We Told Six Lies

by Victoria Scott

  He lowers his voice, but his words have lost their friendliness. “No. And I didn’t tell them anything about you, either. So, yeah, you’re welcome.”

  What the fuck? “There’s nothing to tell.”

  He eyes me again. “You sure about that?”

  A riot of emotions flood my system, and I’m ten seconds away from shoving him when Jet comes over with one of his meathead friends. “Dude, what’s your deal?”

  I point at him. “When’s the last time you saw Molly? Last time I remember, you were throwing shade her way, isn’t that right?”

  Jet steps toward me, but his friend grabs his arm.

  “Why you in here, anyway?” Jet snaps. “What? Don’t have a gym to go to now that you got fired from Steel? My cousin told me you threatened a guy there.”

  Steel. The gym I’d worked at while trying to save up money for Molly and me.

  I grab my bag from the bench, thinking I need to get the hell out of there. Needing to get a hold of myself. And definitely not wanting to remember what went down at the place I’d grown to love.

  “You sure do lose your temper quickly,” Jet yells at my back. “Probably lost your temper with her, too, huh? Did she sleep with someone else or something?”

  My blood boils. I knew it. These guys think I hurt my own girlfriend. But I would never hurt her. I would kill every last person in this weight room before I touched her with anything more than a gentle hand.

  I turn and charge him.

  I’ve got him on the floor and am just pulling my fist back, ready to deliver a blow that’s been coming for two years, when Coach Miller throws open the glass door and roars for me to get my ass up. To get my ass up or he’ll do it for me.

  Before I can get to my feet, Coach grabs me by the shirt and hauls me backward. “The hell you think you’re doing?” he says, right in my face. “You wanna get expelled? Because that’s the opposite of what you need right now.”

  “Coach, he was—” Jet starts.

  But Coach Miller holds up his hand, stopping him, and looks at me. “I don’t want you coming back in here for a while, got it?”

  His eyes scorch holes into my skull, and my face burns with embarrassment because he’s one of the good guys, and there’s something wrong with me if I’m pissing off a levelheaded guy like him.

  “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here.”

  I put my head down and march toward the door, feeling the way they’re looking at me. Not really blaming them. I’m so messed up that I’m acting crazy.

  I’ve made it half the length of the hallway when I hear Coach’s voice ring out.

  “Kelly,” he says.

  I turn around.

  He waves me toward him, and I shuffle back over. He plops a long-fingered hand on my shoulder and raises his chin so we’re eye to eye. “Molly’s a nice girl. I always liked seeing you two together. She pulled the good out of you, hard as that must have been.”

  He offers a half smile, and my insides try to piece themselves back together.

  “I know you must be worried about her, but I’m sure wherever she is, she’s okay. Can you imagine that girl being unhappy in any situation?”

  Yes, I can, I think. Because I know Molly in a way the rest of you don’t.

  THEN

  I stood, with good intentions, outside your house.

  I knew it was wrong. I knew the police had a word for following someone without their knowledge. But I didn’t care. I convinced myself that you knew I was behind you. That you’d stopped to tie your shoe so I had a moment to catch up.

  Your house was smaller than I expected, with yellow shutters and an overgrown yard. My dad mowed every Sunday morning. It was his own private worship hour, because as far back as I could remember, he’d never believed in God.

  I wondered, as I followed the ivy crawling up your walls and the weeds taking over the front lawn and the overfilled garbage cans near the street, what your dad was like. I’d pictured someone like Coach Miller. Someone who let you dance on his feet when you were little. Who picked you up and put you on his shoulders, above the rest of the world because that’s the pedestal his little girl deserved.

  But now I wondered.

  You saw me as soon as you opened the door. Your eyes went wide, and I caught the vulnerability there, and the fear. Fear as raw as rotting meat. You recovered quickly, offered that same smile you bestowed on your friends, and I said, “Stop it.”

  That smile fell away.

  “Why are you here?” you clipped. At least I knew you were being honest then.

  “Because I know something is going on.”

  I knew because I saw the lie crawling across your bare shoulders. The lie you projected that said you lived a perfect life.

  Your eyes darted to your house. “So it’s not actually that big. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And my dad took off a while ago.”

  “Dads can be jerks.”

  A flicker of amusement.

  “And my mom…” you started.

  “Probably spends more time at home than mine does.”

  But you didn’t seem convinced, so I took your hand, laced my fingers through yours, and said, “I know you have broken bits, Molly Bates, and I like them. I like them, and I want to see them.”

  I squeezed your hand tighter, and you sighed and said, “Fine. You can come in.”

  You walked slower than I’d ever seen you move. As if you were dragging death behind you and not a two-hundred-twenty-pound teenager.

  You pushed the door open, and though I expected darkness to stretch toward us, the sun was everywhere. It shone on everything, illuminating the sheer quantity of stuff.

