The Third Lie's the Charm

by Lisa Roecker

  “I’m…” Bradley began, but it was no use. Porter had already turned to the house. “Porter, come on.” But Porter didn’t come on. Instead he slammed the door.

  Chapter 7

  The roller coaster above us sat still and silent, as though a brake were pulled mid-ride, screams hushed, people plucked away one by one. I hadn’t come here since before the park closed, so I only remembered the long lines and excited squeals of weekend visits, not the broken-down, overgrown wasteland that surrounded us now. The towering beams of the track surrounded us like ancient dinosaur bones on display at the history museum, and the paint on the bench we sat on disintegrated between my fingers like ash.

  “I still can’t believe they shut this place down.” I looked across the small, sparkling lake that sat in the center of the abandoned amusement park. “My parents met here.” I expected Bradley to snort or at least roll his eyes, but it was my favorite story to listen to growing up. How my dad thought it was a good idea to impress a pretty girl by riding the Tilt-A-Whirl more times than he could count. He said he didn’t feel right for a week, but he got the girl. Apparently my mom couldn’t resist a good Tilt-A-Whirl challenge. I glanced over at Bradley, but his eyes were blank, fixed on some spot across the lake.

  “We used to come here sometimes. Alistair and me.” He stood up and started walking. I followed. What else could I do? “We were first-years when they shut this place down, and the Brotherhood staged all kinds of stupid initiation stunts here.” He shook his head at the memory. “They got bored with it eventually, but we never did. There’s just something about it here.”

  “Yeah, can’t say I really see it.” It just felt wrong to be in a place that should have been crowded with people on a bright spring day and have it be completely empty. The rides were all stopped in haphazard positions, like legs, arms, and necks splayed at unnatural angles. There were too many places to hide and all kinds of strange smells that whispered like ghosts of happier times. It just felt wrong.

  “What do you know about the Sacramentum they referred to in the note? Factum whatsits?” I asked.

  “Factum Virtus? It’s a feat of strength. No one has done one in years. The Brotherhood banned them in the ’60s when that kid got creamed by a train.”

  I winced at his choice of words, thinking of Alistair and his car crash. Bradley must have had the same thought, because he froze mid-step and his skin turned an ugly gray color.

  “Do you know who was involved?” I pulled a Seth and kept the questions coming in hopes that it might keep him distracted. Also, couldn’t hurt to get some more information. Whoever had sent that letter to Alistair had either wanted him very scared or very dead. Maybe they didn’t care which. But we had to find out who had done this to Alistair. And we had to find out why.

  “You know how that stuff is. More legend than fact. I always figured it was something the older boys told us to make sure the hazing didn’t get out of hand. Whoever sent it wasn’t a Brother, I can tell you that much. They’re trying to scare us. Trying to keep us in our place.”

  I thought of the Sisterhood, of Bethany and Taylor as they walked away triumphant after I inadvertently helped them destroy the very boy I stood beside. When would they stop? When would enough be enough?

  Bradley stopped in front of a peeling wooden sign printed with “The Big Dipper” in peeling yellow paint. “Come on.” He grabbed my hand and started weaving between the old metal bars that led up to the roller coaster like a maze. I resisted the urge to swing my body along the bars as I’d done while waiting in relentless lines, anticipation bubbling with every inch forward. Now we could move freely, the bars containing nothing but air, and I wished for the lines.

  By the time we made it up the ramp to the platform, we were both out of breath. We leaned over the edge of the railing and stared down at the remains of the park below us and the sparkling lake that glittered in the middle of it all.

  “Kind of beautiful, right?” He nudged me with his elbow.

  “Yeah, it kind of is.” My hand still burned where he’d held it. His fingers seared into my palms. Looking out over the empty expanse of the park reminded me that it was just the two of us here. No one had any idea where we were. It would take them days, maybe weeks to find us if we were to jump off the ledge.

