Every Single Lie

by Rachel Vincent

  I nod and reach for one of the bags, but he doesn’t see my reply, because he’s jogging through the living room toward the hall.

  Coward.

  “So!” I set a long, green zucchini on the counter, and I manage not to gag at the sight. “What are we having with the risotto and cheesy layered rabbit food?”

  Landry has been our designated family chef since shortly after Dad died. She asked for the chore. She says it’s because she’d rather make the mess than clean the mess—Penn and I get stuck with dishes—but the truth is that this is how she keeps Dad alive.

  He used to cook. And even toward the end, when he basically just sat on the couch all day, he watched hour after hour of the Food Network. Landry watched with him, her feet tucked beneath her on the center cushion, her homework open on her lap. They used to talk about all the fancy meals they’d make together, just as soon as he got to feeling better.

  He never got to feeling better. So she cooks in his honor. On a budget.

  “French onion chicken.” Landry pulls a sealed package of thighs from her bag and shoves it into the fridge. Then she stands there with the door open, staring at the food. “She said she would be here for dinner. That’s why I made Penn take me to Walmart.”

  “She was going to. But—”

  “Something came up with her case. I know.” Landry closes the fridge and turns back to the island, pushing dark hair back from her face. “It’s that baby, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  If she’s heard anything about the Crimson Cryer, I can’t tell, and I’m not going to be the first to mention it. I don’t want her to know what people are saying about me. I don’t want her to realize it’s my fault Mom went back to work.

  For a moment, I think she’s going to ask about the case. She’s going to make me lie to her, or at least avoid the question. But then she just heads into the pantry with a canister of smoked salt.

  “Chicken gets tough when you warm it up.”

  “Then I’ll eat Mom’s meat, and I’ll save her my veggies. Need some help cooking?”

  “Nope. Cleanup is all yours, though.”

  After dinner, Penn unloads the dishwasher, then he heads to his room to do his calculus homework. I hurriedly reload with everything that can go in the dishwasher, and I’m scraping cheese off the bottom of a baking dish when the doorbell rings.

  Amira stands on the front porch, holding a bag of pretzels. “I got the sticks instead of the twists. Those are your favorites, right?”

  I can’t resist a grin as I let her inside. Despite the recent distance between us, it’s like nothing has changed.

  We grab spices from the pantry, and she preheats the oven while I toss the pretzels in vegetable oil in a plastic bag. But before we can add the spices, the TV comes on in the living room.

  We hardly ever use the TV anymore, since Mom canceled our cable. These days, Penn, Landry, and I are much more likely to fight over her old iPad so we can stream a show alone in our rooms than we are to watch anything broadcast on one of the basic networks.

  I set the bag of pretzels on the counter and grab a hand towel on my way into the living room, where I find Landry standing in the middle of the floor, staring at the TV with the remote in her hand.

  “What’cha looking for?”

  “Norah said Clifford’s on the national news, but I don’t know what channel that is.”

  “We don’t get those channels anymore. Come here.”

  I head back into the kitchen and unplug the iPad from its dock on the counter, while Landry turns off the TV. She and Amira watch over my shoulder while I search for “Clifford, Tennessee news” and click the first video posted by a network I recognize.

  “Tonight, all eyes are on Clifford, Tennessee, a town of fewer than five thousand people near the western edge of the state, where, on Friday, the remains of a newborn were found in the high school locker room.”

  The camera pans out from the pretty reporter’s face to show the Clifford Police department in the background. That shouldn’t be a shock, considering how many stations sent reporters to town yesterday for Mom’s press conference, but seeing that little slice of our quaint downtown on the national news sucks the air from my lungs.

  I didn’t realize any of the reporters had hung around.

  “Rumors abound online about the identity of the infant, and while there are no answers forthcoming from the local police department, it’s clear that the tragedy has really brought the people of Clifford together in their search for answers about the baby, affectionately dubbed ‘Lullaby Doe’ by the online community. Here to talk to us about how this tragedy has affected their hometown are Clifford residents Marina Tillman and her daughter Claire, who goes to the high school where the baby was found.”

  Of course she does. There’s only one high school in town.

  The camera zooms out a little farther as two more figures step into the frame. I recognize Claire; I think she’s a sophomore.

  “My mom has her for Chem I,” Amira says.

  But Claire’s mother is familiar too, though I can’t quite place her.

  “Now, Mrs. Tillman, I understand that you’re actually a local businesswoman. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I’m the owner and florist at Flower Power, just down the street. Lived here all my life, and so have my parents.”

  Marina Tillman nods in the direction of Clifford’s only flower shop. And that’s when I remember that she took my order for Jake’s boutonniere, for the Fall Ball, back in October.

  “And what would you like the world to know about your hometown?”

  “We’re a real community, out here. Clifford’s small enough that everyone pretty much knows everyone else. Or else they know someone who knows ’em. We’ve been shocked by this tragedy, but it’s bringing us together as a community.”

  The reporter nods, while Mrs. Tillman parrots her own words back at her.

