The Darkest Lie (14 page)

I stand in front of Briony's bedroom door. Behind the solid wood, the bass of a popular rock song pounds. I can almost see the door vibrate. The message couldn't be any clearer: Visitors not wanted. Stay out.

What am I doing? Why am I about to meddle in the affairs of a girl I barely know?

Because Briony's boyfriend asked her to take a topless photo. It's that simple. I can't let another girl become a victim like my mother. Not if I can prevent it by a single conversation.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Nothing happens. I knock louder. And then louder still, until I feel like the bass and I are rivals fighting for a guy's attention.

The music stops. “What do you want?” Briony says from the other side of the wood.

“It's CeCe. Can we talk?” The door gives me the same blank face, clearly unimpressed. “It's about, um, a boy.”

She may not want to talk about herself, but judging from the legions of girlfriends she already has despite her status as the new girl, she's always got time for a friend. I may not be the giggly type, but I've got as much boy trouble as the rest of them.

A few seconds later, the door opens. Briony pokes her head out and looks up and down the hall, as if expecting Sam to ambush her. Seeing nothing, she yanks me inside and shuts the door.

“Did my brother put you up to this?” She readjusts her off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Pink, slouchy leg warmers complete the retro ‘80s look.

“No,” I lie.

She gestures for me to sit on her unmade bed and perches on the desk chair. “I know I'm supposed to be all rah, rah, rah, isn't Sam the best? And I will tomorrow—I promise. But sometimes, he's a little too overprotective for his own good.” She sighs. “You won't hold that against him, will you?”

I move a stuffed bear from the bed and sit down. “You don't have to sell him to me. We're not together like that.”
At least not yet,
a voice inside me whispers.

“You're not? Did I imagine you sitting at our dinner table, then?”

“We're working together to research his article for the
Lakewood Sun
.”

“You can keep telling yourself that,” she drawls.

She's right. Exactly who am I trying to fool here? I like him. I like him a lot. And I think he likes me, too. But it's twice now that we could've kissed—but didn't—and the wait is nearly killing me.

I wet my lips. “Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I was hoping you could give me some advice.”

“Of course.” She perks up, like a wilted flower that's just been given water, and I know I've taken the right tactic. Even if it is deceitful. I would never seek advice on a boy from his sister—but that's the first rule of lying. Ground your story in as many authentic details as possible. Gram taught me that in my first poker lesson, and I've never forgotten it.

“Sam's different from anybody I've ever met,” I say slowly. “And it's not just his looks. My feelings for him—they go beyond a crush. And I guess that's my question. How do you know when you have something real?”

I drop my eyes to the crumpled sheets as though I'm shy. And that's when I realize my pulse is skittering and my palms are slick with sweat. Holy crap, I'm not pretending. I set out to lie about my feelings for Sam—and spoke nothing but the truth.

“When you fall in love with the right guy, you'll know.” Briony's entire face is soft—her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. “It's the most amazing feeling in the world.”

Bingo. Falsehood or not, I've maneuvered Briony into talking about her boyfriend.

She hesitates and then pulls a silver cuff out of a jewelry box. “Look what he gave me.” She hands me the bracelet. “Go on, read the inscription. It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard.”

I turn the bracelet over and read the cursive script.

Sounds a little over-the-top to me. But maybe I've just never been in love. “Who is this guy, Briony?”

Her eyes shine. “Only the most wonderful man in the world.”

There it is again. That word “man.” “Does he go to our school?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Is he . . . a teacher?”

“God no. You mean one of those forty-year-old geezers? No offense, CeCe, but that's disgusting. Not to mention illegal. Men like that go to jail when they're caught. You know that, don't you?”

The breath whooshes out of me. Thank god. She thinks older men are gross. Whatever's happening to Lil is not happening to her. And yet . . .

“If he's so wonderful, why do you keep him a secret?” I ask.

She jams her lips together. “He doesn't want people gossiping about us, that's all.”

“Has he ever asked you to do anything . . . uncomfortable?”

She stands abruptly and pats her pockets, scans her desk, and opens the drawers. “My phone's missing. Did I leave it in the kitchen? Have you and Sam been reading my text messages?”

