The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

  I hug the globe to my chest and blink, blink, blink. There’s so much heat inside me, so much condensation that’s about to burst into a storm. If only my eight-year-old words were true. If only this globe meant that my mother were with me still.

  “Was there anything else in the box?” I manage to say.

  “Just a bunch of papers. Hotline documents you wouldn’t care about.” He twists his hands together, as if suddenly unsure. “Was this the right thing to do?”

  “Yes. A thousand times yes.” The globe digs into my chest, cold and hard. And yet, I don’t let go. I don’t ever want to let go again. “This is the best thing you could’ve done for me. Thank you.”

  He stares at the tiny waterfall. The sun hits the water just right, and all of sudden, it looks like rays of diamonds are cascading down the rocks. “It belongs with you, not in some moldy old box. Your love for your mother is evident. Even I can see that, and I never even had a mom.” There’s a harshness in his voice that might be pain or sorrow. Maybe both.

  I’m not sure what to say. Not sure what to do. So I put my hand on his arm, wanting him to feel a fraction of the comfort that his present gave to me.

  He looks at my hand for a long moment. “Clearly, I had a biological mother. But she only stayed long enough to give birth to me before taking off. She never wanted a baby, but my dad did. He wanted someone to whom he could pass his life’s lessons, a son who wouldn’t make the same mistakes he did.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Of course, that meant I was never good enough for him. He died considering me to be a disappointment.”

  “Oh, Liam.” I tighten my grip on his arm. “No matter what he may have thought, you’re not a disappointment. Not to me, and not to all the people you help at the hotline.” I lick my lips. “You’re . . . you’re a hero. For giving me back this snow globe. For being a good friend.”

  “I’m trying,” he says softly. “I’m trying, in the aftermath of losing my dad, to find myself. But sometimes, the grief is just so large it eats away at everything else. And I can barely remember my name, much less figure out who I’m supposed to be.”

  “Yes,” I say, sliding my hand down his arm until our fingers intertwine. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  And we stand like that, holding hands, watching the droplets sparkle in the world’s smallest waterfall, until the sun drops below the trees.

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, I hunch in a toilet stall, drawing on a piece of paper as if my life depended on it. I thought I could do this. I thought, after everything I’ve been through, after spending a magical afternoon with Liam by the waterfall, I’d have the strength to face the student body this Monday morning.

  Guess not. I spent five minutes giving myself a pep talk in the parking lot. I even came in the school’s back doors to minimize contact with the other students. Yet, I beelined for the restroom the moment I crossed the threshold.

  The snow globe is at the bottom of my backpack. I wish it could be enough to give me the confidence to walk into school with my head held high. But the printout of my mom’s words is also tucked in the front pouch. Oh dear god, it’s happened again.

  Damn right it’s happening again. Of course, this wasn’t what she was talking about. Walking into school for the first time after a major scandal. A moment of absolute silence when all eyes descend on you. And then, the whisper-scurry-whisper of the gossip mill cranking its sails. But the feeling underlying her words matches mine: stark terror.

  The final bell rings. I’m officially late. My hand relaxes on the pencil, and I stash the drawing in my backpack. At least now, there won’t be anyone in the halls to look at me.

  I move to the sink, wetting a paper towel and pressing it to my forehead. Rivulets of water slide down my face and drip onto my black tank top. I check the damage in the mirror. Not quite as ugly as streams of black mascara, but close.

  The door bangs open, and Mackenzie Myers bursts inside, sparkling like the waterfall I saw yesterday. Jewelry winks from every part of her body—her fingers, wrists, ears, and neck. If I lift her shirt, I’ll probably find a belly ring.

  “Oh.” Her mouth forms a cartoon circle. “You saw, huh?”

  I dry my face with a paper towel. “Saw what?”

  “Nothing.” For the first time since kindergarten, when she insisted on playing Goldilocks and forgot her lines, Mackenzie looks like she wants to flee. Instead, she crosses to the mirror and reapplies her lipstick. “I hear you’re trying to get in touch with Tommy.”

