The Last Time I Lied_A Novel Page 7

  Memories of the girls’ voices return to me, like an echo of an echo. Random snippets I had completely forgotten until now. Allison mock-singing “I Feel Pretty” while flouncing around in her too-big polo shirt. Natalie sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, her legs spackled with calamine lotion.

  These mosquitoes are, like, obsessed with me, she said. There’s something about my blood that attracts them.

  I don’t think that’s how it works, I said.

  Then why are they biting me and not the rest of you?

  It’s your sweat, Vivian announced. Bugs love it. So slather on that Teen Spirit, girls.

  My phone squawks deep inside my pocket, snapping me out of my self-indulgent, admittedly morbid reverie. I dig out the phone and see that Marc’s attempting to FaceTime. With only one bar of signal, I have doubts it’s going to work.

  “Hey, Veronica Mars,” he says once I answer. “How’s the sleuthing going?”

  “I’m just starting.” I sit on the edge of my bed, holding out my arm so my entire face fits into the frame. “I can’t talk very long. The signal here is terrible.”

  Marc gives me his dramatic pouting face in return. He’s in the kitchen of his bistro, the glossy, stainless-steel door of the walk-in freezer behind him.

  “How’s Camp Crystal Lake?”

  “Devoid of masked killers,” I say.

  “That’s a plus, I suppose.”

  “But I’m rooming with three teenage girls.”

  “Definitely not in your wheelhouse,” Marc says. “What are they like?”

  “I would describe them as sassy, but that term is probably out-of-date.”

  “Sassy never goes out of style. It’s like blue jeans. Or vodka. Is that a bunk bed?”

  “It is indeed,” I say. “It’s about as comfortable as it looks.”

  Marc’s expression changes from pouting to horrified. “Oh dear. I apologize for convincing you to go back there.”

  “You didn’t convince me,” I say. “You just nudged me a little closer.”

  “I wouldn’t have nudged if I’d known bunk beds would be involved.” His image sputters a moment. When he moves his head, an afterimage follows in a stream of pixels.

  “You’re breaking up,” I say, when in reality it’s me. The signal has dropped from one bar to none. On the screen, Marc’s face is frozen, nothing but an abstract blur. Yet I can still hear him. His voice cuts in and out, letting me catch only every other word.

  “You . . . out . . . bored . . . okay?”

  The phone gives up the ghost, and the call dies. My screen goes blank. Replacing Marc’s face is my own reflection. I stare at it, shocked at how tired I look. Worse than tired. Haggard. No wonder Miranda made that crack about my age. I look positively ancient compared with them.

  It makes me wonder what the other girls of Dogwood would look like today. Allison would probably still be cute and petite like her mother, who I saw a few years ago in a revival of Sweeney Todd. I spent the whole show wondering how much she thought of her daughter, if there’s a picture of Allison in her dressing room, if seeing it made her sad.

  I suspect Natalie would have remained physically formidable, thanks to sports in college.

  And Vivian? I’m certain she’d be the same. Slim. Stylish. A beauty that bordered on haughtiness. I imagine her taking one look at present-day me and saying, We need to talk about your hair. And your wardrobe.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket and open my suitcase. Quickly, I change into a pair of shorts and one of the official camp polos that arrived in the mail two weeks ago. The rest go into my assigned trunk by the door. It’s the same trunk from my previous stay here. I can tell from the grayish stain that mars the satin lining.

  I close the trunk and run my hands across the lid, feeling the bumps and grooves of all the names that have been carved into the hickory. Another memory prods my thoughts. Me on my first morning at camp, kneeling before this very trunk with a dull pocketknife in my hand.

  Carve your name, Allison urged.

  Every girl does it, Natalie added. It’s tradition.

  I followed that tradition and carved my name. Two letters in all caps white against the dark wood.

  EM

  Vivian stood behind me as I did it, her voice soft and encouraging in my ear. Make your mark. Let future generations know you were here. That you existed.

