The Better Liar(35)

He glanced up, then at me. “Hello?”

    “I’m so sorry,” I said, “but I kind of got stranded here and I don’t think my ride knows she’s supposed to pick me up. Can I please use your phone for a quick call? It’ll only take a second.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said. “I’m Vincent.”

“Oh, wow,” I said, pushing my hair back and sticking my hand out. “I’m Mary.”

He was too young to shake hands; he put the phone in my hand instead. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Where you from?”

I was already on the phone. I googled albuquerque county police station phone number. “I’m from Texas,” I said absently.

“Oh, damn,” Vincent said, then trailed off into nothing.

The first number was for the Sandoval County sheriff’s department. I called it, smiling quickly at Vincent. “Hi, I’m looking for Officer Courtenay?” I said.

“Officer who?”

“Nancy Courtenay?”

Typing noises. “We don’t have anyone by that name,” the voice said after a minute.

I hung up. “Sorry, I guess I called the wrong thing. I’ll try her other number.”

Vincent capitulated, but he was getting restless, shuffling rocks with the toe of his shoe.

The next number was for Bernalillo County. I called that one. “Hi, I’m looking for Officer Nancy Courtenay,” I said.

“Officer Courtenay?” the man on the line said. “Okay, can I tell her what it’s regarding?”

“It’s, um, it’s Robin Voigt. I mean, that’s the name to give her.”

“Fine,” he said, and there was a brief rustling silence. Then I heard the click of the line transfer and more ringing.

“This is Officer Courtenay.”

“It’s Robin,” I said. “Robin Voigt? I just ran into your sister Lindy. She wouldn’t give me your phone number, but I had to look you up now that I’m in town.”

“Robin?” She sounded young.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Too late I thought: She’s a police officer. What if she looks the name up in her system, or…

    But there was a sudden exhale on the line, and Nancy said, “Oh my God. I thought I’d never hear from you again.”

“Me neither,” I said. Vincent was staring at me now, trying to make me uncomfortable. “Listen, I can’t talk much now. Can you call me on my other number and we can meet up?”

“Today?” Nancy said.

I hadn’t been expecting that, but what else did I have to do? “Yeah, today,” I said, putting a little extra enthusiasm into my voice, and I gave her my new number.

“Okay. I’ll call you,” she said. I smiled and took the phone away from my ear to hang up. At the last second I heard her say tinnily: “I can’t believe it’s really you.”





25


    Robin


She didn’t even know she wanted me. That was what was so appealing about Nancy. I’d lost Leslie—Grandma Betty died—my father turned further inward, like a snail—but in those absences boys started offering themselves to me, one after another, and I accepted, again and again. I felt voracious, like I could eat a dozen and it wouldn’t be enough. I liked the way they died to touch me, suffering tremors down their skinny, ropy arms, giving off that hothouse smell. But the look in their eyes was all wrong, a brief startled yop, like when you turn the flashlight on the raccoon. I thought there had to be something more to it than that.

It was there in Nancy’s eyes the first time she saw me, outside the schoolyard. A little pained grimace, totally involuntary, she wasn’t even aware she’d done it; she saw me, wanted me, denied herself immediately. The next second it was gone, replaced by confusion: Why are you staring at me? I couldn’t help myself: I smiled, completely charmed. In a single glance she’d given more of herself to me than any of the boys I’d slept with. A stranger one second, and the next, I knew more about her than her own family.

Now I understood what the problem had been with the boys I’d slept with before. They were too aware of their own desires; their knowledge made them feel entitled to me, as if, having seen me, they already owned me. When I gave in, it was nothing more than what they had expected. Giving myself to Nancy was so much more rewarding. She had never allowed herself to want any girl, so I could not be just any girl. To her I was the only girl, or the only one who mattered.

    This was how easy it was with Nancy: a few weeks later, I saw her in the girls’ bathroom, washing her hands. “Hi,” I said, going over to her, leaning on the next-door sink.

“Hi.” Nancy shrank a little as she reached for a paper towel, too conscious of our reflections in the mirror above the sink. She was barely five feet, bony, with a boyish quality that caused her church-issue khaki skirt to sink oddly on her slim hips. Beside her I looked titanic. Even my teeth were bigger.

“I’m Robin.” I stuck out my hand.

“Nancy,” she said, trying to shake, but I only held her hand in mine, looking at our fingers wrapped around each other as if it were the nicest thing that I had ever seen. The air changed around us. When I looked up, I saw that Nancy’s face had changed too. She wasn’t afraid of me any longer. She was afraid for me—for us. In half a second we had become conspirators, keepers of the same secret.