Cautiously, Molly lifted her free hand and took his hand in her own. His head whipped toward the place where she touched him. “I wanted to help it. I didn’t think you would let me outside.”
His head tilted ever so slightly, as if trying to piece together what she was saying.
She released his hand and pointed toward the bird lying still beneath a window. “The bird. I wanted to help the bird.”
She stared at him, afraid to say anything that would strain his belief any further.
He kept a firm grip on her wrist, dragged her toward the bird, and bent down.
She bent, too, and examined the tiny creature. One beady, black eye gazed up at her, and its tiny breast heaved with fear. “It’s still alive,” she exclaimed. “Can we help it?”
She hadn’t meant what she’d said about escaping to help the bird. He must have known that. But the more she looked at that frightened thing lying in the dirt, the more she wanted to do something. She needed it to be okay.
Pensively, Molly reached out to take the bird into her hand. She touched one finger to its warm body, stroked its gray feathers, and went to pick it up. Blue grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet before she could.
He spun her toward him and shot a pointed look at the window over the door. Before she could say another word, Blue hauled her toward the cabin.
“No, wait,” she said. “Let me take the bird.”
He nudged her in the back to keep her moving, but the farther she got from the injured animal, the more hysterical she grew.
“I can help it,” she said as they reached the stairs.
He grabbed his voice manipulator from a nearby table and nudged her onward, making it more than evident that he didn’t believe her. That this was her punishment for leaving the confines of the cabin.
“Please bring it to me,” she pleaded. “Blue, please.”
He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and pushed her inside. Then, with his entire body filling the doorway, he brought that black device to his lips. “It’s going to die,” he said, as if death didn’t matter at all. As if it were as simple a thing as jam on bread.
“It’s not,” she contested. “It’s not. I can keep it alive.”
He shut the door. Locked it.
“It’s not going to die,” she screamed. “It’s not going to die! It’s not going to die!”
She beat her hands against the door until they grew numb. Until her legs collapsed beneath her and she could only hug her knees to her chest. Rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. Repeating those words.
“It’s not going to die.”
“It’s not going to die.”
And then, a simple change right before she fell into an agitated sleep on the floor.
“You’re going to die.”
THEN
My world tilted the moment you walked in that front door.
I’d been waiting for you in the cafeteria, sitting two seats down with your friends because I knew that’s where you’d go. You walked in, and it felt like the floor slid to the right, like a boat hitting high tide. Like the table lurched across the room and slammed into the wall. People went with those tables, and Styrofoam trays of scrambled eggs and limp toast fell to the floor.
The room went quiet as you strode forward, your eyes on mine.
My scalp tingled with anticipation. Where did we stand after last night? I didn’t know. It made me sick not to know.
Your eyes darted toward the back of the school, and I walked after you, hoping it was a subtle signal to follow along. I imagined that with every step we took away from the dining hall, the cafeteria righted itself a little bit more. Tables returned to their proper places. Kids found their seats. And food returned to plates, tasting exactly the same as it had moments earlier.
You let the doors to the morning air close behind us, and then you kissed me.
I’d never felt such relief in my entire eighteen years on this planet.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“Me, too,” I replied.
“You have to understand. My heart…” You touched that place between your breasts. “It’s my compass. It can’t guide me if it’s distracted.” You reached up and touched my face. “Do you understand?”
I wasn’t sure I did, but I found myself nodding along.
You smiled and scratched the stubble on my jawline. “I belong to you. I am yours.”
Something in your gaze flickered as soon as those words left your mouth. Like you wanted them back. But no way would I give them to you.
“Cobain, listen,” you said.
But I didn’t want to hear it. I was too afraid of what you’d say. Too worried you’d reclaim what you’d just said. Because you would do something like that, Molly. You would chase I belong to you with But I belong to everyone else, too.
And I couldn’t hear it. I’d scared you last night, or maybe you’d scared yourself. Either way, I couldn’t handle the repercussions.
The bell rang, and my body buzzed at the chance to escape.
“I can’t be late again,” I said. “Mr. Freedman will have my ass.”
I turned and walked away from you. Didn’t even look back.
Maybe by the time we saw each other again, I reasoned, you would have moved past last night. I’d say something like, “Let’s just move past this, all right? Let’s go to the park and make up stories about the little kids. Pick which ones will become veterinarians, and which ones will become serial killers.”
And you’d say, “I get the good swing.”
And I’d say, “You always get the good swing.”
And you’d say, “I love you, too, Cobain. I don’t know why I haven’t said it before.”
I’d take your hand, and you’d take mine, and I’d make you repeat what you said about being mine.
NOW
Duane’s apartment complex is everything I remember it being.
A lima bean shaped pool sits between the buildings, and people stand around it with drinks in their hands as music throbs from the speakers. It’s the middle of winter, and yet these people want so badly to be seen. They need to be seen.
