Page 10 of Count My Lies

I won’t let Allison ruin my evening. She’s taken enough from me as it is.

I pack up what happened and put it back in its box. I unhinge the attic door and hoist it up, slide it back into the shadowy darkness, out of sight, out of reach. Everything is fine. Everything isfine, I repeat to myself, over and over until it is true. By the time I reach my apartment building, I’m no longer thinking about Allison. I’m thinking about Violet. And about Jay.

At home, I make a quick veggie scramble for my mom and bring it to her with a tall glass of iced tea with a mint garnish, cubes of ice clinking against the cup.

“You’re not eating?” she asks, glancing up at me.

“I’m going out for dinner.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

I nod. “I met someone. A friend, maybe. At the park. She invited me over tonight, to their house.”

“That’s nice,” my mom says. She looks like she might say more, her lips slightly parted as if she’s waiting for the right words to form. But she just smiles and turns her attention back to her show. An oldDatelineepisode about a home invasion gone wrong. I watch for a moment—one of the victims is recounting the night—then leave the room to get ready.

In the bathroom, I trade my glasses for contacts, blinking rapidly as they go in. I rarely wear them. When I do, they dry out my eyes, leaving them red-rimmed and itchy by the end of the day. I’d get used to it if I wore them more, but I’m usually running late or out of contact solution. I look better without my glasses, though; some people look great in them, but the lenses make my eyes small and beady—so I’ll grin and bear the dry eyes, at least for tonight. Carefully, I apply some mascara, then run a brush through my hair, pulling it into a high ponytail, wet my hands to smooth down the frizz.

I try on three different shirts, finally settling on a high-necked black tank, then tie my flannel around my waist. Even though the days are getting warmer, the nights are still cool. I take my scrub pants off and pull on a pair of jeans, ones without holes, then zip on some black boots.

“Don’t wait up,” I say to my mom as I leave, dropping a kiss on herforehead. She snorts, then smirks. We both know she’ll be asleep in her chair by eight thirty. I’ll come home and the living room will be dark, the TV flickering, volume still cranked high.

“Have fun,” she says.

I smile. I will. I know I will. I’ve never been so sure of anything.

6

The Lockharts’ house is only fifteen minutes from ours. I walk quickly, taking small, brisk steps. My heart is beating in double time, my nerves wired, but in a good way, like at the end of a date you never want to end, smiling nervously at each other, the air charged, night brimming with possibilities, or on Christmas morning, right before you walk into the living room. I keep reaching into my bag to make sure that the book for Jay is still inside. It is, of course, but I can’t help myself.

I arrive at the address two minutes after six. From the sidewalk, I stare up at the house, the same brownstone from the Google Maps image. It’s even more impressive in person, bigger, the wrought-iron railings shinier, its recently restored façade pristine. Worth every penny of the three-point-two they paid for it. I’d whistle under my breath if I knew how.

I climb the stoop and pause on the top step, shifting my weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Briefly, I see Allison’s face, her whip of red hair. Suddenly, I consider turning around. It feels like I’m here under false pretenses. And I am, I guess. If I walk away now, noone will be the wiser. But then I catch sight of Violet through their front bay window. She’s bending over Harper’s shoulder as she colors at a small table in their living room. Violet is pointing to the drawing and nodding, smiling, cheeks slightly flushed. I blink Allison away. I know I’m not leaving.

I straighten, tighten the flannel around my waist. My name is Caitlin. I am a nurse. One, two. I tick off the lies that I’ve told, repeat them until they feel real. Then I knock.

A moment later, the door swings wide. Violet stands in the doorway, a little breathless, eyes shining. She’s wearing the same outfit she had on earlier—the linen shorts, white shirt—covered by a frilly, paisley-print apron. She’s also put on a cardigan, the sleeves pushed up.

“Caitlin, hi! Come in!”

I step from the porch into their entryway. In front of me is an oak staircase, leading to a second floor, and to the right, a large living room with the window I saw from the street. On the other side of the living room, a kitchen. There’s music playing in a low murmur, a woman’s voice, a guitar. The house is warm and smells like freshly baked bread.

“Follow me,” Violet says, motioning with her hand. “I’m just finishing up dinner. Jay should be home any minute. Harper, say hi.”

I follow her through their living room into the kitchen. Harper glances up from her miniature table as we walk by, smiles and waves, then continues drawing, humming under her breath. “Let It Go,” fromFrozen, I think.

The kitchen is bigger than most in Brooklyn—certainly bigger than our shoebox with a stove—with bright white cabinets, shiny gold accents, a six-burner oven, and a French-door refrigerator. To theright, there’s a dining nook with a table set for four, but large enough for at least six, a large rattan lamp shade hanging above it.

“Sit, sit.” Violet points to a bar stool on one side of the marble-topped kitchen island. There’s a fragrant bowl of gardenias in the center of the counter that smell like a garden after it’s just rained. “Everything’s almost ready. The pasta’s boiling; the sauce is simmering. I just need to take the bread from the oven.”

I hang my purse over the back of the stool and slide onto the chair. Looking around, I want to pinch myself. If you’d told me this morning that this is where I’d be for dinner, I’d have laughed, said you were as big of a liar as I am.

“You want some wine?” Violet asks, pulling a half-empty bottle of white out of the fridge, glass fogged with condensation.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.” I surprise myself, telling her this. It’s true, but something I rarely admit. I wait for her to raise her eyebrows, cock her head at me in surprise, like I’ve revealed I have a third nipple.You don’tdrink?Most people act as if I’ve told them I skin puppies for sport. My god, the horror!

Instead, Violet breaks into a big, warm smile. “Me neither!” She returns the bottle, then reaches into the back of the fridge. “I’ll pour us something else. Do you like ginger?”

I nod, elated. Another three-nippled freak, just like me. I love that we have something in common already. “Sure,” I say.

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