  I flush. Did she talk to him? Or overhear Alisara’s amateur sleuthing? Late last night, after I shook the snow globe for the hundredth time and relived my afternoon with Liam for the thousandth, I’d asked Alisara to find out what party he’s attending next.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “He won’t take my calls. Any other ideas?”

  Her hand slips, and the lipstick paints a bloody red line across her cheek. “Like I’d tell you. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Like hell. If you ask him about your mom, if you start digging into the past, sooner or later, it’s going to come out—”

  She stops and scrubs at the smear on her cheek.

  “What’s going to come out, Mackenzie?”

  She shakes her head. “Bottom line, you don’t need to talk to him. Leave the past alone.”

  I keep patting my face, although it’s long since dried. Mind your own business. Leave the past alone. Different words. Same message. Could Mackenzie be my mysterious texter? “What’s my phone number?”

  “What?” She shuffles back a couple steps. “Who cares?”

  “I’m serious.” I run my eyes over her outfit, trying to figure out where she might hide a cell in those skin-tight pants. “Let me see your phone.”

  “Um, no, weirdo. I was going to help you take down the posters because they’re blocking our flyers for the literacy auction. But not if you’re going to act like a freak show.”

  “Posters? What posters?”

  My heart taps in my chest, a steady drumbeat that begins to crescendo. Does she mean more hotline flyers doctored with my phone number? She couldn’t mean another topless photo of my mom . . . could she?

  “I guess you really haven’t seen them. Lucky me, I get to be the first to witness your reaction.” She shoves her beauty tools into a makeup bag and crosses to the door. “Coming?”

  Taking a deep breath, I follow her out. How bad can it be? I mean, the entire school’s already gossiping about my mom. What’s one more photo?

  We walk down the hallway, and I catch a glimpse of a red-faced, beefy guy rounding the corner. My neck and shoulders tighten, to the point where they might lock up. There’s no way that’s Justin Blake. He graduated. He has no business here anymore. It’s probably just some kid who looks like him. I’m safe here.

  And yet, no matter how many times I repeat those lines to myself, I know it’s not true. Justin Blake is here, in my high school once again.

  I shiver and try to summon the relaxation techniques I learned from the yoga classes to which my mom used to drag me. But who am I kidding? Those techniques have never been a match for Justin.

  We reach the corridor in front of the art room, a lightly trafficked wing of the school.

  My heart stops. Hundreds of copies of my mom’s bare breasts are plastered on every available surface, from the tiled walls to the bulletin boards. A few are even fluttering from the ceiling.

  A janitor stands on a stepladder, taking down the flyers. A large pile already lies on the floor next to the ladder.

  “There’s a copy stuffed into every locker, too,” Mackenzie says helpfully.

  I ignore her. Because the photos aren’t an exact reproduction of the image Justin was waving Friday night. Even from a distance, I can tell something’s different.

  I rip a poster off the nearest wall. An anchor lodges at the pit of my stomach, dragging it lower, lower, and even lowe
r still. There’s no doubt it’s the same picture. But that’s not my mother’s head on top of the body.

  It’s mine.

  Chapter 19

  Somewhere in the building, a door must have opened. The posters on the floor fly into the air, whirling as if caught in a tornado. The janitor leaps off the stepladder and grabs the papers.

  Caught in a tornado. That’s exactly how I feel—swept up, turned upside down, holding on for dear life. Or what’s left of it, anyway.

  “That’s not me,” I say to Mackenzie, my voice as hollow as the rest of me. The janitor looks at us, and then, as if recognizing my face, hurriedly climbs the ladder. “I mean, that’s my yearbook picture, but that’s not my body.”

  I step forward, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you make a strong declaration. But my knees give out, and I stumble.

  My archenemy catches me, the metal of her rings biting into my elbows. “I know. It’s obvious someone Photoshopped your head onto the original image. Just be glad everyone’s been staring at your mom’s picture all weekend. I don’t think anybody thinks it’s actually you.”

