This Much Is True (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Tally  ~ It is true, if you want to, you can be someone else

I
T IS TRUE that when a girl wants to look more like twenty than seventeen that her best friend can apply liner and dark shadow to her eyelids and black mascara to her lashes and achieve sophistication, however contrived. It is not true that when a girl wears a miracle bra that she is ever a size C instead of a B, however illusionary. There’s no miracle there. It’s just my secret, but it is mine to keep or share.

The truth is I look older and decidedly sexy because I’m wearing Holly’s designer clothes and boots and pose like a New York fashion model by the punchbowl. These things bring about the desired effect. I feel older, sophisticated, and sexy.

The rebel is back. It feels good—different, somehow—but good.

It is sometimes true that a girl can become someone else with the simplest of changes.

* * *

I wouldn’t be here if my twin sister hadn’t died. My mom would have probably grilled me about this party, and I wouldn‘t have been able to come up with a reason so easily as to why I needed to spend the night at Marla’s. I think my parents were secretly relieved at getting a night off from the pretense of having to act like everything is okay when it clearly isn’t. Normally, I’d have to combat questions, provide enough details, and employ a few innocent lies about my intended plans and whereabouts, but with Holly dead now and my parents all but absent even when present, tonight they didn’t even remember to ask where I was going.

My father buries himself in his work—performing miracle surgeries. He’s intent on saving everyone else since he couldn’t save Holly. My mother nurses her grief in constant seclusion—the master bedroom door rarely opens—where she takes this necessary solace in silence and these little white pills that make her numb, bestowing her lovely face with a constant faraway look. She is twice removed from all of us, it seems. She’s definitely farthest away from me. She gave me a backhand wave as she trudged her way back up the stairs to her bedroom while my dad kissed my forehead and reached the front door first and raced to open it as I was about to leave. He told me to text them later before bed. I’d just nodded and promised to check in at some point and beat a hasty retreat to Marla’s car, completely undone by his long-sought-after affection but unable to properly respond when he finally gave it to me.

Yes; it’s true. Adam and Tessa Landon are unaware of Charlie Masterson’s Memorial Day weekend party. They’re hardly aware it’s a three-day weekend or that Memorial Day is Monday, or that I graduate in ten days and leave for New York in seventeen. It’s been more than three months since Holly’s death, but it feels like yesterday. The grief is just as palpable in our house. The day we came home from Holly’s funeral still feels like the worst. We just sat there for hours and stared into space without saying a single word to each other. We seemed to wait for the darkness to descend outside like it had so effectively penetrated the inside of all of us. The pain is just as raw and visceral now as it was then for me, for my family, for all of us.

It doesn’t matter.
Upon this, my parents and I agree; none of it matters anymore.

* * *

I imbibe in some alcohol-laced concoction because my sister isn’t alive to say,
‘let’s go,
’ and my parents are too grief-stricken to notice or see me at all these days.

Meanwhile, Marla is full of laughter. Contrived or otherwise, I still wonder where it comes from. I can only watch as she wanders off with some more-than-casually-interested guy with a promise to be right back.

Her intention to make Charlie Masterson jealous seems to be working. I note the golden guy flinch unconsciously as she drapes herself all over this other guy. A platitude, no doubt. I almost feel sorry for Charlie. He’s become a somewhat innocent bystander in all of this drama and unable to take his eyes off of Marla since we arrived over an hour ago. Marla’s first mission is accomplished. Charlie Masterson is definitely taking notice of her every move and is undeniably paying dearly for his previous transgressions and cavalier ways with Marla’s heart.

Good. On some level, this seems good, right?

Untethered from Marla, for the moment, I must admit I carry a modicum of resentment for my best friend. It’s there for just a split second, where I feel this irrepressible bitterness because Marla Stone can still laugh. So easily. She loved Holly, probably as much as I do…
did…
but she can still laugh so easily. Marla stills sees the good in the world, instead of all the oppressive nothingness that I so clearly see. For just a brief second, I resent her for it—for being happy, for being able to laugh, for being able to breathe.

