The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

  And forget about my mom’s secrets? Pretend I never took that phone call from Lil? Not a chance.

  I wander back to the art room corridor. As Ms. Hughes warned, tape litters the walls, and strips of paper gather in the corners, casualties from Mackenzie’s assault. A freshman girl takes one look at me and tucks her chin deep into her textbooks, as if nudity were a disease.

  I lift my phone and text back:

  What are you hiding?

  Long minutes pass. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Did I make matters worse? Maybe I shouldn’t have responded. Maybe harassers are like terrorists, and you’re never supposed to engage them. Maybe all I’ve done is provoke him. It’s got to be a “him,” right? Probably Justin Blake. But then, Mackenzie’s face drifts into my vision, and I’m not so sure....

  And then, my phone pings again.

  Better yet, what is your new friend hiding? Sam Davidson rides off on the back of a motorcycle with an older woman every day. Did you know that?

  And then, an instant later: I’m surprised at you, Cecilia, associating with this boy. What will people think?

  Every hair on my arms stands up. I hadn’t heard anything about Sam’s older woman, but this isn’t some random harasser. Is Justin Blake perceptive enough to see my deepest fear? What will people think?

  I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. My classmates already think the worst. My reputation has hit rock bottom. Can it sink any lower?

  Apparently.

  When I walk into my next-period classroom, every head swivels to stare at me. No, not me. Not my eyes, not my face. Twenty-two pairs of eyes bore into my chest.

  Even Mr. Swift, the photography instructor and my study hall teacher, gives me a sympathetic look before holding out his hand for my tardy pass.

  I pass it over, the bile rising up my throat. So even my teachers have seen—or at least heard about—the poster.

  I hunch my shoulders and hurry to my seat, breathing deeply through my mouth. The ceiling fan whirls overhead, but it does nothing to cool my flushed neck, cheeks, and eyes. I’ve been disintegrating, little by little, and this might be the last puff of air that scatters my ashes to the winds.

  Ping.

  Think about it, Cecilia. I’m only trying to help.

  Chapter 20

  “Cecilia, I’m only trying to help,” Principal Winters says, tapping his fingers together. “But I can’t do that if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

  I can’t take my eyes from his hands. Blunt-cut nails. A faded circle of white where his wedding ring used to be. Fingers long, lean, and powerful, just like the rest of him. If you like the type.

  I guess his ex-wife, our former school nurse, didn’t.

  Officially, she was let go because of budget cuts. Unofficially, the entire school knew she was sleeping around on her husband. My mom’s affair may have been the biggest scandal to hit Lakewood High, but it certainly wasn’t the first.

  “I already told you.” I shift in the hard chair. It matches the mahogany decor of the rest of the office, but I’m certain this piece of furniture’s only here to make students squirm. “I have no idea who’s behind the photos.”

  Oh, I have some idea. Clearly, my texter had something to do with it. But if I share that with Principal Winters, he’ll make me stop volunteering at the hotline.

  And I can’t do that, not when I’m on the verge of getting answers to questions I didn’t even know to ask until last week. Questions I should’ve had from the beginning—but didn’t.

  Principal Winters wrinkles his nose, as if the smell of leather is finally getting to him. The whole office reeks of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a special cologne made so he could bathe in the stuff.

  Abruptly, he stands and strides to the bookcase. He faces the bound volumes—leather, of course—as though he were gazing out the window.

  “I care about all my students,” he says. “But I feel a special responsibility toward you, Cecilia. I remember when you used to come in during your mom’s work hour after school. You were such a serious child, quiet, always with your nose in a book. Your mother said it didn’t make sense to hire a babysitter for only an hour, but I could tell she just liked having you around. She could never walk by you without stroking your hair or squeezing your arm.”

  Hot, stinging liquid rises inside me, flooding my throat and pushing against my eyes. I blink and look down. See, this is another reason why I never reported the harassment. Because then I’d have to listen to a well-meaning authority figure reminisce about my mom.

