Where the Truth Lies

For my girls, Estella and Esmé.
And, of course, for Colin.

“Two dogs live within me.
The one that grows the largest
is the one I feed the most.”

—Native American folktale

chapter one

I have insomnia. Actually, I have something called night terrors. So it’s not that I
can’t
sleep—it’s more like I’m afraid to sleep. And when I finally do, it’s almost always that kind of half-awake struggle, a fight to find some rest in between the real world and the part of my subconscious where nightmares unfold and wrap themselves around me. It’s always hard to tell the difference, to know where I really am. Most of the time, I wake up gasping for air. Sometimes—but not very often—I’ll find my breath and wake up screaming. My nightmares are always about the same things: fire or water. Never both at once.

It’s an unseasonably warm October in Connecticut. Usually, it’s not uncommon to have snow by now. But this year we’re having a warm snap; the leaves have turned already, but suddenly it’s in the eighties again. My parents’ house isn’t air-conditioned, so I’m lying in my bed on top of the sheets, wearing just a bra and underwear, sweating like crazy. I could swear I’m awake until I see my mother’s face above me, and I kind of brace myself for what’s coming: smoke, flames—then she’ll disappear. In my sleep, I blink and blink, trying to will her out of danger, to help her breathe. I don’t know why she’s in my dreams sometimes, why she would ever be in the middle of a fire, her face obscured by smoke as I reach for her, unable to grasp at anything but thick air.

My attempts to save her never work. I can’t speak or help in any way; all I can do is hope. I don’t know how the dreams end; I always wake up while everybody is still struggling.

“Emily. It’s time to get up.”

But I can’t
move
. You know that kind of nightmare? Where you need to run away, or wake up—anything for a breath, an escape. It’s a mystery to everyone why I have these dreams. I’ve never been in a fire. I’ve never even come close to drowning, though water has always scared me. I’ve been having these dreams for as long as I can remember, and I don’t think they’ll ever stop.

“Wake up, sleepy girl …” My mother leans over, shakes me, her long brown hair brushing my cheeks. Her hands are cool, her slim fingers touching my cheek in concerned irritation. She and my dad have had to wake me like this a thousand times before. When I was younger, sometimes I used to fight them when they tried to rouse me. I’ve pulled hair, clawed at their faces, smacked and kicked. One time I even gave my dad a bloody nose.

“Emily. I’m really here. Wake up, sweetie. Em!”

And like
that
—it’s over. I sit upright, staring, eyes wide. I try to catch my breath. My body goes from hot to cold in an instant, my flesh rising in goose bumps as I look at her.

I put a hand to my mouth. “It’s you? I’m awake?”

Mom shakes her head. “This never stops scaring me. The pills still aren’t helping?”

My shrink has me on sleeping pills. My parents don’t know this, but I hardly ever take them. Even though it’s never happened, I’m afraid that, if I
were
to start having a nightmare after taking a pill, I’d be too out of it to wake myself up. And then what?

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” My precalc book is open on the floor beside my bed. “What time is it?”

Mom gives me a frown. Even though I’ve been a boarding student for years now—I’m a junior—she always gets sad at the end of the weekend. “About that time. Dinner’s in less than two hours.”

My dad is the headmaster here. He likes to pretend that he holds me to exactly the same rules as everyone else, and one of the rules is that
everybody
has to be at the formal Sunday dinner at six o’clock sharp.

But it’s not really like that. I mean, I’m his only daughter. He’s my
dad
. No matter how many years I’ve been at his school, it’s almost impossible to take him seriously, especially when most of his orders are followed by a wink. My friends call me a Daddy’s Girl, and they’re right.

“Don’t forget your backpack,” my mom says, as I stand to smooth the wrinkles in my uniform, getting ready to go back to my dorm.

“I’ve got it.” My eyes still feel heavy, a little unfocused. Because it’s so warm outside, the whole day has been like a fog.

My mother and I are eye to eye now, close enough that when she leans forward, our foreheads touch.

She kisses me on the tip of my nose. “Have a good week, Emily.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget you have an appointment with Dr. Miller on Thursday afternoon.”

Dr. Miller is my shrink, the school psychiatrist. Leave it to Stonybrook to have a school
psychiatrist
.

“I won’t forget.” Not that it matters if I do; Dr. Miller will just come to my dorm room and get me. She is caring to the point of annoyance.

My mom glances at my clock again. “You should go. I’m sure you have homework to finish before dinner.”

