Tell Me No Lies

by Adele Griffin

  It was impossible to imagine Mimi and Gage here, though I wished they were. It would have been nice to have some friends. Would they be dancing? Drinking these purple drinks? At some point, I’d scored my third cup of punch, which didn’t seem like a big deal—it wasn’t too potent.

  And then it hit me.

  “I might need to get out of here.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Matt kept a grip on me as I lurched from the living room. Fear of losing it, fear of a blackout—I could practically hear my ticking clock. Dr. Neumann had warned me endlessly about not mixing alcohol with medication.

  At least Matt seemed to get it. His hand kept a grip as he steered us outside to cool down under the stars.

  “Sorry,” I said as we settled on the porch steps. I closed my eyes and breathed.

  “It’s fine. Dave was hounding us anyway.”

  My eardrums felt bruised by the music. “He’s got a big personality.”

  Matt laughed. “That’s one way of putting it. He’s what my parents would call a bad influence. But yeah, Dave’s an original. He’s totally outside the lines.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I guess, is how he’s always looking for the bigger picture. He’s all about getting out there, getting lost. He’s been mountain climbing in Peru, white-water rafting in Costa Rica. Last summer he went to Berlin to protest the wall, and every year he does a youth wilderness trip where they throw you in the middle of the woods and you’ve got to figure out how to stay alive.”

  “I’ve heard about those youth wilderness trips—Gage was thinking of going on one, if she can get over the nature-is-your-bathroom thing.”

  “Yeah, Dave does all the things other people talk about doing. Whenever I talk to him, he makes me want to get away from the same tired shit.”

  My head was spinning. I wished I could lie down for a couple of minutes. “What’s your same tired shit?”

  “I guess another summer lifeguarding at Little Egg Harbor.”

  I nodded, although Little Egg Harbor sounded pretty wonderful to me. All the rich families had houses at the shore, but my family didn’t and we never went anywhere. Over a summer, we’d escape the heat for weekends at my grandmother’s place out in Chester County, because she had a swimming pond nearby, and for one week in August we rented a cabin in Cook’s Forest State Park. I’d really liked Cook’s Forest as a little kid, but for the past three years, I’d wanted to die from the boredom and bean dinners.

  The car ride home made me feel even wobblier. Why did I drink three drinks in an hour? I closed my eyes so traffic lights wouldn’t shine so harsh into them.

  “Are you always the designated driver?” I could hear my voice slurring the question as we arrived at my house. “For your friends, I mean?”

  “It’s better for me to stay sharp, or I say stupid things.” Matt cut the engine and lights. “Even cough medicine screws me up.” He leaned over and kissed me. “You taste like grape Kool-Aid.”

  Dizzy as I felt, I turned into his kiss, and soon Matt had pushed himself across the driver’s seat and crossways over my body. I could feel the sharp edge of his nose, the deeper land of his lips on mine. The warmth of his breath sent a waterfall of chills down my spine.

  His next kiss was full on, and I let my mouth open as I kissed him back—or tried to—I’d kissed only one other guy before, working as a bus girl at Friendly’s in Berwyn last summer. Dennis Purdy had worked the take-out window, and he hadn’t been too experienced himself, with his bullying tongue and no technique. It was mortifying to think that Matt would judge me as badly as I’d judged Dennis Purdy. It was also depressing to think that after all these years of imagining Matt Ashley kissing me, I now wouldn’t hold up my end of the fantasy because I was too drunk.

  His hand tugged the fabric of my T-shirt, pulling it free from my jeans. Nerve endings spiked at the touch of air on my skin. I wriggled down as he eased my seat back. Everything about Matt was lightweight yet strong, as if he were made from a supple wood—from the bones of his shoulders to the press of his thighs and his hard-on. I was completely unstrung with the sensation of his hand pushing under the elastic of my leggings, past my lacy underwear.

  “Not Owen’s,” he whispered, his finger under the lace.

  “Not tonight.”

