I Swear Read online

  Beth grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. Jillian looked at me; Macie followed her gaze and smiled.

  “I know it’s only seven, but you need to look alive, VP. You’re going to want to join me at school early this morning. There may be news crews. This sort of stuff is a local anchor’s wet dream. Dress for the cameras.”

  She picked up her bag and headed toward the hallway. When she reached the door of Jillian’s suite, she turned back toward Jillian and frowned.

  “I don’t know what Jake’s issue was last night,” she said, “but I know I can count on you, right, Jillian?”

  There was a tense silence, and I watched as Jillian sputtered and blushed under the heat of Macie’s gaze.

  “Wha—? Yes, I mean, yeah. Of course,” she choked out.

  Macie nodded once. Then she was gone.

  Jillian glanced over at me as I stood up and walked toward the bathroom. I shook my head and smiled at her, then rolled my eyes after Macie with a little sigh. Jillian almost smiled at me, and took a deep breath—the first one I’d seen her take since I sat up and opened my eyes. Her relief was like the wiggle of the catfish my grandpa used to take off my fishing line and toss back into the water at the pond out behind his house during the summer when I was little.

  You can always read Jillian’s cards. That girl’s face is a full house.

  3. BETH

  By the time I got to school my eyes were so red and puffy from crying that they were almost swollen shut. I looked like Mary Alice Splinter that day in eighth grade when she bobbled her approach on the springboard and smacked the vault with her forehead. It was the last practice before the winter invitational, and Mary Alice was our strongest all-around competitor. I remember watching her hold her head and wail into the mats. I stood there, helpless, while the coaches tended to her. The worst part of all was the sickening feeling that we’d already lost before we’d had the chance to compete—like everything was over before it ever started.

  I remember feeling helpless as I stood there watching life buzz by around me. All the other girls seemed to know what to do. One went to the school office to get a secretary to call Mary Alice’s mom. Two more went to her locker to get her things. Another helped the coaches apply cold packs and talk to Mary Alice while we waited for the ambulance.

  Then there was me. Helpless little me.

  I had my growth spurt in sixth grade. It lasted exactly three months. I got my period, grew four inches, and stopped. I will forever be exactly five feet tall. I’m a gymnast chick. I’m tiny. Those girls with no boobs you see on TV, who stand on the balance beam during the Olympics and their knees and elbows look like they’re bending the wrong way? That’s me.

  Most of the girls on my gymnastics team will get too tall or too fat or too bored to keep training. Not me. I’m the perfect size and shape. I’ve got NCAA Division I lines. And the scouts are interested.

  On that day back in eighth grade, feeling helpless, watching them wheel Mary Alice down the hallway to the ambulance, I made a list in my head of things I needed to do that day. When I got back to class, I wrote them down:

  1. Send Mary Alice a get-well card. Or balloons. Or something.

  2. Run through floor routine again tonight after practice.

  3. Call Mom, tell her I’ll be late because I’m working the floor routine.

  4. Make sure red competition leotard is clean.

  The list made me feel like I was doing something, like life wasn’t happening around me, or to me. The list made me feel like I was in charge of something in those moments after Mary Alice went to the hospital.

  It made me feel not so small.

  We lost the meet that weekend in March, but a high school coach from across town saw me compete. Afterward he came up and handed my dad his card.

  “Your girl is Division One material, Dad.” When the coach smiled, he had a dimple on one side of his face. “Guy Stevens. Give me a call next week. I’m at Westport High. Best public school athletics department in the Northwest. Our girls have taken the Class 4A championship at state the last three years.”

  My Dad thanked him, and then the coach turned to me.

  “You got killer moves, little lady. If you can convince your dad to send you my way, we’ll get you in shape for the Olympics.” Later that summer, Coach Stevens invited us to a cookout. “My niece will be there,” he said. “She’s Beth’s age and she’ll be playing volleyball at Westport this fall.”

  And that’s how I met Leslie Gatlin.

  She wasn’t as petite as I was, but I remember taking one look and thinking how delicate she looked. And tan. She seemed to be spun out of brown sugar and air, like a heavy rain might wash her away completely. Her dad was an asshole who talked about housing prices and market values without anyone else getting a word in edgewise. Her mom was slurring good-byes when they left that night, plastered on white wine spritzers.

  Leslie and I talked about school at first—where she’d gone, where I’d gone—and at some point during that evening, my dad decided that I could change districts and go to Westport to train with Leslie’s uncle. For some reason, I told Leslie about Mary Alice and about the list I made and how the list made me feel powerful and unafraid even in the midst of chaos.

  Then we laughed and made a list together. It was a list of silly things that we would never do in high school:

  1. Run when we weren’t in a practice or competition.

  (It makes you look like you’re not in control.)

  2. Let any boy get to second base on the first date.

  (It makes you look desperate.)

  3. Miss a game, a meet, or a practice for any reason.

  (It makes you look lazy.)

  4. Drink booze before we were twenty-one.

  (It makes you look like a loser.)

