Dead Girls Don't Lie (2 page)

My phone buzzes. I panic at the sound and reach to turn it off with my heart pounding in my ears. It takes a minute to pull myself back from that horrible place where memories are twisted into nightmares, as if reality wasn’t bad enough. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I dreamed, and now it’s morning.

I check my phone. It’s another text. This one is from Claire, a generic:

Lake today.

I put it back on my nightstand and stare at the clock. Rachel’s funeral ended less than twenty-four hours ago. I guess Claire thinks that’s sufficient mourning time for an ex–best friend.

I’m not sure why she’s suddenly so interested in me. I’ve been pretty much a loner since Rachel and I stopped talking. Maybe Dad told her mom he was “worried” about me and I’m some sort of church charity project. Maybe she’s afraid if she isn’t nice to me, I’ll tell her mom that she snuck out and went to Evan’s party. But I’d be in at least as much trouble as she would be, and I’ve learned that shared guilt doesn’t cement a friendship like you think it would.

The phone buzzes again.

U know who might be there.

I sit up in bed, contemplating that. She could only mean Skyler. Do I want to see him again? It makes me feel guilty to think about it. Especially after the look Dad gave me when he got to the bench and realized Skyler had taken his place beside me.

Lake Ridge High is pretty small, but I didn’t think Skyler knew who I was until we started eating together. I didn’t really know him either. It wasn’t until then that I realized how sweet and funny and utterly good looking he was. I hadn’t noticed the dimples that only appeared when he laughed, or how much his blue eyes looked like his brother’s, or how the muscles in his arms bulged under the flannel shirts he always wore, even when it was hot. But it wasn’t just the way he looked, and definitely not his resemblance to Evan. It was the way he made me feel.

I always get stupid and tongue-tied and awkward if a guy so much as looks at me, but with Skyler it was different. At first it was just questions and small talk about classes we had together. Then one day he asked me about my running. Until then, I didn’t think anyone else knew about it. He said he had seen me on the road behind his house. I wasn’t brave enough to tell him I was trying to get my speed up, and that if I got fast enough, I might try soccer again.

He remembered a comment I had made in government about how the migrant workers should have some kind of health care, even if they’re only here for a few months. “And you stood up to Justin Capp when he was a jerk about it,” he said. “That was impressive.”

He talked to me like he was interested in whatever I was interested in, like he already knew me, like I was important.

I was so grateful when he found me at the party, that he offered to take me home, that he didn’t tell me I was a goody-goody for wanting to leave. “I don’t want to be here either,” he said. “This isn’t really my thing.”

He drove me back to Claire’s house, taking the long way around so we could talk. We kept talking even after he stopped in the alley behind Claire’s house to let me out. When he finally opened the door for me to say good-bye, he kissed me.

My first kiss.

After I made it back inside, I lay awake on Claire’s bedroom floor, thinking about that kiss. How his lips had touched mine—more than just a brush, less than a movie kiss—how he had blushed and turned away. He left with, “We should hang out this summer. A lot.”

And then I got Rachel’s text.

When I saw it, part of me wanted to call her back and tell her about Skyler and everything that had happened. I was dying to tell someone, and I was hungry for the old Rachel and the friendship we’d lost. But when I read her text, I remembered the months of secrets, what it felt like to be all alone, and something else.

When we were walking home at the end of ninth grade, she turned around and saw Skyler walking behind us. She leaned close to me and whispered, “Do you see that guy behind us? Skyler Cross? I think he’s been following me. Don’t you think he’s weird?”

Rachel, who could have any guy she wanted, judged Skyler without even knowing him. And now that I knew him, now that he had kissed me, that was unforgivable.

I ignored her and turned off my phone.

She’s been dead for four days and I still haven’t shown anyone the text.

“Jaycee, you up?” Dad pokes his head into my bedroom.

I shove the phone under my pillow. “Yeah. I’m up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” He shuts the door and leaves.

