The Truth Beneath the Lies

by Amanda Searcy

  “Put it down.” Adrian rips the photo from my hands. He places it back against the cross, closes his eyes briefly, and mumbles something under his breath.

  When his eyes snap open, they are full of fury directed at me. I sit back in the dirt and rest my chin on my hands. So now we’re alone. What Adrian’s been waiting for.

  I point to the picture. “Who was he?”

  “Lawrence and Tomás had another brother. Manuel. He was only eight when a guy in a truck ran the stop sign.” Adrian points an accusing finger at me, as if I am the one who killed the child. I look away from him to a colony of ants disturbed by the commotion and scattering around the candles.

  “Lawrence and Tomás were twelve and six. They were riding their bikes behind Manuel. They saw it happen. Their mother comes here every day to light the candles.” I feel him still pointing, still accusing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Adrian’s heavy footsteps crunch back to his idling vehicle.

  “Get in.”

  He holds open the heavy door of an old, faded, red and rusting Ford Bronco. I turn my eyes back to the cross and shake my head. I’m not ready to go yet. I don’t want to leave the smiling, happy child.

  Adrian’s fingers close tight around my upper arm. He pulls. I don’t have a choice but to stand.

  “Let go.” My voice comes out calm, strong. He’s almost as surprised at hearing it as I am. He lets go.

  “Get in,” he demands again.

  I take a step toward the desert behind the altar. He bounces in front of me and blocks my path. When I move around him, he grabs my wrist.

  “Stop,” I snarl. I still have a little fight left in me, and I’m going to use it.

  He releases me. I collect myself and try to think of what to do next. To find a way out of this.

  I’ve got nothing.

  “I know you aren’t who you say.” Adrian’s voice is solid, controlled, terrifying. I have to stay calm. Not let him see the fear in my eyes. He steps forward, like he’s trying to intimidate me with his size, which isn’t too much bigger than my frame, but it works anyway. I shrink back.

  “Don’t mess with my family. They’re good people. They would feed you if you had nothing to eat. Give you a bed to sleep in. Treat you like you belonged to us, no questions asked. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you”—he steps forward again—“do not get to take advantage of them.”

  I look into his eyes. He’s angry for the wrong reason. This isn’t why we should be alone at a dead end in the dark desert.

  I clear my throat. “What do you think you know about me?” It’s too late to deny it now.

  “Come on, Betsy. Mount Rushmore isn’t in North Dakota.”

  “North Dakota?” I repeat. North Dakota? That’s what he thinks he knows about me?

  I straighten up to my full height and try not to smile. “Please take me home,” I say, and step around him to the passenger side door of the Bronco. The front seat is filled with debris—papers, schoolbooks, fast-food bags. I close the door and crawl into the backseat.

  He slams the driver’s-side door and throws the Bronco into gear.

  “Why were you out here?” I ask. I should leave it alone; I shouldn’t give away that I know who he is.

  “I don’t trust you.” That’s not an answer. His eyes watch me in the rearview mirror. I tug up on the neck of my shirt, then drop my hand and silently curse myself.

  “You were lost. Going in the wrong direction,” he says.

  “Thanks for picking me up.” My voice is overly cheerful. I know he’s lying. It’s in the slight quaver in his voice. The nervous way he taps the steering wheel with his thumb. I might have been going in the wrong direction, but that isn’t why he was out in the desert.

  He slams on the brakes at a yellow light. I’m not wearing a seat belt, and I’m propelled forward. I put my hand on the floor to catch myself. Something rolls out from under the seat and taps my outstretched fingers. I peer down at it. Duct tape.

  Adrian watches me. I sit up, leaving the duct tape on the floor. I glance over my shoulder into the back. A case of water and a box of granola bars were unseated by the sudden stop, and they sit askew on top of something. A length of rope.

  Gotcha.

  When Adrian stops in front of my house, I jump out. Neither of us says goodbye.

  I get a drink of water. Change out of my sandy clothes. Wash my cut-up feet. My time ran out when I was still in the desert. The monster under my bed won’t be flashing anymore. I survived once tonight, and it felt great. But it was only temporary. I know that.