I nod. “I’ve got, like, hours of precalc.” Math is my academic kryptonite. Actually, it’s one of my many intellectual weaknesses. For someone with two reasonably intelligent parents, I’ve always struggled in school. I can recite the notes on my quarterly reports from memory, because they all say practically the same thing:
Emily is a bright girl, but she seems unable to stay focused in class.
You’d be unable to focus, too, if you were up half the night most nights, too scared to fall asleep, dreading what might happen in your dreams.

Mom nods. She pushes her hair away from her face in a gesture that I’ve witnessed countless times before. But it never gets old; she always looks beautiful, youthful, like an ordinary woman trying to collect herself. Even if it’s just for an instant.

“Okay, Em. See you later.”

“Is Daddy home?”

She shakes her head. “Golf.”

“Oh. Right.” My dad goes golfing almost every Sunday afternoon. It’s kind of like part of his job; usually he goes with a few members of Stonybrook’s board of directors. Still, sometimes he comes home early, just to see me off before the start of the week. We’re close like that. My dad is the nicest guy I know.

I walk back to my dorm alone, sweating as I trudge uphill. For a moment, I wonder what my mom will do with her time alone before dinner. I want to know what happens in those unseen moments—there are so few of them on campus—but at the same time, I’m glad she has them to herself.

Sometimes I think life would be easier if my family lived far away, like every other student’s. Because even though my parents are here, I seem to miss them all the time, aching for something I’ve never had, something just out of reach, even though it’s always been present. My parents and I are as close as can be, but the difference is that I have to share them with everyone. I’m used to it by now; it’s just how life has always been, how it’s always going to be. But, still, sometimes I wish it could be just the three of us.

That’s why it’s important to have friends. They make you laugh. They help you forget, even when you don’t know what it is you’re trying not to remember.

Campus is laid out on a hillside, with my parents’ house at the very bottom, the dorms in the middle, and the school all the way at the top. It’s beautiful, picturesque New England, the kind of place that you can take one look at and fall in love with. To me, the whole place is like home. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember—even before I went to school here, I lived with my parents and could look out my window at night to see lights glowing in the dorms, and I’d imagine what life would be like when I got older and would finally live in the dorms myself.

It is a dream. It is a slumber party every night. I mean, it’s not perfect, but it’s close. I know I’m lucky. When I’m here on campus, surrounded by all my friends, with my parents so nearby, I often feel like nothing can hurt me. That’s why the nightmares are so perplexing. How am I so terrified, when there is nothing to be afraid of? And why do they make me feel so desperately alone, when I have everyone I could ever want right here with me?

chapter two

Stonybrook Academy is tiny; there are only about three hundred students from grades seven through twelve. So even if you don’t know everyone, you still kind of know them. There are only ten girls in my dorm, split up among five bedrooms on the second floor, since the first floor is just a great room and kitchenette. The fourth and fifth bedrooms on the second floor are joined together, so you have to walk through the fourth to get to the captive fifth. The two rooms combined are known as the quad, and I share it with three girls: Grace Paulsen-Taylor, Francine Bingham (who everybody calls Franny), and my best friend, Stephanie Prince. Franny and I have the front room, while Stephanie and Grace share the back.

I can tell something’s the matter as soon as I walk in. Stephanie and Grace aren’t around. Their door is open, unmade bunk beds visible through the beads hung in their doorway. Franny is alone, curled into the tiny ledge of the windowsill, staring at the hazy sky. She doesn’t notice when I walk in. She’s tugging at her blond hair, pulling strands out one by one. Franny has trichotillomania. It’s a kind of compulsion—I’ve looked it up online. It means that she pulls her hair out like crazy, but with Franny it’s always only one strand at a time. The room reeks of weed.

“Franny,” I whisper, shutting the door as fast as possible, cringing as it slams behind me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Hmmm?” she asks, not even looking at me. The window is open; all that separates my roommate from a fifty-foot drop is a flimsy screen. As usual, Franny appears tired, bored, and lonely.

Tug. Tug.
After she pulls out each single hair, she gives it a long look of quiet satisfaction before carefully feeding it through the screen, like she’s threading a needle. One of these days, she’ll start getting bald spots.

I fan the air with my hand—like that’s going to do anything. “It reeks in here! Since when do you get high? And would you get off the windowsill?” I feel like I’ve been teleported to an after-school special, as though at any moment she might lose her balance and tumble to her death. What’s the lesson we’ve all learned? Weed
kills kids
, kids.

Franny gets up, wordlessly strips down to her underwear, and lies on her bed. “I’m so tired,” she says, curling onto her side to gaze at me. “Turn the light out. Let’s take a nap before dinner.” She gives me a lazy smile, followed by a yawn. “Come on, Emily. Come cuddle.” And she pats the spot beside her. “Sleepy time.”

