If I Lie (8 page)

Honesty. Pain. Shame. His emotions battered me, leaving no space for me to breathe, and through it all, he kept watching me, his brown eyes terrified.

“I didn’t want to be different. Not like this.”

Then he was crying too. I choked out sobs, torn between wanting to comfort my best friend and feeling betrayed by his sadness when
I
was the hurt one.

My stomach heaved, picturing him kissing another guy like he’d never kissed me.

I ran for the screen door, but his arms encircled me from behind, pulling me back against his chest.

“Quinn, please,” he begged. “I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”

For one moment, I let him hold me. And then I remembered the first time he kissed me.
I won’t ever let you down.

“No!” I fought him until he let me go, then whipped around to glare at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but I didn’t care. He reached for me again, and I shoved him as hard as I could.

“Get the fuck away from me, Carey.”

He didn’t try to stop me again.

I went into the house, closing and locking the front door behind me. It took ten minutes—ten agonizing minutes—before I heard his boots scrape across the porch and his car drive away.

Two hours after that, I backed my Jeep out of the driveway, knowing I needed to get away but unsure where I was going until I ended up parked outside Blake’s house.

*   *   *

In the days after the candlelight vigil, I am stoic. My classmates can’t hurt me worse than they already have. I carry my books in my backpack and avoid my locker and any nasty surprises it might contain. I arrive early to class so I can pick a rear seat where I can put my back to the wall and nobody can fuck with me. The whispers are easier to blast out with earbuds and loud music on my iPod. When they shove me or trip me, I pick myself up and move on. Blake doesn’t exist when I keep my eyes straight ahead and my focus on praying for Carey’s return.

I know life here is not the norm. But in our town, there are three classes—poor, middle, and Marine. When money runs in short supply, so do your options. You want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to get your education paid for. You don’t want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to learn a trade that can get you out of Sweethaven. Otherwise, you’ll end up slinging pancakes at the diner.

My entire life, I’ve watched the people of Sweethaven rally around one another, banding together, feeding one another, and sometimes, when things get really bad, taking one another in. The military is the backbone of our community, helping us to stand tall. Giving us pride because our men and women are serving our country.

But to be a part of our military town, you have to pay a price.

In the past twenty years, we’ve lost twenty soldiers in the Middle East. Others returned, not as they were, but as strangers.
And then there are the rules. I am not the first in our town to be caught cheating. A lot of ugly crap happens during the months that Marines are deployed. But I am the first in our high school.

Sometimes I think my friends—whose own parents have been deployed for months at a time—are taking their rage out on me. After all, why do they care about what happened between Carey and me? Then I remember how hard our town and its families have struggled to keep it together, and I forgive my friends a little because they don’t know the truth.

My mom and I had struggled to hold it together too, while my father fought in Iraq. But she betrayed us. She changed our family forever with one selfish act. Now it looks like I’ve betrayed Carey in the worst way.

Maybe I would want to destroy me too.

Chapter Nine

George cheats at games.

His eyes stray toward my cards, and I angle my hand closer to my chest, glaring at him. “Go fish.”

He takes a card off the top of the deck on the table and frowns. More than just about anything, he hates to lose, and I have to watch him closely so cards don’t stray up his sleeve or under the blanket on his lap.

“Do you have a nine?”

His brow smoothes out, and he gives me an angelic smile. “Go fish, Soph.”

I know he’s lying and he knows I know he’s lying. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Seriously, George? You’re gonna play it like that?”

“Like what?” he asks, all innocence.

“We’re not even betting money on this.”

He tilts his head toward the fun-size candy bars piled on his bedside tray. “Those things are currency around here. Now shut up and draw, kid.”

Placing my elbows on the tabletop, I lean forward until my face is in his. “Swear on your Cubans that you don’t have a nine.” I’m not sure how he gets them, but George has a steady supply of Cuban cigars. He loves them, but obviously not as much as he loves winning.

“I swear,” he says, solemnly placing a hand over his heart.

He manages to hold my gaze for all of five seconds before his eyes drop. As soon as he looks away I steal at glance at his hand. Not only does he have a nine, he also has an ace and a queen he told me he didn’t have.

“You lie like a dog, George. Give me the nine, and while you’re at it, give me that ace and the queen.”

Caught, he grins shamelessly and passes me the cards without argument. He groans when I smack down three pairs, finishing off my hand and pulling all the candy toward me.

“I win!” I crow. “That makes five hands, right?”

“Four.” He crosses his arms while I do a miniature victory lap around his room. He’s scowling, but doing a bad job at hiding a smile. “All right, smart-ass. Quit being a poor winner and hand me those photos.”

The pictures are part of the Veterans History Project we’ve been working on since we met last year. We’re helping Private Don Baruth in room 309 compile his mementos from his days
fighting in the Korean War as part of the Army’s 8th Calvary, 1st Calvary Division. Each piece of memorabilia has to be documented and Don’s story has to be written up before we can submit his collection to the Library of Congress.

I drop the pictures onto George’s lap and resume my seat on the side of the bed where his leg should be. It used to bother me, that missing leg.

“This one is amazing,” I say, pulling a photo from the pile.

George studies it. The black-and-white shot features only a dirty helmet and the arm of an unseen soldier. George traces the arm, lost in memory. The images do this to him often, taking him back in time to things he’d rather forget and doesn’t like to talk about.

