Текст книги "Lying Out Loud"

Автор книги: Kody Keplinger

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter 10

“We know Sonny’s been living here.”

So maybe I’d spoken too soon.

It was the next day, Saturday, which meant I’d been secretly living in the Rushes’ house for almost a month. I’d really thought I was in the clear, but when Mr. Rush had asked Amy and me to come talk to him and Mrs. Rush in the living room, I knew we were busted.

“What … what are you talking about?” Amy squeaked. Poor thing. The guilt was all over her pretty little face. She had the worst poker face I’d ever seen.

“We’ve known for a while,” Mr. Rush said. “Contrary to popular belief, my wife and I aren’t totally oblivious.”

“You’ve left a few clues,” Mrs. Rush pointed out. “And we’ve heard you sneaking in at night. You’re not exactly the quietest person, Sonny.”

“We also seemed to be running out of food faster than usual,” Mr. Rush added.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I asked. “If you’ve known …”

“We were hoping you’d come to us with whatever was going on when you were ready,” Mr. Rush said. “But it was becoming clear that might not happen anytime soon.”

I leaned back against the couch cushion¸ pulling my socked feet up and hugging my knees to my chest. I was holding down the wave of panic rising in my stomach.

“So now we have some questions of our own,” Mr. Rush continued.

“Yes,” Mrs. Rush agreed. “Like, Sonny, why have you been living here for the past few weeks? You know you’re always welcome here, but you secretly moving in is something else entirely. We’re concerned and we’d like to know what’s going on under our own roof.”

“I … I …” I swallowed. Come on, Sonny. You got this. You’re good at this. Just lie. Lie, lie, lie. “I don’t know. It’s nothing, really. Home is just boring, so …” Damn it. Not my best work. But my heart was racing and my palms were all sweaty. “I’ll just go home. It’s fine.”

But the idea of going back to my house made the panic even worse.

I started to stand up, but Amy caught my arm.

“No,” she said. “Tell them, Sonny.”

Mr. Rush raised an eyebrow while his wife frowned with confusion. “Tell us what?” she asked.

But I’d lost my words. I could always come up with an answer. I had a lie ready for anything. And I’d lied about this, about my mom, a thousand times over the years. It should’ve been easy. But this lie was a little bigger – it involved more people with more potential to poke holes in whatever I said – and I felt suddenly stuck.

I couldn’t think of a lie to tell. Not one that wouldn’t involve more questions. I needed a second to think.

Luckily, Amy bought me a little time.

“She was kicked out,” she told her parents. “She didn’t want to tell you, but her mom kicked her out. So she’s been staying here.”

“What?” Mr. Rush said. “Why would she kick you out, Sonny?”

I stared at my feet, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. I couldn’t see their faces, and I hoped they couldn’t see mine as I shoved out the only lie I could think of.

“Pot,” I muttered.

“Really?” Amy whispered. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

Amy had been begging, in her indirect sort of way, for details of my ejection from my mother’s home for weeks. I’d always changed the subject or said I didn’t want to talk about it or pretended I hadn’t heard her ask. The less I talked about my mom, the better.

“Marijuana?” Mrs. Rush said. “That … doesn’t sound like you, Sonny.”

“No,” Mr. Rush agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“I … I only used it once,” I managed. “But my mom found out, and …”

“And she kicked you out,” Mr. Rush finished the sentence for me. “Well, I wouldn’t be thrilled if I were her either, but that seems like a bit of an overreaction.”

“That’s why she’s been staying here,” Amy said. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you two sooner. But can she keep staying here? Please?”

“Sonny’s always welcome,” Mrs. Rush said. “But I think we should speak to her mother about —”

“No.” My head shot up. “No, that’s a bad idea.”

“It’s been weeks since she kicked you out,” Mr. Rush said. “Surely she’s realized what an overreaction this is.”

“We should talk to her. Try to convince her …,” Mrs. Rush began.

But I was shaking my head so hard it hurt. “No,” I said again. “I’ve … I’ve tried. She’s really strict about this stuff. She’s not having it.”