And then it’s gone.
Indifference takes its place and I openly welcome the respite that comes with feeling nothing at all while Marla waves to me one last time as she seductively makes her way up the stairs with the casually interested guy in tow. Charlie Masterson soon follows them. I can only imagine what’s unfolding upstairs with those three. I roll my eyes and seek out a new form of entertainment. Alone among strangers, I lean against the far wall, finish off my third drink (make a mental note that I should stop and definitely count all these sugary calories), and yet valiantly start in on a fourth. All my mother’s party rules—about a maximum of two drinks and avoiding the punch at all costs at any party—slip away from me.

That last afternoon together, we’d talked for hours, sometimes laughing at each other as we conducted this lively debate about our plans after graduation and how Rob did or did not fit into those long-held plans. Then, rain and a black SUV changed everything good about my life in a mere fifteen seconds. “Run, Tally. Run.”

She’s gone. Gone forever. So sudden, so tragic, so sorry. Everyone’s so sorry. Everyone’s still so sorry.

It is true.

Grief changes you.

You’re different, not the same.

So you play the game, Seuss-like.

* * *

I ignore the sympathetic stares of the partygoers as word begins to circulate through the crowd about who I am and what happened to my twin. As a momentary distraction from the debilitating sympathy swirling its way toward me, I subtly nod and help myself to yet another round of this bewildering but delicious punch.
Nobody wants to talk about Holly. I know that.
No one wants to be reminded of my sister’s tragic ending. I wish it didn’t plague me so much of the time, either. Silly me. I thought being among strangers would change the outcome. Apparently not.

Holly and I used to play a game where we would pretend to be each other. We did this whenever we were feeling out of our depth. We could fool just about anyone—even Marla. With the aid of the red punch and a desperate need to feel normal again on some knowable level, I decide to be Holly the rest of the night. I throw my shoulders back, toss my hair in that
fare-thee-well-princess-way
of hers and adroitly smile, mimicking my twin’s infectious enthusiasm for life. Everybody loved Holly. Just adopting my twin’s persona makes me feel a little better. I quietly laugh to myself enjoying this secret amusement and imagine Holly being right there cheering me on. “That’s it, Tally. Have some fun.”

Another interested guy tops off my glass with more of the red bubbling punch. This one is definitely older with a striking resemblance to the iconic said host of this party.

In need of a distraction from Marla’s love situation, I profusely thank this latest interested guy for the top-off. I’m overzealous. I check myself and strive for nonchalance with him, strive for the sophistication bestowed upon me by my dead sister’s designer clothes, Marla’s application of flawless make-up, and the general personification of Holly’s lively personality I’ve managed to perfect over the years. We make idle chatter about the holidays, the break from school, the lame red punch, and the limited food offerings—the opened chip bags haphazardly strewn about. I attempt to keep a keen eye on Marla, who has returned from upstairs, and now gyrates to some love song with the same more-than-casually-interested guy from before, while Charlie watches her like a self-appointed chaperon intent on saving her virtue.

The effects of spiked punch begin to descend upon me. I again glance over at covetous actions of Charlie Masterson, who is now having a heated discussion with my best friend on the other side of the room, gesturing this way and that towards the more-than-casually-interested first guy, who gyrates on the dance floor by himself.

I start towards Marla, but she waves me off. Unsure of what I should be doing, I find myself in the middle of the dance floor.
Alone.
To hide my embarrassment at being caught up alone in the middle of the room, I pretend to take an ever-increasing interest in the sparkling lights that someone has meticulously trailed along the ceiling’s edge. A little glazed now, the lights shimmer at me; I swill my drink in salutation. The interested guy from earlier stands in front of me again.

Tall. Dark. Handsome
. He is the cliché for sex on a stick, but he’s kept me company during the past half-hour. I brazenly take in this male-model look he has going on with his dark-brown wavy hair and his devastating, too-white smile and his tall lean body.
Sure.
Okay. Bring it on.

“I’m Linc,” he says during a respite from the loud music.

“As in President Abraham—”

“Not funny.” He sighs and shakes his head side-to-side and gets this disconcerted look. “Lincoln Presley.”

“Elvis is in the building then,” I deadpan.

