This Is Why We Lie Page 7

  Kind regards,

  Christine Gordon

  Principal at Preston Preparatory School for Girls

  JENNA

  Sunlight streams through my bedroom window on Monday morning, waking me before my alarm. I fumble around my nightstand for my phone. An email from Preston flashes across the screen.

  My eyelids are still heavy from sleep—or lack of sleep, more accurately. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, my mind racing with warped images of Colleen.

  I’d completely forgotten about the memorial. A notification from Preston about canceled classes would have normally meant a celebratory extra couple of hours in bed. But the last thing I want is to go back to sleep and continue whatever messed-up nightmares my subconscious is brewing. Besides, nothing about today feels celebratory.

  I need a distraction. Focusing on my portfolio seems like a good place to start. I’ve been avoiding it for a while. Ever since we found Colleen, I haven’t been able to bring myself to look through the photos I’d taken that morning.

  Grabbing my camera from the dresser, I make my way downstairs, then through the bifold doors and out into the garden. Tucked away in the backyard, there’s a bench beneath a maple tree. I brush the fallen leaves away and curl up on the seat. A sparrow hovers at Kate’s bird feeder, jabbing its beak at the mesh covering the seeds.

  I raise my camera and focus on the bird.

  Mom loves this kind of nature shot. She used to say her favorite part about visiting Kate was watching the birds. I remember thinking that was kind of a weird comment to make, as though spending time with her sister wasn’t the main event. But I understand it now. Mom’s life has always been fast-paced, always in a cloud of smog and chaos. I guess she liked to stop sometimes. Maybe, back then, she was envious of the birds because they were allowed to fly away.

  My camera was the first thing Mom bought me after her blog took off. She got a fat cheque from some glossy magazine that wanted to publish her articles, and she took me straight to the electronics store. “Jenna,” she said as the cashier rang up our bill, “every time you pick up this camera, I want you to remember how even the smallest of details play a role in the big picture. Capture every detail, no matter how small it seems.”

  Looking at the camera now, with its fancy high-speed autofocus, dual pixel sensor, and smooth leather strap, I feel like it’s the most tangible memory I have left of Mom. The rest seemed to dissipate after she left.

  At least with this camera, I have a way of being relevant in her life. We can send each other pictures, snapshots of lives that no longer interweave.

  I tuck my legs underneath me and brace myself to look through the photos. They’re mostly scenery shots or beach landscapes, contenders for my portfolio. Everything is safe, familiar.

  But as I venture a little further back in the library, the images change. The tones and hues get darker. There are people in the frames: Hollie, Serena, Imogen, Brianna...

  My breath catches. These photos are from the cabin at Rookwood. I barely remember being at this party, let alone taking these pictures. The time stamp on the images dates them back to early summer, around the time Serena first started dating Max. This was back when being invited to Rookwood was supposed to be some coveted honor that we couldn’t pass up on. It only took two cabin parties for the novelty of being invited to wear off for me. They were just alcohol-fueled binges, with people hooking up in dark corners or passed out on the floor.

  As I swipe through the pictures, I try to remember faces, conversations, anything that’ll remind me that I was more than just the person behind the lens. I stop on one photo and zoom in.

  Scattered memories come flooding back to me.

  It’s Adam.

  He’s not just someone in the background this time. This is a photo of him. He’s staring straight ahead, his honey-colored eyes focused, but not on the camera. His expression is saying so much, it’s a real emotion—wistfulness, hopelessness maybe. I’d seen something private, and I’d stolen it.

  A shiver skates over me, and I force myself to move on.

  There are shots of Colleen, too. Mostly, she’s posing for the camera, blond hair flipped to an exaggerated side part. Just like in her Instagram posts, her makeup is smudged and her sky-blue eyes are bloodshot. It dawns on me that I didn’t really know Colleen other than this—this picture, this persona, the party girl looking for attention. Same with the Rooks, their hard-edged personas are all they show. But there’s so much more beneath the surface. It makes me think of my other pictures, the sparrow whose wings move so fast it’s almost impossible to see anything beyond a blur, but then the still-frame captures a moment, exposing every silken feather and hidden color. Or the ocean, where the close-up shots capture glimpses of seaweed, rocks, or fish living beneath the gently rippling surface.

  There’s so much more to see in the smaller details. I just need to look a little closer.

  I know it.

  ADAM

  “Take my picture!”

  My eyes travel across the room to where Colleen is standing, swaying, pouting, and posing with one hand on her hip.

  “Jenna!” she yells again. “Take my picture.”

  The girl lifts her camera and holds it steady as she focuses the lens on Colleen.

  I can’t tell if she’s recognized me from that dawn on the beach. I recognize her, though. Long chestnut-brown hair, sea-green eyes, calmly watching the world pass by behind the safety of the camera’s lens.

  Colleen adjusts her pose, and Jenna takes another shot.

  Colleen’s wasted. They’ve only just arrived, and she’s already struggling to stand upright without losing her balance.

  I know what comes next. With each hour, she’ll get a little drunker, a little looser. She’ll get closer to the guys. To Max. And he’ll let her.