  As his fingers spidered along my hip bone, I heard my breath dig in, my skin holding the print of his mouth everywhere he left a kiss, though my mind was racing, wondering what he expected back, if I should be more active, maybe now was the time to pull on his zipper? I didn’t think I was ready to do that.

  But my head was so swampy, and the car’s tipped-back angle had put a lurch in my stomach. Mom had put a bottle of Colors of Benetton in my stocking last Christmas, and I’d always liked it, but right now it seemed to cling too hard, an overripe sweaty cinnamon-orange smell. So much was happening all at once, and when Matt pulled back to stare at me and ask if everything was okay, I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. I never drank hard alcohol.”

  “Wait—ever?” He laughed into my silence. “You’ll need to sleep it off. Take some aspirin now so it can start to work.” He lifted himself off me.

  My stupid brain, marinating in this deep, unexpected tub of booze I’d sunk it in, couldn’t figure out the right thing to say.

  “Good night,” I whispered. “I feel bad. Like, beyond just being drunk bad.”

  “Don’t feel bad.” He put a finger to his lips as he opened his car door and then came around to my side. I got out of the car and leaned on him as he navigated me to the front door, where we shared a quick, fumbling good-bye kiss. At the next moment of lightning horror that I might vomit right this second, I yanked open the door, sprinting to the powder room just in time to kick off the far worse part of this night.

  nineteen

  After an hour of heaves that left my ribs aching, I managed to take a couple of aspirin before I crawled upstairs to bed and fell into a spinning sleep. I woke into deep night blackness with my head stuck in a rhythmic bang bang bang like a rock in the dryer.

  My skin felt like cling wrap that was barely holding all the parts of me together.

  After a third trip to the bathroom, I curled up on the tile floor and wanted to die.

  So this was bombed. Plastered. Smashed. All the words made sense now.

  By morning, I was back in bed. My headache had eased into a bruised thudding. I drifted in and out of sleep until Dad tapped on my door and said he’d give me a lift to my Sunday shift at Ludington, if I could be ready in ten minutes.

  The shower was like a stream of BB pellets on my tender skin, and in the car I kept my temple pressed against the glass of the passenger-seat window.

  Dad pulled into the McDonald’s drive-through and ordered our breakfasts.

  “When did I graduate from orange juice to a large coffee?”

  “Since you got your first hangover,” he answered. “Drink a lot of water today.”

  I allowed a nod. Waiting for the lecture.

  “Look, Banana,” Dad started, “young people are always testing their personal limits, and I realize there’s a young man involved—”

  “Dad.”

  “—and may I just say, a very nice-seeming young man, but let me note here, don’t forget you can always bring Mimi and Gage. They’re good girls and a good influence, they know you best and—”

  “Dad!”

  “—and you’re only sixteen years old, and Mom and I don’t want you to be in situations where your friends aren’t around to help you make the right choices.”

  “Dad, if you could hear yourself! Mimi and Gage don’t want me to drag them around on my dates!” I pressed my fingers to my temple. This conversation was not helping my head.

  “It’s just a suggestion.” Dad looked hurt as he brushed cornmeal flecks of his McMuffin from his brown nylon accou
ntant’s pants. “The other thing I want to say, and then I’ll release you to the wilds of Ludington—is that you need to watch your health more than other kids.”

  “I was not even close to a—”

  “Because there isn’t a doctor alive, including your own, who’ll tell you that alcohol doesn’t have an extra implication for you.”

  “Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.” He leaned over and pulled me in to kiss the top of my head. “Don’t forget who you are, Lizzy.”

  The library’s blinding track lighting made me want to hide in a closet. Mrs. Binswanger’s beady eyes watched me drag around, limply reshelving books, and I was relieved when she clocked out and left.

  I’d forgotten my book bag, so I couldn’t do any homework, even if I’d been in any shape to solve physics problems or translate Ovid. Mostly I kept stumbling through last night. I was getting together with Matt Ashley. Even if I’d slightly ruined it by being too drunk, had I done all the other stuff right? Did he think I was slutty for the way I’d let him touch me wherever he wanted? Had I breathed too hard, made too much noise, or not enough? Was he thinking about it the way I was thinking about it?