  I look to the other side of the cabin, at the two trunks resting by the door. Natalie’s and Allison’s. Their names have faded with time, barely distinguishable from all the others carved around them. I then move to the trunk next to mine. Vivian’s. She had carved her name in the center of the lid, larger than all the others.

  VIV

  I crack open her trunk, even though I know it’s Miranda’s now and that inside aren’t Vivian’s clothes and crafts and bottle of Obsession she swore covered the scent of bug spray. In their place are Miranda’s clothes—an assortment of too-tight shorts and lacy bras and panties utterly inappropriate for camp. In a corner sits a surprisingly high stack of paperbacks. Gone Girl, Rosemary’s Baby, a few Agatha Christie mysteries.

  But the lining inside the lid is the same. Burgundy satin. Just like mine. The only difference, other than the gray stain, is a six-inch tear in the fabric. It sits on the left side of the lid, running vertically, the edges feathery.

  Vivian’s hiding place, used to store the pendant necklace she took off only when she slept. A heart-shaped locket hung from it. Gold with a small emerald inlaid in its center.

  I know of the hiding place only because I saw Vivian use it on the first full day of camp. I was at my own trunk, searching for my toothbrush, when she knelt in front of hers. She unclasped the necklace and held it for a moment in her cupped hands.

  That’s pretty, I said. An heirloom?

  It belonged to my sister.

  Belonged?

  She died.

  Sorry. Apprehension fluttered in my chest. I’d never met someone with a dead sibling before and didn’t know how to act. I didn’t mean to bring it up.

  You didn’t, Vivian said. I did. And it’s healthy to talk about it. That’s what my therapist says.

  I felt another flutter. A dead sister and therapy? At that moment, Vivian was the most exotic creature I had ever met.

  How’d she die?

  She drowned.

  Oh, I said, too surprised to say more.

  Vivian didn’t say anything else, either. She simply poked her fingers through the tear in the lining and let the necklace slither out of view behind it.

  Now I stare at the slash in the fabric, fingering my own piece of jewelry. Unlike Vivian’s necklace, I never remove the charm bracelet. Not to sleep. Not to shower. Not even when painting. The wear and tear shows. Each tiny bird has scratches in the pewter that stand out like scars. Dots of dried paint mar their beaks.

  I pry my right hand away from the bracelet and plunge it through the tear in the lining. Fabric tickles my wrist as I stretch my fingers and feel around the inside of the lid. I’m not expecting to find anything. Certainly not the necklace, which Vivian had been wearing when she left the cabin for the very last time. I do it because once I check, I’ll know there’s no trace of Vivian left there.

  Only there is.

  Something is inside the lid, sitting at the bottom, wedged between wood and fabric. A piece of paper, folded in half. I run a finger along the crease, feeling its length. Then I pinch the edge between my thumb and forefinger and slide it from the lining.

  Age has given the paper a yellowish tint—a sickly shade that reminds me of dried egg yolk. The page crackles when I unfold it, revealing an even older-looking photograph nestled in its crease.

  I study the photo first. It’s surprisingly old. Something more likely to be found in a museum than in a camp cabin. Sepia-toned and worn along the e
dges, it depicts a young woman in a plain dress. She sits before a bare wall, turned at an angle that shows off long, dark hair cascading down her back and out of frame.

  Clutched in the woman’s hands is a large silver hairbrush, which she holds to her chest like a prized possession. I find the gesture oddly endearing, although one could also assume it’s vanity that makes her grip the brush so tightly. That she spends her days running it through that absurdly long hair, breaking up the tangles, smoothing the strands. But the woman’s expression makes me assume that’s not the case. Although she looks to be in repose, her face is anything but peaceful. Her lips are pressed together, forming a flat line. Her face is pinched. Her eyes, wild and dark, convey sadness, loneliness, and something else. An emotion I know well.

