the boy who wants to expose her secrets to the world?
“I’ve spent the whole morning trying to figure out who posted your mom’s photo on that site,” he says. “The name listed is an entity called ‘PX1990.’ But that name led to shell company after shell company, and it was virtually impossible to follow the trail.”
“It had to be someone who knew her back then,” I say, drawn in despite my reservations. “How else would they have gotten her photo when she was seventeen?”
“Possibly. But this same corporation put up photos of a dozen girls.” He pauses. “They had one thing in common: They were all teenagers.”
I frown. “You think my mother was part of an underage pornography ring?”
“It looks like she was a victim, at least.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms. So many secrets, so many questions. My tongue tingles with the need to tell Sam about the misdialed calls and the text messages. It would be nice to have a confidant for the first time since my mom died. Someone who is just as committed to finding the truth. But can I trust him?
While I’m pondering, my dad pulls into the driveway. He gets out of the car, lugging a half-empty gallon jug of water and a rubber window squeegee.
“That’s my dad, coming from the cemetery again,” I whisper to Sam. “He’s obsessed with washing my mom’s gravestone.”
Sam jumps up as my father comes up the steps. “Mr. Brooks?” He sticks out his hand. “Good to meet you. I’m one of CeCe’s friends, Sam Davidson.”
My dad shakes Sam’s hand and then stows the gallon jug on the corner of the porch. “Um. Nice meeting you.” His voice lilts up, as if he’s not used to being introduced to my friends. And he’s not. That was more Mom’s territory.
He glances at me. “Good morning, CeCe. Have you eat—”
“Bagel and cream cheese,” I interrupt. “Glass of orange juice.”
“Good, good.” He bobs his head. “I’ll leave you kids, then.”
“How was Mom today?” I ask softly.
He closes his eyes, as if the very question pains him. “A bird had pooped on the headstone, right next to her picture. It was a good thing I was there to clean it.”
He goes inside the house, and the air stutters out of my lungs. I shouldn’t have asked about my mom. I never have before. But it’s silly to pretend she doesn’t exist when we can’t so much as inhale without breathing her in.
I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want to skulk around school, hoping nobody notices me, pretending the past will go away if we ignore it.
I want my life back. Not my old life—that would be impossible. But a new life cobbled together from the shards of who I used to be. Maybe the first step is to agree to work with Sam. To talk about the scandal directly and honestly.
“Why didn’t you try to interview him?” I ask Sam. “This was your big chance, and you blew it.”
“He’s still grieving,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to write a kick-ass article, sure. I want to learn the truth about what happened to your mom. But I’m not going to deepen anyone’s pain. I chose this career in order to help people, CeCe. Not kick them while they’re down.”
That decides it. There are no guarantees in life. No proof that will ensure you’re making the right decision. Sometimes, you just have to hold your breath and jump. And hope you land on your feet unscathed.
“Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s work together.”
“Great.” He grins so big his eyes almost crinkle shut. “We can start with my appointment with Mr. Willoughby at the hotline. Maybe we’ll find another lead there.”
“About the hotline . . .” I knew this partnership would be a risk. I knew I’d have to take a leap of faith. But I didn’t think it would happen so soon. “I suppose this is a good time to tell you I’m volunteering as a call counselor.”
I hold my breath, bracing myself for his reaction.
His lips arch in a half-smile, and his forehead remains unwrinkled. He doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t even look surprised. “Relax, CeCe. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
Chapter 15
Time slows. The swing arcs from one side to the other. One week passes. A fly
buzzes across the porch. A month. Sam holds my gaze, without fidgeting or blinking. An entire year.
“How did you know?” I whisper.
He drops his eyes and studies the patches of dirt on the wooden slats. “It’s not like I was snooping or anything. I was interviewing Mr. Willoughby in his office, and the call counselor schedule was sitting right there on the coffee table. I scanned it before I even knew what I was looking at.”
“That list is supposed to be confidential.” I wipe my palms across my jeans. “If the identities of the counselors ever got out, it would destroy the illusion of anonymity, and the hotline would no longer be a safe place to talk.”
