by Paula Stokes
I shake my head. “No drugs.” I sigh. “I need to ask you a favor, though.” The kind of favor a mom wouldn’t do but a cool aunt just might.
She raises a finger to her lip and heads for the hallway. I follow behind her. She goes into the kitchen and fills the coffee carafe.
I check the clock. It’s cruising toward midnight. “Seriously? Coffee now?”
“Something tells me you’re not going to sleep anytime soon, and I could drink an entire pot of coffee and still be out before my head hit the pillow.” She yawns. “What do you need?”
I don’t answer right away. I feel guilty for lying about Langston, but I can’t exactly tell her the senator’s shifty henchmen bailed me out. That would invite too many other questions. And every minute I waste, Preston’s killer might be getting farther away. It’s like Amanda’s newest cop show, The Clock Is Ticking. In the opening credits, a movie preview voice-over man informs viewers that only forty percent of criminals not apprehended in the first forty-eight hours are eventually brought to justice.
I hear the telltale drip as the coffee starts to brew. I turn away from Darla to grab a pair of chipped coffee mugs from the cabinet. “Your car,” I say finally. I give Darla the Humane Society mug and keep the surfer mug Amanda painted for me. “Or Ben’s truck. Is there any way I can borrow a vehicle, just for tomorrow?”
“When do you think you’ll be getting your car back?”
She must think that the police impounded it as evidence. Instead of correcting her, I trace one of my mug’s surfboards with my finger. Behind me, coffee rains down into the glass pot, filling the kitchen with an earthy smell. “I’m not really sure,” I say.
“I see.” Darla’s face does its drooping thing again. We both know I’m not telling her the whole story.
“But I have to find Pres’s killer, because everyone thinks I’m guilty, and I’m not.” The coffeemaker hisses. “You believe me, right?” I jump up to grab the coffee, almost sticking my hand in the cloud of steam it belches out at the end of the cycle. I’m afraid to look at her right then. I know what she’ll say, but what if I see something different reflected in her eyes?
Her voice is soft. “Oh, Max, of course I believe you. I just wish you had come to us for advice before you ran off.”
I turn around slowly, but there’s no doubt or judgment in her face. Just a divot of sadness between her thinning eyebrows.
I set the mug of coffee down in front of her. She always drinks it black. I add a slosh of milk to mine, and a spoonful of sugar big enough to kill most of the coffee taste. “I got scared and I messed up,” I say. “But I’m coming to you now.” I give her my most hopeful look.
I don’t tell her where I’m planning to go with the car—back to the Rosewood Center for Boys. I never told her how much that place sucked, but she knows I hated it. We had to return for visits with the social worker, Anna, for the first couple of months after I got adopted, just until a caseload spot opened up for a Vista Palisades social worker. Anna was the nicest person there, but I still used to get all tense in the car on the way, as if part of me was afraid the building would swallow me up when I went back inside. As if I’d spend the rest of my life getting my ass kicked by Henry the Happy Sociopath. “I need to find out the truth.”
Darla runs one finger around the rim of her coffee mug. “What you need is to let the police handle that. Go to school. Make up the work you’ve missed. Graduate.”
School? Seriously? “Darla. The FBI is just waiting for the forensics report to link me to the fire in Vegas. They think I killed Pres. Probably everyone at school does too. I can’t go back there.”
She shakes her head like I’m being overly dramatic. “I don’t want you to drop out. That could wreck your whole future. Just tell the truth and everything will be fine.”
I never believed that, not even before someone put a bloody phone in my trunk and called the cops to tell them Preston and I were arguing at the top of Ravens’ Cliff. The truth doesn’t get you very far on the streets, or in a group home, or even in high school. That’s probably why the idea of Liars, Inc. appealed to me. Everybody lies. You might as well get paid for it. I shake my head in disbelief as I think about sitting at the cafeteria table with Pres and Parvati, joking about our new business venture. It seems like a million years ago. “I tried,” I say finally. “They didn’t believe me.”