For as long as I’ve known her, Franny has been a cuddlebug. Normally, I’d probably take her up on it. I mean, who doesn’t love cuddles? But I’m worried and angry, and not in the mood for playing.

“Where are Grace and Stephanie?”

She yawns again.
Tug
. This time, she lets the hair drift aimlessly into the air; it rises upward in the densely hot room and wafts past me, like the remnants of a cobweb. “I dunno. Probably over at Winchester.” Winchester is one of the upper-school boys’ dorms.

“Where did you get the smoke, Franny?”

Franny and I have been roommates since the seventh grade. At first, we didn’t have a choice; roommates are randomly assigned so that people don’t get too cliquey. But my roommates and I are kind of a clique anyway. It’s no secret to anyone that the four of us only scored the quad because I’m the headmaster’s daughter.

Over the years, I’ve grown more than a little bit protective of Franny. Stonybrook Academy is the kind of place where … well, kids get sent here for a few reasons, none of which are mutually exclusive. Tuition is high, one of the highest in the country for boarding schools, so of course we’ve got plenty of rich kids, particularly some children of high-profile people. For instance, Franny’s mom is a senator. Grace’s father owns the golf course where they’ve held the US Open more than once. Stephanie’s dad is a lawyer, and apparently he’s a pretty good one. Steph has told me plenty of times that it’s impossible to win an argument with him.

There are the kids who come here because they’re supersmart, and a diploma from Stonybrook is pretty much a ticket into any college you want. There are the bad kids whose parents just can’t deal with them. And then there are the kids who aren’t necessarily bad at all, but their parents just can’t deal, period. Those are the kids who show up on the first day of seventh grade and don’t even go home for most of the holidays.

Franny is one of those kids. I can’t count the number of holidays she’s shared at my house. By the time she was eleven, her mom was on her second husband, who turned out to be
very
affectionate with his stepdaughter. Instead of facing the fact that she’d married a perv and putting Franny in therapy, her mom opted for a quick divorce, boarding school for her only daughter, and a heavy case of denial. Senator Bingham (R-California) is on her third husband now, and Franny tells me that she refers to the time leading up to her second divorce as Franny’s “Lolita phase.”

Sitting beside Franny on the bed, I pull up the sheet to cover her frail body. She reaches under her pillowcase and fishes out a crushed pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Will you get me some water?” she asks.
Tug.
One at a time: controlled, neurotic, minimal. So totally Franny.

I sigh. “Yes. You shouldn’t smoke in here, though. It’s gross.”

“I’m
stoned
. I want a cigarette.”

“The cleaning ladies don’t come till tomorrow. You can’t blame the smell on them. You could get caught.”

“Whoopee.” She lights up, exhaling smoke through her tiny nostrils. “Nobody cares.”

I
care; I hate cigarettes. But aside from how I feel, Franny is kind of right. On paper, Stonybrook Academy has a zero-tolerance drug and alcohol policy. Supposedly, if you get caught smoking or drinking or doing anything illicit on campus, you’re immediately expelled. I’ve never heard of it happening, though. The thing is, Stonybrook relies so heavily on private funding—donations, specifically—that it can’t afford to go kicking out everyone who gets caught doing something they shouldn’t be, especially since most of those kids are the children of rich people. Not only would we not be able to operate without all that money coming in, but we wouldn’t be able to attract such plush donors if we didn’t already have a reputation as a Posh Boarding School. My dad tells me that it’s just the way the world works, and I guess maybe he’s right. At least, I’ve never seen it work any other way.

But, oh, poor Franny. I want to protect her so badly. She and I are friends, sure, but we’re so different that it’s always been hard for me to get through to her. She’s shy and kind of dull and always, always throws up at parties after just one or two drinks, and is irretrievably sad—but I love her like a sister.

It’s really true: everybody here is like brother and sister. And even though people know that Franny has a miserable home life, and though I’ve never told anyone the specifics of her situation, it’s tough to keep a secret here, especially when a person never goes home and her own
mother
never comes to visit. So everybody ought to know better than to go getting her stoned, all by herself on a weekend, when she literally could have slipped away, out the window, her weak, tiny frame shattered against the sandy dirt below.

She sits up to drink the water, taking it in huge gulps, letting the sheet slip away from her body. For as long as I’ve known her, Franny has worn matching day-of-the-week bra and underwear. She’s worn them every day for over four years, always on the correct day. She has
dozens
of sets.