  “And we’re going to get answers for that poor little baby. That’s the very least she deserves.”

  The reporter turns to Claire. “I understand that you go to the local high school? Tell us what it was like at school today, after the shock of Friday afternoon’s tragedy.”

  “It was weird. Everyone was kinda . . . ​numb,” Claire says. “I was there all day on Friday, and it’s weird to think that while I was goin’ to my classes, eatin’ in the cafeteria, some girl was havin’ a baby in the locker room, and no one knew a thing about it.”

  I know the second I hear her accent that the world will either fall in love with her Southern charm or make fun of the hick from hicksville, depending on which way the wind is blowing at any given moment.

  “Really?” The reporter looks skeptical. “It’s a little hard to understand, from an outsider’s perspective, how in such a small, tight-knit community, a pregnant teenager could have gone unnoticed for so long. There are fewer than four hundred students at Clifford High School, isn’t that right?”

  “Somebody knows,” the florist insists. “I mean, somebody has to know who had that baby. The girl’s boyfriend, or her parents, or someone.” She turns to her daughter. “I mean, I’d definitely know if you were pregnant, right?”

  “Of course,” Claire agrees, as if this is a thing they discuss all the time. “And, I mean, I’m sure her mother knew she was pregnant, even if no one else did, but it’s not like she’s going to admit it.”

  “Whose mother?” The reporter suddenly perks up. “Do you know who gave birth to Lullaby Doe?”

  “Well, no one really knows, but we all kinda know, you know?”

  The reporter frowns. “We can’t air unsubstantiated rumors—”

  “It’s not a rumor,” Claire insists. “Just because we don’t have proof.”

  “That is the definition of a rumor!” I shout at the iPad, and Landry jumps, startled by my outburst.

  “I’m just sayin’, that Twitter account’s been right about everything else so far.”

  The reporter swings
the microphone back toward her own mouth. “You’re talking about the Crimson Cryer account?”

  “It’s a cop. It has to be. Like a . . . ​a whistleblower. And if a cop says it’s the girl who called 911—” Claire suddenly turns to the reporter. “I can’t say her name on camera, can I?”

  “Our policy is not to broadcast personal information about minors. We also don’t air unsubstantiated—”

  “Not that it matters,” I snap at the screen, speaking over the reporter. “They just advertised that Twitter account on national television. Anyone who scrolls back through the Cryer’s feed will see the accusation against me. And I didn’t call 911. Coach Killebrew did.”

  Landry’s still staring at the iPad. Amira is staring at me.

  “So as you can see, there’s plenty of speculation here in town about what, exactly, happened three days ago at Clifford High. But one thing you can count on is that we’re going to be here, bringing you the latest developments, live. Shining a light on this tragedy, which has captured the heart of an entire nation. Back to you, Tom.”

  Disgusted, I stop the video.

  People seem to think that shining a light on something is always a good thing. As if that means things can finally be seen for what they are. But the truth is that sometimes bright light distorts familiar shapes. Sometimes it casts wild shadows that bear no resemblance to an object’s true form.

  Standing here in the center of the spotlight, I can tell you that’s exactly how this light they’re shining on Clifford feels to me. As if my shadow on the sidewalk suddenly looks more like a monster than like a human being.

  I park a block away from Jake’s house, then I sneak down the gravelly alleyway between the Johnsons’ and the Parkers’ houses and into his unfenced yard. His dog—a mutt with German shepherd blood—is chained to a metal post, asleep in the center of a round patch of ground he’s walked bare.

  Brewster’s eyes open and his nose twitches, but he knows me, so he just goes back to sleep as I pull my phone from my pocket.

  come to the back door

  A set of ellipses appears as Jake types a response. Then it disappears, but no message comes. Two minutes later, the door opens.

  “What are you doing here?” He’s whispering, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder into the dark, empty kitchen. “This place is on lockdown. My mom called Brother Bill.”

  Bill Ryan is the youth minister at First Baptist, Clifford, where the Mercers go every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. They have a guitar player during the Sunday services and video game tournaments during youth group all-nighters, but the sermons haven’t yet veered into such contemporary territory.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Mom heard about the Cryer. She signed up for Twitter just so she could keep up with it.”

  I groan. “She saw what they’re saying about me.”

  And if Jake’s mom thinks I’m the dead baby’s mother, then she thinks he’s the father. She’ll probably flick holy water and brandish a cross at me the second she sees me.

  He nods. “Why are you here, Beckett?”

  “I told my mom about the bag. She’s getting a warrant. But if you want to talk about that out here . . .” I shrug.

  “Fine. But you have to be quiet,” he whispers. As if I were planning to tap dance my way to his room until he talked some sense into me.

  “Hey.” I grab his arm before he can go inside, because I don’t want to say this in his house. In his parents’ territory. “I’m really sorry about the other day. About breaking into your car. About accusing you of cheating. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should just start over.”

  Jake blinks, and something I don’t understand flickers in his eyes. “Beckett, your timing sucks.”