That’s only half of it. The anonymity also protects me from the Justin Blakes of the world cackling, “Is that call counselor or fuck counselor?” From being a source of amusement for the entire school.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, CeCe. It’s irrelevant to the article, and like I said, I don’t make a habit of hurting people just because I can.”
Everything about his mouth, his eyes, his posture radiates sincerity, but what do I know? I spent my whole life never understanding fully what kind of woman my mother was.
What’s more? If he knows I volunteer at the hotline, he could’ve doctored the flyers. He could’ve sent me that text. As unlikely as it seems, Sam Davidson just became a suspect.
I might have just partnered with the boy who seeks to shoot me down.
“When is your appointment with Mr. Willoughby?” I ask, getting to my feet.
He checks his watch. “In half an hour. He promised to give me a tour of the hotline.”
I stiffen. “The hotline doesn’t give tours. Especially not to newspaper interns. The location is kept as confidential as the identities.”
“He didn’t want to at first, but I ... uh, convinced him.”
“Define ‘convinced.’ ”
“I gave him a choice. He could either show me the premises, or I would release the names of the counselors.” The color fans across his cheeks like a bad sunburn. “I wouldn’t have, of course. I just wanted to see the hotline.”
I shake my head. If he’s willing to bribe a teacher, what else is he capable of? Would he resort to harassment to get a good story? “You’d do anything to get this scholarship, wouldn’t you?”
“Nothing illegal. Nothing that compromises who I am or what I stand for. But other than that?” He stands from the swing and faces me. “I want this scholarship, CeCe. And I’m not going to let a few niceties get in my way.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not sure what I think of his methods, but maybe that’s my entire problem. Maybe I’ve been way too timid.
Mind your own business, the text said. Clearly, this is sound advice. If I had never volunteered at the hotline, my number wouldn’t have appeared on the flyers. If I hadn’t confronted Tommy, Justin might not have been so eager to tell everyone about my mom’s photo. If I scrambled back into my shell, then surely I would be safe again.
And my dad would still be obsessed with washing my mom’s grave. The town would still consider my mom a slut. I can’t allow that, not when I’m beginning to suspect that there was more to her death. Much more.
This is my chance to prove it.
“Okay, partner,” I say. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Willoughby.”
* * *
It takes twelve minutes to drive to the lake. Number of traffic lights? One. Words exchanged? Zero.
I’ve never been any good at small talk, and I really don’t know what to say now.
So, Sam, I know you have the power to make my life even worse by blabbing to the school that I’m a call counselor. But no biggie. How do you like your classes? Have you started reading Lolita for Senior English yet? Boy, that Humbert Humbert is something else, isn’t he? Oh no, I wouldn’t know about that kind of thing. Not at all.
I sneak a glance at him, only to find he’s looking at me. Is he wondering if I’m about to follow in my mother’s footsteps? Or is he thinking about kissing me?
My cheeks burn, and I look back to the road before I get us into an accident. Of course he’s not thinking about kissing me. He may have said something about it last night, but that was under the cover of a deep black sky, in the midst of a rowdy party, on the high of his confrontation with Justin. That was before we became partners. Before our relationship became . . . if not exactly business, then at least goal-oriented. We’re spending time together in order to figure out what happened to my mother. I can’t forget that.
I pull into a long, gravel driveway and park behind an orange vintage sports car with two racing stripes down the center.
Sam whistles. “Now that’s what I call a nice ride.”
I wrench my door open as Liam steps out of the sports car. I stumble on the tiny rocks. Great. I haven’t seen him since I took off in search of Tommy Farrow last night. Not since my mom’s topless photo got passed around like a bowl of queso fundido. I’m not naive enough to hope that he somehow missed seeing the photo.
Sure enough, Liam hurries to me, his stride long and fluid. “CeCe, are you okay? I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow, during your shift. I’ve been so worried since I heard what happened.”