  “Photoshop,” I whisper, my mind following the rest of me into the tornado.

  “Exactly.” She lets go of me. “Wasn’t that what the new guy was ranting about at the bonfire? Putting your mom’s face on some other body? Maybe he did it.”

  “No.” Not Sam. We’re partners now. On the same team. There’s no way he could’ve done this to me. “It was probably Justin. He’s pissed at me for embarrassing him at the bonfire. This is his revenge.”

  “Impossible. Justin’s not even in town. He’s at a retreat with the wrestling team this week, in preparation for the collegiate season.”

  I stare at her. “But I saw him. Just now, going around the corner.”

  She shakes her head and grins slyly. “No way. I saw him off myself, with an extra kiss for luck.”

  So Mackenzie and Justin are a couple now? More likely, given Mackenzie’s continued obsession with Tommy, they’re just hooking up. I suppose it doesn’t surprise me. They’re only my two favorite people in the world.

  “He could’ve had help,” I say, wondering if I’m going crazy. If I’m seeing things—and people—that aren’t there. “Maybe it was you.”

  “Now you’re really grasping.” She shoves a poster into my hands. “Everyone knows I can barely turn on a computer. I wouldn’t have any idea how to do this.”

  I crumble up the paper, even though I’ll never be able to destroy them all.

  “You just don’t want it to be Sam,” she says accusingly. “You’re crushing on High-Water Freak, and you can’t bear the thought that it’s probably him.”

  “It’s not Sam.”

  She continues as if I haven’t spoken. “Who could be out to get you?”

  Justin Blake. It has to be. He’s the only enemy I have. But even as I think the words, I know it’s not true. I have another enemy now: my mysterious texter. Mind your own business, he or she said. Or you’re next.

  Could Justin be sending me these text messages? But his harassment was always personal and always about me. Why should he care if I’m digging into the past?

  Unless he knows something I don’t. Something Tommy was desperate to tell me. Something I deserved to know.

  “Be careful who you fall in love with, CeCe.” Mackenzie’s voice softens in a way I’ve never heard. “I fell in love with Tommy, and look what happened to me.”

  She yanks down a poster with so much force the paper tears in half. The janitor shoots her a nervous look and slides his stepladder down the hall. She grabs another one and repeats the process. Rip, rip, rip. Slash, slash, slash. That’s me, I want to remind her. Not Tommy.

  I move next to her, with the intention of helping. But the face from my yearbook picture looms over me. My smile is forced, my eyes shuttered. I had gone straight to the photo session from gym class, where Justin had wrapped a rope around his waist, waggling the extra length at me. “Come and get it, CeCe,” he whispered across the aisle. “You know you want me.”

  And now, that same face is sitting on top of a naked body. My mother’s very voluptuous, very provocative body.

  “Mackenzie, I . . .” I clap a hand over my mouth, not sure which one’s coming first, the tears or the vomit. Not sure which I’d prefer.

  “Um, ew,” she says. “Get out of here before you puke on my Manolo Blahnik sandals. These are real snakeskin, you know.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I race back to the restrooms. Only this time, I don’t know when I’ll be brave enough to come out again.

  * * *

  The first text comes while my head is hanging over the toilet.

  I ignore the ping at first. Not hard when you’re staring at the concave interior of a toilet bowl. But the phone pings again, insistently, so I rock back onto the linoleum and swipe the sweaty hair off my forehead.

  Maybe it’s a concerned message from Alisara. Or an annoyed “get your butt out here and help me” missive from Mackenzie. Or words of support from Sam or Liam. I’d be happy to hear from either right now.

  But deep down in the pit of my stomach, I know it’s none of those things. Because I haven’t heard from my mysterious texter since Friday night, and he’ll want to know what I think of his latest masterpiece. Or maybe it’s a she. An adult or a kid. It could be anybody, really. I tried every “reverse phone lookup” search on the Internet, and the most information I could find was that the number was linked to a disposable cell phone.