  My stomach dropped at the thought. There was nothing between me and a concrete nosedive except a thin bar of metal. And Bradley Farrow’s hand.

  “Why would he have done it? The Factum Virtus, I mean?”

  Bradley shook his head.

  “It was his brother, right? The note said something about Porter.” I considered the words in the letter: A Brother will be sacrificed. It was no wonder Alistair had agreed to the challenge. Whether he and Porter hated each other or not, they were still brothers.

  Bradley dropped my hand then and turned away from me completely. I’d pushed him too far. I knew it as soon as I said the word “Brother.” But if I was going to help Bradley, I needed to know everything. And I wanted to help him. I wanted to right the wrong of Alistair’s death, and I wanted to do it for Bradley. And for me.

  “Not Porter.” Bradley turned to look at me then. The breeze kicked up, and some stray leaves left over from our long fall and winter swirled at our feet. “Me. The letter was referring to me.”

  Chapter 8

  “You’re late.” Dr. Prozac didn’t like to be kept waiting. It was a fact that I could never quite wrap my head around. I mean, he got paid regardless of how long I sat in that sagging chair. He should have been happy when I strolled in ten minutes late.

  “Sorry, this was all kind of last minute.”

  “You didn’t want to come today?” His brow furrowed in a way that was meant to convey an interest in my response.

  I shrugged in a way that was meant to convey my complete disinterest in this entire visit.

  “Your parents are worried that Alistair’s death is going to cause you to regress.”

  Ah, the old pretend-to-lay-all-your-cards-on-the-table trick. A year ago, this might have worked. I might have trusted him. But this wasn’t my first rodeo.

  “My parents have nothing to worry about.” Yet. I added the word silently in my head, but I might as well have said it. Even Dr. P. in all of his pomp and jackassery heard it.

  “Ah, well, it’s important to remember where you’ve been, Kate. You have come such a long way in the time we’ve gotten to know each other. You must let yourself feel, let yourself grieve, let yourself remember.”

  “Right. Got it.” I gave him a little salute hoping that these were his parting words of advice. And I had to admit, he kind of had a point. Part of me had to go back to where I was when Grace died over a year ago. I had to go back there so I could help Bradley through this. And maybe there was value in going through it all a second time. Maybe this time around, I’d do it right.

  “Practice makes perfect.” I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. Dr. P. looked up from whatever he was scribbling on his pad of paper, took his glasses off, and looked at me closely.

  “That’s not quite what I meant, Kate. Grief isn’t a linear process. It goes in fits and starts; it zigs and zags.” He leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “Let yourself feel. Let yourself grieve. Perhaps even take this time to help someone else work through their own feelings. Learn to be a friend.”

  And just like that, my bizarre relationship with Bradley Farrow got the Dr. P. crazy-pants stamp of approval. His secretary already had my follow-up appointment scheduled and scrawled onto a white business card that she handed me on my way out the door, just like all the other times. But as I pocketed the card and pushed through the heavy glass door into the bright spring sunshine, something felt different. I couldn’t be sure whether I was zigging or zagging, and there was no doubt the spring air was charged with a sense of change, but Dr. P. was wrong. I was feeling and I was grieving. That’s exactly how
I ended up here in the first place.

  Chapter 9

  The smell of the funeral home brought back a rush of memories. For Grace’s funeral, my mom had forced me to wear an uncomfortable black dress that was two sizes too small. There wasn’t time to buy a new dress, not that I’d have wanted to if there were. But still I remembered constantly pulling on the fabric as I wove my way through the endless line of people to pay my final respects.

  I was actually kind of grateful for the distraction. Grateful that I could pretend that the wall of whispers that surrounded me was about my inappropriate attire instead of my status as the grieving best friend. As I made my way closer and closer to the closed black coffin surrounded by enormous sprays of flowers, the whispers clung like gum on the bottom of my shoe. My best friend dying had made me the star of the show. The queen of grief. It had been lonely at the top.

