The Truth About Keeping Secrets(12)

Mrs Farr called after me, but I kept going. Slammed the door and everything. A scream gurgled inside me.

Rage, rage.

I made it to the front of the building before anyone tried to stop me. ‘Excuse me!’ the woman in the office called. I kept going.

I straddled my bike and shot out of the parking lot.

Rage, rage.

Right on Main Street. Left on College. Past the baseball fields, down the hill.

Twelve along, four down.

I counted right. I knew I counted right. So it was definitely Dad’s grave. It had to be. But I had no idea what June Copeland was doing there.





Chapter 4


There was something picturesque about the scene, the fiery maples and the headstones planted in meticulous rows and the girl in the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged at the grave that wasn’t hers to mind.

When it came to fight or flight, it seemed I had opted for a useless middle ground, one where you stand there, mouth agape, and do absolutely nothing at all. A part of me just wanted to watch June from afar, with the buzz at the back of my skull reminding me that she could turn round at any moment. Some sort of sick endorphin rush. But she wasn’t supposed to be here. This was mine. This was meant to be a haven, a safe place, and this girl whose life was exponentially easier than mine was taking away the one thing I had that she didn’t. I hated her. I hated her.

I was trying to figure out what to say, or if I should say anything at all, when the decision was made for me; when I shifted my weight, my bike creaked impossibly loudly, and June, despite being a good thirty yards away, heard. Her head snapped round, hair flowing behind her like the tail of a comet.

We locked eyes. A long second passed.

‘Sydney?’

I barely recognized my own name. Wasn’t sure why the fact that she knew it made me shiver.

I flipped down my kickstand. Fine. This was happening now.

June stood up and dusted off her jeans, which were dark blue and tight all the way down to her ankles. She wore these mud-splotched Doc Marten boots, which were kind of cool, but whatever. She shouldn’t have been here. Not here, not at the funeral, not in my head.

I traipsed forward, navigating round the headstones as if they were mousetraps. ‘What are you doing here?’ My words were barbed but I didn’t care.

Apparently, it didn’t take much to make her sink. She curled in on herself, linked her fingers together at her hips. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t be here. I should go. I’m going.’

But the way out was past me, so she had to move closer, her gaze trained firmly downwards. And I don’t know why – maybe because the situation was hopelessly awkward, or because I felt I’d been too harsh, or because of the way her face caved in, but before she could leave I said, ‘It’s OK. You … you don’t have to.’

June stopped, still maybe ten paces in front of me, and looked up.

‘Seriously,’ I said, aware that what I said next would likely make her uncomfortable. ‘He’s essentially public property now. He might as well be, like, a bench.’

June stared. Blinked. Yes, surprise, I’m a weirdo. Just firmly drawing a line in the dirt between your world and mine. This was not how normal people spoke about dead loved ones. But the unexpected happened: she laughed. Hesitant at first, I think to gauge my reaction, but then it bounded from her, deep and musical. I wasn’t immediately convinced but I found myself smiling in return, not because what I’d said was especially funny but because it was funny that I’d run out of school to find the homecoming queen at my dead dad’s grave.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Really. I can totally go.’

This was my chance. Take it back, Sydney. Tell her to beat it. But I didn’t think I wanted that – my curiosity won. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Honestly, it’s … it’s nice to have … company.’ What was I doing?

June nodded, seeming to understand something I didn’t. ‘OK.’

She sat back down at the plot, and I sat opposite her, Dad wedged between us. We both knew the question that was coming – What the hell is going on? – and it was a matter of which of us would be the one to ask it.

That’s when it started raining. Not enough for me to care about it – ‘a gentle misting’, Dad would have called it. Light rain was ‘a gentle misting’ and heavy rain was a ‘deluge’. He’d say stuff like that with some not-quite-English accent that he thought was the funniest thing ever. (I wake up early on a wet Saturday, come downstairs and he says, shit-eating grin plastered on his face, book in his lap, ‘Were you awoken by the deluge?’)

June spoke first. She pulled her olive-green jacket tighter round her waist, hugged her knees to her chest, and laughed despite herself. ‘I should probably explain, right? You … you must think I’m stalking you or something.’

At first I thought it best to feign indifference, but little flames of anger still flickered in my belly. No, I wasn’t indifferent. I cared a lot. ‘You probably should explain.’ But that was too mean.

June was quiet, then she exhaled. ‘I’m so sorry, I –’

‘You were at the funeral.’

She nodded.

‘Not for very long,’ I added.