  Taking a deep breath, I bring the screen to my nose and read:

  How did you like the photo?

  Beautiful, asshole. A real piece of art. I’m thinking of including it in my portfolio for Parsons, if I ever apply.

  But he’s not finished.

  This is what happens when you stick your nose into other people’s business.

  The walls feel too tight. The stall’s open at the top and bottom, but I can’t draw enough air. I lurch to my feet, and the toilets, sinks, and mirrors bleed together.

  At that moment, the intercom in the hallway blares: “Cecilia Brooks, if you are in this building, please report to the main office at once. I repeat, Cecilia Brooks, report to the main office.”

  I press my hands to my temples. I can’t stay here, anyway. I came for privacy, but I’m not alone anymore. My mysterious texter has found me.

  I make my way to the main office. The halls are empty. Not even a glimpse of the janitor or the flyers.

  When I enter the office, Ms. Hughes, our school secretary, is typing on a keyboard with the tips of her French manicure. “Cecilia!” Her nails slip into the crevices between the keys. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Bob’s finally gotten all the posters down. There’s a bunch of sticky tape all over the place, but it’s clear now.” She clucks her tongue. “My word, I’ve worked at this school ten years, and I never would’ve thought I’d see child pornography plastering our hallways. Principal Winters is in a meeting, but he wants you to wait right here until we can call the police and get this straightened out.”

  My pulse jumps. No. Not the police. They didn’t help my mother, and they aren’t going to help me. On top of everything else, I don’t think I can handle their relentless interrogation and condescension today. I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask? I just want to curl into a ball and be miserable all by myself.

  “You don’t have to call the police,” I manage to say. That’s it. Don’t sound devastated or destroyed. This kind of thing happens all the time. At least, to people like me. “The picture’s fake. You see, they just put my head on another photo. So it’s not child porn. It’s just a prank. Nothing more.”

  She frowns. “Are you sure?”

  I sigh. “Ms. Hughes, I think I would know if I posed for that photo. Besides, all you have to do is look at the neck. The lines don’t match up.”

  She slips on a pair of glasses and squints at a copy she just happens to have at her desk
. Oh dear lord. These posters are everywhere. The linoleum tile might as well open up and swallow me now.

  “I can see what you mean,” she says finally. “I guess we don’t need to get the police involved. At least not yet.”

  Oh, thank goodness—

  “But Principal Winters will still want to see you after school,” she continues, before the relief can fully settle on my shoulders. “To discuss what you know about the posters.”

  “I don’t know anything—”

  She blinks. “You’re not under investigation, hon. But whoever did this has violated our student code of conduct, and we need to get to the bottom of it so we can take the proper disciplinary measures.”

  Now? You’re going to take action now? What about last year, when Tommy Farrow’s pals whispered obscenities under their breath every time I walked past? Why didn’t you do anything then?

  I take a deep breath and release it slowly. Clearly, they couldn’t address an issue they didn’t know about—and I never made a single report. I’m not sure why. There are plenty of people at this school—my mom’s former colleagues, my old teachers—who would leap to my defense. But hearing the whispered innuendos made me feel dirty enough. The thought of repeating the words out loud, of having them written down in my file, is more than I can bear.

  “You poor dear. What a morning.” She pats her white-blond hair, wrapped in its usual bun, and offers me a purple lollipop. “Here. I know you seniors think you’re too sophisticated for a sweet treat, but I say you could always use a pick-me-up, no matter how old you are.”

  “No thanks, Ms. Hughes. My stomach’s a little unsettled.” I can’t imagine why.

  She fusses over me for a few more minutes and then signs my tardy slip with a flower-tipped pen. Forcing a smile on my face, I thank her. I haven’t gone five steps from the main office when my phone pings again.

  You can stop this any time. Get back in your shell. Stop volunteering at the hotline. Stop digging into the past.