  I don’t think Max cares. He likes the attention. Yeah, Serena gives him attention. But what’s the harm in getting more? He keeps telling me that Colleen is just a friend. It’s no big deal.

  I don’t think Serena would see it that way.

  Colleen stumbles off across the cabin, wobbling on her high-heeled shoes and sloshing her drink over the rim of her cup.

  My eyes land on Jenna.

  She frowns for a second, like she’s trying to figure out where she knows me from. Then she smiles.

  She knows who I am. Busted. One of the boys from Rookwood. One of the Rooks.

  I stand and make my way across the crowded room, heading toward her.

  She looks up at me from her spot on the couch. “Hey. I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Yeah. You, too.” I gesture to the empty spot next to her. “Is anyone sitting here?”

  “No. It’s free.” She shuffles over to make room for me.

  I sit beside her, and just like that I’m right back on the beach with her. Same girl, same camera, same graze of our arms. Only now, we’re not alone. And our soundtrack is the cacophony of voices and music, instead of the rush and crash of the ocean hitting the pebbled shore.

  “You guys are friends?” I direct my beer bottle to where Colleen is climbing onto the pool table. Her skirt is riding up her thighs. I look away.

  “We go to school together.”

  Got it. “How’s your scholarship portfolio coming along?”

  “I think I managed to get some good shots.” She smiles again, and I swear my heart does an extra beat.

  “So, what’s next?” I nod to the camera tucked beside her. “What’s your latest subject?”

  “People,” she says. “People and their everyday lives.”

  My focus strays to the pool table. “Like that girl?”

  She laughs. “No, not Colleen and her drunken escapades. I’m more interested in the people who don’t know they’re interesting.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

 
“Like you.”

  I feel warm, suddenly. “You think I’m interesting?”

  “Yeah. Mysterious, early-morning beach dweller. You never mentioned you were from Rookwood.”

  I half smile. “Can you blame me?”

  She frowns, waiting for me to explain.

  “I didn’t want you to judge me,” I say.

  “Fair point. I wasn’t exactly jumping to tell you that I go to Preston.”

  I tilt my head. “Why not?”

  “Same reason.”

  “I wouldn’t have judged you.” I pause. “That much.”

  She grins. “I wouldn’t have judged you that much, either.”

  “Just a little.”

  She pinches her thumb and forefinger together. “A little.”

  But her words don’t make me feel like I’m being judged. Not even a little.

  Her gaze wanders over my face. “So, you live here, at Rookwood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that like?”

  The question catches me off guard. People don’t usually ask a question like that so bluntly—not about Rookwood. They dance around it, pretend like it’s normal.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “I thought this place was supposed to be super strict. How come you get to have parties out here every weekend?”

  I lean back against the sofa cushions. “Believe me, it’s not that simple. Coming out here without getting caught is a major pain in the ass. But it’s our sanctuary, so it’s worth it.”

  “Ah, I see.” Her eyes linger on mine. “You all seem pretty tight. The boys who go here, I mean.”

  I glance across the room. Tommy and Scotch have bailed on their pool game because Colleen is on the table, dancing to the thrum of the sound system. Her blond hair is swaying around her shoulders. Max is watching with a lazy grin.

  “We are tight,” I answer. “We’re like family.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah.” I exhale slowly. “Well, we have to be.”

  Her brow creases. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I think about it for a moment. “Maybe because we’re all we’ve got.”

  JENNA: Did you see the email from Preston?

  HOLLIE: About the memorial in the hall today?

  JENNA: Yeah.

  HOLLIE: I saw it. What, you think I should go?

  JENNA: Maybe. If you feel ready.

  HOLLIE: You don’t think I’d get totally hated on? This is Colleen’s day.

  JENNA: You don’t have to hide away like this, like you’re guilty.

  HOLLIE: Thank you for sticking by me.

  JENNA: Always.

  JENNA

  I arrive at Preston a little after midday. Kate’s house is a couple of blocks from school, and it only takes me about five minutes to walk there. Sometimes, it feels as though I’m the only person in Gardiners Bay who travels anywhere on foot. After I turned sixteen last year, Kate started offering me her car and occasionally suggesting I save up for one myself. Everyone at Preston drives, which is evident from the habitually packed campus parking lot.

  Today, there are even more cars than usual. All the spaces have been taken, and a couple of cars are even parked on the grassy quad. The lot is teeming with groups of people dressed in black, arms linked as they walk solemnly toward the building.

  I check my phone before I follow the crowd into the school.

  Hollie’s last message is still highlighted on my screen.

  I can’t come today. I’m sorry.

  That’s all she said. And I get it. Now that I’m here, I can’t help but think she’s right to avoid this. She may have deleted her social media accounts, but the comments and threads about her still show up. I still see them. Fair or not, Hollie’s in the firing line. She’s still a suspect in Colleen’s murder case. Some of the Preston girls are even spinning the narrative that Colleen was a victim of Hollie’s merciless bullying and took her own life because of it.