  Maybe it’s time for this to be over. This isn’t a life for me. Maybe no life would be better. Or maybe I don’t mean that.

  The jury’s still out.

  I kneel by the bed, unzip the duffel bag, and shake the phone out. I press the call button. He waits until the fourth ring to pick up.

  Silence. A heavy sigh. “Someone’s been a naughty, naughty girl.”

  “I didn’t know what time it was. I got lost.” I won’t beg him for my life.

  Another sigh, overly dramatic. “Since I’m feeling charitable tonight, I’m going to let it slide.”

  My body flops to the floor.

  “Really?” I ask like a little girl. I hate myself for it.

  Paper crinkles. “Hmm, while you were out fooling around, a federal warrant was issued for your arrest.”

  I scooch my head under the bed. I’m surrounded by darkness.

  He whistles through his teeth. “Murder. Wow, that’s a tough one.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “You know, the feds have the death penalty.”

  “I’m a minor,” I whimper.

  “I heard they’ve got some pretty good prosecutors.” He laughs. “I’m sure if they want to fry you, they’ll find a way.”

  “I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be better about the phone. I won’t leave it anymore. Please.” Please leave me alone.

  “I don’t know that I trust you. The phone is obviously too big of a responsibility.” His voice drips with condescension. “Two hours.”

  “What?”

  “Your deadline is now two hours. You have two hours to call me back.”

  That means I’ll have to take the phone everywhere—to school, even. “I can’t—”

  His breathing is rough and deep. “If they find out about you, they find out about me. And I will personally kill you with my own two hands before I let you fuck things up again,” he growls.

  “Two hours,” I whimper. “I’ll be good.”

  “You better be. One more slip and pop, that’s the end of Betsy. So I suggest you get yourself a goddamn watch and a map and don’t let it happen again.”

  The line goes dead.

  Marie, with her little bear next to her, waves to me from the bleachers. The boy looks lost. He closes in on himself and rests his head against Marie’s upper arm. He’s thinking it’s too loud, too bright.

  I love it.

  Paige, beside me in line, smiles and waves at Marie. For tonight’s performance, we wear black bodysuits and long, pink off-the-shoulder tops with sequins that shimmer around the gym and over the faces of the spectators. It’s our third costume change this season. My hours at No Limit Foods aren’t going to be enough to keep paying my share. At this rate, I’ll be flat broke by Christmas.

  The music kicks on, and I’m lost in the beat and the swirls and the turns. Nothing else matters. I’m surrounded by my friends; the energy is electric and the crowd, pumped. This is what I live for. This is why I keep going.

  When we hit the final pose, the stands erupt. The giant smiles we wear are true. Loose pieces of hair stick to the sweat on the back of my neck. Marie jumps to her feet, clapping furiously. She pulls the little boy up next to her. He halfheartedly slaps his hands together.

  My eyes scan the bleachers. It’s the usual crowd. The football team in their letter jackets whistling and catcalling, the parents draggi
ng along younger siblings, the wannabes who refuse to clap and send glares like knives our way.

  My gaze stumbles. In the upper corner on the right, a blank patch. No, not a blank patch. A person, a man, blending in. Arms spread out on the bleacher behind him. Legs apart.

  Jordan gives me a thumbs-up.

  He came. Even after I was so rude last week, he looked up our performance dates and came. To see me.

  My heart sprints. I feel flush and faint, like the smile will never come off my face.

  “What?” Paige asks. She looks up at the bleachers, but she doesn’t see who I do.

  “Nothing,” I say, breathless. I don’t want to tell her. Jordan is from the dirt and broken glass parts of my life. Paige belongs with the shiny sequins and bubble gum lip gloss. When they mix, you end up with bleeding feet and grit between your teeth.

  Marie blows me a kiss. She leaves right away to get her little bear home for bed. The wannabes follow her out, critiquing our outfits, our hair, and who’s put on a few pounds. The football players stand and shake out their numb butts.

