Tell Me No Lies

by Adele Griffin

  “I’d rather go by myself.”

  But Mom was already out of the living room, pulling on her coat. She tossed me the keys with a smile.

  I should have called ahead, except there was a good chance that if I did, Claire might invent a reason for me not to come over. So the trick was making it look spontaneous.

  On the drive over, I plotted my moves.

  Sorry! I’d exclaim when she opened the door. Mom and I were in the area, so I thought I’d come pick up my bag—since my toothbrush and English book are in it.

  It was an easy lie, except that when we rolled up to park in front of the massive unlit house and I sprang from the car to ring the bell, it was Claire’s mom who cracked open the door.

  “Hi, Mrs. Reynolds.” Claire had introduced her to me as Suze, but faced with her twitchy, surprised face, I was tense. “Is Claire around? I left something here.”

  “Claire!” Mrs. Reynolds’s voice broke like a boy’s as she shrilled, “Clay-ayre! Clayyyyyre! Come here right this minute! Were you expecting your friend?”

  Feet pounded down the hall. Next Claire appeared, nudging her mother to the side as half of her face peeked through the sliver of door.

  “Lizzy? What are you doing here?”

  A cat escaped, brushing past my calf as it flung itself into the night. It was followed by another, and another.

  “No, no, no!” Mrs. Reynolds was screeching. “No, no, no! Claire, shut this door!”

  Claire’s angry eye was staring me down. “Are you with Matt?” she hissed. “Who are you with?” I could hear cats at her feet mewling in frustration, clawing to get out.

  “My mom, that’s all. She wanted to meet—”

  “Hi, Claire!” My blood chilled. Mom was standing right behind me.

  “Mrs. Swift?” Claire’s eye widened, and I knew, too late, that this visit was a mess of wrong, and I needed to get out of here before I made it any worse.

  “Sweetie, is your aunt Jane here? I wanted to say hello—”

  “Mom, no! Get back in the car!”

  Mom was talking over me, attempting to budge me out of the way. “Hi, Claire! I wondered if your aunt Jane was available. I’d like to introduce myself?”

  “You want to meet my aunt?” Now Claire sounded shrill.

  “I’m so sorry!” My eyes begged Claire’s forgiveness. “We were doing errands, and I came for my bag. Let me get it and we’ll go, Claire. Promise.”

  “Who’s that?” Aunt Jane’s distinctly sharp and reedy voice cawed from above. “What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Sleighmaker? Hello!” Mom was still trying to make it work. As she gave a final push into my space while tugging on the doorknob, a cat flexed and jumped, snagging at Mom’s pant leg.

  “Ouch! Pssst! Scat, pussycat!” Mom shook her leg as the cat dug in, while Claire seized the distraction to yank at the door, nearly squashing another cat in the process.

  “I’m sorry.” This was awful. Cats were yowling in chorus.

  “Don’t let your mom—”

  “Mom, go.” I hurled a glare at my mother, who had detangled from the cat and was now pulling up her pant leg to examine the wound. “Go back to the car! Claire’s aunt doesn’t want to see you.”

  Claire pushed the cat outside and slammed the door. Mom swore softly. “Would you look at this?” Her exposed winter leg glowed pale as paper, showing up the dark jagged scratch. “What is going on in that house?”

  “Please go back to the car and wait for me, Mom!”

  “Fine, but don’t be long, I need Neosporin for this!” She stormed off.

  A moment later, the door reopened just wide enough for Claire to push my bag at me. “I really wish you’d called.”

  “I’m so sor—”

  Slam.

  In silence and darkness, I returned to the car, a sting of tears in my eyes. I chucked my stupid bag into the back seat.

  Mom was in the driver’s seat, as I knew she would be. The fact that this errand had gone so wrong had nothing to do with my driving, but even a tiny chaos meant that she could take over. My parents didn’t like me on the road because of my condition, and they’d use any excuse—even though my driver’s license was as legal as anyone’s, since my last unconscious seizure was over two years ago.

  “Those monster cats came out of nowhere,” Mom complained after a few minutes. “They should get those beasts declawed, and put out Beware Of signs.”

