Page 61 of The Last Time I Lied

I reread the entire diary, studying each page, parsing every word, trying to make sense of it. Little does, least of all why Vivian, a person who rarely failed to say exactly what she was thinking and feeling, needed to keep some things secret. So I give it yet another read, this time from back to front, starting with Vivian’s unsettling final entry.

I’m scared.

That one confounds me the most. Of all the myriad emotionsVivian displayed in the short time I knew her, fear wasn’t one of them.

I flip to the previous page. That entry was made the morning of July 4, prompting two new questions: When did she write that final entry, and what was she afraid of?

I clutch the book, frustrated, aching for answers that refuse to reveal themselves. “What did you learn, Viv?” I murmur, as if she could somehow answer me.

Judging by the entry dates, I assume she buried the book sometime during the night of July 3. My guess is that she snuck out while the rest of us were asleep. Not unusual for her. She had also done it the night before.

I remember because I was still mad that she had lied to me about her swimming skills. I was especially livid about the reason she lied—because Theo had been paying too much attention to me. She saw me in his arms, whispering encouraging words as he taught me how to swim. And she couldn’t stand it. So she faked drowning just to become the center of attention again.

I ignored her the rest of that canoe trip back to camp. And the rest of the afternoon. And at dinner, where I took her advice and showed up so late I was last in line. I sat alone and picked at the dinnertime dregs—lukewarm meat loaf and mashed potatoes dried to a crust. At the campfire, I sat with girls my own age, who showed little interest in me. Afterward, I went to bed early, pretending to be asleep while the others played Two Truths and a Lie without me.

Later that night, I woke to find Vivian tiptoeing into the cabin. She tried to be sneaky about it, but the creak of the third floorboard from the door gave her away.

I sat up, bleary-eyed.Where did you go?

I had to pee,Vivian said.Or is taking a piss something else you disapprove of?

She said nothing else as she climbed up to her bunk. But in the morning, a handful of tiny flowers were sitting on my pillow, rightbeside my head. Forget-me-nots. Their petals were a delicate blue. In the center of each was a yellow starburst.

I later stored them in my hickory trunk, pressed inside my copy ofThe Lovely Bones. Although she never admitted to putting them there, I knew they were from Vivian. She had indeed given me flowers. And just as she thought, I loved her again.

I flip back to the page where Vivian had made that prediction, reading it feverishly, wondering again if my feelings had been that transparent. It’s only after I reread the passage about her own parents that I get an answer—Vivian simply knew. Because she was just like me. Neglected and lonely. Basking in whatever scraps of attention she received. It’s how she was able to foresee that a hastily picked bunch of forget-me-nots would be enough to appease me. Because it would have been enough for her, too.

More flipping. More pages. More questions.

I turn to the page with Vivian’s musings about insanity. Of all the things she had written, this one shakes me to my core. Reading it feels as though she’s speaking directly to me, as if she foresaw my slide into madness a year before it would happen.

But why did she seek out that information? And where?

I vividly remember the day she made that entry. Riding to town in the camp’s mint-green Ford, squeezed tight between Vivian and Theo at the wheel. He drove one-handed, his legs spread wide so that his thigh kept bumping against mine. Each touch made my heart feel like a tiny bird trapped in a cage, fluttering against the gilded bars. I didn’t mind at all when Vivian said she was going shopping and slipped away from us, leaving me alone with Theo.

I flip to the next page, where she had jotted down that strange set of numbers.

150.97768 WEST

164

At first, I think they might be coordinates on a map. But when I grab my phone and check the compass app, I discover that 150 degrees points southeast. Which means it’s something else. Only Vivian knows for sure. But I’m certain she wrote down the numbers for a reason. Like everything else, I get the sense that she’s urging me forward, step by step, to find out what she learned all those years ago.

I’m in the process of taking a picture of the numbers with my phone when the door to Dogwood opens and Miranda, Krystal, and Sasha burst inside. Their sudden presence sends me once again scrambling to close the book and shove it under my pillow. I’m not as quick this time around, allowing them to catch me in the act.

“What are you doing?” Sasha asks, eyeing first the corner of the book poking from beneath my pillow and then my phone, which remains clutched in my hand.

“Nothing.”

“Right,” Miranda says. “You’re totally not acting like someone just caught looking at porn.”

“It’s not porn.” I pause, trying to see if the girls believe me. It’s clear they don’t, so I tell them the truth, minus any context that would make them ask more questions. “I’m trying to decipher something. A code.”

Miranda’s face lights up at the idea of solving a mystery. “What kind of code?”

I glance at the picture on my phone, reading off the number. “What does 150.97768 WEST mean to you?”

“Easy,” Miranda says. “It’s the Dewey Decimal System. Some book has that call number.”

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