“What does Parvati think about all of this?”
“Who cares?” I mutter, stirring my coffee violently.
Darla’s eyes widen slightly. She’s never heard me say anything even remotely unflattering about Parvati. “Are you two fighting?”
“I wish that was all.” I glance up for a second and then train my eyes on my coffee again, trying not to think about how the creamy, tan color reminds me of Parvati’s skin. “Let’s just say she lied to me about some important stuff.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Fu—hell no,” I say. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Does it have to do with the investigation?”
“Sort of.” I pause. It might feel good to tell someone, to release a little bit of the rage inside me. Maybe I would be able to think more clearly afterward. “You really want to know? The FBI found videos on Pres’s computer of Parvati and him together,” I blurt out.
Darla almost chokes on her coffee. “She cheated on you? Could they have been from before you started dating?”
“Maybe. Does it matter? Either way she lied to me. According to her, she and Preston were never more than friends.” My sharp voice cuts through the quiet kitchen. I take a deep breath and try to tone it down so I don’t wake the babies again.
Darla reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you feel betrayed, but maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Maybe she has an explanation.”
I shrug. “You think it’s okay to lie about stuff like that as long as you have a reason?”
Darla shakes her head. “No, but everybody lies sometimes, Max. And I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re with Parvati. It seems like she’s the only person you actually confide in.” She sips her coffee. “I wouldn’t be too quick to kick that person out of your life.”
Darla is right that Parvati was the only person I really talked to. She knows so many things about me that other people don’t. But I always assumed that was a two-way street. Finding out she kept something so major from me . . . cuts deep.
I don’t think I ever lied to her.
Darla adjusts the collar of her nightgown. “Do you love her?”
I slouch forward. “I don’t know. What does that even mean?”
A smile plays at her lips. “Remember when you hit that kid with a rock because he was bullying Amanda?”
“Yeah.” Not my finest hour, but he kind of deserved it.
“It’s like that. When you care about someone so much that you’ll do anything—even stupid or destructive things—for them.”
“That sounds more like mental illness than love.”
Darla doesn’t respond. She’s staring down into the bottom of her cup as if she could tell my future by the inch of remaining coffee. “You know, before we adopted you, your dad almost left me because of a lie.”
“You? Seriously? I always thought you were perfect.”
“No one’s perfect.” She laughs under her breath. “I really wanted to adopt a child, but the shop had been struggling and Ben thought we should wait until we were financially stable. I thought that would never happen. I ended up getting back in contact with a guy I dated in college.”
I hold up a hand because I’m not sure if I want to hear this story. If Darla tells me she cheated on Ben I’m going to wonder if any relationship anywhere ever is safe from crushing betrayal. “You don’t—”
“Nothing happened,” Darla says quickly. “I just needed someone to talk to and didn’t feel like I could talk to your dad. But I lied to him in order to go meet the other guy, and he fo
und out about it.”
“But then he forgave you?”
She smiles fondly. “Yeah. You and I are both pretty lucky that happened.”
She’s right. As much as I complain about babysitting and stuff, growing up with Ben and Darla has been pretty solid. “So . . . Parvati . . . you’re telling me to forgive her?”
“I’m just saying to give her a chance to explain,” Darla says. “And don’t do anything rash.”
I don’t know. It sounds good, and Darla’s pretty smart. Maybe I can think about it after my brain stops playing imaginary sex tapes of Preston and Parvati on infinite repeat. Until then, I’m more concerned with finding out who’s trying to frame me. But I nod like I’m in total agreement. “And if I take this advice of yours, does that mean I can borrow your car?”
She sighs. “If I tell you no, you’re just going to do something stupid like steal one, aren’t you?”