  “Beware of Nosy Mothers. Claire knew you were gawking at the house.”

  “I was not!” Mom grimaced. “Good grief.” She paused. “But that’s a real Edgar Allan Poe story, isn’t it? All those disgusting animals! And it smelled absolutely vile—Lizzy, I’m not sure I want you spending nights in that house.”

  “On what grounds? Fear of house cats?”

  “Wild cats.”

  “Look, Mom, don’t tell anyone at Argyll about this, okay? Claire’s aunt is a nut, but it’s a private thing, like Uncle Ron being in AA.”

  “Lizzy, of course I won’t spread stories. It’s not my business.”

  I wasn’t comforted—Mom could be a gossip. I’d hate anything to get back to Claire, who trusted me—even though I had broken that trust with these stupid, stolen letters that had become way more hassle than I could have possibly anticipated.

  At home, up in my room, I dug into my bag for the paperback.

  The envelope wasn’t there.

  My body went cold. Impossible. I checked again. Rechecked for a better answer, the right answer. I dumped out the bag. I shook Song of Solomon so that its pages flapped. Nothing. Gone.

  After a minute, I unfroze to get up and look in my Holly Hobbie purse. Maybe I hadn’t moved the letters, after all? Except that I knew I had.

  I took a long bath to calm down, stoppering and unstoppering the tub to refill it with hot water as needed. Clipped my nails. Out of the bath, I sketched my water-wrinkled hand. Wished I had the nerve to dial up Claire. Wished she would phone me.

  All that night until I fell asleep, I flipped restlessly through different scenarios—had Claire figured out my theft beforehand, or was she on red alert when I showed up at her house? Had she found the letters right before she returned my bag? Would she confront me tomorrow? How would I defend myself?

  My breath hurt. No thought gave me peace. No plan seemed obvious. When I finally fell asleep, my dreams were a tornado of worry.

  twenty-five

  At lunch Monday, Wendy Palmer was in front of me at the cash register. My body tensed just to be near her, and although it had been years since she’d targeted me outright, her contempt was always in her pebble-gray eyes. When she turned to look my way, it took everything in me to meet her gaze.

  “Hey, Lizzy. Come sit with us,” she coaxed. “Claire’s already over there, see?”

  I looked. Claire often bypassed lunch, but there she was between Kreo and Liz DeBatista at the Nectarine table. I’d headed to the cafeteria early, and Gage and Mimi weren’t here yet, but I didn’t want to snub them. And zero part of me wanted to sit with awful, sniggering Wendy, but of course I needed to deal with Claire.

  “Okay.” My hands were clammy as I followed Wendy. I was nervous to look Claire in the eye. I’d stolen from her! Stolen love letters and read them and shown up uninvited at her house to get them back, and she knew it.

  Did she hate me for it?

  “Hey, Lizzy,” she said, as if everything was normal between us, as if last night hadn’t happened.

  “Hi.” I dropped next to Maggie Farthington, who shoved over obligingly. A double whammy, dealing with Nectarines and Claire. The backs of my knees were already sweating against the plastic chair seat. As I unloaded my tray, I breathed in through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, the way Dr. Neumann had taught me.

  At least Claire didn’t seem angry anyway. Was I
wrong? Was it possible she didn’t know, that something else had happened to that envelope?

  “So, girls! Heard you two double-dated with Dave Jimenez this weekend.” As Wendy spoke, she emptied a pouch of Crystal Light lemonade into her glass of water. Lunch for Wendy was never more than this drink, plus rice crackers. “I swear, that guy could star in a Calvin Klein campaign.” She shifted conspiratorially toward Claire. “Are you really into him?”

  “He’s sweet,” Claire conceded.

  “Maybe you’ll be the one to put him in his place. He’s got way too many girls in love with him,” said Wendy.

  Now I understood why Claire and I had been summoned.

  “We all went to the Bank,” I said, to rub it in. “That new club.”

  “Mmmmm!” Kreo purred at me. “So Walt’s ID worked out, huh?”

  “Yep.” We exchanged a smile. Now this was a new weirdness, a chummy-chummy lunch with the Nectarines. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gage and Mimi carrying trays to our usual table by the back window. I made myself look away.

