The Lies About Truth

  “You want to make yourself useful?”

  I didn’t, and I did. I’d promised Max this would be a quick visit, but probing Gray for information too quickly would be a mistake. Staying would make him more amiable.

  I nodded.

  We tag-teamed the beach the way we’d done in the past, him carrying chairs to locations, me setting them up. Him opening umbrellas, me wearing the rubber bands. We finished before the first families brought down their coolers and wagons of beach crap. Gray dusted off two chairs for us, put his clipboard on his lap, and grabbed water bottles and lotion from his backpack. “You need sunscreen?” he asked.

  I did. The rays were terrible, and I’d already been out too long without SPF. Add that to yesterday’s burn, and I was on my way to lobsterdom. “Bring on the vitamin D.”

  “That’s right,” he said happily.

  I accepted the lotion and noticed how he still wouldn’t meet my eyes. That didn’t keep him from flirting, though.

  His smirk lit his face. “You need some help with that lotion?”

  I wasn’t about to let him rub down Idaho or Tennessee or any of my other scars. Shoving him away with a laugh, I said, “I got it.”

  “See, don’t you like the way that works?” He slid his chair closer to mine.

  “What?”

  “Me flirting. You laughing.” His hand landed on my elbow again. The same way it had been last night when he kissed me. I jerked away, not so hard that it looked rude, but hard enough to send a signal.

  “Gray, you know I’m with Max.”

  He passed back the water, released my elbow, and asked, “Why’d you come down here then?”

  Now or never.

  “So,” I began. “Any chance you put something in my mailbox recently?”

  “Huh?” He lowered his cheap aviator sunglasses and stared directly at the left side of my face. “Like what?”

  “Don’t play with me. You either did or you didn’t.”

  “Jeez, Sade, you don’t have to be all locked-and-loaded every time we’re together.”

  “I’m not all locked-and-loaded. It was a simple enough question.”

  “Then, I’m not telling you if I did until you tell me what was in your mailbox.”

  “An envelope.”

  “Wow. Now, there’s a stretch.”

  “Don’t be a jerk,” I said, even though he wasn’t being a real jerk, and I was a little locked-and-loaded.

  “Just tell me,” he said, drawing on all his patience.

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” That question had an edge to it.

  I ignored it and asked my own. “Did you ever tell anyone we jumped off the Destin Bridge?”

  “No.” He lifted his hand into the air. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You weren’t a Boy Scout,” I reminded him.

  “Not a liar, either.”

  He said that, but then stared at his toes, flexing them up and down in the sand until he’d buried them in the white crystal beach. “You remember that night?” he asked without looking up.

  “The night we jumped off the bridge?” I asked, a half smile already forming on my face. I wiped it away.

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Every. Single. Thing.

  “I liked that night a lot,” he whispered.

  I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing. And then I made it worse.

  “You jump off the bridge with anyone else?” I asked.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?” I frowned at him.

  “You stab the happy the second it’s in sight.”

  “I’m pretty sure, of the two of us, I am not the one who stabbed the happy.”

  His facial features fell like dominos: eyebrows down, eyes closed, dimples flattened, chin lowered into that thick neck. He lifted his collar to his hairline, giving himself a short break from the sun. Or a short break from me.

  I leaned back in my chair and stared off toward the pier. Maybe he did the same. Maybe he teared up. Maybe he thought about his plans for the evening.

  “Well, I’ve got to go—”

  “Check on the renters,” I finished, without turning toward him.

  He tapped his clipboard and stood up. When he was four feet away, he turned around and came back.

  “Two things.”

  I knew before he put up two fingers that my straight shooter was back in town.

  “One, I don’t care about your damn mailbox. And two, I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Put something in the mailbox?”

  He shook his head at me, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t understand the reference.

  “I haven’t jumped off the bridge with anyone but you.”

  He walked away.

  “Gray.”

  He kept walking.

  I raised my voice. “Gray.”