  SIX

  I’ve been at Jake’s house a million times, and there are always dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher is broken—going on four years now—and Jake puts off hand-washing until the last possible minute. Until the Mercers run out of clean spoons and his dad tries to eat ice cream with a fork.

  Tonight, the sink is empty. The dishes are haphazardly stacked in a white plastic-coated wire dish rack that is chipped and rusted in places. The trash can has obviously just been emptied, and the linoleum looks recently swept.

  Jake’s hoping to knock time off his sentence for good behavior. Even though he’s being punished based on a rumor.

  I follow him silently past the small dining room, which Mrs. Mercer uses as a work space for the ceramic Christmas houses she paints to sell at the flea market in Daley. The living room is dark and empty except for the multicolored glow of an old artificial Christmas tree. The angel on top sits slightly crooked, her halo brushing the popcorn texture on the ceiling.

  Soft voices echo from Jake’s parents’ room on the far side of the living room. I can’t tell what they’re saying, yet I know exactly what they’re talking about.

  Me and my corrupting influence on the beacon of light and innocence that is their only son.

  The other kitchen doorway leads into the hall, where Jake’s sister’s room is on the left and the bathroom is on the right. Emily’s door is closed, but light leaks from beneath it. She’s home from UT Knoxville for winter break, and I can’t really blame her for hiding out in her room. For hanging her little brother out to dry.

  Jake’s room is at the end of the hall. His dresser is made of chipped pressboard, the mirror over it discolored from age. There’s a path worn into the carpet between the bed and the door, and the wallpaper is yellowed in the corners.

  I’ve always felt at home here.

  He closes the door behind us, and I sit on the edge of his unmade bed, because there’s nowhere else to sit.

  This room is a catalog of every moment I’ve ever spent here, and I can’t help flipping the pages. Living it all over again, in the two seconds it takes him to get from the door to the bed, where he sits next to me. Where the space between us forms a canyon carved by every word I’ve said in the past week. By every word he’s held back.

  “You think it’ll be tonight? The warrant,” he adds, when I’m not sure which conversation he’s reviving.

  “Probably. Everyone wants to close this case as quickly as possible.” To put an end to the mortifying national media coverage. Not to mention the social media coverage. “I also told my mom you know the baby’s gender. She’s trying to figure out who the Crimson Cryer is, and that detail wasn’t released to the public.”

  Jake exhales heavily. “I already told you—”

  “I know. I told her you’re not the Cryer. But they’re going to ask you about it.”

  For a long moment, he only looks at me, and it suddenly feels strange to be sitting so close to him without touching him.

  Over his head, my focus lands on a shelf that runs the length of the room. It’s so full of baseball trophies that it’s started to bow in the middle from the weight. Jake has been MVP, and All-Region, and Division II All-State Player of the Year. He set a school record for bases stolen.

  Penn is a good baseball player, but Jake is outstanding. Last year, college scouts started coming to watch him play.

  “Beck, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  He frowns. “The threats. I’ve been reporting them to Twitter, when I see them, but—”

  “What? I saw one before, but it was vague and stupid.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket and turn it on. I’ve been carrying it in case of an emergency, but I’ve kept it off, because of all the calls from reporters. When I open my Twitter app, several dozen new mentions scroll down the screen. I read through them quickly, and one catches my attention.

  @BeckettBergen I hope you—­

  The tweet goes on, but my eyes refuse to read any more. Instead, individual words and phrases jump out at me from that tweet and several more, as chills crawl up my spine.

  Kill yourself.

  Rape.

  Trash.

  Die.

 
One of the posters is threatening to pull me out of this life limb by limb, like he claims I did to my baby.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. “There were more of these, before you reported them?” This is different than that one from before. This is infinitely worse.

  Jake leans closer to read from my screen. “Yeah, those are new. But they’re basically the same as the ones that have already been taken down. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t realize you hadn’t seen them. Turn it back off.”

  He snatches my phone and holds down the power button until the screen goes black.

  “You’ve been having them removed? For me?”

  He hands my phone back, and his fingers brush mine. “Of course.”

  “But you’re not even on Twitter.”

  “I am now. Logged into my mother’s account.” He shrugs. “She needed help setting hers up, so I know her password.”

  “Does she know you’ve been reporting tweets through her account?”

  He actually laughs. “She doesn’t even know that’s a thing.”

  His leg is so close to mine that I can feel its warmth. I could take his hand and just . . . ​hold it. Like a thank-you—and an apology—that I don’t have to verbalize. A gesture he’ll understand, even without the words.

  “Hey, why don’t you let me pick you up tomorrow?” His fingers twitch, and I think he wants to hold my hand too. “I feel weird about you being alone, with assholes like that out there.” He nods at my phone. At the threats I can still see every time I close my eyes.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Not at all melting from the inside out, over his offer. “Anyway, I have to have my car, so I can pick Landry up.”

  “I could—”

  Light flashes through the window, blinding me for a second, and I straighten my shirt out of an old habit, as if Jake’s parents are about to walk in and catch us with his bedroom door closed. But the reality is even more serious than that.