Dead Girls Don't Lie Read online

  Dad has the newspaper in front of him. He folds it in half as I read GANG VIOLENCE SUSPECTED IN TEEN SHOOTING. I want to read the rest of the story, but he slides it to the other end of the table so I can’t see it. Typical. Dad has decided to shelter me from any details about Rachel’s death, the same way he shelters me from other bad things, like television and the Internet and, until this year, cell phones. Maybe because he spent too much time as a defense lawyer in the other Washington—DC, before I came along.

  Before our ultimate breakup he hinted that I shouldn’t spend so much time with Rachel, that maybe I should find friends at church, girls like Claire and Taylor. But I stuck with Rachel, even when she pierced her nose and dyed her hair, even when she plucked her eyebrows, penciled them in thin, and wore heavy makeup, mimicking the girls she started hanging out with at school. I stuck with her even as she pushed me away.

  It wasn’t that Dad didn’t like Rachel. When we were younger Araceli would watch me during the day when Dad was at work, and then he would watch Rachel while her mom took evening classes at the community college. He was like her second dad, or her only dad, since hers disappeared before she was born. I know it was hard for him the day he sat me down and gave me the “Rachel seems to be heading down the wrong path, and while I don’t want you to stop being her friend, it would be better if you didn’t hang out with her anymore” lecture. It was after she got caught with drugs in her locker. At that point it didn’t matter. I didn’t even argue with him. I was already through with her.

  “How are you, hon?” Dad says as I sit down. I shrug and he reaches for my hands across the table to say grace. I close my eyes as Dad begins to pray. “Dear Lord, we are thankful for this meal and for this glorious day and for all that we have been given …”

  I settle myself in for a long one. My grandpa was a minister, and Dad learned how to pray from him.

  Dad’s voice rises as he goes on. “We are mindful of the many souls who are lost and seeking for thy light in the darkness. We are aware of many who struggle with addictions, and sin, and transgression. Please keep a watchful eye on those who walk in darkness.”

  I open my eyes to see if I can read at least some of the article about Rachel before Dad is finished praying, but I can’t quite see it.

  Dad’s tone changes. “Lord, you know we have lost a dear friend, a companion who has spent many hours with us at this very table.”

  He squeezes my hand, and I swallow an ache in my throat, but it doesn’t go away. “Please bring her to your bosom, keep her in your heart. We pray for her soul, that the darkness that filled her at her life’s end may be taken from her, that she may be forgiven …”

  I think about the text. About how I should tell Dad about it. About what it would take for me to be forgiven for not answering Rachel.

  “How are you doing?” Dad asks again.

  I look up and realize the prayer is over, but Dad is still holding my hands. I pull away. “I’m okay.”

  Dad reaches for his coffee. “Your mom called last night, but you were already in bed and she said not to wake you up.”

  I take a breath. “Did you tell her about Rachel?”

  He nods. “She said to tell you she was sorry, that she’d try to call later.” There’s more, I can see it in his eyes, or rather in the way he avoids my eyes.

  “What else did she say?”

  He wipes his hands on the napkin in front of him, still not looking at me. “She said that your trip at the end of the summer will have to be postponed. She has some big case she’s working on. She doesn’t think she can get away.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what to say. Dad and Mom met in law school. They got married after they both passed the bar. Dad will never say it, but I think I was an accident. I know Mom loves me and everything, I’m just not sure she ever wanted to have a kid. When Dad left their law office in DC and moved here to live the “quiet country life,” Mom didn’t come with him.

  He starts eating, still without looking at me. “She feels really bad. She said that maybe the two of you could do Europe at Christmastime.”

  “Europe” has been Mom’s all-purpose apology bribe. The only problem? We’ve never actually gone.

  He sits back down. “What would you like to do this morning? I was planning to take the day off anyway, in case you need to talk or something.” Dad hovering all day, worrying about how I’m doing and overcompensating for Mom’s neglect, is almost worse than a trip to Europe that will never happen.