  Either the wind ate my words, or he didn’t care. I wouldn’t chase him. Not into the horde of people. And I didn’t want to. Chasing someone was a lovers’ game.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two hours later, I’d thrown away all the rubber bands, had a pile of discarded clothes on my bed, and hadn’t settled on a hairstyle that covered Idaho or Nameless. I even made Sonia, Max, and Mom sit in the van for ten minutes before I coaxed myself to join them.

  “Sorry for the delay,” I said, taking the empty shotgun seat.

  “It’s no problem,” Sonia said dismissively. She was busy riding Max’s ass about his shopping list.

  “Mom, I didn’t make a list.”

  “How do you know what you need if you don’t have a list?”

  “I have a you,” he said, rolling his eyes at me in the rearview mirror.

  Mom didn’t ask me about my list. Smart lady.

  According to Sonia, Max’s clothes were ratty. I thought they had character; she thought they were overdue for a trip to Goodwill.

  My mind didn’t make a list or worry about Max’s. It was busy as a waterwheel, turning over and over the question of whether Gray had or hadn’t put the envelopes in the mailbox. Nearly everything he’d said had been cryptic and inconclusive. But that was a product of us these days, and not necessarily related to the anonymous mailings.

  When traffic on the Destin Bridge came to a standstill, I stared out the window, daydreaming. Crab Island, a shallow place in the bay where boaters liked to float and party, lay to my left. To my right, the east and west jetties stretched toward each other like two index fingers. I loved the bridge, and this view reminded me of bridge-jumping. And skinny-dipping.

  And who in holy hell was sending those envelopes?

  If it wasn’t Gray, it had to be Gina or Max.

  Both were strong possibilities.

  Gina had been trying hard to reconcile for months.

  Max was a quiet fixer.

  Either of them, if they’d found some way to access Big’s belly, were inventive enough to have done this. Max was in El Salvador when I got the first letter, so that put Gina higher on my list, but . . . I’d written all of the thoughts before he left, and his dad was home the day I got the first letter. One walk to the mailbox across the street and George McCall could have put an envelope in there for Max. Easy-peasy. He’d even said at dinner that Max had wanted to surprise me. They’d winked at their secrets.

  Whether it was Gina, Gray, or Max, there was no point in spending the day frustrated. Shopping was bad enough. The needle in my brain scratched obediently to the next track, and my eyes drifted toward the spot on the bridge where Gray and I had held hands, said a prayer we wouldn’t die, and jumped.

  Forty feet.

  We kept our hands together until just before we hit the water, and then we slapped them to our sides, staying as pencil-straight as we could.

  He yelled like a happy hooligan. I watched the surface rush up on us. We fell forever.

  We remembered to do what the soldier told us. “Blow bu
bbles,” he’d said. “’Cause once you hit the water, up isn’t up anymore. Down is up, sideways is up, anything is up. The water will lie to you. Let out a few bubbles and follow the bubbles; you’ll reach the top.”

  I frogged to the surface ahead of Gray, drawing air as if I’d never tasted it before. He broke through beside me, slung back his hair, and said, “Damn, that took my breath away.”

  Gray did other things that night that took my breath away.

  “Sadie?”

  Mom’s voice lured me away from the memory.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Don’t ‘yeah.’ Just tell me. Would you like to do that?”

  “Ma’am?” I realized she’d been talking to me for a while, and I hadn’t heard any of it.

  Her thumbs danced on the steering wheel; she pinched her lips a few times before she spoke. “Would you like to have Maria cut you some bangs?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it sooner. It might make you feel less”—she lowered her voice as if I might not want her to speak the words in front of Max and Sonia—“self-conscious.”

  I widened my eyes and attempted a joke. “Are bangs the new black or something?”

  “Max.” Mom sounded downright exasperated. “Please tell her it will be fine.”

  “Mom, don’t drag him into this. If it were fine, you wouldn’t be suggesting bangs.”

  “Oh, shush.”