I get out of bed like I’m on autopilot, afraid to think or feel too much. I pull on my swimsuit and shorts and work my hair into what Taylor would call a hideously unflattering ponytail—apparently I’m too pale to pull my hair back like that, and it makes my cheekbones stick out so I look like a fox. She should know; her mom has been a beautician for, like, ever. I instinctively reach to put my phone into my pocket and then pull
back from it, as if it were a snake. I haven’t answered Claire, and I don’t know what time she wants me to be at the lake, but I don’t want the phone with me today. I don’t want to remember what’s on it. I don’t plug it in either. Maybe if it dies completely, maybe if I never charge it again, the text will go away. I won’t have to look at Rachel’s last words. I won’t have to show anyone else, and I won’t have to remember. I leave it under my pillow with my dark thoughts and everything else I don’t want to deal with right now and go downstairs.

Dad has the newspaper in front of him. He folds it in half as I read
GANG VIOLENCE SUSPECTED IN TEEN SHOOTING
. I want to read the rest of the story, but he slides it to the other end of the table so I can’t see it. Typical. Dad has decided to shelter me from any details about Rachel’s death, the same way he shelters me from other bad things, like television and the Internet and, until this year, cell phones. Maybe because he spent too much time as a defense lawyer in the other Washington—DC, before I came along.

Before our ultimate breakup he hinted that I shouldn’t spend so much time with Rachel, that maybe I should find friends at church, girls like Claire and Taylor. But I stuck with Rachel, even when she pierced her nose and dyed her hair, even when she plucked her eyebrows, penciled them in thin, and wore heavy makeup, mimicking the girls she started hanging out with at school. I stuck with her even as she pushed me away.

It wasn’t that Dad didn’t like Rachel. When we were younger Araceli would watch me during the day when Dad was at
work, and then he would watch Rachel while her mom took evening classes at the community college. He was like her second dad, or her only dad, since hers disappeared before she was born. I know it was hard for him the day he sat me down and gave me the “Rachel seems to be heading down the wrong path, and while I don’t want you to stop being her friend, it would be better if you didn’t hang out with her anymore” lecture. It was after she got caught with drugs in her locker. At that point it didn’t matter. I didn’t even argue with him. I was already through with her.

“How are you, hon?” Dad says as I sit down. I shrug and he reaches for my hands across the table to say grace. I close my eyes as Dad begins to pray. “Dear Lord, we are thankful for this meal and for this glorious day and for all that we have been given …”

I settle myself in for a long one. My grandpa was a minister, and Dad learned how to pray from him.

Dad’s voice rises as he goes on. “We are mindful of the many souls who are lost and seeking for thy light in the darkness. We are aware of many who struggle with addictions, and sin, and transgression. Please keep a watchful eye on those who walk in darkness.”

I open my eyes to see if I can read at least some of the article about Rachel before Dad is finished praying, but I can’t quite see it.

Dad’s tone changes. “Lord, you know we have lost a dear friend, a companion who has spent many hours with us at this very table.”

He squeezes my hand, and I swallow an ache in my throat, but it doesn’t go away. “Please bring her to your bosom, keep her in your heart. We pray for her soul, that the darkness that filled her at her life’s end may be taken from her, that she may be forgiven …”

I think about the text. About how I should tell Dad about it. About what it would take for me to be forgiven for not answering Rachel.

“How are you doing?” Dad asks again.

I look up and realize the prayer is over, but Dad is still holding my hands. I pull away. “I’m okay.”

Dad reaches for his coffee. “Your mom called last night, but you were already in bed and she said not to wake you up.”

I take a breath. “Did you tell her about Rachel?”

He nods. “She said to tell you she was sorry, that she’d try to call later.” There’s more, I can see it in his eyes, or rather in the way he avoids my eyes.

“What else did she say?”

He wipes his hands on the napkin in front of him, still not looking at me. “She said that your trip at the end of the summer will have to be postponed. She has some big case she’s working on. She doesn’t think she can get away.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say. Dad and Mom met in law school. They got married after they both passed the bar. Dad will never say it, but I think I was an accident. I know Mom loves me and everything, I’m just not sure she ever wanted to have a kid. When Dad left their law office in DC and
moved here to live the “quiet country life,” Mom didn’t come with him.

He starts eating, still without looking at me. “She feels really bad. She said that maybe the two of you could do Europe at Christmastime.”

“Europe” has been Mom’s all-purpose apology bribe. The only problem? We’ve never actually gone.