“All right,” I say, sighing, wrinkling my nose as the smoke from her cigarette wafts past me. “Spill. Who got you stoned?”

Tug. Gaze. Let go.
Then she crosses her arms. “Why?”

“Because, Franny, you could have fallen out the window. You’re kind of delicate, you know?” I put my hands on her arms. All I can feel is bone under her skin. “Tell me.”

Franny rolls her eyes. Her left eye gets lazy when she’s tired, like right now, giving her a kind of sad look, her long hair—it reaches almost to her butt—greasy and in dire need of a trim, her underwear announcing to anyone who might happen to walk in that it’s
SUNDAY
!

I don’t know why I even bothered asking. As soon as her gaze flickers toward the hallway, before she has a chance to open her mouth, the answer is obvious.

“Renee,” we both say at the same time.

I glare at the doorway. “Ohhh … she’s gonna get it.”

“Can I take a nap now?” Franny asks. She grinds out her cigarette against the side of a coffee cup that she keeps beneath her bed specifically for use as an ashtray.

“Yes.” I tuck her in tightly, as though the sheet might be enough to keep her in place. I sit on the side of the bed and smooth the hair away from her sweaty brow, leaning over to give her a kiss on the forehead. Then I get up, turning off the light on my way out. “Just promise me you’ll stay away from the windowsill.” I pause. “And quit tugging your hair out.”

“Um-hmmm. I’ll quit breathing while I’m at it,
Mom
.”

Renee Graham: a sophomore at Stonybrook and the only child of three-time Oscar winner Amy Wallace. Her last name comes from her mom’s second husband, Bruce Graham, who is a Tony, Golden Globe,
and
Academy Award winner. I’ve never met Amy Wallace in real life, although I’ve seen plenty of her movies, and Renee looks exactly like her. Bruce Graham, however, is around plenty: he comes to all of the parent weekends, picks Renee up for vacation, and even shows up out of the blue sometimes to take her out for dinner. He hasn’t been her stepfather since she was ten, but from what I’ve heard, Renee doesn’t even live with her mom; when she goes home for the holidays, she stays with Bruce in Manhattan.

Even though she lives directly across the hall, Renee and I aren’t what you’d call friends. She’s nice enough, I guess, and we aren’t enemies or anything. We’ve just never bothered with each other much. First of all, there’s the fact that I’m a year older than she is. Besides that, I have Stephanie and Grace and Franny, and Renee has … whoever. Besides, Renee is so aloof, so casual and cool, that it’s impossible not to feel intimidated by her. Even at a school with so many celebrities’ kids and overachievers, and even though she’s only a sophomore, Renee has a quality to her that’s almost magical. I guess it’s what you call charisma.

Like when she answers her door, after I’ve been banging on it for a good thirty seconds. “Hola, babycakes,” she says, batting her long brown eyelashes at me. “What’s up?”

She’s just gotten out of the shower; a short, white silk bathrobe clings to her still-damp body, which is lanky and flawless. Her dark hair is wrapped tightly in a towel, her widow’s peak exposed on her forehead. I know for a
fact
that Renee, with all her money, does not own a blow-dryer. She just lets her hair air-dry, runs a comb through it, and voilà: tousled perfection. I don’t know why, but I’m infinitely annoyed by this factoid. I mean, who doesn’t own a hair dryer? It’s like not owning a toothbrush or something.

Personally, I don’t know what I’d do without one; I have long red hair that is thick and wavy and will not respond to a hairbrush without a heavy spraying of detangler beforehand. Nobody knows where the color came from; both of my parents have brown hair. I’m also covered in freckles. You’d think that, being a redhead and all, I’d have one of those fiery, feisty personalities, but I don’t; most people would probably describe me as quiet and somewhat shy. Standing across from Renee, I feel impossibly strange looking. Not exotic strange, like she is, just
weird
strange.

“Do you have to ask what’s up?” I say, trying my best to sound imposing.

She blinks. There’s no sarcasm in her voice; it’s just matter-of-fact. “I just did.”

“Franny,” I tell her. “I found her practically unconscious against the screen on our windowsill. She could have fallen out. I could be staring at her dead body right now.”

Renee shakes her head. “Don’t be so dramatic, Emily. That seems unlikely. She was fine when I left her.”

I look around; we shouldn’t be talking about this in the hallway. “Can I come in?”

Renee’s roommate, Hillary Swisher, is gone; there’s no doubt in my mind she’s over at her boyfriend’s dorm, making out on the common-room sofa. Instead, there are a few other girls in the room. They all look younger, and I don’t recognize any of them, which means they’re probably—