  “Claire invited me to go to the lake.”

  Now it’s Dad’s turn to say “Oh,” but I’m not sure if it’s a relieved “oh” or a worried “oh.” “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  I’m not sure of anything anymore. Rachel is dead. Maybe I could have saved her. But I can’t talk about that. I’m stuck pretending everything is normal. I’ll pretend I want to go to the lake with Claire just like I keep pretending that Mom and I will go to Europe someday. And maybe no one will ever ask me what I know about Rachel’s death.

  “Who’s going to be there?”

  For a second panic hits me. He must know about Skyler. One of the women from church must have told them I was with a boy late at night, that I snuck out, that I went to a party. I try to stay casual. “I’m not sure. Claire and Taylor probably.”

  He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he says, “I have some things I need to get done around the house.”

  “I could come back early and help you,” I offer, like his hesitation is because he needs my help.

  “No. Have fun with your friends.” He looks up again, like maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. I’m not sure what the right thing to say is either. “Maybe tonight we can go visit Rachel’s mom and see how she’s doing?”

  I swallow hard. I don’t want to go see Araceli tonight, or maybe ever. “We might go hang out at Claire’s house after the lake.” It’s a stretch. Claire and Taylor haven’t voluntarily had me over for years, but the lake thing is a start.

  Dad looks relieved. “I’m glad you have friends like Claire and Taylor.” The way he says it feels like a knife to the gut, like somehow Claire and Taylor are better friends than Rachel was. I’m even more convinced that he said something to their parents—or worse, to them—about being nice to me. “Just make sure you call and let me know where you are if your plans change.”

  “I will,” I answer, even though there’s no way I’m going back for my phone.

  It’s not even ten yet when I leave the house. I don’t think Claire or Taylor or anyone will be at the lake this early. They probably aren’t even out of bed, but the lake is a couple of miles away; if I walk slowly maybe someone will be there by the time I get to it.

  My house is on the very edge of town, or the closest thing we have to a town in Lake Ridge. “Town” consists of a gas station, a café, the schools, a post office, the town hall, a couple of little shops and offices like my dad’s, and a grocery store. Beyond that the town fades to acres and acres of rolling hills and farmland.

  The fields are already full of migrant workers. They’re all ages, from kids younger than me to men and women with leathered brown faces, silver hair, and arched backs. It’s already hot, but they’re covered from head to toe in long-sleeved shirts, hats, and long pants. They’re harvesting asparagus, bent over and cutting the stalks by hand. Rachel and I tried it for a couple of weeks last summer to earn money for school clothes. It was excruciating.

  A few fields down, a swather slices a path of sweet-smelling, fresh-cut alfalfa, so strong it makes my nose hurt. As the machine gets closer, the person driving it leans out of the cab and waves. I wave back, even though I’m not sure who it is. It stops at the end of the row. I hesitate, not sure if the machine stopped for me; then Skyler climbs out. My heart leaps in my chest and a lump forms in my throat. I do want to see him again.

  He’s wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a long-sleeved blue shirt, unbuttoned enough for me to see inside to the muscles
of his chest. His hair is damp with sweat so it looks darker than I remember it. He’s dusty and gross, but when he smiles I remember what it felt like to have his lips against mine, and what he said about us hanging out this summer. He stops when he gets about four feet from me, takes off one of his gloves, slaps it against his leg, and says, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I reply. Something close to a smile forms on my lips.

  “Um, I wanted to talk to you after the funeral but, um, I had to get back to work.” In a heartbeat his easy expression fades to a nervous one. Truthfully, I was grateful for Skyler’s quick exit after Rachel’s funeral. I wasn’t sure what I would say to him either, or how I would explain his presence to Dad. He pounds his gloves again. His blue eyes won’t quite meet mine, and they’re full of awkward sympathy. For some reason that makes me angry. I want to tell him that I’m a fraud. That I haven’t been Rachel’s friend for months, and that I could have saved her but I chose not to, because of him.

