Lies My Girlfriend Told Me Part 5

"When did you get all religious?"

"I didn't. It's just..." I gazed at the cold marble building full of bodies and s.h.i.+vered. I so didn't want to go in.

"Oh, come on," Swan said. She opened the door, and what could I do but follow her?

The mausoleum was six floors of deceased people, their caskets stored inside the walls with their names engraved on plaques outside. Some had flowerpots with bouquets in them. Since a lot of the flowers were fresh, I a.s.sumed they were renewed frequently. Swan remarked on it: "You wouldn't want dead people to have dead flowers." Her voice echoed eerily.

I remember the stale air and the sense that the walls were closing in on us as we wandered down each hall. And we had to explore every floor. Read every name on every plaque.

"Swan," I whispered more than once. "Let's go."

"It's crazy," she said. "People spending money on this s.h.i.+t."

I felt claustrophobic and dizzy, so I plopped down on a bench and dropped my head between my knees to stop the vertigo. When I could focus again, I lifted my head and saw a small plaque across from me. I got up to read it, ran my fingers across the lettering. Swan returned and stood beside me.

"This one was only a baby," I told her. The birth and death dates were five days apart. My mother might have cared for this baby in the neonatal care unit. She might've been there when he died.

Swan said, "You're not going to cry, are you?"

I actually thought I might. "Can we please go now?"

b.u.mping my shoulder, she said, "Exorcise your inner wuss."

I curled a lip at her, but she was right.

Now I get out of the car and head toward the mausoleum entrance, but stop just short. I can't go in. Too much death. Too many ghosts.

Instead, I walk around Crown Hill, noting how the headstones get smaller and smaller the farther out I go, as if the people who died more recently are less important. A guy in a golf cart drives up to me on the path and says, "We'll be closing in fifteen minutes."

I didn't know graveyards closed. "Okay," I tell him. I guess you're only supposed to honor your loved ones between certain hours of the day.

I send Swanee a mental message as I head back to the car: You'll never die in my head or heart.

The next morning, Monday, I ask the librarian if I can eat my lunch in the media center. She gives me the pity look that everyone else has been casting me all morning. "Yes," she says. "But only for today. Okay?"

Today is all I need. It's twelve thirty here, eight thirty in Hawaii.

I call Joss. This morning she texted me, telling me to call her ASAP and giving me a number. I don't know where she got the phone, but I am glad she has one because I need to ask her some questions. She picks up on the fourth ring, sounding groggy.

"Hi," I say. "It's Alix."

"I need you to get me some stuff from Swan's room," she says.

"Are you having fun?" I ask. Stupid question. I almost ask if she's regrouped, but that'd be two stupid questions in a row.

"I want my wigs and makeup kit. I have a bunch of clothes in there, but I don't care about them. I definitely want Swan's cell. I know she had it on her when she... Look in that hospital bag."

I'm barely listening. "Tell me about Liana."

She doesn't say anything.

"I know her first name, Joss. What's her last name?"

Joss yawns. "Why do you want to know?"

"I just do."

There's another long pause. "It's your stake through the heart."

My what? She's so melodramatic.

"It's Torres."

Torres. LT has a name. Liana Torres. It makes her more real.

"Who is she to Swanee?" I ask.

Joss says, "You don't have to worry. She won't find out about you."

What does that mean? Can't she answer one question without talking around it?

Now I'm more confused than ever. "Who is she to Swanee?" I ask again.

"Don't you mean was?"

I'm still having a hard time thinking of Swan in the past tense.

Joss says, "If Swan wanted you to know, she would've told you."

I want to throttle her. "Maybe she was going to tell me, but she didn't get a chance." Did Joss ever think of that? Because I have-about a hundred times.

Joss doesn't take the bait.

"Please, Joss. I need to know."

"Why?"

Because we didn't have that much time together, and there are so many things that were left unsaid, and undone. I answer quietly, "Just because."

Joss sighs, sounding exactly like Swanee. "Liana was her girlfriend."