He sits back down. “What would you like to do this morning? I was planning to take the day off anyway, in case you need to talk or something.” Dad hovering all day, worrying about how I’m doing and overcompensating for Mom’s neglect, is almost worse than a trip to Europe that will never happen.

“Claire invited me to go to the lake.”

Now it’s Dad’s turn to say “Oh,” but I’m not sure if it’s a relieved “oh” or a worried “oh.” “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

I’m not sure of anything anymore. Rachel is dead. Maybe I could have saved her. But I can’t talk about that. I’m stuck pretending everything is normal. I’ll pretend I want to go to the lake with Claire just like I keep pretending that Mom and I will go to Europe someday. And maybe no one will ever ask me what I know about Rachel’s death.

“Who’s going to be there?”

For a second panic hits me. He must know about Skyler. One of the women from church must have told them I was with a boy late at night, that I snuck out, that I went to a party. I try to stay casual. “I’m not sure. Claire and Taylor probably.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he says, “I have some things I need to get done around the house.”

“I could come back early and help you,” I offer, like his hesitation is because he needs my help.

“No. Have fun with your friends.” He looks up again, like maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. I’m not sure what the right thing to say is either. “Maybe tonight we can go visit Rachel’s mom and see how she’s doing?”

I swallow hard. I don’t want to go see Araceli tonight, or maybe ever. “We might go hang out at Claire’s house after the lake.” It’s a stretch. Claire and Taylor haven’t voluntarily had me over for years, but the lake thing is a start.

Dad looks relieved. “I’m glad you have friends like Claire and Taylor.” The way he says it feels like a knife to the gut, like somehow Claire and Taylor are better friends than Rachel was. I’m even more convinced that he said something to their parents—or worse, to them—about being nice to me. “Just make sure you call and let me know where you are if your plans change.”

“I will,” I answer, even though there’s no way I’m going back for my phone.

It’s not even ten yet when I leave the house. I don’t think Claire or Taylor or anyone will be at the lake this early. They probably aren’t even out of bed, but the lake is a couple of miles away; if I walk slowly maybe someone will be there by the time I get to it.

My house is on the very edge of town, or the closest thing we have to a town in Lake Ridge. “Town” consists of a
gas station, a café, the schools, a post office, the town hall, a couple of little shops and offices like my dad’s, and a grocery store. Beyond that the town fades to acres and acres of rolling hills and farmland.

The fields are already full of migrant workers. They’re all ages, from kids younger than me to men and women with leathered brown faces, silver hair, and arched backs. It’s already hot, but they’re covered from head to toe in long-sleeved shirts, hats, and long pants. They’re harvesting asparagus, bent over and cutting the stalks by hand. Rachel and I tried it for a couple of weeks last summer to earn money for school clothes. It was excruciating.

A few fields down, a swather slices a path of sweet-smelling, fresh-cut alfalfa, so strong it makes my nose hurt. As the machine gets closer, the person driving it leans out of the cab and waves. I wave back, even though I’m not sure who it is. It stops at the end of the row. I hesitate, not sure if the machine stopped for me; then Skyler climbs out. My heart leaps in my chest and a lump forms in my throat. I do want to see him again.

He’s wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a long-sleeved blue shirt, unbuttoned enough for me to see inside to the muscles of his chest. His hair is damp with sweat so it looks darker than I remember it. He’s dusty and gross, but when he smiles I remember what it felt like to have his lips against mine, and what he said about us hanging out this summer. He stops when he gets about four feet from me, takes off one of his gloves, slaps it against his leg, and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply. Something close to a smile forms on my lips.

“Um, I wanted to talk to you after the funeral but, um, I had to get back to work.” In a heartbeat his easy expression fades to a nervous one. Truthfully, I was grateful for Skyler’s quick exit after Rachel’s funeral. I wasn’t sure what I would say to him either, or how I would explain his presence to Dad. He pounds his gloves again. His blue eyes won’t quite meet mine, and they’re full of awkward sympathy. For some reason that makes me angry. I want to tell him that I’m a fraud. That I haven’t been Rachel’s friend for months, and that I could have saved her but I chose not to, because of him.