  You turned and gauged my face as I inspected the mountains of furniture and boxes and clothing. The piles of magazines and the towers of books. The champagne bottles and wineglasses littering every available surface. There were no framed photos of family that told me this was a home, and enough accumulated belongings to tell me your mother might be a hoarder.

  You pulled me past stacks of electronics and throw pillows and lamps decorated with feathers and crystals. In the kitchen, where polished utensils and expensive equipment covered the counters, we found your mom. She wore a red robe, and it draped open to show her long legs. I wish I could have stopped myself from looking, but I couldn’t. She oozed flesh and sex.

  “Well, hello there, handsome,” she said, and I could tell she was stoned.

  “This is my friend,” you said, and though I wanted to be so much more to you—though it felt like a knife to the heart to be labeled friend—I’m not sure I’d ever been as drawn to you as I was in that moment.

  Your shoulders sagged.

  Your teeth bit into your lip.

  I saw you then, Molly. I really saw you. Did you feel me looking? Because I sure as hell did, and later—much later—you denied that I’d been there at all.

  Your mother stood up and strode toward you, feet bare on the linoleum floor, and then she wrapped her arms around you. “My baby,” she said. “Are you going to stay with your mama today?”

  Your arms hung by your sides, but your mom didn’t seem to care. She looked at me and said, “I never get enough time with her.” She dropped one arm away from you and held out her hand to me. “I’m Samantha.”

  I shook it but didn’t say a word.

  Your mom hugged you again, like she was afraid you’d suddenly vanish. I wondered how hard it had been for you to get out the front door today. How hard it was for you to leave any day.

  “Sit, sit,” she said, and guided Molly to a table overflowing with cloth napkins and punch glasses and a blender that looked like it cost more than our rent. “Did you guys meet at school?”

  “Yeah,” you said.

  Your mom glanced back and forth between you an
d me. “Maybe you two would rather go into Molly’s room and talk.”

  “Yes,” you said, and started to stand up.

  But your mom remembered herself and grabbed your hand. “Or. Or you could stay out here with me for a little while. I’m feeling… I’m feeling kind of down today.”

  She made a frowny face then, like a child.

  “I could make something.” She looked at her kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. As if she couldn’t quite remember its purpose. Her gaze popped back toward us. She grinned. “Or we could just talk. How are your classes, Molly? Do you have any classes with…? I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

  “Cobain,” I offered.

  She reached across the table for your hand, but you moved it into your lap. I resented your mom for putting that look on your face. But I felt sympathy for her, too, because I knew the deep, unrelenting sensation of wanting company. The difference between us was that she reached for it, and I pushed it away, too afraid of rejection to try.

  You bore your mother’s questions with one-word answers—yes, no, maybe, sure—until I could tell you couldn’t take another moment.

  “We have to go,” I said. “We’ll be late.”

  “Oh. Where are you two off to?” she asked. “Need a ride?”

  “No. Thank you,” I said, and reached for you.

  You pulled your arm away, but you did follow me out the door. When I came here, I’d imagined spending time in your room. Of seeing your things. Of feeling grossly inadequate in comparison to your lavender bedspread and built-in bookshelves and your antique writing desk. I just knew you’d have a writing desk.

  But what happened instead was an awkward twenty-minute exchange before frustration infected every part of your body, draining you of life.

  Your mother drained you.

  “You can’t just show up at someone’s house,” you said, walking past me once we were outside. “I didn’t tell you where I live, you know. I know I didn’t tell you.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I jogged to keep up. “I followed you home one day.”

  You stopped on the sidewalk, a safe distance from your house. From your mom.

  “That’s creepy, Cobain. It’s…disturbing.”

  I leaned back. “You don’t really think that.”

  You pressed your lips together and glanced away. “Most people would find what you did weird. Just showing up like this. It’s weird.”

  “You aren’t most people,” I said calmly. “You wanted me to see where you lived. You wanted me to meet your mom, too.”

  “What the hell do you know?”

  I took your elbows in my hands. “I know you.”

  You laughed then, and I won’t say it didn’t hurt me. “You’ve known me a month. You don’t know shit.”

  “I know you paint your nails just to chip off the polish,” I said. “I know you like trees best when they’ve lost their leaves. I know you want to cut your hair, but you’re afraid no one will notice you once you do. I know you love blue mascara and panda bears and covered bridges.”

  I tightened my grip on your elbows.

  You didn’t pull away.

  “I also know you’re desperate for someone to figure you out. And I think that starts with where you come from. I came here to figure you out, Molly.”

  “Why?” you whispered.

  “Because I want to show you that I don’t care. That whatever it is, I’ll still be here.”

  You raised your eyes and looked at me. The hardness in your gaze softened. The cunning in your mind relaxed.

  You said, “He let me go.”

  And tears filled your eyes. You bit down on your anger, your entire body shaking in my hands. You weren’t mad at this memory you were holding, I don’t think. You were mad because you didn’t want me to see the emotion on your face.

  But I saw it anyway.

  And though I didn’t know who you were talking about or what had happened, I said, “I won’t let you go, Molly.”