  We whipped into Maria’s studio, and I got bangs. Just like that. Sonia made Max get a cut, maintaining that he also needed a new style. She was pretty emphatic that he wouldn’t be doing his own hair with kiddie scissors anymore.

  Our moms and their damn style.

  Post-cuts, Max and I took a walk of solidarity down the bathroom hallway. Partly to brush the hair from our clothes. Partly to bitch.

  “Dammit, don’t I look like prepubescent Joker?” I mocked, widening my smile with my index fingers as I exited the bathroom.

  “You look classy—Audrey Hepburn–ish,” Max said. “I’m the one who got weed-whacked.”

  “Audrey is a goddess. And had dark hair.” Rather than continue that complaint, I reached up and stroked his hair—what was left of it—forward. “Sorry. I’m sure it was a sympathy cut.”

  “Nope. That woman has plans to renovate me. Just you wait. She’s about to put me in Vineyard Vines and Sperrys when all I want are T-shirts and cutoffs. I already have those.”

  “You sound like Trent.”

  “Trent loved surfer clothes.” He palmed his head and laughed. “I should’ve had Maria bleach my hair blond.”

  “He had the best hair,” I said.

  “God, he should have. He spent hours on it.” Max sidled up to the closest mirror and pretended to primp.

  We both grinned, but didn’t go so far as to laugh. We’d talked about Trent and we were upright. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  Our mothers wanted us upright and in the van. There were sales to find and clothes to buy. We hurried along only to wait in Saturday traffic. This presented me with plenty of time to examine my new bangs without Sonia or Mom watching. Yes, I looked younger, and that sucked. I wasn’t Audrey, but Idaho—what Idaho? Bangs were a good idea.

  Just so she’d know, at the next red light I got Mom’s attention. Pointing to my forehead, I mouthed the words Thank you.

  Mom’s face exploded with happiness. I loved her pretty well all the time, but I rarely thanked her. I liked to imagine she knew I was grateful, but I wasn’t sure parents saw thoughts as well as they pretended they could. If they got occasional glimpses, they probably only saw the worrisome stuff. Maybe if I doubled down every now and again, it would make up for the dry stretches.

  “Whew, tourist season,” Sonia said from the back.

  You’re welcome, Mom mouthed back. Then without missing a beat, she answered Sonia. “This traffic is awful. Sometimes it’s better to stay home.”

  “I recall mentioning that,” I said.

  She sparred back. “Come fall, do you want to go to school in your pajamas?”

  “Mom, fall’s a long way from now. We didn’t have to ruin today.”

  “We’ll be in and out like a flash,” she promised.

  In and out meant hours of trying on clothes in which someone examined me and said, “Those look great,” or “Don’t buy that,” and doubled my self-consciousness.

  Sonia leaned toward the front. “Sadie, are you doing any camps or sports or plays this summer?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Max said you’ve become quite the runner. I thought you might sign up for the Sandblaster 5K.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea.” Mom tag-teamed with Sonia. Her enthusiasm made it sound as if they’d planned this, and I thought twice about those extra thank-yous. They’d baited me, and it rang of Social Experiment training.

  “I’ll think about it.” Better to agree now than let them badger me all day.

  “Max is planning on doing Pirates and Paintball,” Sonia continued.

  I turned around in my seat, surprised. “You are? You didn’t say.”

  “We always have. I was going to ask you,” he said.

  “I think we should all keep the tradition,” Sonia announced. “A true McCall, Kingston, Garrison, Adler weekend. The boat. Camping. You kids playing paintball in the competition—”

  “Y’all having adult beverages,” Max said as he mimed turning up a bottle for his mother.

  Sonia popped him on the leg. “Oh, please. You act like we’re a bunch of sots,” she complained lightheartedly, and then continued talking about all the fun we’d have together. I faced the front and sank deeper into my seat. Anything that put Max, Gina, Gray, and me together without Trent sounded more like torture than camping. Max sent an apology through the rearview mirror.