I wouldn’t really steal a car, but I don’t answer. I can tell she’s mulling over in her mind whether to help me or not. Things always work out better for me when I don’t rush them. It’s like surfing. You can’t just chase wildly after every wave. You have to wait for the right one to come to you.
“Do you promise,” she continues, “not to break the law in any way while you’re gone?”
I raise my hand like I’m swearing an oath. “I won’t even roll through a stop sign.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“Nowhere far, I promise. I just need to check out a couple of leads.”
She sighs again, like maybe she’s already second-guessing herself. “Take the truck, as long as it’s only for tomorrow. Just please be careful with it. That pickup is your dad’s baby and he’ll kill us both if anything happens to it.” She leans forward to pat me on the hand. “And you be careful too, okay? I know you’re eighteen now, and that you don’t think you need a mom, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need my son.”
My throat tightens and I look away. I wish I’d been a better kid, that I’d given her a real chance, but it’s too late to start playing house now. “You can tell Ben I took the truck without asking if you want,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “We both agreed we wouldn’t lie to each other ever again. I try hard to keep my end of that.” She stands up to take her coffee mug to the sink.
I take it from her hand. “I got this. You get some sleep.”
On cue, one of the twins starts crying. “I may never sleep again,” she grumbles, but her lips curl into a smile as she says it.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
“Be safe.” She stops just before rounding the corner. “By the way, I like your hair.”
I snort. “It’s not polite to lie.”
“No, really. I can finally see your face,” she says. “You’re actually kind of cute. Who knew?” Her eyes sparkle in the dim light of the hallway, and for the first time in years I go to her and give her a hug. Her body stiffens in surprise, and then relaxes. She squeezes me tight. “You’re a good kid, Max. I love you.”
I swallow hard and start to tell her I love her back, but before I can get the words out, the other twin begins to wail. Darla breaks away and heads to the nursery, and the moment passes me by.
THIRTY
December 9th
IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’ve slept and I don’t want to wreck Ben’s truck, so I decide to crash for a bit before driving to Rosewood. I won’t be able to find Anna until at least 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. anyway. I set the alarm on my phone to wake me at five. My mind is still racing as my head hits the pillow. Everything that’s happened is all tangled together, twisted up and matted like a half-eaten ball of yarn barfed up by Preston’s cat. My brain yanks at the knots, reviewing the suspects and the chain of events, until it finally gives up and I fall asleep.
When my phone wakes me, I sneak through the still-darkened house, stepping extra cautiously as I pass the nursery. It takes two tries to fire up Ben’s pickup. The motor grinds and gurgles before sputtering to life. I baby the clutch as I drive toward Los Angeles, keeping one eye on my rearview mirror, watching for cops. I’m not supposed to leave town. Is driving to the far side of the city a violation of the terms of my bail? I don’t think so, but I keep to the speed limit just in case.
I pull off the highway at the Rosewood exit and make my way through the suburban streets. I pass the elementary school some of the other boys attended and the corner park where Anna took us to play four square. It’s like traveling back in time. I even feel younger—unsure, afraid. When I pull Ben’s truck over to the curb, my eyes are immediately drawn to the crumbling porch steps and the stone lions on either side. I slide Preston’s picture out of my pocket for comparison. There are a few more cracks in the stone, but it’s the same porch, just like I thought.
I turn the truck’s engine off, but I don’t get out right away. It’s amazing how the house hasn’t changed. It has the same pink-and-white-painted wooden front with ash-colored shingles. The paint is still peeling, the roof still looks in danger of collapsing in a couple of places. My heart knocks hard against my breastbone and my sweaty fingers are clinging to the steering wheel. I’m being stupid. It isn’t like I got tortured by the staff or violated by my fellow residents. I got beat up a couple of times. Big deal. Henry was older than me. He’s probably dead or in prison by now. I’m not going to walk through the door and get punched in the stomach.