“It’s of a North Korean soldier Don had just shot in a skirmish along the Nakdong River, near Chingu.”

The soldier is dead. Peering closer, I see the ground is a mixture of mud and what has to be blood. I hadn’t realized. I picture Don as I’d seen him the week before. In his eighties, at least, he has more liver spots than hair. His skin sags with the weight of age, and his hands shook when he patted my arm to thank me for bringing him a cup of water.

“Why did he keep it? That seems a little creepy.”

“He didn’t want to forget how awful it felt to kill someone.”

I say nothing. I can’t imagine what it would be like to kill another human being. Someone who had a family who loved them. Somebody’s son and maybe somebody’s father. I wonder
if Carey has had to kill anyone. Or worse, has someone killed Carey? I shiver, though it’s not cold.

George sighs and takes a deep breath to pull himself back to the present. “Why do you think this photo is amazing?”

I pause, studying the picture. He tests me like this sometimes, to see what I’ve learned.

“It’s haunting. You can only see part of the person and the helmet. It’s like the photographer is making a statement about what’s not there instead of what is. And maybe the photographer is a little scared to show reality, like it’s too horrific to really look at what happened to that soldier. Does that make sense?”

George’s face creaks into a smile. “You have good instincts, Soph. Let’s look at this one.”

He passes me another photo, and we fall into a comfortable rhythm. He points out the things I miss about composition and focus and lighting.

I hang on to his words, wrapping my mind around the lesson and my heart around a moment of kindness from a man who is not my father.

*   *   *

Six months ago, my father didn’t yell when he had to pick me up from the principal’s office at the end of my first day of school. Somehow the principal had reached him, and my father had returned early from his fishing trip. Principal Barkley had calmly explained why I had been kicked off the cheerleading squad and why he was considering suspending me. My father,
equally as calm, explained why Barkley had better reconsider his position on suspension, seeing as how he’d also have to suspend every student who had illegally texted or e-mailed a compromising photo of a minor. A Mexican standoff occurred, and my father never blinked.

An hour later I followed my father out of the school—not suspended but taking the rest of the day off at my father’s request.

“Follow me home,” he said, unable to look at me. “We’ll talk when we get there.”

For a heartbeat, I’d hoped he would hear me out. But the way he gripped the folder he’d taken from Barkley, crumpling the edges and most likely the picture of me within, I knew I couldn’t count on him.

Three hours later, after alternately yelling at me for shaming our family (i.e., damaging his reputation) and freezing me out, he drove me to the VA Hospital without explanation. He introduced me to Jerry Bausch, their program specialist, with a few terse words.

“Jerry, I thought you might need some help on the Veterans History Project. Quinn is going to be volunteering here after school three days a week until she graduates. I’ll be back to pick her up at 1730 hours.”

My head shot up. That was news to me.

My father shook hands with Bausch and walked away, not sparing another glance toward me. Perhaps I looked like I would cry, because Bausch acted very kind, while he explained what I would be doing.

In an effort to help people understand the experiences of veterans and war, the hospital participated in the Veterans History Project. My job would be to collect photos, letters, diaries, and other documents from any veterans who wanted to take part.

“We also interview the vets,” Jerry said as I tripped down the hall after him. “But you don’t have to worry about that. George—one of our long-term patients—handles the interviews, although he may want your help entering it all into a computer.”

Jerry tapped on the door to room 222B and entered without waiting for a response. The stark hospital room sat empty. Jerry poked his head back out into the hall and called out to a passing nurse, “Any idea where George is?”

The nurse went from irritated to smiling at the mention of George’s name. “Try the west entrance. He said something about taking some pictures outside.”

“Right, thanks,” Jerry said, as if he should have known.

Feeling very much like a puppy on a leash, I trailed after him down to the lobby, out the west entrance, and across the parking lot to the edge of property where an old man in a wheelchair fiddled with a camera. He was missing a leg, his pants leg conspicuously folded at the knee.

“Hey, George! I want you to meet someone.”

The man glanced up, scowled at Jerry, and I thought,
Awesome. I get to hang with a grouchy old geezer three days a week for the next nine months.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Quinn’s daughter.” Jerry announced this with an air of importance, as if George would care who my father was. George spat on the ground, making it clear he didn’t give a shit, and I started liking him a little more.

Jerry tried again. “She’s going to be helping you with the Veterans History Project.” He shifted uncomfortably when the man said nothing, merely stared at him. “Well, then. I’ll go ahead and leave you to it.”

Jerry nodded at me and practically ran back to the hospital, abandoning me with Groucho.
Asshole.

“Asshole.”

Surprised at hearing my thought echoed out loud, I glanced at George and found him peering at me.

“You’re not one of those self-entitled kids who acts like a snotty bitch, are you?” he asked in a gruff voice.

I’d been through the wringer that day and didn’t feel like putting up with some stranger’s crap, so I said the first thing that came into my head.

“You’re not one of those cranky old people who uses their age as an excuse to be a prick, are you?”

We stared each other down. A siren sounded in the distance. A bird chirped from a nearby tree. And then George started laughing. The choking sound made me want to slap him on the back to dislodge whatever had gone down his windpipe.

“Smart-ass,” he said without heat. “Get over here. There’s a shot I want to get, and I can’t do it from this damned chair.”

I edged closer, and he shoved his digital camera toward me. On autopilot, I gripped the camera with my right hand, placing my index finger on the shutter button. My left hand cradled the lens.