The Truth Beneath the Lies

by Amanda Searcy

  I inhale sharply.

  “My advice to you? Don’t get caught. Ever. Or else, say it with me…” I don’t say anything. “Come on, this is the best part. Say it with me.”

  I open my mouth and whisper along with him. “Pop. The end of Betsy.”

  “Oh, and one more thing—” His tone is conversational again. I brace myself for whatever will come next. “No more messages.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. No more messages. When the phone rings, you answer. Period. Understand?”

  I wipe the tears that have started streaming down my cheeks. “I understand.”

  The graphs in my AP calc book dance. They turn into stick figures that sway together to the songs in their heads. A jab in my side. They step apart and unfold themselves back into graphs.

  “Are you okay?” Sierra leans across the aisle and pokes me in the ribs with her pencil a second time. I nod.

  Other than hallucinating in math class, I’m great. Every night, when Jordan takes me home after work, we sit in the parking lot for hours talking, holding hands, moving closer and closer. I’ve told him things about my life—about Mom—that I’ve never told anyone. The more time I spend with him, the harder it is to keep doing everything else. Being with him is so easy. The rest is so hard.

  I’m running on coffee, energy drinks, and chocolate. The dance team has noticed. I’m slow. I miss steps. The beat eludes me. No one says anything—to my face. I’ve overheard them speculate on what my problem is. It ranges from pregnancy to cancer to drugs.

  I change into my new warm-ups—a “just because” present from Carol Alexander. She also gave me another box filled with the next three dance outfits, a nice pair of jeans, and a couple of expensive sweaters. This time she didn’t send the box with Paige. She gave it to me herself. I had no choice but to accept it.

  Paige is waiting by the locker-room door when I come out. Sierra and the other girls pretend to stretch, but they can’t disguise the eerie silence or their furtive glances in our direction.

  “Hi,” Paige says, and concentrates on her feet.

  “Hi?”

  “Um, we’re worried about you.” She looks to the other girls for support. They focus on touching their toes.

  “Paige, is this an intervention?” I laugh. She has no idea. Yes, I’m having trouble keeping up. But I wouldn’t trade Jordan for anything. I’ve never had someone who gets me and where I come from. These girls mean well. They try. But at the end of the day, they go home to their plush carpets, cable TV shows, and nutritionally balanced meals. I can only pretend to belong with them.

  “I’m fine, Paige. Really.” I say it loud enough for the whole gym to hear. “I’ve just picked up a few more hours at No Limit.”

  She grabs my arm and pulls me into the corner. “You don’t have to do that.” She takes a steadying breath. “If you need something, I can help you. It’s no big deal.”

  I have known ever since I showed Paige’s glittery birthday invitation to Marie and saw the reaction that she tried to hide from me, that this day would come. Even without Jordan to make me feel wanted and important and seen, it still would have happened eventually. I can’t be the person Paige wants me to be anymore. From day one, our friendship has been about her having more than me.

  “Paige.” My tone is harsher than I intend. She jerks back. “It is a big deal. It’s the biggest deal. I’m a human being, not a doll for your mom to dress up or a pet for you to buy treats for.”

  Tears form in her eyes, and I instantly feel bad. It isn’t her fault. This is the only life she’s ever known.

  I try to soften my tone. “I know that you care and you want to help. But there are things I need to do on my own. Okay?”

  She nods, but the tears are already spilling down her cheeks. She runs to the locker room, followed by the rest of the girls sending confused glances my way.

  —

  I stare out the window at McDonald’s. I would rather be anywhere but here at register two. What I said to Paige was too harsh. In less than five seconds, I destroyed six years of friendship. I have to fix this.

  The pretty girl who works at McDonald’s walks out onto the sidewalk. She’s laughing at something the person coming out the door behind her says.

  A customer clears his throat to get my attention back where it belongs. He thunks his basket onto the conveyer belt. I smile and try to look attentive, but when he turns to pick out a pack of gum, I glance back out the front window. The McDonald’s girl is sliding into Drake’s Camaro.

