|photo by Mart Production from Pexels|
Something wakes me. Whispered words. A light touch at my temple.
Then there's a buzzing. Sound, but also...vibration.
Oh. It's the garage door—which is right below me.
Crap. Was that Dad?
I flail out of the comforter, rush to the window and yank the cord that opens the blinds. He's at the end of the driveway, leaving a green container full of recyclables at the curb. He turns and heads for his truck. It's Monday morning—ridiculously early—and he was in my room, kissing me goodbye, because he works in North Carolina.
I already knew this, of course. His job situation has been explained to me multiple times. But when he came up to my room last night to say goodbye, it felt brand new. Because he's leaving me in a house I don't know.
He's leaving me alone to deal with whatever it is that's going on between Mom and Lindsay.
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I remember the tradition. Every year we'd head out to the mall in search of The Perfect Outfit for the first day of school. My memory of those shopping trips doesn't measure up to Mom's enthusiasm for our plans today, but I get the impression from my closet—which is packed full of clothes—that this trip is something I would've been excited about before the accident.
"We're only going to one store," Mom says, as we cross a parking lot blanketed in shiny minivans. Her tone still has the nervous pitch that started the moment we climbed into the car. I could "say the word" and we'd turn around and go back to the house. I know this because she's said those words at least three times since she backed out of the driveway.
I bolster my smile to reassure her. Yes, this mall is big and intimidating, but I'm not afraid of a brick and mortar building. The truth—that I came so close to telling her this morning—is that I'd much rather have gone to a movie. Because agreeing to shop for school clothes makes me feel like I'm saying I've made up my mind about going to Summerfield High and I haven't.
Lindsay mumbles something unintelligible as we pass through the breezeway. She's mad because Mom was going to let her stay home—alone with her weed and the older guy who lives on our street—until I exaggerated a pouty-face and said, "Please come with us, Linds. It'll be so much fun."
She breaks away from our trio the moment we're inside the massive store, and my relief shames me. I know for a fact now that my sister is not being overly dramatic about one thing—Mom hasn't allowed her to be alone with me for more than ten minutes—but I haven't figured out what that means or how to deal with it. I haven't even tried, because I can't stop thinking about Noah's last text.
I keep telling myself it's not important that I didn't tell Samantha about the call he made from Georgia. My lie by omission is ancient history—and it's not going to help me help Lindsay. The important thing now is to find an opportunity to convince my sister that it wasn't her fault. Noah stopped talking to me because of me. I was the stupid one. I was the pain in the ass who destroyed our friendship.
"What about this?"
I focus on Mom. She's holding a denim miniskirt up for my inspection. "It's cute," I say.
She smiles at my smile—which is genuine, because the skirt is adorable. Then she drapes it over her arm and forages on. When she's sufficiently weighed down with potentially perfect outfits, she deposits me in a dressing room and reexamines "our" choices as she hangs them on one of the brass wall-hooks.
"We don't have enough layers," she says. "Go ahead and get started. I'll go search for more."
I start with the cute skirt. But Mom is back, knocking on the slatted door, before I've managed to get into the "classic white" blouse. "Hold on," I say, speed-buttoning.
"Ally, it's me."
Lindsay slides her sandaled foot under the dressing room door and wiggles her turquoise toenails. Mine are the same color. We painted them together last night, while Mom—an uninvited, unwelcome guest—painted her fingernails burnt tangerine. I open the door and Lindsay appraises my outfit. There's only the slightest hitch in her eyebrows, because she's trying, and doing a pretty good job of keeping her face neutral. But I know she hates it.
"What were you trying to tell me this morning before Mom interrupted?" she asks.
"Where is she now?"
"Preoccupied. She ran into some lady who hired her to cater an event last fall."
"Why is she acting this way?" I ask. "Is she trying to keep you from telling me about their marriage problems—does she know you know?"
Lindsay shrugs, but she's wedging that telltale finger under her stack of bracelets. Meaning the shrug is a lie. But we'll have that conversation another time.
"Noah told me the reason he and I stopped talking," I say. "It was my fault—not yours."
"Noah doesn't..." Lindsay pinches her lips closed, pressing so hard they turn a sickly shade of white. Then she grits her teeth and says, "You need. To talk. To Samantha."
"No, Lindsay. All I need is for you to be okay—and you can be. We need to forgive each other for all the stupid stuff we did after the move to Virginia and just... Can we start over?"
"No, we can't," she says, dragging out the "we" in a mocking, bitter tone. "And I told you, Ally, there's nothing for me to forgive. You didn't..." She cocks her head to the side and holds a finger to her lips.
It's Mom's voice. I don't know who she's talking to—me, I guess because she saying something about a blouse. I step out into the narrow hallway—impulsively wanting to protect Lindsay—but my sister ducks into the next stall.
"Oh, good," Mom chirps. "You're already wearing it. What do you think?" She holds up a hanger, draped with an extra-long chocolate brown...sweater...type of thing. "It's going to look perfect over that blouse."
My pulse thumps, panicky fast. Which is even more ridiculous than the idea of Lindsay being so afraid of Mom finding us alone together that she felt the need to run and hide.
What the heck is wrong with these people?
"You don't like it?" Mom asks.
"Uh, no. I mean, yes. It's...nice."
"Try it on," she says.
I fumble with the single oversized button, thread my arms through the sleeves and step in front of the mirror. I hate it. But that might have something to do with the fact that I'm kind of hating Mom right now—and Lindsay, too. Maybe it's not too late to ask Noah to meet me at the high school. I bet he'd drive me all the way back to Faircrest if I asked.
"The color brings out your eyes," Mom says. "But it's a little big, don't you think?"