“Does she at least know where you are?” Mrs. Rush asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, where else would I be?”

Amy squeezed my hand.

“We should still call her,” Mr. Rush said. “Just so she knows for sure that you’re safe and —”

“I’ll do it,” I said quickly.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Rush asked. “She might want to speak to us about —”

“If she does, I’ll tell you,” I said. “Just let me do it. Please. That is, if you’re going to let me stay here?”

Amy’s parents glanced at each other, then back at me.

“Sonny, of course you can stay here,” Mrs. Rush said. “In fact, you should’ve told us sooner. We wouldn’t have been upset.”

“That said, we don’t condone illegal substances in this house either,” Mr. Rush said. “So if you are going to continue staying here, no pot.”

“No problem,” I said.

Truth be told, I’d never smoked pot in my life. Not for any moral or ethical reason (clearly my morals were all over the place), but I just hadn’t had much of an interest. I liked to be able to think quick on my feet. All the better for lying, my dear. A drug that slowed down the brain, even just for a little bit? No thanks.

“You have the same curfew as Amy, then,” Mrs. Rush said. “All the same rules.”

“And you have to call your mother. Right after we finish up here,” Mr. Rush said. “I know you think she knows where you are, but I’d rather not leave her guessing. She still cares about you. She’ll want to know you’re safe.”

I nodded.

But I wasn’t so sure he was right.

Mrs. Rush got to her feet. “I better go get the guest room set up, then.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind staying in Amy’s room.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Rush asked. “It’s got to be a little crowded in there for the both of you. A slumber party is one thing, but full-time …”

“We don’t mind sharing,” Amy assured her.

“Well, I’m at least going to clear the closet so she can hang her clothes up,” Mrs. Rush said. “Good lord, Sonny. Have you been living out of a duffel bag this whole time?”

I nodded.

She shook her head and gave me a hug, as if this was the saddest thing she’d ever heard. Once she let go, she headed for the stairs. “Amy, honey, why don’t you go put some fresh towels for both of you in the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Amy stood up, gave me a fleeting glance, then followed her mother up the stairs.

Which left only Mr. Rush and me.

There was a long silence at first, and it was so painfully awkward that I had to say something or my brain might explode.

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Don’t even mention it,” he said. “You and Amy have been best friends for how long? We might as well make you living here official.” He smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “Sonny, are you sure you don’t want me to call your mother?”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll tell her where I am.”

He nodded. “But if you do need to talk about something, don’t hesitate to come to Mrs. Rush or me. I know that probably goes without saying, but …”

“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

“Good.” He stood up. “I’m going to go get dinner started. Call your mother, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

I still had Amy’s cell phone, and when Mr. Rush left the room, I pulled it out. I stared at the keypad for a long time before dialing the familiar number. One I’d dialed over and over and over again in the past few weeks.

“Sorry, but the number you have dialed is disconnected or is no longer in service.”

I hung up and put the phone away, blinking back tears.

“The closet and the dresser are empty,” Mrs. Rush announced as she made her way back down the stairs. “They’re all yours.”

“Thank you.” I stood up. “I’ll go put my clothes away.”

“Did you call your mother?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. She said she’s not ready for me to come home yet, but she’s glad I’m okay. She says thanks for letting me stay.”

Mrs. Rush smiled and touched my shoulder. “Good,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Thank you.”

I couldn’t say it enough. Thank you for letting me stay. Thank you for not asking more questions. It was more than I deserved. More than most people would give their daughter’s delinquent best friend.

I wasn’t actually a delinquent, but based on the lies I’d just told, they thought I was. But still, they were letting me live here. That’s just the kind of people the Rushes were.

I went up to Amy’s room and grabbed my bag. I took it to the guest room and started tossing my wrinkled clothes into drawers and putting the nicer things (i.e., my one nice sweater) on hangers.

I was almost done when Amy’s phone buzzed in my back pocket. I looked at the screen and saw that it was a text from Ryder.