“You’re not supposed to be here tomorrow,” I mumble, staring at his chest. It’s a very nice chest—any girl would be happy to look at it—and I wish that were why I’m checking him out. But really, it’s because I’m afraid of what I’ll see in his eyes. “It’s my first shift alone, remember? I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I just wanted to check on you. I heard about that jerk harassing you.” He pauses. “But you don’t have to worry about him. He’ll think twice about picking on girls after spending the night in jail.”
My eyes fly to Liam’s face. “What are you talking about? What happened?”
“Justin Blake may or may not have been picked up by the cops for a DUI last night. After an anonymous tip that may or may not have come from a certain hotline coordinator.”
I gape. If any doubts to his character remained, they’re now erased. Liam may look like he could’ve played football with Tommy Farrow, but he’s not one of those guys. Maybe he never was, and it was my own insecurities that made me see him that way. “You did that? For me?”
“I’d do a lot more than that for you.” He steps closer, those ice-blue eyes gleaming. I think of arctic waters and snow-covered mountains. And then Sam clears his throat.
Liam looks up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Who are you?” His tone is not quite hostile, but it’s not friendly, either.
“Sam Davidson. I’m writing an article about the hotline, and I have an appointment with Mr. Willoughby. Nice car, by the way.”
“Thanks. What do you drive?”
“Me?” Sam laughs. “I don’t drive anything. Unless you count my trusty three-wheeled scooter.”
“I don’t.”
We look at each other, and an awkward silence descends. I hurry to my car and grab Liam’s hoodie from the backseat. “Thanks for letting me borrow this last night,” I say, handing it to him.
Sam’s mouth drops. “Wait a minute—that was his?”
I push down the foolish urge to explain: I already told you. He’s not my boyfriend. But I can hardly say that in front of Liam. He might get the wrong idea about what’s going on between me and Sam.
Which is what, exactly? a voice inside me whispers.
The sun ducks behind the trees, casting us in long-fingered shadows. The remains of last night’s bonfire drift by on the wind. We stand around like actors who’ve forgotten our lines. Can this get any more uncomfortable?
Finally, Sam gestures toward the top of the drive. “Should we go? I don’t want to be late.”
We trudge up the loose gravel, not speaking. The tension is so thick I can feel it pushing into my lungs and expanding, slowly but surely, until I’m taking short, quick sips of the air. Finally, we round the corner, and the log cabin comes into view. An old pickup is parked
in front, the bed of the truck filled with boxes. Stacks upon stacks of boxes. Tattered cardboard cartons, see-through filing crates, pretty storage parcels.
My throat works, trying to swallow something that isn’t there. Because I’ve seen those boxes before. Three days ago, they were stacked in the storage closet of the crisis hotline.
“Why are all those boxes in the truck?” I ask.
Liam slows his pace, so that he can match his steps to mine. “Mr. Willoughby thought it was time for a spring cleaning.”
“But it’s the fall.”
“These boxes have been around since before we moved locations. He wants to go through them, and either file away the papers or toss them.”
Sam lifts a lid, peering inside as if he might find a wild animal. “I can help.”
I know what he’s thinking. There’s a potential gold mine inside. Fodder for his article and information about my mom. All we have to do is find it.
“Not on your life.” Mr. Willoughby strides toward us, wearing a Green Lantern T-shirt. He has a box tucked snugly under his arm. A certain box wrapped with fruit-basket wallpaper. My mother’s box.
My mouth goes dry.
“I agreed to a tour, Mr. Davidson,” the teacher says. “I didn’t give you license to snoop into the hotline’s confidential documents.”
Sam holds up his hands, and Mr. Willoughby stashes the box in the front cab of his truck. In another second, the door will close, and I may never see it again.
“Wait. That’s my mother’s box.” I lunge forward, but Mr. Willoughby turns, blocking my access to the open truck door.
He pushes the box further into the cab. “Why do you say that?”
“The wallpaper. It’s the same as our kitchen’s. My mom used the leftover paper to wrap our storage boxes.”
“Tabitha papered the kitchen walls herself?” His voice softens, as if I’ve given him a gift he didn’t expect. I think, all of a sudden, about an arrangement of flowers from my mother’s wake. All-white roses, lilies, and carnations clustered in a glass cube. The card was signed, “I will never forget you. ~W.”