She doesn't wait for my answer. She says, "I'll go see if there's a smaller size," as she's walking out of the changing area.
"Mom's gone," I say, knocking on the wall that separates me from my sister. The lock clicks but Lindsay doesn't surface. So I go to her door—because she obviously wants me to—and I find her sitting on a padded stool, hugging her knees. "Why did you hide?"
Lindsay takes a drink out of a small silver container, keeping her eyes on mine. Defiant, like she's doing something wrong and she wants me to know it. "You're wrong about the move," she says, standing. Then she brushes past me and there's a sharp, fruity smell. Like the red wine our parents drank with dinner?
What the hell?
I say it out loud in a harsh whisper and Lindsay takes another defiant swig. "You and I stopped being friends in North Carolina," she says. "When you decided to let Kara Carpenter bully me."
"What? No. Kara was—"
"She told the boy who lived next to us that I peed in my bed, and he told every other kid on our street. It wasn't true—and you knew that, but you didn't say anything to stop the rumor from spreading. Leaving that neighborhood was the best thing that ever happened to me, but it didn't change you."
I have to step back, to get some distance from the snarl in my sister's tone—from the horrible, disapproving sneer on her face. She screws a tiny silver cap on the flattish bottle and shoves it in her back pocket. "What are you doing with that...that..."
"It's called a flask," she says.
"You're drinking alcohol, Lindsay. What the hell?"
"You said no more weed."
"I don't—you can't..." I lift my arms over my head and try to take a deep breath. Impossible.
"I'm going to the bathroom," she says. "And you need to get your shit together before Mom comes back. We're going to lunch after this."
She sings the last sentence—sarcastically perky—and skulks away. I drop my arms with a groan and lock myself in my stall, because she's right. I can't let Mom see me like this. I wrestle out of the stupid sweater and wipe the tears off my cheeks.
Why is Lindsay punishing me? I'm trying to help her—I'm the only person in our family who's even noticed she needs it. But that's only because she lies to Mom and Dad. And she's probably lying to me about them. Lindsay is a masterful liar—and she must be proud of it, because she keeps writing and re-writing the title on her arm.
I collapse onto the padded stool, slumping back against the wall. The truth is my little sister is lashing out because she's in pain—and I am not helping. I groan at the mirror and readjust myself so I don't have to look at my reflection. Then I unhook my new-to-me purse and pull it into my lap.
It's made out of this great botanical fabric and I was so thrilled when I found it this morning, because it was the only thing in the entire closet that I would choose for myself right now. But then Mom told me it was a birthday gift from Samantha, and I chucked it back on the shelf like it was diseased.
It was an embarrassingly transparent reaction—and I could tell by the way Mom smashed her lips closed that there was something she wanted to say. She resisted the temptation, but she made a point of righting the framed photograph of me and Samantha before she left my room. I hadn't noticed when I looked at it the first time, but the captured moment seems ideal in its portrayal of friendship: two sun-kissed teenage girls—arms linked, smiles wide—against a backdrop of an endless ocean and an iconic sunset. And so I couldn't make myself leave the house without Samantha's lovely gift.
I dig out my phone and open the IM app so I can check the date on the conversation where I told Samantha about my plan to abandon my eleven-year-old sister at a convenience store. It happened in April: nine months after we moved to Virginia. That's more than enough time for an otherwise normal person to transform into a self-centered, boy-crazy mess, right?
And Lindsay has to be exaggerating the story about Kara. Because I'd remember—I do remember. Kara was...maybe she wasn't the nicest person I've ever known, but she wouldn't have started a rumor about my little sister. I wouldn't have allowed it.
I scroll down to the message my new best friend wrote two nights ago, after I sent her the accidental H: I don't know if any of this matters to you, but it helps me to say it. I miss you, Al. (AKA Owl) Please know that I will love you forever and I'm here if you need me. <3 <3 <3
It does matter, and I would like to meet her, but how can I stand in front of her, knowing what I know—all the things I didn't tell her? God, what a freaking hypocrite. Here I am calling Lindsay a masterful liar when there's so much evidence pointing to me. I was the master. Lindsay is just an apprentice.
So what am I going to do now? It's so embarrassingly obvious that I need help, but I can't ask Mom because I'm pretty sure she's part of the problem somehow. I should've said something to Dad last night when I had the chance, but I can't get past the feeling that he's completely oblivious to what goes on in our house when he's not there. And I don't want to be the person who clues him in—I can't be, because I don't understand it myself.
I feel trapped, like a mouse in a maze. Except any turn I make—every single turn—could lead to something devastating, because I don't have enough information to make good decisions.
My phone buzzes my hand and a text from Lindsay pops up on the screen: Mom is headed your way.
Shit. I stand, dropping my purse on the seat, and use my shirt from home to mop my cheeks.
"Allyson?" Mom calls a moment later—as another brown sweater flops over the dressing room door. "You never said whether or not Noah is going to meet you at the high school."
"Oh. Um." That's because I never asked him. But I think I want to now. "He hasn't gotten back to me yet," I say, pulling the sweater off the door. I tuck it under my arm and open my phone to his last text.
Oh my god. Noah Dodge is the answer! I asked him to come to my house the day he yelled at me in the lunchroom so I could talk to him about my parents. And if we started talking again—which I'm sure we did because Noah said we didn't talk "for a while," meaning the interruption to our friendship was only temporary—then there's a good chance that he has information that can help me.
I type: Are you available to meet me at the high school at 1:30 today?
My botanical purse buzzes an hour later—just as Mom is handing her credit card to a big-haired cashier so I can take home The Perfect Outfit: a cute denim skirt, an uncomfortable white blouse and the ugly brown sweater. Noah's reply says: See you there.