I force myself out of the truck and across the gravel front lawn. The screen door opens with an impressive creak and I step into the front room of the house, which doubles as a waiting area. The walls, formerly dusky gray, are now a sunny yellow that almost matches the hair of the receptionist. She looks up from behind a plain oaken table that is serving as her desk.
“May I help you?” she asks. Her eyes flick downward for a second and I wonder if she’s got an emergency button that’ll summon a couple of goons to come tackle me if I get out of line.
“Does Anna still work here?”
The receptionist takes a long time to answer. She looks down at the desk again, furrowing her brow.
“Social worker,” I add, trying to be helpful.
“She’s here,” the girl says. “Just trying to see if she has any free time. Do you have an appointment?”
I shake my head. “I used to live here,” I say, hoping she’ll feel sorry for me.
“She’s in meetings all day.” The receptionist flips through a leather-bound book. “I can make an appointment for you the day after tomorrow.”
“Sure.” I give her my name and number and watch as she jots down my information. I don’t plan on waiting two days to talk to Anna, but I figure a normal person would make an appointment, so that’s what I do. “Do you mind if I look around?” When she looks perplexed, I add, “I just have a lot of memories about being here.” Half of me is hoping she says no. The other half figures I might as well give the center a quick look-over, just in case I see something that clicks all the puzzle pieces into place.
“Guess it’d be okay,” she says. “But I’ll have to go with you.”
I fidget nervously as the receptionist takes her time shutting the appointment book and straightening the pens and pencils on her desk into a neat line. She pushes back her chair and motions for me to follow her.
The main floor hasn’t changed much except for the sunny new paint job. There’s the small hallway with offices for the director and social worker, the kitchen at the back of the house, and the living area with a TV and bookshelf. I used to hide behind the books people donated to us. I would pull them out at random and pretend to be reading, just so no one would talk to me. It worked pretty well too. People are reluctant to disturb someone lost in a story.
We pass a desk with an old computer on it that might even get the internet. That’s new.
“All the boys are at school right now,” the receptionist says.
I nod. I turn toward a creaky staircase and she follows me. Upstairs, I duck into one of the
dorm rooms where the boys sleep. Four beds are arranged the same as I remember, so close to one another that if you happened to thrash around in your sleep you might accidentally slap the kid next to you. A Christmas stocking with a glittery name is pinned above each boy’s bed. I can’t stop myself from reading them, even though I know it’s ridiculous. Obviously, there’s no one named Preston. Or Henry. There are several more rooms, but wanting to look in each one will only make the receptionist suspicious. I rack my brain trying to remember all of the kids who were at Rosewood with me, but I was there for such a short time and never talked to any them, so they blur into a stream of faceless strangers.
I give up and let her lead me back downstairs. “Thanks for your time,” I say.
I head back out into the cool sunshine. My plan is to hang out in the truck and stalk the place until I see Anna leave at the end of the day. No need to sit around for hours, though. I kill time driving around town and grabbing some food at the diner on the corner. It’s decorated just as I remember it—stark white walls with vinyl records glued above each booth. Ben and Darla took me here while they were waiting for the adoption paperwork to be drawn up. I remember how they told me I could order anything I wanted. Of course I ordered way more food than I could eat, but Ben helped me eat some of it and the rest Darla had boxed up and sent back to the center with me. I hid it under my bed, even though I’m pretty sure it was eggs and biscuits and gravy, and should have been refrigerated. Henry snuck over to my bed after lights-out and ordered me to hand over the food. I did, and he punched me in the stomach anyway.
I hang out in a small city park for part of the afternoon, but I’m back in front of the center by three thirty, just in case Anna goes home early. I check my phone messages while I wait. There’s another voicemail and a text from Parvati, both of them begging me to call her. It takes all my willpower to focus on the task at hand instead.
“Whipped,” I mutter under my breath. But the sharp pain of her betrayal is starting to dull a little bit. It shouldn’t matter that much that she and Pres used to be together, should it? Parvati never cared about the girls I dated before her.