  “Pizza?” Sierra peers at each of our faces for agreement. She doesn’t have to ask. We always go to Zaparelli’s after a performance. I glance back over my shoulder. The blank spot is empty.

  Carol Alexander’s BMW smells like leather and expensive perfume. I toss my bag into the back. Paige slides into the driver’s side, checks the mirrors, checks the gauges, and adjusts the seat. She’s had her license longer than I have, but she still freaks out every time she gets in the car.

  “Seat belt,” she says.

  I point to my chest. “Already fastened.”

  She nods with approval. “Let’s go.” She puts the car in reverse, and we inch our way out of the parking space.

  I met Paige in the middle of sixth grade. I knew who she was before that, of course. But I was the free-lunch foster kid, and she was someone magical. Girls followed her around, doing favors for her and complimenting her sweaters, just to get her attention. Paige could have been mean, she could have gotten away with whatever she wanted, but she didn’t. She was nice to all of them.

  Even so, I didn’t dare try to be her friend. Not all the girls were like her.

  She sat next to me in math class, and one morning she forgot her book. I slid my desk over and shared mine. Later at lunch, she waved me over to her table. I assumed right away that she felt sorry for me, but I was entranced. I nestled my free-lunch tray in between the colorful sacks and tiny Tupperwares filled with baby carrots and triangle-cut sandwiches.

  A couple weeks later, I opened my locker and an envelope fell out. Inside was a glitter-covered invitation to her birthday party. A lot of girls in our grade got one, but in that moment, I felt something I never did before. I felt special. Paige picked me.

  The Alexanders’ house is five times the size of Marie’s. Paige has her own bathroom and a big bed with a pink satin comforter. I was sitting on that bed admiring a poster of ballerinas when I first met Carol Alexander.

  Paige was opening presents with the rest of the girls downstairs. I had brought a present, but it was nothing like what the other girls were able to give her. I wandered upstairs before she could get to mine. Carol dashed in for something and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me. Someone must have told her who I was, because I recognized her overly big smile coupled with pitying eyes. It was the look all the parents gave me.

  She saw me staring at the poster and asked what I did after school. I shrugged. That night she called Marie, and on Monday, I was riding next to Paige in the back of Carol’s car with a brand-new pair of dance shoes and a purple duffel bag containing a leotard and tights.

  I’ve been Carol Alexander’s charity case ever since.

  Paige pulls into the parking lot of Zaparelli’s at a crawl. By the time she peels her fingers off the steering wheel and we get inside, the dance team is already seated around a giant pizza. Two places set with empty plates, sodas, and straws wait for us.

  Sometimes I wonder if Paige’s driving is an act. She drives so slow that no matter where the dance team goes, by the time we get there, the money has already changed hands and my meal, movie ticket, or ice cream is already paid for. I know they have the best intentions. But it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Grit between my teeth.

  The front window reflects Sierra’s laughing face and Paige’s attempt to sneak another slice. Then it shows me Jordan. He’s wearing an unbuttoned brown plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt and khaki pants. Neutral. He beckons for me to come outside.

  I sit up ramrod straight. Paige starts a quick explanation about why she needs another piece. Sierra pauses midsentence. I force my shoulders to relax and put the girls back at ease.

  I wait until Paige has her mouth stuffed full with the purloined pizza. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper.

  The bells on the front door clang against the glass. The team turns as one to witness my exit. I bound to the edge of the building, away from the window, with Jordan on my heels. When I stop and spin around, I don’t smile. He followed us here from school. There’s no other explanation.

  I’m equal parts freaked out and thrilled. Oil and water separating inside me. I’m so happy to see him again, and it scares me.

  “What are you doing here? You’re creeping me out.”

  “No I’m not.” He takes a step forward. My back brushes up again the brick wall.

  “Yes you are. All I have to do is scream, and the whole team and Mr. Zaparelli will come running.”

  He presses farther forward and places a hand on the bricks next to my head.

  “You’re biting your lower lip, your fingers are rubbing your collarbone, and you keep moving that piece of hair away from your eye.”

