Beautiful Lies (36 page)

After my conversation with Kimber in the bathroom, I go straight to the nurse’s office and fake a headache. The nurse, Miss Weaver, offers to call my aunt to pick me up. I tell her she’s not home, and I get to lay down for the rest of the day. I’m not sure what to do about Wednesday and Thursday if Rachel doesn’t come back by then. I guess I’ll have to keep pretending to be sick.

When the final bell rings, signaling the end of the school day, I go to my locker—my real locker—to collect a few things. Then I give Rachel’s combination one more try; it still doesn’t work.

The school janitor, Mr. Smith—everyone calls him Smitty—walks by as I tug at the handle on my sister’s locker. He stops to watch me. We’re the only two people in the hallway.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, suspicious. “Is that your locker?”

He’s been here for years, but I’ve never had a reason to speak to him until now. “Yes,” I say. “It won’t open.”

He looks annoyed. “Did you try the combination?”

“Of course I did. Four times. It’s not working.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Okay. Move over.” And he unhooks a huge circular ring from his belt. There must be fifty keys dangling from it, but somehow he knows exactly which one to choose. In a few easy seconds, he opens my sister’s locker. “There you go,” he tells me, stepping aside to give me access. “She’s all yours.”

There’s nothing out of the ordinary in Rachel’s locker, at least not that I notice right away. Her books are stacked neatly on the top shelf. A maroon sweater hangs from one of the hooks. Her gym clothes are folded at the bottom.
Why the hell would she change the combination? What is here that she doesn’t want me to see?

And then I find it. Or rather, I find
them.
A small black drawstring bag is tucked into the back corner. I tug it open and dump the contents into my hand. A slew of tiny dried-up flowers, each one knotted into a circle, falls out. There must be at least two dozen. They’re the same as the ones I found in her bookbag.

All together, there are probably more than a hundred of them. It doesn’t make any sense; why wouldn’t she want me to see them? And where did she get them?

I don’t have time to stand around and think about it. Kimber has instructed me to find her car in the parking lot
immediately after school. As the building empties for the day, I move away from the students who spill from the building in groups of two or more, walking alone around the edge of the parking lot, keeping my head down, hoping that nobody will approach me to talk.

There’s a car behind me. I don’t turn around to look at it, not at first. But as I move along, it continues to creep behind me, so close that I can hear the music coming from its radio. As “Hotel California” winds to an end, the singsong voice of DJ Dave breaks in to announce that I’m listening to the afternoon rock block on KRVC, all classic rock, all the time.

I stop. I still don’t turn around. The car behind me stalls, waiting for me to do something, to acknowledge it somehow. I don’t have to turn around to know that it’s TJ, following me in his car, assuming that I’m Rachel.

I remember his words from last night:
See you tomorrow.
So here we both are.

For a few seconds I just stand there, trying to think, to figure out what to do. This isn’t going to work. If he and Rachel have really been seeing each other secretly, there’s no way I’ll be able to fool him into believing I’m her in the light of day. Last night was different. It was dark and rainy, and I was upset, and our exchange happened quickly. Now, though, he’ll expect me to have a normal conversation. He’ll probably try to kiss me again. Our contact last night was sloppy and rushed; I was so shook up that he probably didn’t notice if I kissed differently than Rachel, which I’m assuming I do.
If he knows her like he says he does, all it might take is the wrong tilt of my head, or the touch of my foreign hand, to realize who I really am. And then he’ll freak.

But I don’t really have a choice, do I? I can’t ignore him—he’ll probably just continue to follow me. And I can’t exactly tell him what’s going on. That would be an interesting conversation, to say the least.
Well, your real girlfriend disappeared on Saturday night at the fair. I’m just standing in for her. At first I thought something terrible had happened, because you see, I’m totally psychic when it comes to Rachel. She’s okay, though—I saw her yesterday. She was hanging out in our grandma’s barn. What was she doing there? I have no idea. I don’t know where she’s staying either. But I have reason to believe she might be hanging out with my boyfriend, Robin. Lord knows what those crazy kids are up to right now!

The driver’s side window is already rolled down as I approach TJ’s car. The inside has obviously been cleaned recently; I can even see faint vacuum marks in the floor’s shaggy beige upholstery as I glance around the inside. I have to stop myself from groaning out loud at the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. The backseat is empty except for a small cooler resting on the floor. An open box of Good & Plenty—black licorice candy, the most repulsive taste sensation known to man—sits in the change tray behind the gearshift. While I’ve met other people who can tolerate black licorice, Rachel is the only person I know who actively seeks it out; when we were kids, she used to hoard loose change
from around the house in order to buy fistfuls of five-cent ropes of the stuff every time our mom took us to the grocery store. As soon as I see the pink-and-black box of candy, I know that my sister has been in TJ’s car recently.

I rest my hands on the edge of the open window and lean down to look at my neighbor. Pee-Wee. We called him other things behind his back too: The Uber-Geek. Mommy’s boy. The stay-at-home son. Never once did I get even an inkling that my sister felt anything but amused derision toward him. If she’s been lying to me for however long they’ve been seeing each other—weeks? Maybe months?—then she’s a much better liar than I thought. Maybe even a better liar than I am.

She did live her days as me plenty of times. And when Rachel took over as Alice, she was always so good at it. Maybe our personalities are not so different. Maybe our shared qualities—all the less-desirable ones that I can’t seem to conceal within myself, no matter what the circumstances—maybe she’s just better at keeping them hidden most of the time.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says to me, closing one of his hands over mine. “How’s high school?”