  “She was also totally absent-minded, did you know that?” I say. “One time, she came to school wearing one navy pump and one black pump. Another time, she burned the sleeve of her blouse because she was daydreaming and had to keep on her jacket all day.”

  These stories are supposed to cut Principal Winters down. To show him my mom wasn’t some paragon to put on a pedestal. The circumstances of her death prove that. And yet, the memory of the iron-shaped mark on her white silk blouse makes me want to cry even more.

  He studies me. I struggle to sit still, but the chair, dammit! It practically begs me to wiggle.

  “I want you to know, you’re not alone,” he says. “Tabitha was very much a part of the family here at Lakewood High, and we look out for one another. When Tommy Farrow came forward with his accusation, I didn’t automatically condemn your mother. Did you know that? She told me there was more to the story, and I believed her. We were about to start an investigation into Tommy’s claims, but one day later, Tabitha was dead. Out of respect for your father, we felt there was no point in bringing the detail of her philandering to light.

  “But don’t think for a moment that we’ve forgotten you. I’ve had my eye on you these last few months, Cecilia. So even when you think you’re alone, even when you think no one’s watching, we are.”

  A shiver skates across my spine. I know he means his words to be comforting. But after the too-intimate messages from my mysterious texter? I don’t like the idea of anybody watching me.

  The books loom over me, the stink of leather threatening to suffocate me. “Can I go now?”

  We look at each other. I could be staring into a mirror. His eyes are as raw and weary as my own. The eyes of someone who’s lived through scandal.

  “Yes, we’re done here.” He chews the inside of his cheek, as if debating whether to continue. “But please let me know if you learn anything regarding the posters. I give you my word we’ll take care of you. Just like we took care of your mother.”

  * * *

  I wade down the hallway as if I’m moving through a murky swamp. A group of girls with bulky kneepads dash into the gym, and a couple makes out by the lockers. At least, I think they’re making out. I can’t see the girl’s upper body, which has disappeared inside the locker, but what else could they be doing, with their pelvises pressed together?

  BAM!

  I crash into someone, and my stuff goes flying. Notebooks, pens, my snow globe, and the contents of my lunch rain down on us like a violent hailstorm.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry!” a girl wails. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, but my brother’s going to kill me if he finds out it happened like this.”

  I press a hand against my forehead. When my vision clears, I see wild black hair, a cute, upturned nose, and a smattering of freckles. Sam’s freckles.

  “Briony?” I guess.

  She grins, showing me nearly every one of her straight, white teeth. “Sam’s told you about me?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, he talks about you all the time. You’d think we didn’t have girls at our old school or something.”

  I sink to my knees and pick up the snow globe. Thank god the glass hasn’t cracked. I give it a shake and watch the flakes fall down on the grandmother, mother, and daughter once again.

  I haven’t seen Sam all day, since I missed first period. More importantly, I haven’t seen him since my topless photos were plastered acros
s the corridor. He’s not going to judge me. At least, I don’t think. But my texter’s words drift through my mind, and I wonder how well I really know Sam.

  “What does Sam say?” I stick the snow globe back into my backpack, where it will be safe. “That we’re working together on his hotline article?”

  “He mentioned that. But mostly, he talks about how he’d like to see your drawings. Apparently, you used to win a whole bunch of contests? He said he found mentions of them in back issues of the Lakewood Sun, but then, news of your artwork just ... stopped.”

  The notebook slides from my fingers. Sam knows about my drawings? My artwork has disappeared from my public life so completely I doubt even Alisara remembers I used to spend all my spare time hunched over a piece of paper.

  Before, I had a thick skin when it came to my art. I put my heart into every piece of work and flung it out there for the public to judge. This is me, my artwork screamed. Make of it what you will.

  Ha. So earnest and idealistic, it makes me want to puke. That was before I knew what real judgment was like. Before I had to suffer through Justin Blake’s innuendos every morning. Before photos of “my” naked breasts waved from the ceiling.