And I need safe passage to Duane’s front door.
I pull my hoodie over my head and stuff my hands into my pockets. Keep my shoulders hunched as I stride up the stairs. Large metal numbers scream from the doors, and I can still smell the fumes from the freshly painted brick. This complex is a mirage, two stories of outdated living arrangements neatly orchestrated to appear trendy. But it’s as fake as the people living in it.
I knock once on Duane’s door and wait, recalling the time Molly and I came here for a party—her idea, not mine—and how we both left early, smelling like weed and Funyuns and laughing so hard we nearly rolled down the stairs.
When no one opens up, I glance around and knock harder. I’m peeking through the blinds when the door swings open. A deeply tanned guy steps out, pulling a T-shirt down over impressive abs. I kind of want to ask him where he works out.
“What’s up?” he says.
Behind him, another guy asks who it is. The voice doesn’t belong to Duane.
The guy at the door evaluates me. “No one,” he says over his shoulder.
“I’m looking for Duane,” I say. “He home?”
Confusion knits his brows together, and he shakes his head. “There’s no Duane here, but I get some of his mail sometimes. I think he moved.”
“When?”
The guy frowns. “I don’t know, man. Can I help you?”
“Charlie?” the guy inside says.
“No, I’m cool,” I respond.
“If you say so.” He closes the door.
I walk the two and a half miles to Steel, unsure what I’m planning to do when I arrive, since Chad told me that if I stepped foot on his p
roperty again, he’d sue me. But I have to know. If Duane is gone, and Molly is gone…
My vision blurs with fury just imagining it.
I wait along the street, hidden by a row of cars, and glance over as gym patrons come and go. I find myself evaluating their physiques. Coming up with workout plans for their body types. I decide I should focus on myself, and I start going through what I need to do next time I find myself at the school gym. Can I chance going in there again after everything with Nixon and Jet and Coach?
I run my hands through my hair and tug. I’m slowly losing everything I care about, and I didn’t have that much to begin with.
After an hour of pacing, the sun begins to set, and I finally see what I’m looking for. A girl walks out wearing a maroon collared shirt and khaki shorts. She’s removing her name tag and striding toward her car. She’s got her keys jammed between her fingers the way Molly used to do. The girl looks to her left and her right, just waiting to use those keys as a weapon if she must.
I step out in front of her. “Hey.”
She brings her hand up a fraction of an inch.
I raise my own hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s young, but older than me. Of course, I’m bigger.
Why does that matter?
“I was wondering if Duane still works here?”
The girl unlocks her car. A lock of dark hair falls along her cheek. She’s got big eyes. Nice big eyes. “Not sure. You can go and talk to Chad inside. He’s the manager.”
She’s nervous around me, and I wonder why. Am I really so threatening? Everyone seems to think I am lately.
“I used to work here,” I offer.
This seems to settle her nerves. She smiles. I like her smile. But it isn’t Molly’s smile. “Oh, really?” she says. “I just started. It’s pretty cool. I get to work out for free, and Chad lets me take as long as I want for lunch.”
“But you don’t know Duane?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I see that she knows more than she initially let on.
“We’re friends,” I push. “But I haven’t seen him in a while.”
What would Molly do?
I frown. Run a hand through my hair. “I’m kind of worried. The two of us were more than friends, if I’m being honest.”
Molly would be proud.
“Oh, okay. Well.” The girl looks back at the gym. It’s gotten darker, and those metallic letters are now backlit in blue. I can hear the music from out here. It’s subtle, but it makes my muscles ache with the need to move. She makes a face like she’s telling me something she shouldn’t. “I think he took off. Went to Thailand. I guess he didn’t put in his notice, so Chad was pretty pissed about it. That’s what this guy Aaron told me, anyway.”
“When?” I ask, stepping toward her. “When did he take off?”
My entire body tenses, awaiting her response. Calculating how long Molly’s been gone.
She scrunches up her face. “Uh, right before I got hired. So…a week ago? I think he called Chad collect from Thailand, but Chad wouldn’t accept the charges.”
I have to laugh then, because only Duane would first skip town without word and then try to call collect from another freaking country.
“Did you…did you want to come back to work at Steel?” the girl ventures. “Like I said, I haven’t been there long, but I could—”
“No,” I say. “No, that’s okay. But maybe don’t tell Chad you saw me.”
The concern rushes back to her eyes. “Okay. Hey, sorry, I’ve got to run. Sorry about you and Duane. You’re better off, if what Aaron tells me is true.”
I watch as she gets into her car and drives away. She glances back once to see if I’m still there.
I almost wave.
