We Told Six Lies(14)

“Coach, he was—” Jet starts.

But Coach Miller holds up his hand, stopping him, and looks at me. “I don’t want you coming back in here for a while, got it?”

His eyes scorch holes into my skull, and my face burns with embarrassment because he’s one of the good guys, and there’s something wrong with me if I’m pissing off a levelheaded guy like him.

“Go on,” he says. “Get out of here.”

I put my head down and march toward the door, feeling the way they’re looking at me. Not really blaming them. I’m so messed up that I’m acting crazy.

I’ve made it half the length of the hallway when I hear Coach’s voice ring out.

“Kelly,” he says.

I turn around.

He waves me toward him, and I shuffle back over. He plops a long-fingered hand on my shoulder and raises his chin so we’re eye to eye. “Molly’s a nice girl. I always liked seeing you two together. She pulled the good out of you, hard as that must have been.”

He offers a half smile, and my insides try to piece themselves back together.

“I know you must be worried about her, but I’m sure wherever she is, she’s okay. Can you imagine that girl being unhappy in any situation?”

Yes, I can, I think. Because I know Molly in a way the rest of you don’t.





THEN


I stood, with good intentions, outside your house.

I knew it was wrong. I knew the police had a word for following someone without their knowledge. But I didn’t care. I convinced myself that you knew I was behind you. That you’d stopped to tie your shoe so I had a moment to catch up.

Your house was smaller than I expected, with yellow shutters and an overgrown yard. My dad mowed every Sunday morning. It was his own private worship hour, because as far back as I could remember, he’d never believed in God.

I wondered, as I followed the ivy crawling up your walls and the weeds taking over the front lawn and the overfilled garbage cans near the street, what your dad was like. I’d pictured someone like Coach Miller. Someone who let you dance on his feet when you were little. Who picked you up and put you on his shoulders, above the rest of the world because that’s the pedestal his little girl deserved.

But now I wondered.

You saw me as soon as you opened the door. Your eyes went wide, and I caught the vulnerability there, and the fear. Fear as raw as rotting meat. You recovered quickly, offered that same smile you bestowed on your friends, and I said, “Stop it.”

That smile fell away.

“Why are you here?” you clipped. At least I knew you were being honest then.

“Because I know something is going on.”

I knew because I saw the lie crawling across your bare shoulders. The lie you projected that said you lived a perfect life.

Your eyes darted to your house. “So it’s not actually that big. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“And my dad took off a while ago.”

“Dads can be jerks.”

A flicker of amusement.

“And my mom…” you started.

“Probably spends more time at home than mine does.”

But you didn’t seem convinced, so I took your hand, laced my fingers through yours, and said, “I know you have broken bits, Molly Bates, and I like them. I like them, and I want to see them.”

I squeezed your hand tighter, and you sighed and said, “Fine. You can come in.”

You walked slower than I’d ever seen you move. As if you were dragging death behind you and not a two-hundred-twenty-pound teenager.

You pushed the door open, and though I expected darkness to stretch toward us, the sun was everywhere. It shone on everything, illuminating the sheer quantity of stuff.

You turned and gauged my face as I inspected the mountains of furniture and boxes and clothing. The piles of magazines and the towers of books. The champagne bottles and wineglasses littering every available surface. There were no framed photos of family that told me this was a home, and enough accumulated belongings to tell me your mother might be a hoarder.

You pulled me past stacks of electronics and throw pillows and lamps decorated with feathers and crystals. In the kitchen, where polished utensils and expensive equipment covered the counters, we found your mom. She wore a red robe, and it draped open to show her long legs. I wish I could have stopped myself from looking, but I couldn’t. She oozed flesh and sex.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” she said, and I could tell she was stoned.

“This is my friend,” you said, and though I wanted to be so much more to you—though it felt like a knife to the heart to be labeled friend—I’m not sure I’d ever been as drawn to you as I was in that moment.

Your shoulders sagged.

Your teeth bit into your lip.

I saw you then, Molly. I really saw you. Did you feel me looking? Because I sure as hell did, and later—much later—you denied that I’d been there at all.

Your mother stood up and strode toward you, feet bare on the linoleum floor, and then she wrapped her arms around you. “My baby,” she said. “Are you going to stay with your mama today?”

Your arms hung by your sides, but your mom didn’t seem to care. She looked at me and said, “I never get enough time with her.” She dropped one arm away from you and held out her hand to me. “I’m Samantha.”