  “It was a nice service, though.”

  “It was.” My answer comes out strained and polite. Three days ago Skyler kissed me, my first-ever kiss, maybe even the start of something, but thanks to Rachel, we’re strangers again. Something horrible inside me resents her for that.

  I gesture to the swather, looking for safe territory. “I didn’t know you knew how to drive one of these things.”

  He slaps his gloves against his leg again. “I’ve known how to drive it since I was, like, ten.” His voice swells with a bit of pride, like driving it is a big accomplishment. “My dad put me in charge of this whole field.” He looks over at the big machine; maybe he’s looking for safe territory too. “I’d better get back to it.” He moves away. I don’t blame him for not knowing what to say to me, but I wish he would at least try.

  I take a step backward too. “Oh, okay.”

  He keeps moving away. “Um, were you heading to the lake?”

  Swimsuit, flip-flops, towel in a bag, not exactly a hard thing to figure out. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there, maybe when I’m done working?” He’s so close to the combine now that he has to shout above the engine. “But it might be late. You don’t need to wait for me or anything.”

  “Sure,” I shout back, even though I don’t think he can hear me.

  I watch him for a minute while he turns the monstrous piece of equipment around and starts up a thousand blades that tear into the field, leaving it shorn and bare.

  I turn back to the road, wondering how long I should stay at the lake in case Skyler shows up. Wondering if he’ll ever kiss me again. Wondering if I want him to. Are girls whose best friends were just murdered supposed to care about things like being kissed?

  I step out of the field and look up. There’s a pair of dark eyes staring back at me. One of the workers from the field across the road is drinking from the hose and watching me. He stands out from the other migrant workers because he’s wearing a gray tank top, jeans, and a baseball cap. He looks like he’s close to my age. When he straightens up, water from the hose drips down his deeply tanned chest.

  For a second our eyes meet and recognition flashes between us. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around school, and most recently, I’ve seen him with Rachel, a lot. He was at the funeral, sitting in the back of the church with the other migrants, but like he didn’t really belong there. I read pain in his eyes. For a second I want to cross the road and ask him about Rachel, about the last six months of her life, if he knows why she sounded so afraid in her last text.

  But before I can move, his face goes blank and he turns away.

  Chapter 3

  I’ve been going to the lake since I was a little kid, by myself since I was twelve. I know the way. But for some reason, I leave the main road and head for the dirt road that cuts across the field in the opposite direction. I keep walking, alongside the irrigation canal, past piles of rusting farm equipment and a fallen-down barn, to where the sparse trees thicken into a little grove that someone planted years ago. It’s the closest thing we have to a forest around here.

  Rachel’s house is on the other side, hidden from my view, but that’s not where I’m going. Instead, I head toward what looks like a towering clump of weeds. The only hint that there’s a house buried inside is the sun glinting off a broken upstairs window. This was where Rachel and I went last summer, two weeks before school started. This is where I went in my dream last night.

  This is where everything changed.

  I was sleeping over at Rachel’s house. We were sitting around talking, like we had at a hundred sleepovers before. She said something like, “What do you most want to happen at school this year?”

  I hesitated. She already knew, and saying it out loud sounded painfully desperate, but because I knew Rachel wouldn’t laugh at me, I answered, “I want Evan Cross to fall desperately in love with me.”

  Rachel shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Don’t waste your time. He’s a player. And anyway, your dad would never let you date a guy like him.”

  “You don’t even know him,” I protested.

  “I know the type,” Rachel said.

  “Once he’s with me he’ll reform his evil ways.” I said it like I was joking, but that was my deepest fantasy, that once Evan noticed me he would forget all the other girls he had ever known.