  Distress.

  I stare into those eyes, finding them disturbingly familiar. I’ve seen that same expression in my own eyes. Not long after I left Camp Nightingale for what I had thought was the last time.

  I flip over the photo and see a name scrawled on its back in faded ink.

  Eleanor Auburn.

  Several questions settle uneasily onto my shoulders. Who is this woman? When was this picture taken? And, above all else, where did Vivian get it, and why was it hidden in her trunk?

  The contents of the unfolded page don’t provide any answers. Instead, I see a drawing crudely scratched onto a ruled piece of paper torn from some sort of notebook. The focal point of the drawing is a blob that resembles a paisley, strange and formless. Surrounding it are hundreds of dark slashes, each dashed off in strokes so quick and forceful my painting hand aches just from looking at them. Beneath the paisley, tucked among the slashes, are several shapes. Messy ones. Not quite circles, not quite squares. Off to their left is another circle-square. Bigger than the others.

  I realize what it is and gasp.

  For reasons I can’t begin to understand, Vivian drew Camp Nightingale.

  The paisley is Lake Midnight, dominating the landscape, demanding attention. The slashes are an abstract version of the woods surrounding it. The series of shapes are the cabins. I count twenty of them, just like in real life. The big splotch, of course, is the Lodge, commanding the southern shore of the lake.

  Vivian had drawn another cabin-size shape on the other side of the lake, almost directly across from camp. It sits next to the water, all alone. Only there aren’t any structures on the other side of the lake. At least, none that I’m aware of.

  Just like the photo, the sketch defies explanation. I try to think of a logical reason why Vivian drew it but come up empty. She had gone here three summers in a row. Surely there was no need for her to draw a map of the camp to find her way around.

  Because that is indeed what it looks like. A map. Not just of camp but of the entire lake. It reminds me of the satellite view I studied on the ride here. All of Lake Midnight in one handy image.

  I bring the page closer to my face, zeroing in not on the camp but on the area on the other side of the lake. A short distance behind the mystery structure is something barely distinguishable from the slashes that surround it.

  An X.

  Small but noticeable, it sits near a cluster of ragged triangles that resemble tiny mountains drawn by a kindergartener. Vivian had used extra force when drawing it. The lines push into the paper, creating two crisscrossed indentations.

  That means it was important to her.

  That something of interest was located there.

  I fold the photograph inside the map and secure them both inside my own hickory trunk. It strikes me that if Vivian had taken such great care to hide them, then I should do the same thing.

  It was, after all, her secret.

  And I’ve become very good at keeping them.

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  “There’s one thing you need to know about this place,” Vivian said. “Never arrive to anything on time. Either be there first or get there last.”

  “Even meals?” I asked.

  “Especially meals. You won’t believe how crazy some of these bitches get around food.”

  It was my first morning at camp, and Vivian and I had just left the latrine on the way to the mess hall. Although the mealtime bell rang fifteen minutes earlier, Vivian showed no sign of hurry. Her pace bordered on lackadaisical as she looped her arm through mine, forcing me to slow as well.

  When we eventually did reach the mess hall, I noticed a girl with frizzy hair standing outside the arts and crafts building with a camera around her neck. She noticed us, too, because something flickered in her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or worry. It lasted only a second before she raised her camera and aimed it our way, the blue-black lens following us as we entered the mess hall.

  “Who was that taking our picture?” I asked.

  “Becca?” Vivian said. “Don’t mind her. She’s a nobody.”

  Taking my hand, she pulled me toward the front of the room, where a handful of kitchen workers in hairnets stood before steaming trays of food. Because we were among the last to arrive, there was no wait. Vivian was right, not that I ever doubted her.

  The only person later than us was a smiling redheaded counselor with the name Casey stitched onto her camp polo. She was short—practically my height—and had a pear-shaped frame made more pronounced by the large pockets of her cargo shorts.