  —

  Dance team practice is miserable. Paige won’t look at me. The other girls keep their eyes down. I feel like I’m back to being the free-lunch foster kid of sixth grade.

  When Paige comes out of the gym, I reach for her elbow. “Please,” I say before she can protest. “I need to tell you something.” She lets me lead her to a bench.

  We sit in silence while the other girls file out. Once we’re alone, I turn to her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said yesterday. I was tired, and I just kind of snapped.”

  Paige’s eyes well up, but she stays in control. “I didn’t know you felt that way. Mom and I were just trying to help because we love you.”

  “I know. And I love you too. You’ve made a huge difference in my life.” I suck in a breath to keep my own tears contained.

  “There’s something else.” I don’t know if confiding in her will matter now, but it’s my last shot at saving this friendship. “I think I have a boyfriend.”

  Paige starts. “Who?” She glances around, as if the mysterious boy is hiding behind one of the bushes outside the gym.

  “It’s not someone from school.”

  “What do you mean you think you have a boyfriend?” she asks.

  And I tell her. Everything that’s happened since I met Jordan—all except for the man in black. I tell her how I’m afraid Jordan doesn’t feel the same way about me that I feel about him. That I don’t know if I’m his girlfriend or just some kid without a car he drives home at night.

  “Wow,” she says when I’m finished. “If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.” She stops there. She doesn’t call me naive for thinking Jordan is my boyfriend when we haven’t even kissed. It makes my heart ache. I want to hug her and tell her I’m sorry again, put things back to the way they were before.

  “Are we still friends?” I whisper. She nods, but sadness fills her eyes. I’ve done a lot of damage, and I don’t know if our friendship will ever be totally okay again.

  Paige looks at her hands. “Mom wants to know if you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “Sure.” It will be horribly awkward, but I’ll suck it up if it will fix things even a little.

  —

  “I have a coupon in here somewhere.” Mrs. Lacey dumps the contents of her massive black handbag onto the conveyer belt. She’s already given me her food stamp card, a couple crumpled dollar bills, pennies, and two Tic-Tacs. I haven’t rung up her loaf of bread yet. We did her order item by item, carefully keeping track of the total. Her purchases aren’t extravagant. Milk, peanut butter, a package of No Limit chocolate chip cookies, a tin of the cheapest dog food.

  She fumbles through pieces of paper, a comb, plastic candy wrappers. The guy in line behind her crosses his arms. His face reddens.

  “In here somewhere,” she mutters.

  I look over my shoulder. Albert’s in his office. I put the bread in her sack and print out her receipt. Her head is still down, hands frantic in the pile. I hold the receipt under her nose.

  “Have a nice evening.”

  She doesn’t understand. “Have a nice evening,” I say again, and hold the sack out to her, bread perched on top.

  She gathers the contents of her purse into her arms and takes the sack. “Bless you, Kayla. Bless you.”

  I smile at Red Face behind her. “Can I help you?” I glance at his selections. Mixed in with his chips and soda is a bottle of whiskey.


  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t ring up an alcohol purchase.” I point to the NO ALCOHOL sign floating over my head.

  “I think you can make an exception,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. It’s against the law.”

  The corners of his mouth push up. “Maybe it just goes in that sack right there.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” My voice shakes.

  He sucks in air and inflates in front of me. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

  He’s too confident not to have gotten away with this before. I bite my lip. I could make this go away. But a bottle of whiskey isn’t a loaf of bread. He isn’t an old woman who spends her entire day at Bluebird Estates with only her rat dog to talk to.

  I pick up the phone and call Albert.

  Albert makes soothing noises at Red Face. He takes him to the customer service desk. They turn toward me. The man points. He pays for his alcohol and leaves. Albert calls for a backup cashier. He smiles at the customers in my line and leads them away to another register. My closed sign goes up.