  I found a bottle of Anacin in the circulation-desk drawer, and spent the rest of my shift working on an ink graphic of my palm for art. I wondered what a fortune-teller might know about my hand that I didn’t. I’d have given anything for a palm reading on that final score for last night. At least tonight, with the time change, I would get an extra hour of sleep, which was all I wanted once I came home from work.

  The next morning, I woke up ahead of my alarm clock and felt like myself again.

  New day, new week—

  Holy crap, no.

  No no no no.

  Leapfrogging to my desk, I flipped through the forms. Why had I thought I was almost finished? How could I be so stupid? This was a three-essay application, and I’d typed out only the basics, along with some essay notes in longhand.

  Nothing was ready. Nothing.

  I’d needed all of Sunday, and instead I’d let it dribble away from me. I’d staggered around like a deadbeat, using up precious hours to nurse my hangover, popping painkillers and drinking Cokes to settle my stomach.

  With frantic fingers, I shoved the form into my notebook, then pressed my hands against my burning cheeks. This wasn’t like me. This wasn’t how I did things, quick and messy. Now I’d have to take the application to school to cram work whenever I had a free moment.

  I couldn’t even confess it to Mimi and Gage, considering I’d held tight to my “too much work” lie all weekend, and I had to say no to their multiple invites to the mall, the movies, and Rock-N-Bowl for Sunday pizza and bowling.

  “Hey, Lizzy, why the long face?” asked Gage in homeroom.

  I rolled my shoulders. “I’m tired.”

  “I could pick you up after Ludington today. We can microwave chimichangas and pass out candy,” she offered. “I rented The Shining.”

  “And I’m coming, too,” added Mimi. “Say yes. I feel like it’s been forever since we did a Three Musketeers night.”

  “Sorry. I’ve just got too much work,” I said, truly regretful. I really wanted to make it right with Gage, especially after last Thursday. But I wasn’t lying. The application would take me hours.

  “Oookay. Just let us know when you’re ready to hang out with us again,” said Mimi. “We miss you.”

  “But we won’t hold our breath.”

  Gage’s comment was a joke, of course, but I sensed hurt feelings beneath.

  After my library shift, dinner, and the last trick-or-treater, I was at my desk drafting my final essays for Princeton onto legal paper. It was almost three in the morning when I sealed the envelope, and I was too wired to sleep. Eyes broiling, I made an ink sketch of Matt from a memory I had of him throwing a stick to Furley, arm arced, neck angled. As I drew, I let myself go through all the reasons why he might not have called me, then, sketch complete, I dropped like a stone into bed.

  The next morning on the way to school, when I asked Mom if she would mind detouring to the post office, she was plainly shocked.

  “Isn’t Princeton due today?”

  “All I needed was to type the essays. It’s no big deal.”

  “Your first-choice college—where is this cavalier attitude coming from?”

  “I did it. It’s done. I think you’re overreacting.”

  Mom’s eyes were obscured behind her mirrored sunglasses but her mouth was a hook of disappointment. “I think all I’m doing is reacting. November first postage on a November first deadline is shaving it razor thin, don’t you agree?”

  “Mom, cut me some slack. It’s not like it’s overdue.”

  But she was right. Not that I’d admit it to Mom, who seemed to know anyway.

  I stared out the car window until we’d arrived at the post office, but my anxiety stayed with me long after I made a wish, poked the envelope through the mail slot, and listened for its hushed slip to the bottom.

  twenty

  That afternoon in art, I set up my spot with Mimi and Gage before Claire glided in. She immediately changed the music from the Grateful Dead to Echo and the Bunnymen and sat alone at an empty table.

  But when she saw me, she waved me over, a first.

