Lies You Never Told Me(34)

“It’s not awful, it’s normal. I get the feeling you’ve been taking care of your mom for a long time. It’s a heavy burden to bear.” He looks intently down at me. “I told you about my dad, how we lived. God, all I ever wanted was to be normal. To have a TV and to get prepackaged cereal at the grocery store and to turn on the thermostat when it was too cold. That wasn’t going to happen with him. So when I was sixteen I ran away.”

“You . . . did?” My eyes go wide.

He nods. “I hitchhiked into Missoula. Lived in a tent for a whole summer and showered at the YMCA. I found under-the-table work—that was the good thing about growing up with a survivalist. I knew how to do a lot of odd jobs. Carpentry, basic repair work. By the end of the summer I applied for emancipation and got my GED.”

“Wow,” I say. I try to picture him as a sixteen-year-old, and it’s impossible. “That’s brave.”

“It was better than staying with my parents.” His gaze goes faraway for a few seconds, then sharpens again. “Point is, it’s possible. You could leave. You’re already taking care of yourself; it’d probably be easy for you.”

I try to imagine it. Where would I go? What would I do to make money? I don’t want to work in a movie theater for the rest of my life. And I don’t want to be on my own—not really. I just want to have what normal people have.

“Not that I’m recommending it,” he says suddenly, looking closely at my expression. He smiles a little. “I don’t exactly want to lose my lead. It’s too late to recast.”

“Don’t worry. Brynn knows my part by heart,” I say, but I keep my voice light so he knows I’m teasing.

His eyes meet mine. “Brynn’s not the one I want.”

The words hang in the air. Every sensation feels heightened beyond bearing. The seat belt is too tight, the upholstery rough against my skin. The coffee cup feels molten, resting on my thigh. My body aches, but for what, I don’t know.

“I need to get back,” I whisper. “My mom . . .”

“Sure.” He starts the car again, but before he backs out, he turns to look at me, one more time. “Here, give me your phone.”

I hand it over. He types his number in.

“Call me anytime. If you need anything. Even if you just need to talk.” He hands it back to me. “There’s no pressure. But if I can help, I will.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. I cradle the phone in my palm. It’s probably my imagination, but it still feels warm from his touch.

When I put it back in my pocket, the weight of it there is reassuring. It feels like ballast. I finally muster a little smile.

“Thanks,” I say.

He turns his eyes back to the road.

“Don’t mention it,” he says.





SEVENTEEN


    Gabe




“I’m looking for Gabriel Gee-minez?” says the girl in the doorway, pronouncing it Anglo-style with a soft G. Mr. Perlman stops in the middle of his lecture on the electoral process to nod in my direction.

It’s Friday afternoon, almost the end of the day, and my mind has been a million miles away from U.S. government and civics. I’m staring out the window, wondering what Catherine’s doing in her sixth-period English class. It’s been a little over a week since our kiss in the park, and while we’ve messaged back and forth every day since, I’ve managed to see her only during lunch.

I raise my hand, and the girl steps forward and gives me a folded piece of pink paper, an office memo. “Thanks,” I whisper before opening it.

Your mother called to say you don’t need to pick up your sister today, she can do it.

I can’t believe my luck. Usually my Fridays are spent Vivi-sitting; Mom has a standing work meeting, so I pick Vivi up and play with her all afternoon. I love my sister to death, but there are better uses I can think of for my Friday afternoon than hanging out with a six-year-old, no matter how cool that six-year-old may be.

Like, for instance: seeing Catherine, if she can get away.

“So can anyone explain to me how a presidential candidate can win the popular vote, but still lose the election?” Mr. Perlman leans back against the chalkboard, looking around the room hopefully, but my mind’s already wandering. I have my phone out under my desk. Can you meet after school? Going nuts and I have to see you.

A few minutes later, the response comes back.

Scupture Falls, 3pm.



* * *



? ? ?

After a rain, Sculpture Falls turns into a swimming hole, crowded with families and dogs splashing through the shallows. But right now it’s bone-dry. The creek bed is exposed, bare in the sun. On a day like today, there’s usually no one around.

She’s already there when I arrive, wearing a frayed men’s button-down shirt and her scuffed-up Keds. Something in her stance has changed. She’s not so curled into herself. She thumbs her backpack straps as she sees me come down the trail, biting her lip and smiling at the same time.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” Her eyes flicker down for a moment, then turn up toward me, up through her thick lashes. My breath snags in my throat.

“Come on.” I take her hand, walk her carefully over the uneven ground to the limestone outcropping that’s usually covered by the falls. Over the years the water has carved it into all sorts of strange, flowing shapes. We sit on the edge, legs dangling over the side.