Introduction

Tangled in Lies

I lie weeping, my body curled in a fetal position, on the dry bed of a blue kiddie pool. The loose rocks peppering the concrete driveway poke through the plastic, needling my arms, legs, and the side of my face, but I don’t care. My heart aches more, trampled and crushed like the soft shell of a robin’s egg when it falls from the nest.

“Can someone please shut her up?” a boy asks, nudging the side of the pool.

My best friend, Jess, leans down beside me.

“Missy,” she says, “can you get out of the pool?”

“No! I’m not getting up until I know he loves me!”

“Sweetie, he’s over this mess. You need to get out of the pool.”

My stomach churns with the suds of pale ale and whiskey shots. Liquid crazy pulses through my veins as I lie on Brent’s driveway and cry. The party rages on despite my tears, with bass thumping out the windows, clouds of smoke drifting into the autumn air, and the laughter of drunken teens mocking my brokenness.

“I want him to love me,” I say, rolling a beer bottle between my palms.

“Someone’s going to call the cops, if you don’t shut up,” the boy says again, kicking the pool this time.

I jump up and holler, “Screw you, Jake,” then take off running down the street, screaming at the top of my lungs.

A neighbor dressed in a bathrobe walks out her front door and says, “Hey, little girl! Quiet!”

“Shut up, witch!” I scream, collapsing onto her grass.

“I’m calling the sheriff,” she says, marching back inside.

“Screw you!” I yell, tossing my beer bottle behind her.

“Damn it, Missy!” Jess says, helping me to my feet. “Shut your drunk ass up.”

“What if the cops show up?” I ask. “I’ll be busted!”

“We’ll all be busted,” Jess says, staggering with me to the camper parked alongside the curb. Brent’s parents aren’t home. They would never consent to a bunch of middle schoolers partying in their house. Jess pushes me inside the RV and snaps the door shut behind us. Then my other friend, Traci, pulls me in for a hug, hands me a beer, and says, “You’re okay.”

“Why doesn’t he love me?” I ask again, pulling in a long swig.

She doesn’t answer. No one ever does. The stupid thing is, I know why Brent doesn’t love me, but I dare not say it out loud. If I say it, my stupidity becomes real. And I’m not ready to face my own stupidity.

I wipe the snot off my nose and glance at the faces staring at me. Jess, Traci, and Mandy. These girls are my crew. And the boys outside are, too, only they’re brash. Especially when they drink. The scary thing is all these people think my crazy is about Brent. They all think I’m nuts about a boy. That the booze and pot bring out a loopy, pathetic affection for a guy who doesn’t love me.

They are wrong.

I squeeze my fist into a ball and peer down at my swollen knuckles. I like to punch things, like the floor, my locker, and school desks, hoping to get someone’s attention, hoping someone will notice. The truth is, if I were brave, I’d be covered in cuts. I’d take the X-acto knife from our utility drawer at home, and I’d slice the sharp blade down the belly of my forearm like a fisherman gutting salmon. That’s a funny analogy. My dad’s a fisherman. I’ve watched him fillet plenty of fish, spill their guts out on the ground, peel the skin off them. He’s filleted me, too.

I want to tell my friends the truth, want them to know why I scream and cry and drink and run. Why I want someone to see me. I’m looking for a pure love. An unadulterated, untouched, unmarred, love. Someone who loves me for me. Someone who knows all the dirty about me and still loves me. I know he isn’t Brent or any other boy. At least, deep inside my spirit I know. But for now, I’m following what all those fairy tales, Hollywood movies, and romance novels tell me. Real love is found in a boy.

Someone outside yells, “Cops!”

I peek out the window to see red and blue lights. Someone opens the trailer door and shoves me out, saying, “Run, Missy! Run and hide.” I trip going down the stairs, then crawl on my hands and knees toward a parked car, slide underneath, and hold my breath to listen. A car door slams, muffled voices fill the air, but I can’t hear what they are saying. Until they move closer.

“Her name is Missy. I don’t know her last name,” Traci says.

“Where is she?” asks the cop.

“She ran when you got here. Out through that field,” she says.

“Crap!” I whisper. The car I’m under is parked beside the field.

His flashlight dances over the pavement as he walks toward me. I nuzzle between the wheels and lie with my body parallel to the axle. Traci and the cop stand so close, I could touch their ankles.

“Call her name,” the cop says.

“Missy!”

I push up into a plank position, shove my back against the car’s rear axle, and pray he doesn’t find me.

“Do it again,” he says.

“Missy!”