  The outlet-mall scurry was unbelievable. My anxiety compounded as we searched for a parking place and maxed out as Mom beeped the door locks. The airport trip had been a hill of social anxiety; this was a mountain. Tourists were everywhere.

  Mom put her arm around my shoulder. “You’re pale, kiddo.”

  “I know.” Pale isn’t always a color; it’s that hollow-cheeked feeling.

  “You need a Gatorade before we start this?” she asked.

  Sugar and electrolytes sounded like a plan.

  “If you’re going to wear sleeves, you have to stay hydrated,” she said in my ear.

  I nodded and took cash for the vending machine. If Sonia and Max thought my behavior was off, neither of them judged me. Max joined me for a drink, and when we tossed our bottles, he held out his hand.

  Sometimes a hand is an anchor. His held me to the world.

  In his raspy voice, he asked, “You okay?”

  I shouldered off a tear. “Who in their right mind is scared of an outlet mall?”

  He pointed at a half-dozen minivans in the parking lot with men sitting in the front seats. “All those dudes.”

  His joke broke through my stiffness.

  We were holding hands. His hands were different from Gray’s. Less callused, longer.

  I was different when I was attached to him.

  I was better.

  Don’t screw this up, I told myself.

  Mom and Sonia walked out of a shoe store and joined us. I wasn’t sure what our moms thought about us holding hands, but they didn’t embarrass us. Sonia said, “I thought we’d start in PacSun,” and Max said, “Let’s go.”

  Four stores and three shopping bags later, I’d successfully maneuvered around trying anything on. I picked something out; Mom swiped her card. The American teenage dream at work. We were on jeans now, and they required a fitting room. I hadn’t bought pants over the past year, even though everything I had was too big on me. Weight loss had been a problem. My thighs and calves were muscled, but I’d trimmed down at least a size in my waist, probably two.

  My fear of the fitting room had amped from uncomfortable to panic attack the last time Mom tried this
shopping thing with me. Rationally, I could go in an enclosed space, try on pants, and come back out fully dressed. Irrationally, the anxiety raised my heart rate, and I felt barred in by expectations. People watched fitting rooms like runways.

  Max squeezed my hand again. “We’re almost done.”

  “I hate being on display.”

  “Should I pitch a fit?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I need to do this.”

  Mom put four pairs of jeans over my shoulder and escorted me to the back of the store. Just as I released Max’s hand, Gina opened a stall door and walked out.

  “Sadie.” She followed our hands up Max’s long body to a face she thought she recognized.

  I watched her gasp, watched her knees nearly buckle. “Oh my God.” She clutched her chest as if she was having a heart attack and vaulted backward into the attendant, who bumped into a rack of clothes. Both the attendant and the rack nosedived into the floor. An explosion of clothes and headbands and socks and scarfs followed. Eight stall mirrors showed Gina’s surprise and tackle from every angle.

  “Oh shit. Oh shit,” said the young store attendant. She dropped several more hangers full of clothes trying to find her balance.

  “I’m sorry,” Gina said.

  Sonia and I flanked Gina while Max and Mom helped the attendant right the rack and retrieve the clothes from across the fitting room floor.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Gina repeated.

  Whether it was to the attendant or to Max, I couldn’t tell. The attendant waved her off as if she’d had quite enough Gina Adler in her day.

  I watched the methodical way Sonia stroked Gina’s arm. “We’ll get it fixed, honey,” she told Gina.

  This girl had grown up on the couch in Sonia’s living room, stretched out next to her lanky, beautiful, rambunctious boy. There must have been moments when she’d wondered if Trent and Gina would stay together. She’d even had Gina sit with the family during the funeral.

  “It’s okay,” I told Gina as I helped her sit down on a bench.

  Gina ducked her head. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. I had the same reaction.”

  I hadn’t, but I thought it might make her feel better. No one contradicted me.

  So far, today was a no-blame, extra-sympathy-for-Gina day.