His smile is genuine, deep and radiant. He is thrilled to see me. Looking at him up close, I see features of his that I’ve never noticed before. His dark hair is full and thick, his hairline curves into a slight widow’s peak at the center of his forehead. His eyes are an electric shade of blue beneath
contact lenses. A faint line of scar tissue, light as can be, runs from just beneath his nose down to the edge of his upper lip, the telltale mark of someone who’s had surgery to correct a cleft palate. In addition, there is an odd patch of white discoloration, another scar of some kind, just above his left eyebrow.

I’m not sure why Rachel and I have made fun of him so much over the years. I guess he’s an easy target; he’s seemed like such an odd guy, out of college and still living with his parents, always mowing the lawn with his shirt off, showing off his newly buff physique for the whole neighborhood. But I’ve never really talked to him before now. I don’t know anything about him beyond what I’ve observed. Looking at him up close, I realize that, despite his slight build, he’s not a bad-looking guy at all. His scars don’t do anything to diminish his looks; instead, they make his face more interesting.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, still grinning. “Get in.”

I give him a timid, regretful smile. In a deliberate gesture that is pure Rachel, I begin to wind a strand of my hair around my index finger. “I’m sorry, TJ. I can’t. Not today.”

He seems confused. “Rach, what are you talking about? We’ve been planning this for over a week.”

“It’s Kimber,” I tell him. Wait—does he even know who Kimber is? “My friend Kimber,” I clarify.

“Yeah, sure.” His hand is still over mine on the edge of
the window. He weaves his fingers through mine, holding on tight. “You have to come,” he says. “I left work early.” His grin wavers just a little, but I can tell he’s trying to maintain it, to hide his disappointment. “Come on,” he says. “I bought a forty-dollar bottle of champagne. You aren’t going to make me drink it all by myself, are you?”

I nod. “I’m really sorry, TJ. Kimber needs me right now. It’s important.”

He squints at me. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are papery, almost translucent. “Right.” His voice is flat. “Okay. I get it.” There’s a pause. He loosens his grip on my fingers. “Want to tell me what’s so important that Kimber can’t take care of it herself? She’s a big girl.”

I hesitate. “I can’t tell you. Not right now.”

He tugs his hand away. “Oh.”

“TJ—”

“No, that’s okay,” he interrupts. “Don’t worry about it.” He is suddenly so cool and detached that I feel a twinge of worry. I’m pretty certain this isn’t how a conversation between him and Rachel typically goes. “Go ahead, then, if it’s such a big deal. I’ll see you later.”

I nod, trying to remain warm and apologetic. “Of course.”

He’s still squinting at me. Without looking down, he shifts the car into drive.

“Okay, then. Bye, Rach.”

I force another smile. “Bye, TJ.”

I watch him as he pulls away. When I swallow, I could swear that my mouth tastes like black licorice.

Kimber’s car is waiting right where she said it would be: in the parking lot of Rita’s Pizzeria, across the road from our high school. As a rule, Rita’s serves lousy food. One time last year, Holly found a rubber band in her salad. The staff is made up entirely of miserable-looking middle-aged men who look like they’re on work-release programs from prison. On most weekday afternoons, Homeless Harvey can be seen sitting alone at his corner booth, which is right next to the swinging kitchen door. He never talks to anyone; he just sits there, quietly observing, sipping coffee while his dog rests at his feet beneath the table. I guess the employees must feel sorry for him.

Despite the horrible atmosphere, the almost inedible food, and the constant presence of our town’s resident Creepy Homeless Man, Rita’s is always packed with teenagers. There’s an old cigarette vending machine in the basement that anybody can use without having to show ID. I don’t know how they’ve gotten away with catering to underage kids for so long, but it seems to make for a pretty successful business model.

It’s only about 3:15, but the parking lot is already full. A cluster of four giddy girls who can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen are huddled in a semicircle beside the front door, looking absurd as they puff on long, skinny cigarettes. Three of them are hacking away as they attempt to take drags,
while their remaining friend puffs like a pro, blowing a rapid succession of tiny smoke rings in my direction as I pass by.

Inside, the place is already swarming with high school kids. Across the crowded room, sitting alone at his booth, Homeless Harvey chews on a piece of bread, putting it in his mouth with one hand, his other reaching under the table as he feeds the crust to his dog.

As I’m looking around, Harvey’s gaze catches mine for a second. He opens his mouth, sort of like he’s about to yawn, but instead he wiggles his lower jaw back and forth a little bit, like maybe it’s sore or something. And it’s funny—of all things, I notice that he has a perfect set of teeth. They’re straight as can be, two neat rows of gleaming white chompers visible behind his dry, chapped lips. Strange.

I spot Kimber right away. She’s sitting at a booth with Holly and Nicholas. She gives me a shaky smile and waves me over.

“Don’t sit,” she says as I approach them. “We’re leaving in a minute.”

Nicholas is looking down at a paper menu, staring at it like he’s thinking hard about what to order. Aside from soda and beer, the menu offers five items: pizza, with or without pepperoni; salad; french fries; onion rings, and—inexplicably—pickled eggs, which are sold for twenty-five cents apiece, although I’ve never seen anyone actually order one.

Holly is eating a basket of onion rings. Carefully, like
she’s performing surgery, she picks up one of the rings and begins to peel away a portion of its fried outer shell with her manicured fingertips. After she has completely extracted the cooked onion from inside, she tilts her head back and places the slimy, translucent ribbon gently into her open mouth.

“That’s disgusting,” Kimber says, scrunching up her face. “I wish you’d stop.”

Holly smiles as she chews. “It’s delicious.”

“You’re wasting the breading,” Kimber insists. “The breading is the best part.”

Nicholas continues to stare at his menu on the table. Holly glances at him for a second before shifting her gaze to Kimber. I can’t tell what the two of them are thinking, but there’s obviously something more going on here beyond Holly’s repulsive eating habits.

As the three of us look around, silent, Nicholas stands up. Without a word, he slides out of the booth and heads toward the bathroom.