  She’d never confronted me about Jay’s letters, so I was hopeful I was in the clear on that. As I approached, I saw that she was deep into yet another self-portrait, this one in linoleum block. Something about the short stabs of her cross-hatching looked more authentic to Claire’s face—severe, guarded—than her past efforts.

  “How’d the weekend end up?” she asked when I reached her.

  Dave Jimenez’s Halloween party felt like eons ago. I glanced at Gage and Mimi across the room, to make sure they couldn’t hear. “Matt and I went to his friend’s house. He had this awesome costume party.” Then I added, “But I forgot to finish Princeton. I had to cram, and I mailed it in this morning. My mom was wigging out.”

  “No shit.” Claire put down her stylus to give me all her focus. “Guess you don’t want to go there as much as you thought you did.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s like the goal of my life. I just forgot.”

  “Remind me why it’s the goal again?”

  “Do I have to have a reason besides that it’s one of the best schools in the country?”

  “What’s your connection? Is there some Princeton grad who inspired you?”

  “My uncle.” Uncle Grant was technically my mother’s uncle, and he was a source of enormous pride in Mom’s family. I’d met him only a few times.

  “And what’s he all about?”

  “He’s retired, but he was a trial lawyer and he swam in the Olympics.”

  “So you want to follow in his footsteps?”

  “Not law and swimming. But you know what I mean. Success-wise, yes.”

  “Sounds like Princeton is the perfect place for you, then,” said Claire, with a dismissive ripple of her fingers. “Listen, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go clubbing this weekend. There’s one that just opened last month, it’s called the Bank—it’s an actual bank in Center City, over on Spring Garden.”

  Glee lifted me up. “Matt’s been wanting to go into Philly—oh, unless you don’t want—I mean, I know you barely know Matt but—”

  “Totally, Matt, too.”

  “Sounds cool, I’ll let him know.”

  I returned to my table feeling pretty pumped. Mimi and Gage hadn’t heard a word, but it was obvious from their decision not to speak about it that I wasn’t “claiming” my private conversation with Claire.

  My Claire-glow stayed with me until dinner. I’d barely taken my first bite of lasagna when Mom started in. “Lizzy. I told your father about our pit stop at the post office this morning. We think you’re
losing focus on what’s top priority this year. Especially with all this new, social zipping around.”

  “I’m not zipping that much. There’s lots of girls at Argyll who are way zippier than me.” I tucked on a friendly smile.

  But Mom’s face told me that breezy wasn’t the right strategy. “Let’s be clear, Lizzy. Right now, this year, you are making one of the most important choices of your life.”

  None of us said anything to that, and after a few seconds, Dad seemed obligated to chime in. “Mom and I work too hard to—”

  The ring of the kitchen phone interrupted, loud enough to silence table talk. Since I got the majority of phone calls, it served only to emphasize Mom’s point.

  I stared at my lasagna, chewing at my bottom lip. I couldn’t dash to the kitchen, but what if it was Matt? What if I missed this call and he never called me ever again?

  Nobody moved. I counted off six rings before the call routed to the answering machine upstairs in my parents’ room. The second beep meant that whoever had called had left a message.

  Please, please let it be Matt.

  “Colleges look for slumps in a transcript,” continued Dad.

  “Exactly.” Mom nodded. “Just because you’ve applied early doesn’t mean you can take a vacation from—oh, for heaven’s sake.” The phone had started ringing again, a nagging follow-up, as if the caller had flat-out refused to accept that nobody had picked up on the first go-round.

  “Shouldn’t I just get it? Tell whoever it is that we’re eating?” I asked in a tiny voice.

  Tight-faced, Mom nodded.

  I dashed to the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  “Lizzy? Is that you? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you—I left a message.”

  He sounded so far away that for a moment I wasn’t sure if it was really him.

  “Matt? What happened? Is everything okay?”

  “No, it’s not. Not at all. It’s Tommy’s brother, Walt.” And now I heard Matt’s voice shake openly as he forced the next words. “Last night, he killed himself.”