He looks taken aback now. “What did you say?”

“I
said
…” I lose my train of thought because he is stunning—so good-looking, in fact—that these warning bells seem to go off in my head. I shake it to try to shut them off. “Never mind.” His look is weirding me out as if I know him from somewhere. “You remember,” I say softly. “
Elvis
?”

“I remember,” he says slowly and gets this expectant look. “Do you
remember
?”

I’m just staring at him open-mouthed. “No. My mom loved him when she was a teenager. I like a few of his songs…” My voice trails off because he looks disappointed by my answer, and I’m not sure why.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks again.

“Remember what?” I look at him blankly and then break his gaze and start toward the punch bowl for a fifth round.

He takes the glass from my hand and then hands me bottled water. “Drink this. That stuff has Everclear in it. You shouldn’t have any more of that unless you’re going for anesthetization.”

“Gallant. How noble of you,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can. Then I shake off his concerned hand on my arm, uncap the bottled water, and drink it down. “Happy now?”

He nods slowly and eventually smiles and then proceeds to take me in from head-to-toe in one long, practiced, seductive move.
Smooth.
I laugh because he’s so blatant about his interest in me now.

“How are you?” he asks when the music stops playing for a few welcome seconds.

Odd.

An odd thing to ask of a stranger.

“I’m fine.” I give him a bewildered
what-the-hell-are-you-asking-me-that-for?
look.

He leans in. “
Who
are you?”

“Oh.” I half-smile. “Holly,” I say with an airy wave of my right hand. The lie comes so easily to my lips that I surprise myself with the ease in which I tell it.

It is true, when you want to, you can be someone else. Seuss-like.

“Let’s dance,
Holly
.”

I don’t know why I say yes to him. I don’t dance at parties. I save that for my training, usually, but there’s something about him that has me gyrating out on the dance floor, getting bolder with every song they play. All kinds of things are being communicated between us, the least of which is this overriding uninhibited sexual attraction for one another.

We both know where this is going.

His eyes light up and crinkle at the corners as he notably watches me while I ratchet up my dance moves to a rather risqué level, by the time we’re through the fifth song. We have a bit of an audience now as the party people begin to gather and lasciviously watch us move without inhibition across the dance floor. The alcohol buzz being carried through my system feels like water being passed along a fire line that is way too late to actually fight the intense blaze with. I’m buzzed, more than a little drunk, and definitely emboldened.

After another song, I strip off my outer black sweater and toss it toward Marla, who catches it one-handed and grins suggestively back at me. Now, she’s saying something to Charlie. The two of them lean closer together in order to be heard over the music. They talk intently now. Her ex-boyfriend doesn’t even glance in my direction because he only has eyes for Marla.

Meanwhile, my dance partner and I show the partying crowd just how provocative dancing together can be. The music pulses. I welcome the numbness that descends upon me even as I gasp a little for breath at the frenetic pace of the movements. My ribs begin to throb in painful protest. I brush up against him a couple of times, and he twirls me around. His eyes never leave my face; and I smile a little, enjoying the unexpected freedom from sorrow. I’m enamored by the idea of just being in the moment and nowhere else. It’s been a long while since I felt this free.

The rebellious side of me seems to have been shaken from her slumber. Then, someone decides to mess with my newfound rhythm because the very next song is a slow one with some singer crooning about love and loss. I start to walk off the makeshift dance floor when Lincoln Presley grabs my hand and pulls me into his chest. I can feel his fast heart rate as it pulses through his shirt directly against my cheekbone. He pulls me in closer. His membership as part of the male human species serves as a dead giveaway of his physical attraction for me. I look up at him, a little disconcerted by this and the sudden intensity I see in his eyes. He nuzzles my neck with his chin.

“Sorry.” He laughs a little. “What can I say? You’re
seriously
attractive.”

“Seriously.” I kind of push away from him but he holds me tighter to him.

My body resists him for a few seconds and then reluctantly molds to his. I allow myself to enjoy the closeness of him while my mind indulges in all kinds of fantasies. I’m unleashed. He is the sexiest guy I’ve ever met. He makes all the others before him seem like boys. I guess they were.