  “Lucky you were in the city Saturday. It was such a shit show at Thatcher Bell’s house,” said Wendy. “Did you hear about Leslie and Stephen?”

  “She’s absent today,” I observed. Leslie Spivio sat next to me in my morning Ancient Civ class. “What happened? Did they elope?”

  “Not even,” Wendy snorted. “But they had their wedding night, sort of.”

  “Palmer, please.” Kreo rolled her eyes. “That’s a sick way of putting it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Claire. “What happened to Leslie?”

  Leslie was the friendliest Nectarine, the peppy do-gooder who we always voted to be class president or vice president, who looked the part in her penny loafers with actual pennies stuck in them and her hair in a fishtail braid down her back. Everyone knew plenty about Leslie and Stephen’s romance because on the first day of school, he’d sent her two dozen roses. The FTD flowers delivery guy had arrived in the cafeteria while all the girls applauded and Leslie’s face turned pink as a peony—but anyone could tell she loved it.

  Wendy pledged, a hand to her heart. “I was downstairs the whole time, watching Beverly Hills Cop with everyone else. So you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Kreo took over. “Stephen told Thatcher that he and Leslie were fooling around in Mr. and Mrs. Bell’s bedroom, and Stephen said it just ended up in a bad direction. A really bad direction.”

  “I’m not following,” I admitted. “What do you mean, bad direction?”

  “You’re such a kid, Lizzy—do you really need it spelled out? He went too far,” said Wendy impatiently. “He got ahead of himself. He pressured her.”

  “He pressured her . . . all the way?” I asked.

  “As in rape?” asked Claire flatly.

  The whole table winced from the scorch of that word.

  Liz looked annoyed. “No need to get into all the details.”

  “Yeah, it’s so disrespectful,” added Wendy.

  “But Leslie should report it,” said Claire. “Especially if she’s not eighteen yet.”

  “She is eighteen,” said Wendy. “She’s totally legal.”

  “Report what? Report to who?” Kreo scoffed.

  “People! This is a personal situation.” Wendy always spoke with the loud confidence of a beautiful girl, even though she wasn’t quite—despite the year-round tan and her perfect caramel-blond highlights, she was too pinched and flinty eyed. “One, Leslie’s been dating Stephen for a year. Two, she knows he’s sloppy when there’s alcohol involved. Three, it’s basically the job of the girlfriend to keep a boyfriend from getting out of hand. I’m not saying Stephen had the right to do what he did, but she’s putting it out there, and he’s a red-blooded American guy, so whatever.”

  “It sounds like you are saying he had the right,” said Claire.

  “Okay, Claire, now you’re just being a priss.” Kreo smiled to show she wouldn’t hold a grudge against prissiness. “They wear promise rings.”

  “A promise ring doesn’t mean ‘Yay, I can do whatever I want,’” said Claire.

  I’d been quiet, picking at my salad. Why was Claire pushing so hard for Leslie?

  “It’s going to turn into she said, he said,” said Liz. “Like the Preppy Killer guy.”

  “What are you talking about, Liz? She didn’t get to say anything. She’s dead.” Claire looked scornful.

  “Well, to be honest, I feel sorry for Stephen catching all this heat,” said Wendy.

  I looked up. “Stephen’s doing just fine,” I said. “Stephen got exactly what he wanted, whether it was offered or not.”

  I hadn’t thought what I’d said was so funny, but some of the girls laughed. “Yeah, save your pity for someone who needs it, Palmer,” said Kreo as Claire caught my eye in quiet affirmation. And while Wendy smiled along, I could tell my comment, and the laughter, had bugged her.

  “The sad part is since it happened out of school, Stephen gets off free and clear, but no protection for Leslie,” said Claire, quickly sobering the table. “And nobody will do anything except waste hours gossiping about what qualifies as rape.” If Claire blinked right now, a tear might spill.

  She blinked, and turned away.

  “Okay, enough with that word,” said Maggie softly.