  I drop my hands. I didn’t even know I was doing that.

  He laughs. “People’s bodies give away what’s hiding in the dark recesses of their minds. Things they don’t even know they’re thinking.”

  He steps back. I’m finding it hard to take much air into my lungs. My adrenaline spikes. I try to convince myself that it’s because this guy I hardly know is following me around. But that’s a lie. I feel the current course between us. I lean in to it.

  He laughs. “Your hand is back on your collarbone.”

  Dammit.

  His lips move to my ear. “I loved watching you dance.” The little hairs on my neck prickle from his breath as he whispers, “McDonald’s tomorrow. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  He turns and walks into the darkness to a Jeep parked on the street. I stay frozen, my back against the damp bricks, knees shaking. My brain duels with my heart. Jordan’s wrecking my concentration. He’s getting me in trouble at work. He keeps questionable company. But I like him. Really like him.

  When I regain my composure, I stumble back inside Zaparelli’s. The bells on the door clang again, and the whole restaurant turns to look. I’m still hot and flustered. My eyes flit to the dance team.

  Paige’s face has concern written all over it. Sierra raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to dish the secret. I pull out my chair, and I sit on my hands.

  —

  I have to say something to break the silence, but I can’t look at him. I can’t do anything but grip the coffee cup with both hands. I’m wearing my apron with a giant HELLO MY NAME IS sticker because my name tag is missing today. My cheeks burn. “So you moved here from Florida?” I ask.

  Jordan takes a slug from his coffee. Black, lid on.

  A single flower, a wildflower from the woods, sits on the table between us.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” he says.

  I’m about to protest, but then I realize it wouldn’t do me any good. I am nervous. Butterflies dancing the tango in my stomach.

  He reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Most human communication is nonverbal. Everybody does it all the time. I’m good at picking up on it. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”

  I freeze every muscle in my body. I won’t even let my
eyes blink. I can’t let him see how I feel. I have to stop whatever this is now before I fall any deeper.

  He pulls back. “Florida, yes. A few months ago. My mom came out here first, after my dad passed away.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. His hand is still on the table. I tap it limply. It is the least comforting gesture on the planet, but it is all the physical contact I can handle.

  “Thanks,” he says. “It happened years ago. I lived with my uncle in Florida until I finished high school. Then I had nothing else to do. So here I am.” He shrugs and picks at his coffee lid.

  “I live with my mom at Bluebird Estates.” It feels better to get it out in the open.

  “I know,” he says. I shift in my chair. He picks up on my discomfort. “Drake’s seen you walking at night,” he adds quickly. He looks up. “You shouldn’t do that. It isn’t safe.”

  The girl with the high ponytail picks up a discarded tray from the table next to us. I didn’t realize how young she was before. I bet she barely makes the fourteen-year-old work cutoff. She could still be in middle school. She’s pretty. Flawless dark skin, big eyes, a defiant diamond stuck to the side of her nose.

  Jordan watches her wipe down the table with a smelly rag. Something is going through his mind, but I don’t have his superpowers to determine what it is. He nods slightly, like he’s come to a decision and turns back to me.

  “You should let me give you a ride home after your shift.”

  The duel inside my body is back. I want to scream yes!, but the reasonable side of me knows that I can’t do that. Jordan is like a drug. I’ve taken a hit. Now I’ve got to stop before he becomes an addiction.

  “I have a ride home tonight.” Lie. I glance at my watch. Time has moved with superspeed. Even if I run across the parking lot, I’ll be back late. “Thanks for the coffee and the flower.”

  He tips his cup at me.

  Albert stands just inside the door of No Limit. He taps his wrist. “Someone’s been a naughty girl. That’s your first strike, Kayla.” He shakes his head. It doesn’t take a superpower to see his disappointment in me.

  —

  My tired feet feel like lead weights stuffed into my shoes. I have too much on my mind to pay attention to the cracked sidewalk and the discarded beer cans. I need to stay away from Jordan. My plan to get out of Bluebird Estates is working. I only have to hang in there for another year and a half.