My mouth goes dry. “You must've heard about the topless posters of me they plastered at school. It's never a good idea to give anyone an explicit photo of yourself. Look at me. Look at my mom. She took that picture over twenty years ago, and she still isn't safe.”

“Oh. My. God.” Her face turns red. It's not a good color with her pink top. “I freaking knew it. You read my texts. Sam put you up to this. If I didn't love my brother so much, I'd kill him.”

“Briony, please. Someone took a photo of my mom and put it on a porn site. What if that's what your boyfriend is going to do?

“No.” Her voice is certain, flat, and leaves no room for argument. “It's not like that. He assured me the photos would be for his personal use.”

“You're not actually thinking about it, are you? No matter what he says, there's no way to guarantee he'll keep the photos to himself.”

An expression I can't read flits across her face. The air conditioner hums to life, and even though I can't feel the breeze, I shiver.

“He makes me feel special,” she whispers. “Cherished and protected. When I'm in his arms, I feel like nothing bad will ever happen to me again. My life's been a joke these last few years. But he makes me feel like I might have my fairy tale, after all. I need that, CeCe. You wouldn't understand. But after what I've gone through, what I've had to see my mother suffer—” She cuts off, her eyes hollow. “I need that.”

Her father. I've never witnessed abuse, but I feel like I understand all too well. In a way, that's what I'm looking for, too. Someone to make me forget, if only for a few minutes, the crap that's being passed off as my life.

“I get that.” I touch the ragged edge of her sleeve. “But no matter how special a guy is, he should never ask you to do something you're uncomfortable with.”

She jerks her arm, flicking off my touch. “Who says I'm uncomfortable?”

“Briony, you're sixteen. You shouldn't be taking explicit photos.”

“I'm not a complete idiot,” she says. “You don't have to worry about me. I'll be careful.”

“Promise?” I ask, even though I, more than most, knows a promise doesn't mean anything. It's just a word, thrown into the air, easily forgotten in a moment of passion with the captain of the football team.

“Promise,” she says.

And that's the closest I'm going to get to ensuring her safety.

* * *

Sam's doing push-ups when I arrive at his open bedroom door. Up and down, and up and down, like a metronome. The muscles roll in his biceps, and his back is as straight as a board. He looks like he could keep going forever.

I feel like I could stare at him forever.

My skin sizzles, as if electric sparks are jumping from one cell to another, and I take a huge step backward. Can't let him see me gawking like a groupie, especially since he already caught me spying on him behind a tree. If his sister spills what I said, he'll think I'm really gaga over him.

I knock on the door, and he looks up. “CeCe! What happened? What did she say?”

He springs to his feet, and I venture into the room, feeling like I've grown an extra set of elbows. I'm not nervous, exactly. We've spent hours together. But we're not usually in his bedroom. Alone.

“I'm positive she's not seeing a teacher, or anyone like that,” I say. “According to her, older guys are gross and illegal and disgusting.”

“That's great! What about the topless photo? Did you ask her about that?”

His restlessness brings him closer to me, and the backs of my calves brush the bed. The only way for me to retreat further is to get
on
his bed—and I'm not about to do that.

“She knows you looked at her phone,” I say. “And she's not happy about it.”

He comes nearer still. “She'll get over it.”

“We talked about the dangers of explicit photos,” I babble, for the sake of talking now. “She didn't completely agree, but she did promise she would be careful.”

“That's awesome.” He scoops me up and swings me around, and all of a sudden, the laughter bubbles out of me and Sam's smiling like I just accomplished something big.

And maybe I did. I put myself out there and talked to Briony. And it wasn't awful. She didn't hate me or judge me. It actually feels . . . good. I've forgotten how good it can feel to help someone, face to face. For a moment, it's like I'm my old self again. Before my mom died. Before I turned so skittish.

Sam leans down and gives me a peck on the lips. “Thank you. I know you didn't want to do it, and it means a lot to me.”

Wait a minute. Did he kiss me? On the lips? I think back on the moment, try to slow the memory down. It happened so fast I would've missed it if I blinked. On second thought, maybe I did blink, and that's why I can't remember anything. Were his lips warm? Soft? Chapped? No clue.