  His beady little eyes are resolute. “Strike three, Kayla.”

  —

  Elton’s savoring a burger at a corner table in the McDonald’s. It’s probably one of the few treats he gets with whatever little money he lives on. His eyes bounce up to me when I walk in. They follow me around the restaurant.

  The girl with the diamond stud in her nose pushes her hair behind her ear and laughs. Jordan leans across our table, smiling with expectation, like he’s just finished a joke. She wipes her rag across the same spot over and over again.

  He sees me, and his whole countenance changes. The girl jumps. I know my eyes are puffy. I wipe my nose on my sleeve. My red apron has been replaced by my raincoat. My water bottle, the oak leaf, and the few things I had in my No Limit’s locker are in a toilet bowl cleaner box.

  “Can we go?” I ask before I start crying again.

  Jordan takes my box and leads me out to his Jeep. Elton’s watching through the window. He seems as sad as I feel.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  I shake my head. I had barely started my shift. The sky glows with the last remainder of fall sunlight as we drive through the streets of Clairmont. Past the school, past Marie’s, past the street Paige lives on. Cute, quiet houses containing cute, quiet people.

  Jordan doesn’t ask, but I tell him anyway. He stops along the curb of a park. He turns the Jeep off.

  “You’re amazing, you know,” he says softly.

  “What?” My ears are stuffed up from sniffling. I’m not sure I heard him right.

  When he looks at me, the gold flakes are back in his eyes. “You’re amazing.” I feel myself blush. “I don’t know anyone who has been through what you’ve been through and is still a nice person.”

  I don’t know what to say. Two boys climb up the jungle gym, laughing and shoving each other. Their mothers sit on a bench and gossip while the boys run off their predinner energy.

  It was Marie. Marie made me a good person. She made me remember I was a human being, that I was worth something, that all people are worth something. I’ve never told Jordan about her. He knows I lived with a foster mother, but he doesn’t know about Marie. I don’t tell him now. I can’t. Marie is mine and only mine.

  We sit in silence and watch the boys play. I’m trying not to think about what getting fired means. It’s bad enough that I got fired from my first job. But it also means the end of having a few extras we can’t leech out of the government. I’m back to where I was the day I was delivered by the social worker to Bluebird Estates.

  I don’t know what Jordan is thinking about. His face is blank. He has good control over it. With the exception of a few brief, unguarded moments, he shows the world exactly what he wants it to see. I envy that.

  The gearshift and the stubby central armrest are the only things keeping our entire bodies from touching. I lean into him. Our heads touch. His thumb makes gentle circles on the back of my hand.

  My pulse is elevated. I swallow hard. My pupils let in every photon of available light. I want him to kiss me. And I want him to know it.

  Jordan pulls back. For the last three nights, our lips have come centimeters from touching. Then Jordan bails. I try not to feel bad about it. I know he wants to kiss me, too. It radiates off him. But something keeps getting in the way.

  “Is it because I’m sixteen?” I ask, breaking the breathy silence that fills the Jeep. He doesn’t answer. Confirmation.

  I sigh and lean back hard against the seat. I can’t magically make myself older or more experienced.

  “It’s not that.” He still has my hand. He examines it in the warm glow of the sunset. “It’s hard for me to get close to people.”

  I watch his profile, his upper body, his arms and legs. I scan him for any hint of deception or manipulation. I don’t see any.

  He’s telling the truth.

  It’s an awkward maneuver, but I twist and lean over the gear shift until I can wrap my arms around him. He lays his head on my shoulder.

  When the mothers gather their still rambunctious children to head home, and darkness invades all the nooks and crannies in the Jeep, Jordan turns to me.

  “Can I take you somewhere tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I try to laugh, but it comes out creaky. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  —

  I dash to the gym before the other girls can get there. I don’t want them making a big thing about this. I leave the box from the fancy designer store containing the next three dance outfits on the bench in front of Paige’s locker. Resting on top is a note officially resigning my place on the dance team.