I hold my breath.

“She’s long gone,” Traci says.

The cop spins around so his toes are facing me, bends over, and shines his light under the car. My heart pounds so loud, I wonder if he can hear it. He flicks the spotlight back and forth, then stands up and walks to another vehicle. The shuffle of his feet fades away, but I hold my position, and my breath, until I hear him say, “If you see her, tell her to go home.”

His car door slams, lights flick off, and tires creep away over damp pavement before I climb out of my hiding place. When I reappear, Traci says, “Where did you go? I thought you were busted!”

“I hid under a car,” I say, pointing behind me.

“The car we were standing behind?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, as Jess grabs my hand.

“But he looked under that car,” Traci says.

“I know! I was squeezed between the tires, pressed up underneath it!”

“Damn, you’re lucky!”

“Time to go,” Jess says, pulling me down the driveway.

“You two walk safe,” Traci says, climbing back inside the camper.

My best friend and I shuffle down the road with white puffs of foggy air trailing behind us. Johnny’s house is only a few blocks away. His house is the party house. He’s got no mom, his dad’s never home, and his door is always unlocked. Jess and I plan to crash there tonight.

I drape my arm around Jess and lean into her strawberry blonde hair.

“I love you, Jess,” I say with a slur.

“I love you, too,” she says.

“I’m sure glad somebody loves me,” I say, pulling a Marlboro from my pocket.

The next morning, Jess and I trek back to our neighborhood as the sun rises, then part ways at the edge of my cul-de-sac. I sigh in relief as I round the corner and notice my father’s car missing from the driveway. Dad is probably fishing, which is good, since gone is what I like best about him. I sneak through the front door, hold my breath and listen for Mom. I hear the dryer door clang shut. Mom’s down in the basement doing weekend laundry. I take a deep breath and tiptoe upstairs to my room where I collapse onto my bed and hope to get some sleep. A rumbling in my tummy forces me to sit up, breathe deep, and count to ten. No luck. I jump out of bed and run for the toilet.

Brown puke runs out my nose as I heave, tossing the remnants of last night’s party. I try to barf quietly, which is impossible, so I formulate my lie as waves of nausea roll in my belly. Food poisoning. I’ll tell Mom Jess made nachos with some old hamburger. That ought to do it. I brush my teeth, pull my hair into a scrunchie, and tiptoe back to bed. Sleeps rolls over me like a blanket, lulling me into a world of dreams, when a knock at the door makes me jump.

“Hey, honey,” Mom says, poking her head in. “Can we chat a minute?”

I push myself to sit, grip my belly, and nod my head.

“You smell like beer,” Mom says.

Gulp.

“Were you out drinking last night?”

“Me and Jess had a couple beers with her sister,” I say.

My parents are not super strict about what we do, so long as we’re safe. My lie should slide right past her.

“Are you lying?” she asks.

My eyes grow wide as I say no.

“We drove past Jessica’s house last night,” she says. “No one was home.”

Uh-oh.

“So tell me the truth. Where were you last night?”

“I slept at Jessie’s,” I say, lying again.

Momma holds my gaze for several seconds before letting out a long sigh. She shakes her head, then stands to go, saying, “Dad and I are going to the Petersons’ for dinner tonight. Want to tag along?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure? Your brother is at Grant’s, so you’ll be home alone. It gets dark early now.”

“I’m not a baby, Mom. And I’m not afraid of the dark,” I say with an eye roll.

“Okay, fine. No friends tonight,” she says, walking out the door.

Fine by me. I probably don’t have friends after last night anyway, I think to myself before collapsing back into a long, dark sleep.

♥

I watch the headlights of our blue Chevy back down the drive and breathe a sigh of relief as my parents head out for the evening. As I stare outside, a muddled reflection peers back at me through the window, distorted by the amber glow of my bedroom lamp and the trickles of rain freckling the glass. I stop to drink her in.

My family sees a petite, brown-eyed, zany girl who doesn’t care what people think, say, or do. They know a girl who’s a bit of a troublemaker, but also happy and free and full of life. But she’s a lie. A 1980s’ composite of Wonder Woman reruns, Guns and Roses rock songs, and Madonna’s Like a Virgin attitude. She’s the girl I make up every time I cake on three inches of foundation, slip on my stirrup pants, and tease my long brown curls into a tower of mall bangs. She’s the skin I put on to be cool with my friends and keep things chill at home.

But she’s a shadow, a ghost, an aberration. Behind her cheerful demeanor lies a heart drowning in despair, grief, and fear. And secrets. Oh, the secrets. If people only knew how dirty, shameful, and used up she is.