After she’d gone, my eyes flick to that glowing Steel sign. I think about what she said. That Duane left town long after Molly did. I have serious doubts that Molly went to Thailand. Whether she sent that letter to her mom herself, or someone else did, in the end it was mailed inside the U.S. So, no, I don’t think Duane has any idea where Molly is. He probably doesn’t even know she’s missing.
It hits me, then, just how absurd it would have been if he had. I mean, why did I even suspect him of anything at all? Because he thought my girlfriend was attractive?
What about Jet? Because she embarrassed him?
And Nixon? Because he was male and her friend?
Rhana? Because I thought she was jealous of Molly?
Her mom? Because she smothered her daughter?
My brother? Because he asked about her?
The reporter? Because he took a photo of us?
I’ve pointed fingers in as many directions as I could to avoid the inevitable. That maybe, just maybe, Molly really did just leave me. Maybe, in the end, Molly only did what she did because she is everything that reporter insinuated she was. Unpredictable. Manipulative.
Just like her father.
The other alternative is that she was taken. But my list of suspects has shriveled to exactly zero, and I’m no closer to finding out what happened to my girlfriend.
It just doesn’t make sense.
Nothing makes sense!
Except, that is, the line from her letter.
My compass is broken.
I finally remember how she referred to her heart as her compass.
So her heart is broken, is it?
An answer, at long last.
But it’s an answer that leads to yet another question—
Am I the one who broke it?
MOLLY
He brought her the bird.
It lived after all, and so he placed it inside a small rusted cage and hung it from the ceiling. Molly could hardly sleep at night since its arrival. She feared it would disappear when she wasn’t looking.
She loved the bird, but it hurt her to see it. To be reminded of the outside. Of beautiful things, and unexpected things. She had to escape. She could no longer be patient. And so when he brought her another dress—this one with plastic flower buttons—she asked him a single question.
“Can we spend the night together?”
He’d been watching the bird, but he turned to look at her when she asked this. He didn’t respond, and so she asked a different way.
“I’ve missed singing to you,” she said. “You haven’t come to me in several nights.”
He looked up at the bird as if saying she had plenty of company.
“It’s not the same,” she said in a rush when he moved toward the door. “I need human companionship. I know you understand that.”
He stopped in the doorway and kicked the door open a little wider with his boot. An invitation.
“Blue,” she said when he started to go up the stairs without her.
He turned around, impatient, and then remembered her bound wrists. He came toward her with his knife to cut them. She wondered how much more of the unbreakable plastic rope he had. An infinite amount, she decided. Enough to lasso the moon. To pull it toward him and bind it so that no light shone from the heavens at night.
He reached up to cut the ties, and she pressed against him. Blue grew still. As soon as her arm was free, she wrapped it around him. Hugged their bodies close.
She knew it was no longer a gamble.
He wouldn’t touch her.
He seemed to fight for breath before reaching up to cut her other bond. She threw that arm around him too and breathed thank you into his broad chest. Then, just as quickly, she released his torso, went to the bathroom, and slipped on her new dress. She passed him by once she had it on, knowing he watched every step she took, and walked ahead of him and out the door. She climbed the stairs with confidence, her purple dress cascading over the steps as she rose higher and higher, a velvet moon in her own right.
These meant something to him, she realized.
“It’s okay,” she said, because she had to make progress. And she needed to set the stage.
Don’t ever try and sway someone without first tending to ambiance, Mockingbird. Don’t simply ask for what you want. Sweep them away into a production of your own creation.
He released her and backed away. As she pulled the record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable—fumbling over how to get it started—she noticed the window over the door had been boarded over. Her stomach churned as she remembered what was at stake.
He watched her as “House of the Rising Sun” began to play, and she sat on the couch, sweeping her dress beneath her. Unsure what to do with himself, he leaned against the wall opposite her. Folded his arms across his chest.
Blue glanced toward the kitchen, and she knew he was thinking of cooking something. That was his default when things grew tense. It kept his hands busy.
But Molly had other uses for those hands tonight.
“I had a friend once,” she said, and Blue looked back to her. “A real friend. She used to come to my window at night, and I’d crawl out to meet her. We’d go anywhere. Everywhere. It would be so quiet. When I was with her, it felt like everything that was happening at my house slipped away. We didn’t go to the same school. We didn’t even live in the same neighborhood. She would ride her bike three miles to come see me at night.”
Blue watched her closely, not uttering a single word. Though he always wore that wretched mask, she tried to imagine his face. Wondered if he wet his lips. Or chewed the inside of his cheek or furrowed his brow.
“I met her at the park, mostly because my dad hated the park. He always said it was a place the rich paid for and the poor overused. But I loved it.” She smiled, sadness twisting her bones. “And I think I loved her, too.”
Blue slid down the wall until his legs were held protectively in front of his body. He rested his forearms on his knees and kept his eyes on her.
We Told Six Lies Page 17