My jaw unhinges. I say, "But I am-was-"

"Her ex. She broke up with her after she met you."

Relief washes over me.

"Get Swan's iPad for me, too. She has a lot of pictures of us on it. Just put everything under my bed so Jewell won't see it."

I'm still processing this conversation. Something isn't adding up, like the time line. And Liana's ongoing texts. "When did they break up, exactly?"

"I don't know the date and time. Exactly."

"But they did break up."

"I told you they did. Are you calling me a liar?"

"No." I take a deep breath. "How can you be so sure Liana doesn't know about me?" I ask Joss. I know about her.

Joss says, "Because Swan gave her a fake last name. Liana didn't know anything about Swanee's real life."

Oh my G.o.d. That explains the texts. "Is there a possibility she doesn't know Swanee's dead?"

Joss goes, "f.u.c.k."

"What name did Swanee give her?"

"Swanelle Delaney. I came up with it."

Like that's important? "Do you know her? Personally?"

"I met her a few times. At the games Swanee took me to. She's a b.i.t.c.h."

Again with the games. "What games? Where?"

"She's a cheerleader at Greeley West."

What about cheers being stuck-up s.l.u.ts? Maybe that only applied to Betheny. "How long were they together?"

"You're really a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t, aren't you?"

"I just think someone should tell her about Swanee. If, um, she doesn't already know."

Joss mimics my exasperated breath. "When you find her phone, look in Swan's contacts list. She might still have the number."

I almost slip and say I know Liana's number. "Don't you think she should be told in person?"

"By who? Me? No way."

Well, I'm not going to call her. That'd be the cruelest way ever to deliver heartbreaking news about someone you're obviously still in love with.

I hear voices in the background and Joss says, "We're off to score some native weed. Want me to bring you back some?"

"No. Do you know when you'll be home?"

She disconnects without answering the question.

One piece of the puzzle is in place. If Liana didn't know Swanee's last name, it's conceivable she hasn't connected the dots of Swanee's death.

And now, with Joss out of town, it's my sole responsibility to tell Liana. In fact, I have a burning desire to know everything about her because I think she's the key to cracking a safe full of secrets about Swanee.

Chapter 7.

Greeley is a cow town north of Arvada. I Google Greeley West to check out the sports schedule and note that the only home event this week is wrestling on Thursday. That morning I ask Dad if I can borrow the car and he says, "A blizzard is rolling in later."

I figure I can get to Greeley and back in an hour, hour and a half. Telling Liana won't take long, depending on the number of questions she hits me with.

Dad says, "You sure you don't want me to take you and pick you up?"

The way he has ever since I was in elementary school and the weather was bad. I click my tongue in disgust. "I think I can drive six blocks in the snow."

Dad sets a stack of pancakes in front of me and says, "You can walk six blocks, too."

"Or I could drive." I feel angry at him and I don't know why. I'm angry at the world. "Please? I swear I'll be careful."

Dad cradles Ethan on his lap with a bottle while he squirts syrup on his pancakes. "It's not that I don't trust you, Alix. I know you're a good driver."

So what's the problem? "Can I take it?"

He cuts into his pancakes and says, "All right. But if it gets really bad and you don't feel comfortable driving home, call me."

"And you'll do what?"

He chews and swallows. "Bundle up Bubba here, and hoof it up the hill to rescue you." He smiles.

He would, too. Why does he have to be so irritatingly... Dad?

Around noon the snow starts with a fury. Dad calls me at lunch and asks, "Are they letting you out early?"

"Not that I know of," I tell him.

"I really don't want you driving-"

"Dad, it's six blocks. I'll be fine. If nothing else, I'll just put it in neutral and slide down the hill."

He doesn't laugh.

I skip Physics cla.s.s and race to the Prius, slipping and sliding through the parking lot. The sheet of ice tests the law that a body in motion stays in motion until it b.u.t.t-checks the ground. Wadsworth Boulevard is a skating rink, as they say, but I take it slow, eventually exiting I-70 onto I-76, heading for Greeley.

Dad would literally kill me if he knew.