The girl in the window, she’s the girl I know, with her mangled features and mascara-stained cheeks. The girl I know wants to die. Sometimes I wonder if this story will end with me jumping off a bridge. Mom says suicide is the unforgivable sin. What if she’s right? I don’t want to spend eternity with the devil. I’m already living with him. He pops out when I least expect it, turning my father’s irises midnight black when he shoves his accusations in my face. Satan himself thunders over me every time Dad screams at me. Satan himself whispers in my ear when . . .  

I pinch my eyes at the thought, turn from the window, like a million times before, and grab a tissue off my dresser.

“Where did this sadness come from?” I wonder aloud. It’s like a virus or a curse in my DNA, this propensity to drown in my own sorrow. My father has it, too. So does his mother. But they have good reason.

I blow my nose, wander toward the living room, plop down in front of the coffee table, and pull out an old photo album. Mom calls it my baby book. Memories of my first three years on earth rest inside its stained leather cover. Each photo sits its own paper square with Mom’s silky handwriting telling the who, what, and when of each scene. They say things like “Missy’s first bath” or “Missy wearing Daddy’s army hat,” along with a date and place. Momma’s good at loving me like this. She’s good at remembering and celebrating the people in her life.

I flip past the pages of Mom’s pregnancy, her youthful face shining and happy, standing in front of a Pike National Forest sign next to my father. I remember the tale of Daddy meeting Momma when he returned from Vietnam, of him going AWOL to ask Granddad for Momma’s hand in marriage. His valiant proposal landed him in the brig.

I flip to my momma’s family. Granddad cradling me in his big hands, Grandma in her skinny arms. My aunt Kathy feeding me a bottle. She died a few years later when I was five and she was eighteen. I exhale, feel the weight of her loss on my heart. In four short years, I will be eighteen. I pull out Kathy’s photo for closer inspection, lay a kiss on her paper cheek, tuck her back in her sleeve, and turn the pages.

I bypass birthday cakes and Christmas trees until I find the picture I’m looking for. The one with my father standing shirtless, a stark black wizard tattoo covering his heart, his wavy black hair pulled into a mass of beaded braids. These were the dreadlocks of the seventies. He holds a pipe in his hands and a deep well of grief in his eyes. He’s not doing anything special in the photo. There’s no funeral or loss of any kind. There’s just my dad, his funky hair, and an air of sadness all around him.

I stare at the photo for a long time and try to understand. Or maybe try to remember an event locked away in the recesses of my mind. I think Dad’s despair jumped on me when I was maybe four or five. I would sit and stare at this photo, let all the dark emotion in Daddy’s eyes climb off the page and slither past the windows of my soul. It’s a strange spiritual kind of thing I can’t explain. It’s as if I’m addicted to this darkness, this abyss of unhappiness. It’s abstract, yet as real as any flame I can touch, and it burns my soul even now.

I snap the book shut on his face, pull a shoe box off the shelf, flick open the lid, and grab a handful of grainy photos. I love to remember, to hear Mom’s words ring in my head as I stare at each picture. The funny stories she and Dad tell around the kitchen table on hot summer nights. I love it when Dad talks about how Mom dropped out of college to drink beer and hang her ass out the car window. “That’s the night I fell in love with her,” he says.

I also love the story of me asking Granddad if he was smoking hash in his tobacco pipe. Hey, I was four years old. How was I to know my parents were a couple of liars? Since then, my family of four has grown accustomed to lying to my grandparents. We never mention the marijuana, the cocaine, or the LSD someone slipped into my daddy’s drink one time in the desert.

“Who tells their kids stories about dropping acid in the desert?” I wonder aloud. “Only my jacked-up family.”

I say this with a conflicted heart, because at the same time I judge Mom and Dad, I also thank them for teaching me to never use angel dust or heroin.

“PCP will make you think you can fly,” Momma says. “People jump off buildings and bridges when they do that stuff.”

“Don’t ever stick needles in your veins, Missy,” Dad says. “You can’t come back from shooting black tar.”

“Thanks for teaching me to stay away from the dangerous drugs,” I say to the photos in my hand.

Sighing deeply, I decide to indulge this harmony of joy and sorrow a bit longer. Maybe in my pondering, I can figure out where my sadness came from. I pull a Fleetwood Mac album from its sleeve and drop it on the turntable. Then I thumb through the photos while Stevie Nicks’s gritty voice pulls me back to the sticky scent of honeysuckle.