  Tears slide down my face. I almost can’t remember a time when dance wasn’t in my life, but where does it end with Carol Alexander? Since I got fired, I won’t have the money to continue, and if I accept this box from Carol, what’s to stop her from giving me another one. To stop me from accepting it?

  Every time I step out on the gym floor, I’ll be reminded. Reminded that to her, I’m still the free-lunch foster kid. That’s not me anymore. I’m a different person now. Now that I’ve found Jordan.

  Maybe when I find another job, I can save up and then reaudition for the dance team next year. But if I do, it will be on my terms. My money. My life.

  I kneel down in the dirt. A freezing wind swirls sand around me. Blasting my face. Crunching between my teeth. I pull up the hood on my jacket and cover my ears.

  Even though I already knew, I asked Happy about Tomás and Lawrence’s other brother. She told me exactly where it happened. I Googled the streets and found my way back here.

  The smiling child in the cheap frame stares beatifically at me. I have another child’s picture in my head. This one wasn’t as smiley, but she was beautiful and perfect and alive.

  I can’t get the match to light. The wind blows it out the second I get a spark. I’ve come with my own candle encased in red glass to add to the memorial.

  I hold the match and the candle so close to my body that I risk lighting myself on fire. But I have to do this. I have to get this candle lit. She deserves it, someone lighting a candle for her.

  The wick catches, and for a brief moment, the glass glows bright and warm. Then the wind finds its way in and blows it out like the world’s saddest birthday. I nestle the dark red glass between the others. Red, green, blue, white. A symphony of colors for dead children. I’ll come back another night and light them all.

  I’m still crumpled on the ground, bathed in shadows, when a vehicle shoots past me. It drives fast and throws up little rocks that pepper my body. It’s Adrian’s Bronco. In the weak, dust-filtered moonlight, his profile stares straight ahead.

  The Bronco keeps going past where the pavement ends. He drives out into the desert. A cloud of dust makes him disappear like a magician into smoke. He’s up to something. That’s why he didn’t want me here. Something that will prove he isn’t the Goody-Two-Shoes e
veryone thinks he is. He’s something dark. Something black. Something that comes out at night when no one is looking.

  I’m looking.

  I get up and leave the candles to stand their lonely watch. The Bronco turns behind a low hill in the distance. It’s gone.

  I should be a good girl and walk away. Go back to Mom’s car, parked three blocks over. Pretend I didn’t see anything. Pretend that Adrian is who everyone thinks he is. I glance back down at the candles.

  No.

  This time I have on boots that protect my feet from the desert grit. I run.

  The distance to the hill is an illusion. Like an island floating on the sea, the closer I get, the farther it seems. My legs ache. They aren’t used to this kind of exercise. But the fear in the pit of my stomach, the memories that flash through my brain—rain, gunshots, cold dead eyes—propel me forward.

  The hill doesn’t provide much cover. It slopes too gently into the desert floor to be much of a hiding place. I flatten myself along the upslope and peek over the top. The Bronco is parked in front of the ruins of an old shack. Three walls and half a roof of grayed, weathered wood lean and creak in the wind. Adrian pushes stuff around in the back of the Bronco. When he steps away, the moonlight catches what he holds in his hands: The duct tape. And a knife.

  He takes them into the shack. I slide along the sand, trying to see what’s inside. Who’s inside. I can’t make out much. I see Adrian kneeling, duct tape in hand, in front of two figures. Coughing fills the night air. The smaller of the figures convulses under a pile of ratty blankets.

  I’ve got to do something to get them out of there and away from Adrian. But I have nothing—no knife, no gun. The car is parked far away.

  I feel around the ground. The rocks are pebble-sized. Something pokes my hand. I whip it away and see a pinprick of blood forming on my palm.

  Adrian glances up in my direction. I freeze. Maybe I can stay here until he leaves. Then I’ll get the car and take them to a police station. They can expose Adrian, and no one will ever know I had anything to do with it.