  I trail behind a group of junior girls as the flow of bodies moves into the Main Hall. The rows of long oak pews are already nearly full, and at the front of the room there’s a memorial for Colleen, where people have placed candles and flowers around her last school picture.

  I slide into an empty space at the back as our school principal, Mrs. Gordon, steps up to the podium at the front.

  She smiles sadly at the mourners.

  “Welcome,” she says, and the voices simmer. “I want to thank you all for being here today. I’m sure seeing so many of you come together like this would have made Colleen very happy.” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

  I look around the room, picking out the faces I know.

  Serena is in a pew on the opposite side of the hall with Imogen, Brianna, and some of the other girls from the cheerleading squad. I catch Serena’s gaze, and she presses her lips together. She tucks a strand of her sleek black hair behind her ear and looks down at her hands.

  I turn back to Mrs. Gordon as she begins her speech in gentle, soothing tones. Her words are touching, actually. It makes me wonder if she knew Colleen personally or if her sentiment is simply a tribute to the tragedy of the situation, rather than the person. Colleen wasn’t the girl on the honor roll whose schedule was jammed with extra-curriculars. She was the girl smoking in the upper-class bathroom and flipping off teachers. She was the girl who got kicked off the cheerleading squad after a dozen disciplinaries. But the words of love and comfort Mrs. Gordon uses reflect none of this. It’s all about the tragedy, the loss, the misfortune.

  Miss Keeley, the cheerleading coach, is next to take the podium. She talks about what a bright and enthusiastic girl Colleen was, and then segues on to the dangers of underaged drinking and walking home alone at night. The parents seated in the audience mutter between themselves, already formulating plans on how to get their daughters to abstain from drinking. A group of moms in the row behind me are brainstorming a fund-raiser to fit safety barriers along the coastal paths. They’re all strategizing on how they can stop another tragedy.

  My stomach turns. Everyone’s treating this like it’s just some terrible accident. They’re carefully painting Colleen as a poor girl who, after too much alcohol, slipped and fell from the coastal cliff path into the water. The girl they’re mourning today is not Colleen—it’s the image of the girl they wish she’d been. I guess it’s more palatable that way.

  It’s as though the people here have closed their eyes to the fact that someone in their peaceful, wholesome town could be capable of the most brutal crime.

  Murder.

  Some members of the cheer squad come to the podium to read a poem. Imogen and Brianna are among the girls, but Serena stays seated.

  Serena is the captain of the squad, yet she’s not standing with the team to read the poem?

  My gaze lingers on her. She slips out her phone and starts tapping on the keypad. She’s texting. She’s actually texting while the rest of her squad reads out their poignant verses.

  I turn back to the front of the hall when Mrs. Gordon returns to conclude the ceremony.

  As people begin to leave, I squeeze through the crowd following after Serena.

  “Hey,” I call, catching up with her on the quad. “Serena, wait.”

  She turns in surprise. “Oh. Hey, Jenna.” Her dark eyes look a little red, like she’s been crying.

  “Are you okay?”

  She glances around and her raven hair flutters in the breeze. “Yeah. I’m fine. I mean, I’m sad. But I’m...y’know.” She pauses. “Shit. Are you okay? This must bring up some bad memories. I mean, of finding Colleen and all.”

  “Bring up memories? They haven’t gone away yet.”

  She presses her hand to her mouth. Her scarlet nail polish glistens in the slanted afternoon light. “I’m so sorry yo
u had to go through that.” Another pause. “Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you through this. I’m a shitty friend.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, catching some of my own flyaway strands. “You’ve been busy with cheerleading, and Max...”

  She waves her hand. “No. That’s no excuse. I should have reached out to you more. You know, after.”

  “Honestly, Serena, it’s fine.”

  “We’re still good, aren’t we?” She reaches out and touches my arm. There’s something vulnerable in her expression. Something that makes me feel kind of sorry for her. Hollie and I have spent these past few months thinking she’s a total social climber for replacing us with Imogen and Brianna and the cheer girls, and maybe she is. But, she’s still Serena. She’s still the girl who I’ve poured my heart out to over many a tub of cookie dough ice cream.

  “We’re good,” I assure her.

  She glances back at the school as swarms of mourners dressed in black descend. “This is a lot, right?”

  My eyes linger on a group of people hugging and crying around the picnic tables. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Serena mutters. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “I get it. I’ll call you sometime.” It’s been a while since I called Serena. It’s been a while since she called me, for that matter.

  “You wanna come with me? I could use some company. I’m guessing you could, too?”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “Where do you want to go?”

  She jingles her car keys, and a little diamante shoe pendant swings from the key ring. “I don’t know. Anywhere that isn’t here.”

  I take one last look at the school and the clusters of teary-eyed people heading our way. “I’m in.”

  She grabs my arm, and we pace toward her car. I remember her parents surprising her with this car for her sweet sixteen—a sleek black Porsche with a personalized license plate, SERENITY1. She climbs into the driver’s side, and I slide into the low passenger seat. A strawberry-scented air freshener hovers between us. In fact, the whole car smells like sweet strawberries and cigarettes. Serena starts the engine, and we pull out of the parking lot just as queues are beginning to form.