  “And if we could all check in for a minute with reality,” Kreo added, “Leslie is Stephen’s girlfriend—they aren’t strangers. There’s no need for extra protection. It didn’t happen behind a Dumpster with a total random. And the way I understand it? From the way Stephen told it to Thatcher? He said Leslie was being a tease. She wanted it just as much as he did, until the second she didn’t. But by then it was out of hand. That’s how Thatcher put it.”

  “‘Out of hand.’ Jesus.” Claire pushed back her chair, stood up, and left. We all watched as she walked out of the lunchroom without a look back.

  “What?” asked Kreo. “I was only repeating. I’m just the messenger.”

  “She seemed way upset,” said Maggie.

  “Is she gonna bus her tray?” Wendy looked annoyed. “I don’t want a demerit for that.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  “Claire’s a wild card, huh?” Kreo asked the question, but the Nectarines were looking at me for an answer. “She wears what she wants, goes to class when she wants, she’s in French with me and if she hasn’t done the homework, she doesn’t even apologize, she’s just like ‘Je n’ai pas fini.’”

  “But she’s not a free spirit, you know? Her spirit feels, like, not free at all,” added Liz, as philosophical as I’d ever heard her. “She’s a heavy spirit.”

  “Anyone who can hook Dave Jimenez has got magic powers.” Wendy tapped a finger on the table. “What’s Claire’s deal anyway, Lizzy? For real?”

  “Oh, I, I um . . .” I hated all this attention on me. The Nectarines, as a group, had never sought out my company before except to tease me, and my new barely accepted status was only because of Matt.

  Wendy’s gaze on me was both direct and amused. “Now don’t spaz out, Lizzy. It’s a simple question here.”

  My cheeks were so instantly red, I knew everyone could see, but to act bothered by Wendy’s jab would be even more shameful. “I don’t know a ton about Claire, but I’m guessing she had a friend at Strickland who got hurt the way Leslie did? Or maybe . . .” I swallowed and shrugged, letting the silence speak for itself, that maybe it was Claire herself who’d been hurt.

  “Everyone has skeletons.” Wendy winked and grinned at me.

  I checked my watch—“Uh-oh, gotta run. I’m late for yearbook meeting”—and then quickly stood up and reached for Claire’s tray, stacking it on mine. Head down, I made a break for it, dumping the dishware at the cleanup station, then slipping out of the lunchroom as if I were running to catch up with my fake emergency
meeting. But I couldn’t stand another moment of letting Wendy bat me around like a cat toy.

  All through afternoon classes, I fiddled with my facts. Did Claire think the school was letting Leslie down by not protecting her? Or was this more about what had happened at Claire’s old school? Claire’s whole Aunt-Jane-made-me-come-here story about why she left Strickland had never washed for me—I’d seen with my own eyes how Aunt Jane bristled at Claire, how much she resented her niece’s presence at Lilac House. Aunt Jane would have paid any amount of tuition to keep Claire away.

  I’d told the Nectarines the truth. We had no history with Claire. Her past life was like an iceberg, mostly submerged.

  But I still couldn’t figure out what to do about the letters. What if I got up the nerve to come right out and apologize to Claire? What if I told her it had been what it was—the worst impulse ever—and I felt horrible about it?

  After lunch, I couldn’t find her, and I had a hunch she’d cut her afternoon classes. Sure enough, when I ducked out to the lower school parking lot, the orange Beetle was gone.

  At Ludington, I waited until Mrs. Binswanger left and I’d taken over the desk. There weren’t many kids here at five o’clock, but I gave my best impression of official business as I picked up the olive-green receiver. My fingers felt sweaty as I punched in for information to Strickland’s dashboard, and was connected to the alumni office.

  “Hello! I’m a former Strickland student,” I began in my apple-polisher’s voice. “I wanted to order a copy of your last year’s yearbook.”

  “You’ll have to send us a check or money order,” said the woman on the other end, and next thing I knew, I was scribbling down the address.

  “How long will it take for it to arrive?”

  “Let’s say between four to six weeks after your check clears.”

  Simple as that. The woman hadn’t been suspicious or even put me on hold to look up my name.

  I made out the check to Strickland for thirty-six dollars. Too much money! I wasn’t in my right mind. But I had to know more. I needed to know who Claire Reynolds had been before she came here to baffle us all.