My dad knows I know about the model and now he won’t stop calling. I never answer. He won’t take the hint.

I was supposed to respond with something obnoxious or bizarre. Something to make him question why he’d ever like Amy. That was why I had the phone, after all. But just then, with my mother’s silence ringing in my ears, I couldn’t hold back the words I really wanted to say to him.

Answer him. He might be a dick, but at least he wants to talk to you.

It only took Ryder a second to respond.

That wasn’t the reply I expected. Is everything okay?

Not for the first time, I found it was easier to be honest in text form than in real life.

Not really.

Is it your mom?

Yes.

Do you want to talk about it? I’m here to listen. You’ve listened to me complain plenty about my parents.

Actually, I’d rather talk about anything but that right now.

We can do that, too.

We shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.

But we did.

* * *

The next day, my hunt for employment finally paid off.

I got an e-mail from the bookstore at the mall, inviting me for an interview.

I sat down with the manager after school on Monday, but only for a few minutes. I got the sense they would hire pretty much anyone.

“It’s retail,” the manager, Sheila, said. “We get pretty busy around the holidays.”

“So this would just be seasonal?” I asked, a little disappointed. Any job would do, but I was going to need one well past the end of the year.

“Yes,” Sheila said. “But there’s always potential for you to be hired on in the new year, too.”

“Potential is good.”

“So you’re in?”

“Definitely.”

While I felt a little guilty about mooching off the Rushes, at least now I’d have money to pay for my gas and lunch without having to lie or borrow from Amy. I could also start saving up for new clothes, since I hadn’t packed many winter outfits when I left my house.

“Also,” Amy said when I told her the good news that night, “you can get me a discount on books.”

“Because you don’t have enough of those,” I said, gesturing to the overflowing bookcase next to her desk. “Have you even read all of those? Or even half?”

“It’s more about the collection,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “One day, you’re going to be on a reality TV show, buried under your collection and needing a serious mental health intervention.”

“And you’ll be the concerned friend who, instead of finding me the help I need, decides to get me on TV.”

“Hey, girl. I need my close-up, too.”

We both burst into giggles, for once not worried about being too loud or waking her parents. I have to admit, it was nice to be done with the sneaking around. Between that and the new job, a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Unfortunately, there were still a couple more I couldn’t seem to shake.

Chapter 11

I had this recurring nightmare that started when I was eleven, when things with my mom began going south.

Or more south than they’d already been.

The dream began in my bedroom back home. I was doing something – homework or reading, I was never really sure – when I heard the front door slam. From there, it was always the same. I’d get up and call out to my mom, but there would only be silence. Thick, unnatural silence. Even the birds outside my window seemed muted all of a sudden. So I’d leave my bedroom and find that the house was nearly pitch-black. The sun, which had been shining through my bedroom window, vanished. I’d keep calling for my mom and hunting for a light switch, but they weren’t where they were supposed to be. And neither was the furniture. I’d reach to put my hand on the counter or go to sit on a chair and find nothing there. Eventually, I’d go to my mom’s room, sure she’d be there. Sure she’d be able to fix whatever had happened to our house.

But the door to her room was like the entrance to a black hole. The darkness was thicker. Darker than black. I screamed for Mom, but the hole swallowed it up.

That was when I’d wake up, shaking and desperate for a sound, any sound, just to know I wasn’t alone.

Sometimes I’d go months without having the dream, and sometimes it happened every other night.

It had been a while this time. I guess Amy’s snores had chased any nightmares of silence away. But the day after I got my new job, the nightmare came again.

I woke up with another scream on my lips, and I had to bite it back. The room was so dark that, for a minute, I couldn’t remember where I was. Next to me, Amy snored, loud and long. It was a small comfort, but after a few seconds of deep breaths and calming thoughts, I still couldn’t relax, let alone get back to sleep.

“Amy,” I whispered, nudging her arm and feeling only a little guilty about disrupting her beauty sleep. “Hey, Amy.”