  We were in the driveway, lying on the hood of her dad’s truck, staring up at the stars. The metal was still warm from baking in the summer sun all day. I asked Leslie how she’d gotten so tan, and she explained that she’d come back from vacation the day before. She told me all about her trip to Cape Cod and the sand and the sun and the sailing.

  And a boy named Jake.

  Thinking of that night made me cry again, this time harder. My head hurt so badly from the snot and the tears and the pressure that I could barely see.

  I pulled up to the rear entrance of the school so I could go in the back door between the gym and the music building. The traffic out front seemed a little crazy and I knew I’d have a better shot of making it to the bathroom to wash my face and put on some mascara without being seen if I went in the back way.

  I parked and grabbed my bag and blew my nose one last time. For some unknown reason the sky was clear and cloudless, and the sun was a little blinding for Seattle in the spring. Grateful for the excuse, I kept my sunglasses on and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up.

  I grasped the handle of the heavy back door and prepared to give it the big heave-ho muscle required to open it, but it was surprisingly light to my touch, and I realized too late that someone had hit the crash bar on the inside as I’d taken the handle. The door flew open like it was propelled by an explosive, and Bradley Wyst almost flattened me. He was moving so fast that he knocked my bag out of my hand and my sunglasses went clattering across the concrete.

  “Dude! Look where the hell you’re go—” He stopped short when he saw it was me. I stopped and picked up my sunglasses and put them back on without dusting them off, hoping he hadn’t seen my eyes.

  “Jesus, Beth.”

  “What, Brad?” I stared straight at him, daring him to say a word. It’s a trick I learned with my little brother.

  He seemed to be panting. He must’ve run the whole length of the building, from the senior parking lot to the back door. Brad was Jake’s best friend from kindergarten and had been Macie’s boyfriend since freshman year. He was taller than the rest of us, and usually quieter, the strong, silent type who stood at Macie’s elbow during parties, smiling and refil
ling drinks, happy to let her do the talking. It was strange seeing him in a hurry.

  Brad scooped up my bag and handed it to me. “Sorry. Where’s Jillian?”

  “Jillian?” I asked. “Macie should know. Isn’t Macie here already?”

  He made a sound that wasn’t quite a snort and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Macie’s here all right. Have you seen Jills?”

  I shook my head, but he’d already run into the parking lot.

  “If you see her, tell her to text me,” he called over his shoulder.

  I adjusted my hood again, then took a deep breath and heaved open the back door, hoping that I could make it through the morning crush to the bathroom without having to throw any elbows.

  The back hall was deserted.

  I stood at the door confused, fumbling to find my phone and check the time. It said 8:20. We had ten minutes until the bell rang for first period.

  Where the hell is everybody?

  I went into a stall and locked the door behind me. I needed to think for a second—to figure out what I was going to say to Macie. How was I going to keep her from telling everyone that it was my fault? Somewhere buried in those Facebook posts on Leslie’s wall, she must’ve seen the note. When she’d walked out of the bathroom this morning, she hadn’t told anyone else to go to Leslie’s page and post, only me.

  That wasn’t a mistake. There are no mistakes with Macie.

  The door to the bathroom swung open, and through the narrow space between the stall partitions, I saw two junior girls come in; one of them was crying.

  “I . . . just can’t believe . . . she’s . . . dead,” she choked out.

  The other one said nothing. She nodded and hugged her friend. I recognized them from the volleyball team.

  “I mean . . . how can Macie stand out there and talk to them like she was her best friend?”

  “Macie Merrick is a psycho, and she owns Katherine, Jillian, and Beth. You better not let any of them hear you talking like this unless you want to be next in the crosshairs.”

  I felt an explosion in the pit of my stomach. The heat raced into my throat and I turned just in time to hit the toilet and keep from throwing up on my bag.

  The sound startled the girls at the sink.

  The one who wasn’t crying walked over and gently knocked on the stall door.

  “Are you okay in there?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Ate something weird last night.”

  I flushed the toilet and unlatched the door. When they saw me, they froze. I fixed both of them with the stare that had silenced Brad earlier, then crossed to the sinks and cranked a large sheet of paper towel out of the dispenser. I turned on the cold water and gulped several mouthfuls straight from the tap before splashing some across my face with my hands.

  I turned off the water, tore the paper towel from the dispenser, dried my face, then walked back to the stall for my bag. I returned to the mirror digging out some moisturizer and mascara. Both of the girls had their eyes trained on me when I looked up, and then quickly looked away.

  “I overheard you say that Macie was talking to somebody?” I asked them, studying my reflection, then fishing for eyeliner. “Who was she talking to?”

  The redhead frowned. “Um . . . the reporters? Out front? How’d you miss her when you walked in?”

  Another day, I might have answered her. I might have asked her name. I might have told her that I came in the back door.

  But on this day, I was already in the hallway with my bag.

  Running.

  4. JAKE

  I hate treadmills. Boring as hell. I want to be headed somewhere when I run.

  Running before school in Seattle is tricky. During the winter it’s cold and in the spring I’m drenched, but I’m not afraid of a little water, and once you get going, you warm up pretty quick.

