Lies You Never Told Me(56)

“Oh man. Remember that crush I used to have on Queen Frostine?” Caleb says, his eyes vague.

Irene starts to laugh. “Uh, no. I think that must have been a personal thought you kept to yourself. But thank you for sharing.”

I kick off on my board, the two of them still squabbling behind me. For a moment I feel wobbly. I haven’t moved much for a few days; I’ve been splayed out on my bed, watching cartoons on my laptop and feeling like shit. But there’s a new energy in my limbs. A new urgency pushing me forward.

I’ll just skate by her house. I won’t knock. I won’t bother her. I’ll just skate by to see if she’s still there—to see if there are lights on, a car in the driveway. There’s no law against that. But even as I approach her house I feel my skin crawl, as if I’m being watched. I step off my board a few blocks from her house and walk the rest of the way.

It’s dark now. I slip in and out of the pools of light from the streetlamps. Acorns and dead leaves crunch under my feet as I make my way back toward the little cottage. The wind is cold. I pull up my hood. Then I put it down again, afraid it makes me look somehow suspicious.

The house’s front windows are covered with thick blackout curtains. A tiny sliver of light escapes, but it’s impossible to see anything through that. I glance up and down the street. A few blocks away someone’s out walking a large dog. Otherwise, there’s no movement in the neighborhood. Nothing stirring. Before I can talk myself out of it, I dart to the cottage’s side yard, moving around to the back of the house.

I’m officially a creeper, I think, adrenaline soaring through my veins. But I can’t stop now. She’s in there. I have to see her. I have to make sure she’s okay.

The backyard smells like fresh-cut grass, and a little like gasoline. Mr. Barstow must have been mowing. A square of light spills across the patio from a large window. Their kitchen. I can see scuffed wooden cabinets, outdated paneling along the walls.

And there, at the sink in front of the window, is Catherine.

She’s doing dishes. I can just make out the rubber gloves at her elbows. She’s wearing a frayed plaid shirt I’ve seen her in a hundred times; her eyes are cast down toward the sink. My chest feels tight at the sight of her. I stare up at the glowing square of the window. It might as well be a vision of another dimension, it’s so far away.

There’s movement behind her. Mr. Barstow comes into the kitchen. I sink down behind an Adirondack chair. The gasoline smell is worse over here, almost choking. I hold my breath.

Mr. Barstow lifts a handful of Catherine’s hair behind her head, tugging it like a ponytail. I can see the slender line of her throat, the hard line of her clavicle. My blood sours suddenly, the adrenaline twisting inside of me. There’s something wrong with this. Something about how he touches her . . .

I feel my body turn to liquid as her father leans down to kiss her neck.

Catherine stares woodenly out the window. Her expression doesn’t change. She’s far away, somewhere else.

Move. You have to move. You have to stop him, somehow. But I can’t move. I’m weak against the chair, trembling. The image replays again and again in my head, even as it’s playing out in front of my eyes. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get up, to move my arms and legs, when my brain is choking on this knowledge—when it’s fighting off the understanding of what’s happening there, in the window, with all its might.

Then I see flames, licking along the base of the house, dark red and hungry.





THIRTY-TWO


    Elyse




Monday morning, Brynn’s waiting at my locker. I don’t look at her as I spin the dial; I try to pretend she’s not even there. But when I open the door it’s with a jerk that makes the metal shudder on the hinges.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. I put my books away and hang my coat. I spend an inordinate amount of time folding a sweater and putting it neatly on the shelf. I look in the little magnetic mirror and fix my hair. I do everything I can to avoid her eyes.

“Are you okay?” she finally asks.

The question blindsides me. Of all the things to ask me. Of all the things to say. I shut the door, more gently this time, and finally look at her.

She’s muted today—hair in a chunky braid, wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized Wicked sweatshirt. She hangs back a little, uncertain, uncharacteristically sober.

“Oh, I’m great, thanks for asking.” The sarcasm feels curved and metallic, sharp as a dagger. “What a great way to finish my weekend.”

She bites the corner of her lip. “Did you get in trouble?”

I smirk. “Well, honestly, there’s not a whole lot Mom can do. It’s not like she can ground me. She’s got a new job—she’s working the night desk at the Super Eight. So she’s not around to bother me too much.”

It wasn’t entirely true that there wasn’t anything she could do, though. She’d taken my phone away the night before.

“I’m the one that bought it,” I’d snarled. “With my money, that I earned. You were busy snorting Oxy, so you probably don’t remember.”

Mom winced at that, but she didn’t back down. She stood in the doorway to my room after Brynn left, looking around like she didn’t even recognize the place. Well, she probably didn’t; everything in the room was mine and mine alone. I’d bought the bedspread, the books on the shelves, the curtains. I’d had the playbills framed; I’d bought all the clothes in the closet. I didn’t owe her for any of it.