  Today Bradley was the crown prince of Pemberly Brown’s second installment of suspicious student deaths. But he was more of a supporting actor in this show; it was Porter who had center stage. Porter who stood next to his parents in a perfectly pressed suit hugging friends and family, thanking people for coming, the white of his eyes pink, stripes of blue slashed beneath.

  The scent of lilies almost made me gag as I knelt in front of the casket to say a short prayer. I bowed my head into my folded hands and tried to summon the right words.

  I’m sorry you’re gone, Alistair. I’m sorry I didn’t help. I’m sorry I never called you back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, I’m so damn sorry.

  My breath hitched and I bit back a sob. I was not going to be one of those people who cried too hard at funerals. I hated those people. There should be laws against them attending any type of service. There were categories of grief, and when it came to Alistair, I was a Level 7 at best. Porter was Level 1, which allowed for a complete and total emotional collapse and which for a lesser person probably would have involved throwing himself on the casket.

  But Porter didn’t look like he was anywhere close to the brink of anything. He shook my hand firmly and pulled me in for a hug.

  “Thanks for being here, Kate.” He held me for a beat too long, my chest crushed against his. “He always had a thing for you, you know.”

  Alistair had never had a thing for me in his life, but I was merely an extra in this play so I nodded along, knowing that I wasn’t deserving of any lines. Sure enough, Porter was already on to the next mourner.

  I wandered back toward the chairs that lined the enormous reception room and saw Bradley sitting with his head in his hands. Bradley was a Level 2 griever, so the other mourners had left a polite circle of empty chairs around him. I remembered sitting in that same circle of emptiness. Like living in a bubble. I walked straight toward Bradley and could have sworn there was a faint popping noise when I took the seat next to him.

  “You okay?” Terrible question. Worst thing I could have asked, really. But Dr. P.’s words were still echoing in my ears.

  “Super.” The word was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken since we’d spent the afternoon on top of the amusement park yesterday. Who knows, maybe he hadn’t. “Found something.”

  He handed me a folded sheet of paper without looking up.

  “It’s the article. About the guy who died last time during a Factum Virtus. It’s old, but at least we have a name.”

  I started to open the paper, curious what I’d find, but a shadow fell over me before I could even read a word. I looked up to find Liam towering over me, his face a cross between concern and irritation. It was a look I’d come to know well.

  “We need to talk.”

  I crumpled the paper. It’d have to wait. “Um?” I hated that I looked to Bradley for…permission? But I did. I couldn’t help it. It was a split-second look, enough for him to shrug his shoulders in response and for Liam to shake his head in annoyance. Couldn’t say I blamed him. “Okay.”

  I stood and shoved the article into my pocket and squeezed Bradley’s hand before following Liam through wall after wall of devastated people. He never turned back to ensure I had followed, and I knew if I didn’t, Liam would stop trying. He’d forget me and move on for good. I let him lead me because I wasn’t ready for that yet. When he found a bench, he lowered himself and waited for me to do the same.

  “I know I don’t get a say. It’s not like we’re together anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.” He launched right in, the words practiced and smooth. If I hadn’t known him so well, I would have missed the urgency in his voice. “You said you needed space, Kate.”

  I wanted to explain that most of the time I had no idea what I needed. Did anyone? But how could I admit that this whole space thing was making me more confused than ever? I focused on Alistair. Alistair was dead, and it wasn’t fair for us to be fighting about space and who said what and who needs what. Alistair was dead.

  “I can’t do this right now. I don’t even know what to say.” I wanted to tell him I was doing this for his own good, that he’d only get hurt by me and I’d feel guilty and that the last thing I needed right now was more guilt, but I knew the fewer words I said the better.

  He shook his head as though to say “forget it.” It broke something inside of me to actively see him forgetting me, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t explain to Liam why I had to help Bradley and why I cared so much about Alistair, especially considering our relationship when he was alive. I had no words for any of it. As usual.