Apparently, I wasn’t interrupting anything tonight because all she did was snort and roll away from me.

Don’t be stupid, I thought. You’re not alone. She’s right there, even if she can’t hear you. Go back to sleep, Sonny.

But the room seemed too dark, and the idea of closing my eyes, of adding another layer of blackness, made my heart thump uncomfortably in my chest.

“Screw it,” I mumbled, throwing the blankets off of me. I climbed over Amy, grabbed her cell phone from the dresser, and tiptoed out of the room.

The minute the light in the rec room flickered on, it was instantly easier to breathe. Like the darkness had actually been pressing down on me, crushing my chest. I walked over to the couch and flopped down on my back, Amy’s phone still in my hand. One of the benefits of borrowing her phone while mine was out of commission: She had a smartphone. Which meant games. I’d already downloaded a few free ones, along with some humorous, inappropriate text tones that Amy hadn’t found quite as funny as I had.

But even silly phone games with their bright colors and funny sounds couldn’t chase away the lingering nightmare. Or the knowledge that, even though the rec room was bright and familiar, I was still alone in here.

I can’t explain what I did next. It was stupid and self-destructive and wrong on many, many levels I didn’t care to think about. But I was lonely, and I needed to talk to someone. Anyone would have done, really. But there was only one person I knew might be awake at one in the morning on a school night. Which just so happened to be the first Tuesday in November. Well, I guess technically it was Wednesday now. Whatever.

So did your dad win the election?

Ryder had texted a few times in the past couple of days, but I’d either not responded or just replied with emojis that made no sense in the context of his comment or question. And when he sent back a question mark, I didn’t reply. How was that for flaky? Honestly, it was probably pretty good progress on the make-him-think-Amy-was-a-weirdo front, but here I was.

Messing it all up again.

Just as I’d expected, he was awake, and it only took him a second to text me back.

He did. Unfortunately.

Not so unfortunate for his constituents, though. I looked him up. He seems to be doing some good things.

Sure. When he’s not doing the model.

Before I could respond, Ryder sent another message.

He still wants me to come visit for Thanksgiving.

Will you?

Of course not.

But don’t you want to visit DC? I know you miss it.

I don’t think I do anymore. I’m pretty sick of DC.

I frowned. I knew things were bad with his dad, but this was a sharp turnaround for the guy who’d compared every little detail of Hamilton to the infinitely superior Washington, DC, since he’d arrived. But, thinking about it, I had seen far fewer snarky Facebook statuses since he’d learned the truth about his dad. Still, DC was his home. It was where he’d grown up. It was where his old friends were, even if they had drifted apart some. I would have expected him to take any opportunity to visit, even if for only a day or two.

He didn’t seem eager to talk about that, though, because he sent another message straightaway.

I know it’s only been a week, but I’ve missed these late-night chats.

Yeah. Me, too. I’ve been keeping my insomnia mostly at bay. But I couldn’t sleep tonight. Nightmare.

What about?

It wouldn’t make any sense if I explained it.

Try me.

I almost didn’t reply. I almost ended the conversation right there. I should have.

I’d never told anyone about my nightmare. Not even Amy. I’d called her in the middle of the night a few times, panicked and desperate to hear someone’s voice, but I’d always glossed over what the dream was about. I’d just say something like, “Something bad happened to my mom” or “I was trapped in a dark house.” I never went into details. I didn’t want to open that door. To expose that dark, broken place inside of me where all the bad things lived.

But for some reason, I wanted to tell Ryder. Maybe because – and yes, I knew this was sick – he wouldn’t know it was me. There was security in knowing he’d think it was Amy’s nightmare. Amy’s dark, broken place.

I was still freaked out and didn’t want to cut off the contact with another person just yet, so I found myself writing out the dream, taking up several long texts to do so. When I hit SEND on the last one, the one that explained my mother’s bedroom, I felt a pang of regret.

Too much, I thought. Too honest. Too close.

I didn’t think he’d reply. Maybe this would help him get over Amy once and for all.