  It was the right thing to say.

  I could see it in the lift of your shoulders.

  I raised my hands to your jawline. I couldn’t wait a second longer, Molly. I just couldn’t. My thumbs drew circles on your cheeks as I pulled your face closer. If the world had split between our feet, asphalt falling to the center of the earth, I would still have found a way to hold on to you.

  “You’ll be sorry,” you whispered.

  I brought my mouth to yours.

  You pushed your body against mine, and I wrapped my arm around your waist, and we just kind of…fell into each other. It was the first time we’d kissed slowly, my thumb tracing your jawline, your hands warm against my upper back. Our lips moved softly, tongues softer still, and when our kiss ended quietly, we kept our arms around each other, your cheek on my chest, my chin resting on your head. In that one perfect moment, we could have crashed into the sun and I wouldn’t have noticed the heat.

  I released you at last, and you said, “Say it again.”

  And I said, “I’ll never let you go.”

  And you laid your head against me.

  I thought of myself as an animal then. As your protector. You held my leash in your soft white hands. If someone upset you, all you had to do was release me, and I’d have torn them to pieces just to see you smile.

  NOW

  I sit on the edge of the couch, digging my fingers into the fabric.

  My dad is at work. My mom, picking up unwrapped toys from neighbors. And so I am alone when I learn what happened to Molly.

  “The letter was found this morning at approximately nine fifteen a.m.,” the TV reporter says. “We’re told there’s no return address, but there was postage, and it’s believed the letter was dropped at a free-standing mail receptacle. It was postmarked at the distribution center in Allentown, but we’ve learned that all mail in the area is processed here, so that doesn’t necessarily mean it was sent from Allentown. It could have been mailed from anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.”

  Get to the point, I think as my pulse races.

  “We’re told Molly’s mother has handed over the letter to authorities, and we do have the contents of that letter to share with our viewers.”

  The man raises a piece of paper.

  Is that the letter? No, he said they just had the wording. He did this to make the moment more dramatic.

  He begins to read—

  “Mom, I’m okay. I just need some time away. My compass is broken. I love you.”

  The reporter lowers the paper, giving his audience time to take that in.

  Giving me time to put my head between my legs and breathe.

  “It seems that, for today, Molly Bates is okay, and her mother can rest a little easier. But I’m sure she’s eager to have her daughter home safe. Molly will not turn eighteen until June eighth, and so police will continue to search for her until that time. But all signs point to Molly being a runaway. If you or someone you know sees Molly—”

  A picture of Molly then.

  Smiling.

  Wearing a pink sweater though she despises pink.

  “—call the police, or you can contact us at KGTV.com/bringhomemolly.”

  My stomach rolls. Is the local news station really so desperate for a story that they’ve set up a page for a seventeen-year-old runaway?

  I sit upright. Struggle to regain my composure. Molly ran away. That was the plan, wasn’t it? But who did she run with? And why leave behind the car?

  It was supposed to be me with her.

  There was never supposed to be a letter.

  What happened to our plan, Molly?

  WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR PLAN?!

  My compass is broken.

  Why does that ring a bell?

  “I heard,” Holt says from where he leans again
st the doorway.

  I’m relieved he’s here. Molly being gone is shredding me, and it’s nice to feel like someone cares enough to stick around to make sure I’m okay. At least, I hope it’s because of that and not just because he’s tired of campus life.

  I furrow my brow and look back at the TV, which is showing Molly’s mother, dressed in that same robe. I can’t help noticing that her hair is fixed and her makeup is on. She seems awfully put together for a woman who hasn’t seen her daughter—who she can’t seem to breathe without—for six days. But she is vain. And if that letter had said Molly was dead, her mother might have still smeared on lipstick and a smile for the cameras. And then promptly downed a fistful of Percocet and a bottle of vodka and kissed this life goodbye.

  Holt walks into the room and stands beside me as we watch the TV.

  He shakes his head. “Always the last to know.”

  “Who? The parents?”

  He points at the TV. “No, our news station. They reported it on the Pittsburgh stations an hour ago.”

  My heart wrenches. I hate thinking of all these people knowing about Molly. Of them praying for her or her mom. I like to believe I’m the only one who sees her. But now all these people do. They’re staring at her photo and saying, That poor girl. Her mother must be a monster. That’s why she ran away, you know?

  And she was, sort of, but not in the way they’re imagining.

  Holt slaps me on the shoulder. “How you doing?”

  I shrug.

  “Do you know why she ran away?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  Holt looks at me a while longer, as if he suspects more than what I’m telling him. “Cobain,” he says softly.

  I look at him. I can feel the anger boiling behind my eyes. Can he see it?

  He sees it.

  “When you were younger…”

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  Holt sits down on the coffee table. “It’s just…do you think it’s possible that, I don’t know…that Molly was ever uncomfortable around you?”

  “What?” I say, genuinely surprised. “No.”

  Holt glances back at the TV. “She was definitely running from something, don’t you think?”