  “Well, good luck then.” He stood and said the words more to the ground than me. They were filled with so many more words that Liam was too polite to say. I hated myself for pushing him to this place but knew there was no other way around but through. Plus, Bradley stood in the middle and he needed me more than Liam did. For now.

  Chapter 10

  By the time I opened the sheet of paper Bradley had handed me, I was back in my room. It was a photocopy of an old newspaper article. God knows how he’d found it, but it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking information. The name of the boy who died on the train tracks was Andrew Carrington.

  It didn’t ring any bells, so it was time for my old friend Google. The results were cluttered with middle-aged men with thick dark hair. Not helpful considering that the Andrew Carrington I was after had died more than forty years ago.

  I tried narrowing it down by Pemberly Brown, but that yielded nothing but a link to our school website. Super.

  I guess I could have tried Bing, but everyone knows Bing is for wannabes, so I headed toward the only site that always delivered—Seth Allen’s tree house.

  My first memory of Seth was the day after the Allen family moved in. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the moving van left, but Seth was already outside with a box of Popsicles and a tape measure, surveying the huge elm tree that sat in the middle of their yard.

  “Whatcha doing?” I called out across the fresh-cut grass, my knees scraped from learning how to use the roller skates I’d gotten for my seventh birthday.

  “Shh!” Seth waved a pale hand in my direction and manipulated the tape measure, muttering to himself.

  “Rude,” I hissed under my breath and started down the driveway on my fancy new skates. I had visions of gliding past my new neighbor, hair bows flying. I was sure he would regret being so rude to a future roller-derby captain. Unfortunately, I hadn’t really accounted for how steep my driveway was, and once I started going, I couldn’t stop. I was planning on doing my patented move of rolling into the grass and wrapping my arms around my mailbox, but before I could get there, I saw a flash of red coming at me full speed.

  “Car! Car!” Seth collided into me, pushing me down onto the concrete, opening up all of the scabs on my knees and elbows.

  “Get off me!” Tears filled my eyes. What the hell was wrong with this kid?

  “I’m sorry, it’s just, there was a car coming and you were r
olling right into the street and…” Seth’s green eyes searched mine and the tips of his ears caught fire. “I’m Seth Allen.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Kate Lowry.” I ignored his hand and pulled myself up to a wobbly standing position. I should have thanked him for saving my life. My mom would have made me thank him, but she wasn’t around, and this whole thing was just too embarrassing for words, so I started back toward my garage.

  “I’m building a tree house, you know. Maybe you could come hang out with me when it’s finished?”

  “Maybe.” I was already inside my garage and regretting ever trying to show off for the new kid. Grace was right. Boys were kind of the worst.

  “Well, I’ll be here. Right next door. Whenever you need me,” Seth had called after me.

  And even after all these years, even after all I’d put him through, Seth Allen had never once broken that promise. While I still thought boys were kind of the worst, I knew Seth was different.

  As usual, I heard Seth before I actually saw him. He was a mouth breather, and even though I was at the bottom of his driveway and he was all the way up in his tree house, I could hear the air wheezing in and out of his lungs. I’d made the mistake of asking him if he had asthma in the past, which resulted in the longest conversation about breathing treatments and how a long-term diagnosis would impact his parents’ insurance rates. I still had no idea whether or not he’d been officially diagnosed, but I did know the amount the Allen family paid for their annual deductible.

  “Hey,” I called up toward the tree house. “You got a minute?”

  “For you? I’ve got three.” Seth said the words through a mouthful of food. In all the time that I’d known him, I had almost never seen Seth Allen without a snack. “Come on up!”

  “Seriously?” I made it a point to spend as little time in Seth’s tree house as humanly possible. I thought of it as a public service. Someone had to make him understand the social repercussions of acting like it was still cool to hang out in a tree on a regular basis. So far my efforts had gone completely unnoticed.