But then:

Things really are bad with your mom, aren’t they?

Yeah.

I’m sorry about the nightmare. But they say if you talk about it, you won’t dream it again.

Does that count with texting?

I guess you’ll find out.

I smiled. Actually, I did feel a little better having it off my chest. The shaking had stopped and my heartbeat had slowed down. I might even manage to fall back to sleep if I tried to.

But right now, for better or worse (definitely worse), I wanted to keep talking to him.

Thanks for letting me share.

Of course. I just wish I was there with you.

I felt a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I typed my response.

Oh, yeah? Why? What would you do if you were here?

For a minute, he didn’t respond, and I was worried I might have scared him off. I should’ve known better, though. At the end of the day, he was still a guy.

Are we really doing this?

Do you WANT to do this?

I do, but I have no idea how. I’ve never done it before.

You never sent sexy texts to Eugenia?

No. Have you?

No, I have never sexted with Eugenia.

You’re hilarious.

I know.

Pause.

If I were there, I would lie on the bed next to you and pull you into my arms.

I’m actually on a couch right now.

Are you TRYING to make this difficult for me?

No. Sorry. Continue.

Then I would … kiss your neck?

I snorted.

You seem unsure about that.

You make me nervous. I’d be nervous if I were there with you.

I felt my heart pound harder. There was something so sweet about him saying that. About the snobby, confident Ryder admitting he’d be nervous if we were alone together.

I’d be nervous, too.

Here’s another truth: I was a virgin. Not only that, but in seventeen years, I’d only been kissed one time, by Davy Jennings at the ninth-grade homecoming dance. His breath tasted like root beer and it had been enough to kill our fledgling romance. Most of what I knew about sex came from copious amounts of television, unintentionally hilarious Cosmo articles, and my interrogation of Amy, who had swiped her V-card at summer camp last year.

That’s something I doubted anyone would expect. That out of the two of us, I was the virgin with virtually no sexual experience while goody-goody Amy was not.

But right now, trying to think of things to say to Ryder, I found myself wishing I had more experience to pull from. He was right. This was difficult.

It’s your turn.

BRB. Googling how to do this.

LOL! So you give me a hard time, but you don’t know what you’re doing either.

OK, some of these sexting examples are hilarious. So that was no help.

We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.

No. Now I am determined to type at least one sexy thing, damn it.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I had to be overthinking this. I went to my imagination, where Ryder was lying next to me. Where he’d just nervously kissed my neck. What next? I tried to let the scene play out.

I’d slide my hand down your chest. Slowly.

I don’t know why, but I felt like everything sounded a little sexier when you added slowly.

I held my breath, my face scorching red, as I waited for Ryder to respond.

I’d reach for the hem of your nightgown …

Nightgown? You think I sleep in a nightgown? What century is this?

I don’t know what girls sleep in.

Well, right now I’m in just a baggy T-shirt and underwear.

Wow. That’s actually hotter than a nightgown.

We went on like this for about an hour, fumbling our way through texts that were usually more awkward and funny than seductive. But I was left giggling and feeling fluttery nonetheless.

We’ll get better at this eventually.

It wasn’t until I read that message from Ryder, though, that the dirty feeling began to sink in. Not fun, I’ve-been-sending-sexy-texts dirty either. The gross, I-need-a-shower dirty that came with suddenly remembering that all those messages, all those things he’d imagined us doing, had been for Amy. Every virtual kiss and touch, he’d imagined doing to my best friend. He’d pictured her hands, her long, thin body. Her dark, curly hair. Her face. Her lips.

And he thought we’d get better at it. That we’d do it again.

I thought I was going to be sick.

I didn’t write back after that. I didn’t say good-bye or good night. Instead, I went through and deleted every single text we’d sent over the past hour, knowing Amy would kill me (and have every right to) if she saw those messages.

When I crept back into Amy’s room, she was still snoring. I crawled over to my side of the bed and pulled the covers over my head, wishing I could hide from the guilt and the shame of what I’d just done.