  Besides, when I don’t run, I can feel it.

  I could feel it when I was sitting in class and couldn’t concentrate enough to take notes. I could feel it when I saw Leslie in the hallway and she ignored me. I could feel it when Brad let loose with some crack and Coach made the whole team stay for an extra scrimmage.

  When I run, none of that crap gets to me.

  The farther I run, the smaller my problems get.

  I know it’s all about the chemicals in my brain and the way my body deals with stress, but it seems way simpler than that. When I wake up and run, something shifts. And I don’t mean the things in my life magically get better. Or even change.

  It’s more like I change.

  It’s not a big change. It’s a tiny shift—like when my mom moves a picture frame a couple of inches to the right so that it’s hanging level on the wall again. Before she does that, it’s like all you can see in the whole living room—that crooked picture. Once it’s fixed, all you notice is the picture. You don’t spend time thinking about how screwed up it looks—just who’s inside the frame.

  Running is like that. It makes me see all the same stuff—really see it—without thinking about how screwed up it is.

  This morning was warmer than it had been, and when the alarm went off at six a.m., I rolled out and pulled on the shorts and long-sleeve running shirt I had set out last night after I got back from Leslie’s. I grabbed my Nano and headed downstairs to pull on my shoes by the front door.

  As I passed Jillian’s door, I heard something and stopped. The door to the media room was cracked open a bit and I could see a light in the corner. It was coming from the laptop Jillian and I share. My eyes were full of sleep crap, so I rubbed them and finally focused on Beth on the air mattress in the corner, peering at the screen. Her shoulders were shaking. The sound I’d heard was her sniffing.

  I thought about asking her if she was okay, but Krista was passed out next to her and Katherine was on the pull-out. Besides, Beth is always okay—or isn’t interested in talking about if she isn’t okay.

  The sun was already coming up when I hit the sidewalk outside our house and started down the block. I love mornings like this in Seattle—you can see Mount Hood from the hill where we live, and when it’s clear and the sun starts coming up, you get this awesome view that reminds you why it’s not so bad to put up with the rain the rest of the time. The air was fresh and I thought about Leslie and wondered what time she’d made it to Portland last night.

  I’d begged her to let me come.

  “It’ll just be easier if you’re not involved,” she said.

  “But I am involved,” I said.

  She sighed and looked down at the floor. I hooked a finger under her chin and gently pulled it up toward my face. One more time I leaned in close to her. One more time I tried to kiss her. One more time she pulled away.

  “Jake, don’t.”

  I stepped back and shook my head. “I don’t get you.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing, Jake. Everything is right with you.”

  “Then why won’t you kiss me?”

  She didn’t have an answer. She never did.

  • • •

  Thinking about Leslie crying late last night made me push my speed so I could get back home to shoot her a text. Mile six was a killer, but I punched through it and was walking the last block to cool down when Macie rounded the corner in her black 5 Series Bimmer, trying to break the sound barrier. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I’d have stepped off the curb and been run over, but I stopped short as she blasted past me. She threw up a hand and smiled like she was on the campaign trail with her dad.

  I shook my head and frowned, stepping into the street as she passed, then standing with my arms outstretched in her rearview mirror, silently asking, “What the hell?”

  I’m sure she didn’t see me. Macie Merrick never looks back.

  • • •

  No text from Leslie when I got back to my room. I shot her a message and jumped in the shower. No text when I got outta the shower, so I called her phone. No answer, so I left her a
voice mail.

  I was in the kitchen eating some cereal when my phone rang. I grabbed it and answered before I saw the ID. I knew it was her.

  “Hey, dude.” I smiled into the phone. “How’s Portland?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Jake?”

  It was Brad.

  “Oh—hey, man. What’s up? Sorry—thought you were Leslie.”

  There was a longer pause this time. “Oh. Shit.”

  “Brad?”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “The girls were at your place last night, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What don’t I know?”

  “You haven’t . . . talked to them this morning?”

  “I just got back from my run. Your girlfriend almost mowed me down on the corner, but no, I haven’t talked to them.”

  “Oh, man.”

  Silence.

  “Brad? Where are you? What is going on?”

  “I’m at school.” He paused. “Sitting here in my truck . . .” His voice trailed off.

  I looked at the clock. What was he doing at school already? I felt a weird, tense place in my stomach.

  “What don’t I know, Brad?” My heart was racing again like I was still running. He was making me nervous.

  “Hurry up and get here, and I’ll—”

  “Brad! Fucking tell me already.”

  Another long pause. I turned around and flipped on the water to rinse my bowl out.

  “Leslie is dead,” he said quietly.

  I stood there, blinking, holding the phone in one hand and my cereal bowl in the other. The sound of the water against the stainless sink roared in my ears. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t hear. Finally I gasped—a long, slow choke of air rattled into my chest and out again as soon as it came.

  “What?”

  It was all I could get out. I heard glass breaking. I saw my cereal bowl against the granite countertop. It had been circular and now it was tiny triangles—specks of white.