I just had my first kiss since my mom died. The kiss I've been imagining, counting down the seconds until, wondering if today was going to be the big day ... and I didn't feel a thing. Damn.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“Did you just kiss me?” I blurt out.

His hands drop. “Um, yeah. Should I be apologizing?”

“Maybe. I mean, I haven't kissed anyone for so long, and it happened so fast, I didn't feel anything.” The words tumble out. “What am I going to say to my girlfriends? Okay, it's not like I have that many, but Alisara might conceivably ask me. And what about fifteen years from now, when the subject comes up at some fancy cocktail party? Someone will ask about the first guy I kissed after my mom died, and I'll be stuck with shrimp tails in my hand and absolutely NOTHING TO SAY.”

I stop to take a breath. He stares at me, transfixed in an awful-car-accident kind of way. And then he bursts out laughing. “You're not like anyone else, are you?”

“I know,” I say miserably. Idiot, idiot, idiot. What's wrong with me? Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut and enjoy the moment?

“I like that you're different. I like it a lot.”

He closes the gap between us. My heart's got the drum solo on this percussive dance, and I have time to feel and see everything. To smell the Irish Spring soap on his skin. To sense the carpet fibers scratching my socked feet. To travel the infinite space between each heartbeat.

He cups his hands around my face. “I've been thinking about kissing you for so long, maybe I messed that up,” he whispers. “But if you give me another chance, I'll try again to give you something to remember.”

I can't breathe. I can't even think. My entire being is focused on Sam's mouth. If he doesn't kiss me right now, I might die.

And then, his lips touch mine, gently, hesitantly. They move, parting my mouth, his tongue slipping over mine. Sparks explode inside my body, traveling to the tips of my toes and the top of my head, swirling around my heart.

I tangle my hands in his hair, and we fall back onto the bed. This. This kiss. I feel warmed from the inside out. Like he is the sun, pouring rays of light into me. I'd endure a year of Justin Blake's taunts if my reward were a kiss like this. It's worth a hundred daydreams, a thousand moments of anticipation. I move closer, and then closer still, and yet, I get the feeling I'll never be close enough. I'll never get enough of this boy kissing me.

And then, I can think again. And the only thought in my head is: He's right. I'll remember every last detail for the Rest. Of. My. Life.

I'm not a hummer. Never was, never will be. I'm not a skipper, either, nor a jumper. But the next morning, I do all three. Not on the outside. On the outside, I probably look the same as I always do. Head down, books clasped to my chest, not looking at anybody. But on the inside, I skip and jump and cheer. I hum and sing and dance. It's a beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and
Sam Davidson kissed me.

The night wasn't as smooth. I had a few bad moments when I woke, drenched in sweat, certain I could hear my texter breathing in my ear. But the wood didn't creak, and the back door didn't open, so I stared at the snow globe, at the white flakes falling over three generations of females, and fell back asleep.

If my texter wanted to hurt me, he or she could've. He took that photo of me at the hotline. He could've come inside the cabin and strangled me. But he didn't. So, at most, his goal was to scare me. Mission accomplished. Doesn't mean I'm going to stop searching for answers.

I push away all thoughts of my texter now as I spin my locker combination. The locker opens—on the first try, no less—and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Okay, maybe I do look different. It's the start of a day at school, and I'm actually smiling. Crazy.

I grab my psych book and pat the front pocket of my backpack, where the printout of my mom's entry is still stowed. I'm not sure why I'm carrying it everywhere. That last line—“Oh dear god, it's happened again”—isn't a personal communication to me. It isn't. But it's the closest thing I have to a final letter from my mom.

Plus, there's something bugging me about the entry. Something a little off. But I can't quite figure out what.

Alisara appears as I'm closing my locker door. “Hey. How's it going?”

“Good. I mean, not good.” Every last poster has been removed from the hallways, but I don't need the physical reminder to know what was there. Besides, I don't think you can ever really be “good” when you've got a harasser breathing in your ear. “But hanging in there. Trying to focus on other things.” Like the way Sam's glasses were fogged when he finally surfaced from our kiss. How the flush in his face made his freckles disappear.