  “Well, if it isn’t Vivian Hawthorne,” she said. “You told me last summer that you were done with this place. Couldn’t stay away?”

  “And miss out on a chance to torment you for another summer?” Vivian said as she grabbed two bananas, placing one of them on my tray. “No way.”

  “And here I thought I was going to have it easy this year.” The counselor gave me an appraising look. She seemed surprised—not to mention a little confused—to see me by Vivian’s side. “You’re new, right?”

  Vivian ordered two bowls of clumpy oatmeal, again giving one to me. “Emma, this is Casey. Former camper, current counselor, forever bane of my existence. Casey, meet Emma.”

  I lifted my tray up and down in a weak approximation of a wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  “She’s my protégé,” Vivian said.

  “That’s a scary thought.” Casey turned to me again and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come see me if she starts to corrupt you too much. I’m in Birch.”

  She passed us on her way to a decanter of coffee and the platter of doughnuts next to it. Before leaving the food line, I also ordered what I really wanted for breakfast—toast and a plate of bacon. Vivian eyed the extra side dishes but said nothing.

  We then made our way through the clanging, slurping girls huddled at tables in configurations familiar from my school’s cafeteria. Younger girls on one side. Older ones on the other. And at that moment, I wasn’t adhering to my socially acceptable pack. A few girls my age took notice and watched with envy as Vivian led me to the side of the mess hall populated by older girls. She waved to some and ignored others before sitting me down with Allison and Natalie.

  I had been awake when the two of them left the cabin to head to the latrine. Although they invited me to join them, I stayed behind, waiting for Vivian to rise. She was the only one I wanted showing me the ropes. While Allison and Natalie seemed nice, they reminded me too much of girls I knew at school. Slightly older versions of Heather and Marissa.

  Vivian was different. I’d never met anyone so unfiltered. To a shy girl like me, her attention was as warm and welcome as the sun.

  “Morning, bitches,” she said to the others. “Sleep well?”

  “The usual,” Allison said as she picked at a bowl of fruit salad. “You, Emma?”

  “Great,” I said.

  It was a lie. The cabin was too stuffy, too quiet. I missed air-conditioning and the sounds of Manhattan—all those irritated car horns and wailing sirens in the distance. At Camp Nightingale, there was nothing but bug noise and
the lake lapping against the shore. I assumed I’d get used to it.

  “Thank God you don’t snore, Em,” Vivian said. “We had a snorer last year. Sounded like a dying cow.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” said Natalie. On her tray sat two servings of bacon and the syrupy remains of flapjacks. She bit into a bacon slice, chewing and talking at the same time. “You’re just being mean because you don’t like her anymore.”

  Already, I had noticed the weird dynamic between the three of them. Vivian was the ringleader. Obviously. Natalie, athletic and a little bit gruff, was the resistance. Pretty, subdued Allison was the peacekeeper, a role she assumed that very morning.

  “Tell us about yourself, Emma,” she said. “You don’t go to our school, right?”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Vivian replied. “We’d know if she did. Half our school goes here.”

  “I go to Douglas Academy,” I said.

  Allison stabbed a chunk of melon, lifted it to her lips, put it back down. “Do you like it there?”

  “It’s nice, I guess. For an all-girls school.”

  “Ours is, too,” Vivian said. “And I’d honestly kill to spend a summer away from some of these sluts.”

  “Why?” Natalie asked. “You pretend half of them don’t exist when we’re here.”

  “Just like I’m pretending right now that you’re not stuffing your face with bacon,” Vivian shot back. “Keep eating like that and next year it’ll be fat camp for you.”

  Natalie sighed and dropped the half-eaten bacon onto her plate. “You want any, Allison?”

  Allison shook her head and pushed away her barely touched bowl of fruit. “I’m stuffed.”

  “I was just joking,” Vivian said, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry, Nat. Really. You look . . . fine.”

  She smiled then, the word lingering like the insult it really was.