Seven Ways We Lie(62)

“I know. That’s why we’ve never talked about her: because you don’t want to. Which, if we’re being honest, isn’t fair. Like, did you ever think I might need to talk about it? You think anyone could understand as well as my own sister?”

Kat slides out of bed, her feet hitting the floor hard. “Cut the guilt-trip bullshit,” she says. “You want to talk about her, and I don’t. Your side isn’t more valid than mine.”

“Kind of looks like it is,” I shoot back, “when you not wanting to talk about Mom has turned into you not talking about anything.”

A mutinous gleam enters her eyes. “Oh, okay. You want to talk? About boys and makeup and parties? That’ll work out great.”

“Wait, is that a joke?” I almost laugh. “When have I tried to talk to you about any of that? And when did you start judging me for wearing makeup and going out?”

“Maybe since you started judging me for staying in and gaming.”

“I’m not judging you for staying in, I want you to—to—”

“To what? Be exactly like you?”

“No, I want you to tell me what’s going on in your head!”

“Here’s what’s in my head.” She stalks toward me. “You always want to talk about Mom, but last time you said anything about her, you acted like she didn’t break Dad and like we should forgive her.” Kat stops a foot away. “Like hell I’m going to forgive her. Forget her, maybe. Throw her out with the rest of the trash, maybe. Forgiveness? Yeah f*cking right.”

“You don’t miss her?” I say, reeling with the onslaught. “Not at all?”

Kat laughs disbelievingly. “Of course I miss her—that’s the point! If I didn’t miss her, and if you and Dad didn’t miss her, it wouldn’t have mattered that she left. But we do, all the time, and she dropped us like we meant nothing. No calls, not even a text on our birthday. And the three of us are f*cked up because of it.” Her thin eyebrows draw together in fury. “I hope it’s hanging over her head every day. I hope she feels guilty for the rest of her life, because God knows I’m going to hate her for the rest of my life. That’s all she deserves.”

“No.” My voice surges up. “Mom’s a good person, Kat, but she hated this place. What, should she have stayed in Nowhere, Kansas, with someone she didn’t love anymore, going through fights and—”

“Yes! Yes, she absolutely should have. Would it have killed her to hang on four more years? We only had high school left. Who looks at their kids and says, yeah, high school, that’ll be a goddamn piece of cake—they can do that by themselves.”

“Four years is a long time—”

“Oh, stop. ‘Four years is a long time,’?” Kat mimics, looking disgusted. “Jesus. You think you’re taking the moral high ground? You’re just taking her side. Why aren’t you on your own side here?”

“There’s no sides anymore. Don’t you get it? The game’s over, and everyone lost, and sometimes that just happens, and now we’ve got to clear the field and sort our shit out, Katrina!”

“Don’t call me that,” Kat snarls, slamming her palm into my shoulder. I stagger back against her desk, and she storms up, jabbing her finger between my collarbones. “Stop trying to be our f*cking mother, Olivia. Stop acting like she’s a misunderstood saint, and stop trying to be my therapist and rescue me. I don’t f*cking need it. I don’t need you.”

Her words flood cold over me, numbing the ache where her finger hit my chest.

“Being like Mom,” I say hoarsely, “is the last thing I want.”

Silence settles in the space between us. Strands of my hair have fallen over my face, fluttering with every shallow breath. As I brush them back, my fingers shake visibly, and something like regret slips across my sister’s face. But it’s gone so fast, maybe I imagined it.

“So. You don’t need me?” I repeat.

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Her expression has a note of resolve, like she’s determined to stay furious.

“Okay,” I say. I slip out from where she cornered me. I walk out the door, and I don’t bother to shut it behind me.





WALKING INTO SCHOOL ON MONDAY, MOVING through the halls, I seem to see the same five people over and over. The Scott sisters, Matt, Valentine. Then there’s Juniper herself. They all pass in the hallways, smiling or blank-looking, preoccupied with their phones or laughing with their friends. It occurs to me how rarely people see each other afraid.

Every time one of them meets my eyes, the knowledge about Juniper yells out in the back of my head so loudly, I’m sure people can hear it. Guilt fills me up, rising like mercury in a thermometer, but I don’t know what I feel guilty for. Staying quiet? I would probably feel guilty if I told the administration about García, too.

I grew up feeling guilty. Given my parents’ altruism, growing up to realize I’m a selfish person was tough. I think back on elementary school, the times I hoarded crayons inside my desk or didn’t share my food when other kids asked, and I remember overwhelming guilt. These days, I’m better at managing it, but it still springs up fast. I’m always apologizing. I’m always wondering what I did—I can look at one angry face and feel I’ve ruined everything, that I’m responsible for war and disaster and every tiny evil.