She bumps my knee, lowering her voice. “Listen, I've completely struck out trying to figure out which parties Tommy will be at next. He's got tons of friends in our class, but Mackenzie's put out the bulletin. Anyone who gives out info on him will have to deal with her. You know nobody dares to cross her.”

And it isn't any wonder. They know perfectly well what Mackenzie's capable of. One of her former besties showed up at prom last year wearing the same dress as her. The princess demanded her friend take it off. The girl refused.

The next day, a video of the girl sitting on a toilet circulated on social media—a video Mackenzie must have recorded long ago, just for ammunition. The girl ran off in tears and never came back. Last I heard, she's attending school in the next town over.

Too bad my problems can't be solved so easily. Even if my dad were willing to leave my mom's grave, I'd have to move out of the state to find a student body that hasn't heard of Tabitha Brooks.

“That's okay,” I say to Alisara. “It was a long shot, anyway.”

She hooks her arm through mine, and we walk to class, a two-headed entity around which the crowd has to part. I swallow hard. This is how my old group of friends moves around the hallways, in packs of twos and threes. But it's been so long since I've traveled as part of the social Hydra, I stumble as I try to match my stride to Alisara's.

“You know where you could talk to him?” she asks, charging forward, not letting go of my arm. But not letting me fall, either. “At the literacy auction on Sunday. I hear Tommy's going to be the main event, as usual. Graduating hasn't changed that.”

I shudder. “I can't bid on him in front of the entire school. Can you imagine what people would say? Besides, the auction is demeaning. Parading around guys and girls like cattle, for sale to the highest bidder.”

“It's only a date. For a good cause, no less.” We swerve around a couple of guys tossing a football. “But if you're not interested in bidding on Tommy, guess who else is in the auction?”

“Who?”

“The new guy. Sam Davidson.”

I stop in my tracks, and Alisara lurches forward, still connected to my arm. She straightens, and I make my voice calm and unruffled. “He doesn't seem like the type to auction himself off. How'd they convince him to do it?”

“Raleigh says he turned them down at first, but then his sister joined the auction committee, and they got her to lay a guilt trip on him, what with supporting the kids and literacy and all.” She scans my face, as if searching for a tell. “It seems quite a few girls are wondering if he takes off his glasses when he kisses. Would you know anything about that?”

I flush. “Maybe.”

“AHA!” she shouts.

“Shhh. Keep your voice down.” I look around the hallway to make sure no one heard.

She creases her brow, confused. “Why? Are you ashamed to be dating Sam?”

“Of course not. It's just with all this gossip going around, I don't want to give them something else to talk about. That's all.”

But it's not all. Because even if there were no topless photos, I don't think I'd be willing to trade my invisible status for dating-the-new-boy fame. I can already hear the crude, not terribly inventive taunts: “You go down on Highwater Sam yet? Maybe you can yank down his pant legs while you're at it.”

What's more, I don't want to subject Sam to the gossip. God knows, between his showdown with Mackenzie and the inevitable curiosity any new student draws, he's endured enough scrutiny. It wouldn't help to have his name linked with mine.

“Okay,” Alisara says. “But you do know you won't be able to keep this quiet for long.” She pauses. “Secrets have a way of coming out in this town.”

* * *

The room is mostly empty when I walk into psych class. Sam's already at his desk, next to mine, and his smile gets bigger and bigger as I approach. When I reach him, I see a paper towel on my chair, covered with an ink drawing.

“Did you draw this?” I ask him.

“Yeah.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I'm not an artist, like you, but I draw a pretty mean stick figure, don't you think?”

“The best. It might even rival my five-year-old cousin's.”

He screws up his face, mock-offended. Giggling, I pick up the paper towel and look at the cartoon more closely. The first frame shows a stick figure on his knees, holding up a square pizza box. A conversation bubble comes out of his mouth: “Will you have dinner with me?” In the second frame, a girl and boy stick figure shove pizza in their mouths. The third frame has them collapsed on a couch, with a banner across the top that reads, “Food Coma.”

The glow starts in my stomach and spreads to every limb, joint, and muscle until I feel like I could light up the room. No, make that the entire school.

