The Lies About Truth(53)

I groaned as Mom slid another envelope across the table and into my hands.

“Open it,” she instructed.

“Here?”

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

I prayed as I tore the end of the envelope and took out the paper. Please don’t be about sex. Please don’t be about sex. I had a feeling God wasn’t listening to that request. Not that God is smug, but I pictured Him sitting back on a beautiful golden throne, steepling his fingers, and saying, “Sorry, Sister Sadie, you got yourself into this one.”

Dad leaned toward me, prepared to read over my shoulder.

“Stop stalling,” Mom said.

Our kitchen was her courtroom.

I unfolded the letter and read aloud:

The five of us broke into the community center tonight because Trent decided we needed a dance-off. I came in dead last, Max won, and I laughed until I cried. I’m really lucky to have my friends.

There was no sweet From a friend closing. Since I’d narrowed the culprit to Gray or Max, that made sense. Neither of them was talking to me.

“What does that mean?” Dad asked. He checked with Mom instead of me.

Just then my parents seemed young and unsure. Maybe no one put this type of crap in the parenting magazines and books they scoured. Or maybe, thirty-eight equaled wise on most things, but not wise on all things.

I lifted my shoulders in a half shrug. “No idea, Dad. I’ve been getting these things since the beginning of June.”

My shrug was worth a wooden nickel to my mother. “You know more than you’re saying.”

“Mom, I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to accuse Gray or Max in front of them.

“You don’t have a clue who wrote that?” Dad asked.

I bit my bottom lip and proceeded cautiously. “Well, yeah. They’re my words, but I sure as heck didn’t send this to myself.”

“You wrote that?” Mom repeated the words as a question, even though she already knew the answer.

“It’s one of the things I put in Big.” I explained that every envelope contained something I’d previously written and stuffed in Big, and I had no idea how anyone had access, much less why they were sending me these things.

Also, that I wasn’t worried.

Right. That last part was a whale of a lie, but after the weekend, I needed to de-escalate Mom and Dad’s anxieties.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Mom said, eyeing the paper as if it were a snake.

“Me either,” I said.

Dad examined the envelope and found exactly what I had. Nothing.

“You broke into the community center,” he stated again, massaging his forehead.

I tempered my reply. “Well, sort of. Someone left the alley window wide open, and we crawled through. Just . . . you know, for fun. We didn’t hurt anything.”

“Sadie.” Dad’s voice came with a warning.

“Dad, Trent volunteered there all the time,” I said, hoping to calm him down.

Mom was on the same wavelength. “Tony.” She patted the air, a warning to both of us.

He chewed his thumbnail and searched for a response. Mom put her head on the table as if the whole thing were too much to handle. They were in a delicate catch-22. Battling me on the content of the note might push me into an emotional hole, which they didn’t want to do. Not battling me meant I might engage in stupid behavior again, which they didn’t want me to do.

“It was a long time ago,” I said.

“And these other envelopes you’ve gotten, do they have other such . . . frivolity?” Dad asked.

“Tony,” Mom said again.

Frivolity? I exhaled at his use of vocabulary, but his eyes sliced into me.

“Yes, Dad. I believe before Pirates and Paintball you referred to it as spunk.”

“I’m all for spunk, but not so much for the criminal behavior,” he said.

It was Mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Tony, you’re the one who used to steal street signs at her age.”

I put my head down so I wouldn’t laugh at Mom busting his chops. Dad stood up, wagged his finger at Mom, and said, “This one is all yours.”

In the end, Mom folded the envelope, put it in her pocket, and announced we were going to be late for therapy. “Talk to Dr. Glasson about all this,” she said.

Family meeting over and done . . . with slightly more syrup than Clorox.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


Ten minutes later, Mom pulled up to the curb at Fletcher’s office and said, “Text when you’re finished.”

There was no need to text; she never left the parking lot. She was like one of those Little League parents who stayed for practice.

Dr. Fletcher Glasson kept an office in the basement of a large law firm. Right after my first surgery, Dad found Fletcher through my plastic surgeon. He said Dr. Glasson specialized in visual life transitions, and I might benefit from a few sessions.

Benefit was an understatement.

Fletcher was infected with genuine happiness—the kind that couldn’t be faked. Which wasn’t all that strange except the man had zero reasons for smiles.

He listened to a shit-storm of stories from people like me for a living.

He’d been severely burned in a fire.

Every session gave me hope that maybe someday I’d come out on the other side of my own shit-storm with a smile too.