  Briony collects the rest of my possessions. An apple from my lunch, which rolled under the water fountain. Some Post-it notes in a far-flung spot down the hall. And even my cell phone, which flew around the corner.

  By the time she returns, I’ve arranged my face into a blank canvas. “Does Sam always research his friends so thoroughly?”

  “No,” she says, handing me the phone, apple, and Post-it notes. “Just the ones he likes.”

  “And, uh, what about motorcycles? Does he often ride off with friends on motorcycles?”

  She gives me a mystified look. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” I flush and thrust the apple at her. “Here. Do you want to eat this? It’s only a little bit bruised.”

  “Sure. I missed lunch today.” She takes a huge bite. “Oh, and if you’re looking for my brother, he just left. You should be able to catch him if you hurry.”

  I thank her and walk away, although I have no intention of catching him. Unless “catching” is code for “stalking.”

  I burst out the front door and see Sam loping across the parking lot, a backpack slung over his shoulder. I count to ten and follow at a safe distance.

  He’s my partner, I remind myself. We’re a team. I trusted him enough to tell him I’m volunteering at the hotline. Maybe I should trust him with this. And yet . . . if he’s involved with an older woman? I need to know.

  He weaves through the cars to the far side of the lot. Once, he glances over his shoulder. The sun glints off his glasses, and I drop onto the pavement behind a beat-up VW Bug, scraping my palms.

  This is it. He saw me. How am I going to explain what I’m doing?

  But seconds pass, and nobody comes. Cautiously, I peek over the hood of the Bug. The cream paint curls back in ribbons and flakes off where I brush against the car. From the next parking spot, Howie Dorment from physics class stares at me. Any other time, I would’ve fretted over what he must think. Now, I’m too busy keeping track of Sam as he disappears behind a tree.

  I scoot out from behind the car. Sam reappears and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He walks a block away from school. And then two blocks. Is he going to walk all the way home? Am I going to follow him that far?

  Just as I’m about to abandon my tail, a motorcycle roars up. Bleached blond hair flows underneath the helmet, and the rider is clad entirely in black leather. I can’t tell her age, but no student at Lakewood High dresses like that.

  The adrenaline flees my body, and I duck behind a tree, my arms and shoulders drooping. So my texter was right. Deep down, I didn’t really believe it. Never imagined Sam could be another Tommy Farrow. But the evidence is right here in front of me.

  Sam picks up the second helmet, but instead of putting it on, he leans over and whispers something in the woman’s ear. She says something back. He nods and looks directly at my tree. No, not the tree. At me.

  And then he walks over to where I’m crouching. “CeCe? Why are you spying on me?”

  Chapter 21

  My brain shoots into overdrive. Why am I spying on him? Hmmm, good question.

  “I’m not?” I say weakly.

  Instead of responding, Sam tilts his head and examines my position on the ground, where I’m clearly hiding from someone.

  The smell of fresh potting soil perfumes the air, and above us, a bird or some other creature rustles in the leaves. The woman on the motorcycle honks twice—short, light, and friendly—and then drives off.

  “You know, CeCe,” he says. “If there’s something you’re curious about, just ask.”

  “Okay, then.” I get to my feet with as much dignity as possible. Which, considering the dirt and dried leaves covering my butt, probably isn’t much. “Who was that woman?” I ask and then flush. Now he’s going to think I’m really crushing on him. And maybe I am. But he doesn’t have to know that.

  “Principal Winters isn’t keen to have motorcycles on school grounds,” I blabber. “Because, you know, of the fatal accidents and all. And he asked me to tell him if I saw any around. That’s why I want to know about the woman. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Because we’re partners and all.”

  Sweat gathers on my forehead. That’s about the flimsiest excuse I’ve ever heard. There’s no way he’s going to fall for it.

  Instead of calling me on the lie, however, he takes a step closer, so that we’re both shaded under the tree. “That was my mother.”

  My jaw drops. His mother? Oh god. His mother. So mysterious texter was kinda right—and also completely, totally off-base. “Oh wow. She, um, doesn’t look like a mom.”

  “Neither did yours.”

  Touché. His mom looks like a biker chick, mine looked like a pinup model—so I guess we’re even.

  “Why is she picking you up two blocks from the school?” I ask.

  “Oh, um . . .” He fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie. “You know how I let Bri have the car most days? Some afternoons, I go to the Lakewood Sun office, and that’s a little far, even for my scooter. I don’t have many friends I can bum a ride from. And I don’t want to wear out my welcome with the ones I do have.” He moves his shoulders. “My mom’s more than happy to give me a ride, but I don’t really want to advertise that in front of the whole school.”

  I stare. “But you don’t care what other people think. I mean, you stood up to Mackenzie on your very first day, when she was harassing that poor girl with the flyers. You wear pants that are way too short . . .”

  “I don’t care very much what other people think,” he corrects. “But when they look at you and laugh, it always hurts. No matter how thick your skin is.” He rubs the back of his neck. A yellow leaf flutters by his ear, and for a moment, he looks just like a portrait. My fingers itch for my sketch pad, so I can record this moment and keep it forever.

  “People don’t laugh at you,” I say. “They’re intrigued. The rest of us are carbon copies of each another. Even Mackenzie Myers is a more expensive version of the same old thing.”

  “Not you,” he says.

  Maybe not anymore. But before my mom’s scandal, I fit right in with the Raleighs of Lakewood High. I wore the same clothes, had the same pastimes. Only my mom’s suicide made me different.

  Up until this moment, I would’ve said being a carbon copy was a good thing. You don’t get made fun of when you’re the same as everybody else. But now, with his dark eyes looking into mine, I’m not so sure. Is there a way to be different without being ridiculed?

  We walk back to school, our pace slow and meandering. The late afternoon sun slants through the trees, decorating Sam’s face with dappled light. The air feels crackly and crisp, and colorful leaves litter the sidewalk.

  I suddenly feel bad—more than bad—for not trusting him. It’s one thing to keep infor
mation from Principal Winters. But this is Sam. My partner and ally. No matter what he threatened to Mr. Willoughby, he hasn’t spilled about me being a call counselor yet. And I have a feeling, deep down, that he won’t.

  Besides, what the posters today have shown me is that my mysterious texter is smart. He—or she—knows right where to strike to make me hurt most. If I’m going to even the playing field, I need Sam on my side.

  I take a deep breath and tell Sam everything—about the doctored hotline flyers, the misdialed calls, and the text messages I received. I even tell him about Lil and the last sentence in my mom’s call log, Oh dear god, it’s happened again.

  I don’t have to mention the posters with my Photoshopped head. The way the rumor gale was blowing today, he’d have to be oblivious not to have heard. And newspaper intern Sam is anything but oblivious.

  “Do you have a phone number for Lil?” Sam asks. “We need to talk to her again. Maybe your mom told her something.”

  I shake my head. “We don’t trace a phone number unless we feel the caller is at immediate risk for suicide. We’ll just have to wait and see if she calls back.”

  “You wait,” he says. “I’ll do my own digging.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but this is what I signed up for when I became his partner. He’s supposed to dig. He’s supposed to uncover the truth about my mom’s death.

  And that’s what I want, too. It just feels weird to give him explicit permission to rifle through the pieces of my mom’s life.

  So I don’t. “Your mother must think I’m a total freak, skulking around like that,” I say instead, changing the subject.

  “Actually, she’d like to invite you over for dinner tomorrow. She wants to meet you properly.”

  “Oh.” I scuff my shoe against the fallen leaves. I’ve never met a boy’s parents before. I mean, sure, I grew up with these kids. Most of the moms worked on the PTA with my mom, and a lot of the dads coached our soccer games. But I’ve never been invited for dinner. “Will your dad be there?”

  He doesn’t say anything for half a block, and I realize how little I know about him. I made the gut decision to trust him, but I don’t know why his family moved to Lakewood. I don’t even know if his parents are still together.