The drawing is basic. Some of the ink has smudged, and the edges of the paper towel are frayed. I want to frame the cartoon and keep it forever. “Why is it on a paper towel?”

He shrugs. “Isn't that your canvas of choice? I always see scraps with your drawings on them.”

Shoved in my locker. In the side compartment of my car door. Tucked in between the pages of my notebook. I can't believe he noticed. “I draw on whatever surface is handy.”

“So, what do you say? My mom's taking my sister shopping for new sneakers tonight. You want to come for dinner?” He tosses another scrap of paper on my desk. “Look, I even drew you some flowers. Girls like flowers, right?”

“Yeah, they do.” I stare at the bunch of daisies, my heart squeezing. Some girls dream about receiving expensive, long-stemmed roses, the kind Mackenzie gets called to the school office to receive at least once a month. But me? I'd take this inked bouquet any day.

I lick my dry lips. “I have a shift after school, but then I'd love to stuff my face with pizza with you.”

“It's a date.” He beams and casually drops a hand on my shoulder. Just as casually, I wiggle out from underneath.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Someone might see.”

He looks around the room. A couple girls gossip in the first row of desks, but they're laughing and shrieking so loudly they might not notice if the marching band paraded through our classroom. “No one's even here.”

“Sam, it's not you.” I squeeze his hand before tucking mine securely, safely in my pocket. “Walking around this school is like wading into a pit of alligators. I never know which body part they're going to chew up and spit out. Don't make it any harder, for both of us, okay?”

“It's not hard for me,” he protests.

“That's because you haven't lived in Lakewood long enough.”

He looks like he might argue, but then he shuts his mouth and nods. “Okay, fine. I can be patient for a little while. But sooner or later, we have to tell them. I'm not interested in a secret relationship.”

“Me, neither,” I say, but it's not true.

The truth is, I intend to keep my relationship with Sam Davidson a secret for as long as humanly possible.

* * *

“Class, we're going to talk about expressiveness in today's technologically advanced society.” Mr. Willoughby sits on his desk, next to his ever-present photo of his dead wife, and taps a pointer against his palm. “Our communications on social media are limited by the number of characters, and handwriting seems to have gone completely out of vogue. We can go days or even months without hearing the voices of our closest friends, and emoticons take the place of real feelings. How are we to express ourselves in this kind of world? Anyone?”

Nobody volunteers.

He purses his lips. “Really? You're all so busy you couldn't bother to scan a ten-page article for class?”

I scrunch my shoulders together, trying to make myself as small as possible. Normally, I stay on top of all my schoolwork—a side effect of having no social life—but with the topless photos, the text messages, and the kissing, I've been a bit distracted.

Finally, a lone hand ventures into the air, and the girl in front of me breathes an audible sigh of relief. It's Sam. Of course it is. Newspaper intern and model student. But when did he find time to read the article for class? Before or after he kissed me?

“Yes, Mr. Davidson? What can you tell us about expressing ourselves in the digital world?”

“If we can't rely on voice inflection, we have to find different modes of expression,” Sam says. “For example, the
Lakewood Sun
has been looking at fonts as a way of branding ourselves. Times New Roman conveys seriousness, while Comic Sans shows a playful and flexible side.”

“Fascinating, Mr. Davidson.” The teacher nods his approval. “And can anyone tell me about the furniture study, where the assembly instructions were printed in different fonts? Yes, Ms. Jackson?”

But I'm no longer listening. Sam's words struck something inside me. The feeling that something was off about my mother's call entry turns into full-fledged alarm. I slip my hand into my backpack and pull out the printout.

With shaking fingers, I smooth out the paper and reread the final few paragraphs:

I love secret codes. Always have. And my mother never failed to indulge me. Once, she wrote me a letter using a different font for each word. Another time, she sent me an e-mail using two different fonts. At first glance, the words looked like gibberish. But when I isolated each font, two coherent messages emerged.

It was in front of me this entire time, and I never saw it. Until now.

My heart booms in my eardrums, drowning out Mr. Willoughby and the poor student on whom he's called. Quickly, I pull out the words with a different font from the rest of the entry. This is the message I get: