If I Lie (24 page)

My camera,
I think, and glow at the thought. I nod, and he says, “Get my tape recorder out of my dresser, will you?”

The Veterans History Project is the last thing I want to think about today, but I do as he asks. “You’re not thinking of doing any interviews today, are you? You need to rest.”

He pushes the recorder into my hand when I try to give it to him. “There’s one interview we haven’t done,” he says.

He stares me down, challenging me to turn away. I don’t get it at first. And then I realize.

We’ve never collected George’s story.

He doesn’t pressure me. Doesn’t remind me that time’s winding
away from us. He gives me a chance to refuse. But it’s too late for that. I’d already decided to stay.

So I turn all business, having watched him do this dozens of times. I grab my camera. I set up the recorder on his rolling tray table. When everything is ready, I hit record and begin speaking.

“Today is May fifteenth and I am interviewing George Wilkins at the Fayetteville Veterans Hospital. My name is Sophie Topper Quinn and I’ll be the interviewer. George, could you state for the recording what war and branch of service you served in?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

School is an afterthought. It’s the blockade standing between visiting the hospital and a future away from Sweethaven. The only thing I’m looking forward to at school is seeing Blake again. We haven’t talked since he followed me home from Grave Woods. It’s more my fault than his, since I took a few days off of school to spend time with George. I’ve tried calling him, but he hasn’t called back.

Walking on Sweethaven High’s campus, I feel like a ghost, existing between two planes of reality. I don’t belong here anymore. It’s at once bittersweet and triumphant. Somehow I miss seeing Blake all day. Then it’s time for Yearbook.

Today’s the last day to turn in photos. Most everything has already been submitted, but Mr. Horowitz begged the printer for a deadline extension in order to get my pictures in. He takes the flash drive from me and plugs it into his computer. Rubbing
his hands together with glee, he begins the process of clicking through the hundreds of photos I’ve taken these last weeks. A group of students crowd around his oversized monitor to see them over his shoulder.

The dance. The shots from DC. Static team photos. My favorites are the ones I took on my own without an assignment. The weeks everyone pretended to ignore me had led to some great images. A couple kissing. A shot of another couple’s hands. A senior basketball player showing a freshman how to do a layup during gym.

A sophomore I don’t know that well gives me a look of respect. “These are really good.”

Then Jamie says, wrinkling her nose, “What’s that supposed to be?”

For some reason—maybe a desire to prove I’d survived this year despite her best efforts—I’ve included photos of the damage to my locker. A shot of Jamie sneering as she said something awful about me to Nikki and Angel. One of Josh looking menacing as he watched me when he thought I didn’t notice. And a collage of all the comments people had made about me on Facebook and elsewhere with the picture of me and the faceless Blake in the center. My mom was right. Photoshop was handy.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the room. I’d taken these pictures without ever planning to show them to anyone. George had taught me to always have my camera ready, then let my
instincts take over. My instincts had made a record of what happened to me—the good and the bad.

“We should delete those,” Jamie says, reaching for the mouse. “I told you she was a wreck.”

Mr. Horowitz politely but firmly intervenes. “Miss Winter-burn, I asked Miss Quinn to share
all
her photos. Not just the pretty ones she thought we’d print.”

Jamie’s jaw drops, and I realize my own mouth has fallen open too. I try to hide a small smile, but I can’t help it. I’m savoring this moment.

Mr. Horowitz leaves up the collage, and then turns his heavy gaze on my classmates. They shift and fidget to varying degrees, and he lingers longest on Jamie. “What don’t you like about these pictures, Miss Winterburn? Is it because they don’t show us as the best version of ourselves?”

Frustration colors her cheeks a brilliant red, and Jamie looks away, refusing to answer. Mr. Horowitz finally closes out the screen and rises. I’m about to go back to my desk when he holds a hand out to me.

“Miss Quinn, you once said that I didn’t know you. I’m very sorry for that.”

I give an unsteady nod and shake his hand.

He smiles and adds, “Please tell me you’re going to do something with all this talent. I’m going to be sick if you tell me you’re planning to be an accountant.”

I smile back. “I got accepted into Boston University’s photojournalism program.”

“Ah! War correspondent?” he guesses, his brows disappearing into his curly mane.

I nod, pleased he remembered our conversation on the bus and my passion for telling the stories of our soldiers.

“Congratulations. I see great things in your future.”

Mr. Horowitz claps his hands, bringing the moment to an end. He whips our class back into action, dividing everyone into teams to go through the photos and decide which ones should go where.

After class, I rush out, intending to find Blake.

Jamie’s voice stops me. “You don’t deserve it.”

I spin to face her. Everything about her is brittle and cruel. I don’t ask what she means, but she continues anyway.

“To profit from what you did to Carey. You don’t deserve it. Not that college or the attention.”

On our field trip, Blake told me that I egged her on. He’s right. She pushes, and I push back. I don’t need to do that anymore. Jamie doesn’t matter. With everything she has going for her, she’s loved a boy who would never love her back. Maybe she’s moved on now with Jimmy Manning, the boy she kissed on the bus. Then again, she’s always loved Carey, even when she dated others. Jamie’s stuck in this ghost world, and I’m busting out.

I smile, and she looks wary. I think,
Just try to stop me from taking what I want.

In the end, all I say is “Good-bye, Jamie,” before leaving her behind.

*   *   *

I find Blake at the auto shop.

He’s lying on his back on a dolly with only his feet visible like the Ford 4Runner’s eating him alive. After a quick glance around for Mr. Breen, I bend down to tug on his leg to get his attention. A thud followed by a curse bursts from under the hood.

I almost giggle, but the glare on his face when he rolls out the dolly stops me.

“Q, you scared the shit out of me. I thought I was alone.”

“Sorry.”

He sits up, rubbing his head, and I watch him, trying to gauge his mood.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

Blake stands and walks over to the counter against the wall that’s covered with tools. He picks up a dirty rag, wiping grease from his fingers. I’m at a loss. When he left me Monday morning, everything was good between us. More than good.

“Everything okay?” I ask hesitantly. “You seem upset.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound believable.

When I called and left messages during the past few days, I
thought maybe he was too busy with the Breens and work to call back. Maybe I’d been too caught up with George to notice when he didn’t return my messages. Now it occurs to me that I should have paid more attention.

“What’s going on, Blake?”

He sighs. “Nothing, Q. I told you. I’m just busy. I have two more cars to look at after this truck, and I’m a little shorthanded.”

I try again. “So, let me help. Tell me what to do.”

“And if Mr. Breen shows up?” he asks. “Listen, I have a lot to do. I’ll call you later.”

“Wow.” I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets so I won’t hit him. He sounds dismissive, as if I’m some girl making an unwanted pass. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What did you expect?” he says belligerently. “I work here. This is the Breens’ shop. Did you think we’d kiss and hug and be the perfect couple?”

That hurts. It stings like a bitch, actually. He’s trying to pick a fight with me, and I don’t understand why. I refuse to bite. “You said you loved me. I guess I expected that hadn’t changed since Sunday.”

The anger fades as suddenly as it flared.

“Look,” I say, holding out my hands palms-up, “you don’t want me here, I’m gone. But don’t screw with me. Be a man, Blake.”

He rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind a smudge
of grease. “I do love you, Q. I swear it. But how can we be together? Nothing’s really changed, has it? We both have promises to keep.”

My eyes water. Two steps forward, eight steps back into the hole I’ve been trying to crawl out of. He sees my expression and starts toward me, but I wave him off. I don’t want to be touched. I’ll fall apart completely if he touches me.

“No. You’re right. I mean, it’s not like we had a chance anyway, right?” I try to smile, pretending for all I’m worth that I’m not crying, too. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

A phone rings from the counter, and Blake picks it up, snarling a hello. It’s the Breens. I can see it in his tight, guilty expression and the way he gives me his shoulder.

He tells them, “Sure. I’ll close up right now. Is that Mrs. Breen crying?”

A pause while he listens. The color drains from his face. I’ve never seen Blake look so scared. “What did they say?” Another pause and he’s scrambling for the TV remote on the counter. “What channel?” he says as he flicks on the shop’s old beater TV.

He lands on whatever channel Mr. Breen tells him. A reporter stands in front an unknown village in a nondescript desert. She’s shouting to be heard over the background chaos of distant RPGs and gunfire.

“Initial reports say the Marines have located Lance Corporal
Carey Breen of the 1/6 Battalion. Breen went missing back in February when his unit was taking heavy fire during a patrol in Marjah. With no hostage demands, many had suspected he was a POW of local Taliban forces. Breen’s condition is unknown at this time, but we do know he’s suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. . . .”

I don’t hear any more. The picture switches to the green-black night-vision camera, and there’s Carey. I grab for support and find Blake. I walk into his arms without another thought. He holds me so tight I can’t breathe, and we stare at the TV, devouring the first sighting we’ve had in months of our best friend.

Several Marines bear Carey on a gurney and another holds an IV in the air. He’s strapped down and most of him is covered, except for his face. He’s lost weight like he hasn’t eaten in ages. His eyes are closed and he’s unmoving.

“He looks dead,” I whisper.

Blake hushes me. “He could be sleeping. We don’t know.”

The shot switches back to the reporter who doesn’t seem to know anything else.

“Nobody. Just a customer,” Blake says into the phone I forgot he was holding, obviously not wanting to explain why I was at the shop. “What are they telling you?”

The Marines would have sent a liaison to their home to preempt the news reports. My father had acted as that liaison before,
calling upon a local Marine’s family to let them know their son or daughter wasn’t coming home.

Blake listens for a moment. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, and hangs up.

“What did they say?” I ask, desperate.

“Not much.” He sets me aside and tears about the shop, grabbing his jacket, rolling the large doors closed, and shutting off machines and lights as he goes. “They’re flying him to the hospital in Landstuhl. The Breens are hopping a flight to Germany and will meet him there.”

At the front door, he finally notices I’m not behind him. “Q, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I have to go now. They need me. I swear I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”

The panic in his voice releases my feet from the floor. I follow him out and watch him run for his truck. His tires burn rubber as he peels out of the parking lot without a backward glance. My legs feel like they might give out as I climb into my Jeep.

I see Carey’s face again.

He’s alive.

A thousand prayers are answered.

He’s alive.

My phone rings, and I answer without checking the caller ID. My father says, “Quinn?”

I start crying. “Dad, did you hear? They found Carey. He’s alive!”

“I heard. Baby, listen . . .” Something’s off in his voice. The happiness that should be there isn’t. “You had a message here at the house from the hospital.”

No, no, NO.

“It’s George.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Day one: George is on a ventilator.

Mostly he sleeps. He looks weak and helpless, not like George at all.

I read to him. I talk to him.

And I tell him about Carey. About growing up with Carey and loving Carey and believing I’d still know Carey when I’m eighty. And I confess how worried I am because nobody will tell me how Carey’s doing since he was found, and the news is full of fluff and speculation and short on real reporting.