Perfect Lie(8)

She was ready to go in only ten minutes and looking like she’d just stepped off the cover of a slutty magazine. I hated how effortless it was for Trish to be beautiful. Her long blond curls seemed to move around her like she always had her face in the wind.

“How do I look?” she asked, her perfect white smile spread from ear to ear.

“Like a slut,” I joked, and she smacked my arm. “I’m kidding. You know you’re beautiful.”

Her smile changed, and it looked more genuine, not like the cookie‐cutter Barbie doll I was used to. “Ian loved it when I wore this skirt.”

I glanced down at her short, black, pleather skirt that barely concealed her underwear. I gave her a hard look as I pulled open the front door and let her walk out before me.

“Don’t look at me that way, Lie. As soon as I’m out of college, he and I are getting a place together.”

“He’s your stepfather, and last I checked, paying someone off to keep them a secret isn’t exactly a declaration of love.”

“How would you know, virgin?”

“I’m not a virgin.” I rolled my eyes as we made our way to Trish’s black 300S parked along the busy street.

“Oh, right. I forgot about your precious Brock,” she joked, as she smiled over the roof of her car. I opened the passenger door and slid in, ready to call this whole thing off.

“Brock is a completely different situation.” I tried to hide the anger in my voice. Trish didn’t know about my past. I knew I looked like a love‐sick puppy to her.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Trish pushed the button on the dash to start the car, and we pulled out into traffic as she sighed loudly, her brow furrowed.

“What?” I asked her.

“I just wish you’d open up to me more. I told you about Ian. That’s not exactly something to be proud of—I know. Anyway, I’m here for you.”

I’d like to think that a friend offering to listen to my problems wasn’t shocking, but Trish was as deep as a frying pan. I knew, under all that mascara and bleach, that she cared, but she never let that side of her slip out. I envied the way she could lock her real self away from others.

“Besides, you know how I love to gossip.” She actually giggled. My faith in humanity was lost again.

I never expected a deep, meaningful friendship with Trish. In fact I loved her for her lack of empathy. I didn’t want anyone to care, to ask me too many questions. I wanted to start my life over and become a new person.

We drove through Orlando and sat in traffic until the sun sank below the hotels as I let my mind wander to the past.

I picked at the tattered shoelace of my white Chucks, wishing I knew how long my mother was going to keep me locked in this dump. It was a joke. They treated us like prison inmates, and just three floors below was a YMCA. Did the people down there know that dozens of teenagers were being held against their will right above them? The boys were housed on the third floor, but they came up to the fourth with the girls to eat, learn, and hang out throughout the day.

“Keep looking sad, and they’ll take those shoes from you,” a thick, familiar accent called from above me. I glanced up to see Brock standing over me, his lips turned up in a grin.

“Why would they take my shoes? Can’t they let me have anything that distracts me?”

“They’ll think you’re a runner, and I’m here to distract you.” He winked as he sat next to me, his back pressed against the pea‐green wall, and nodded across the room. “See that douche bag over on the couch with the fucked‐up hair? They took his shoes the day I got here. Said he shoved one of the guys who guards the door and threatened to burn this place down.”

“How would he burn it down?” I asked, as my eyes scanned the lanky boy who sat quietly by himself across the room.

Brock shrugged as he brought his knees up and rested his arms across them. “Fuck if I know. This place doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Do you know when they’ll let you out?”

He turned to look me in the eye, the playful smirk gone and no hint of humor in his voice. “This is much better than what’s waiting for me out there, and they say it’s up to our parents. How fucked up is that? My dad would let me live here until I turned eighteen if he could.”

“Better than being in school.” I focused on my shoes again, and Brock was quiet beside me for a moment. “What about your mom?”

He shook his head, and the muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched it tightly. “She does whatever Dad says. Kind of how it works in my house. You go to Natchez High?”

I nodded as I glanced up at one of the workers, who was watching me play with my shoe. I dropped the lace and pulled my legs underneath me.