  “And you’ll have a glorious church wedding and the whole town will be there. And five years and four kids later, when he cheats on you and runs away with some stripper from Vegas, I’ll try not to say ‘I told you so.’”

  I threw a pillow at her, but I threw it too high, so it hit the wall and knocked the picture above her bed crooked. She stood up and adjusted it. I watched her mess with it until it was just right before she sat down again.

  “Okay,” I challenged her, “what do you want from high school?”

  She gripped her pillow and fell back dramatically on her bed. “I want to be in love; madly, desperately, and completely.”

  Now it was time for me to roll my eyes. Boys had been drooling over Rachel since sixth grade when she got all the curves I have yet to acquire. “Haven’t you had enough boyfriends already?”

  She sat up and looked at me seriously. “I want someone who will love me, not another guy who wants to go up my shirt.” She lowered her voice. “And maybe I’ve already found him.”

  “Who?” I was shocked. We never kept secrets from each other. I used to tease her that I knew she was in love before she did.

  She smiled mischievously and shook her head. “I’ll let you know when I’m sure.”

  “C’mon, Ray,” I begged. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head again, but this time she looked sad.

  “Don’t you trust me?” I pushed. “You know I won’t tell.”

  She squirmed for a minute, and I was sure she was going to tell me, but she shook her head harder.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t, okay?”

  I pushed her until she finally said, “Look, if I can really trust you not to say anything …” She reached under her bed and pulled out an old jewelry box, her treasure box. I expected her to show me a picture or a note from the guy she was talking about. Instead, she pulled out a phone.

  “You have a phone?” I practically screamed the word. Rachel and I were the only kids at the middle school who didn’t have phones. Her mom couldn’t afford it, and back then, my dad was convinced personal electronic devices would allow bad guys to get ahold of me.

  “Shh,” she said, thrusting the phone under her pillow and looking around. “My mom doesn’t know. And you can’t tell her. I mean it.” She sounded afraid, like she really believed I would rat her out.

  “Why do you think I would tell?”

  She got annoyed. “I don’t know, maybe because sometimes you’re just too perfect, with all your church stuff.”

  Her words stung. I’d heard them since grade school: goody-goody, tattletale. There were worse ones from middle school, but unti
l now, Rachel had never used any of them against me.

  “I won’t, okay? I promise.” She still didn’t look convinced, so I made an attempt to sound excited about the phone. “It’s really cool. Where did you get it?”

  “It was a present from my dad, for my birthday.” She kept her eyes down, like she felt guilty for that. I felt a sick wash of jealousy: my mom could easily afford a nice phone like that, but she’d never even tried to give me one. “But you can’t tell anyone. Please, Jaycee. If Mom finds out, she’ll never let me keep it.”

  My mind raced. If Rachel got the phone for her birthday, that meant she’d had it for almost two months. Two months of her not telling me. Two months of her not trusting me. And she didn’t trust me with the new guy thing either. I tried to push all of that away, along with the jealousy, even though it stung, and be happy for her that she’d finally heard from her dad. “So what did your dad—”

  But I didn’t get to ask her about her dad. The phone vibrated to life, and I leaned forward, afraid and eager as a text message came through.

  She held it away from me and smiled.

  “What does it say?”

  Before she could answer, we heard Araceli coming down the hall. Rachel shoved the phone back under her bed, and we both tried to look casual. I was sure we were busted, that Araceli would ask about the phone and somehow I would slip and give away Rachel’s secret and then she would never speak to me again. But Araceli just said that she’d been called into work, she needed to leave right away, and she wanted us to call my dad to come get us so we wouldn’t be alone.

  Once her mom drove away, Rachel got the phone out again. She looked at the message and whispered, “Are you up for some excitement?”

  As I move closer to the house now, remembering how it looked as we approached it in the dark, I was terrified, already worried about what my dad would say if he ever found out what we were doing. I was scared about what the text said and who it was from, but she wouldn’t tell me. “Trust me” was all she would say.