If I Lie
Page 34
Amazing how the cost is always life. 404,800 dead. That’s an entire city wiped off the face of the map.
We move on.
The last stop is the Vietnam War Memorial.
Two long black granite walls meet at a ninety-degree angle. Seventy panels listing 58,267 names. Columns of names. Rows and rows of names. Every single one a soldier who died or is MIA. No ranks are listed, and I guess this is because all men are equal in death. Equally dead.
Wandering away from the group, I use the directory to locate one name in particular. Charlie Deacon. George’s friend who died when his helicopter got shot down over Laos. Before I left, he’d asked me for a favor—to find Charlie’s name on the wall and take a picture of it. It seems like such a small thing to ask after everything he’s given me.
49E, the directory says. The forty-ninth panel on the eastern wall. I find that panel and read down the list until I find Charlie close to the bottom.
I snap off a few shots and kneel down to touch the diamond engraved after his name, wondering what it means. I slide a pencil over Charlie’s name, rubbing it into a piece of tracing paper I brought with me. Something to bring back to George. Then I notice the engraving after Charlie’s. Alex Petrov. Alex is a stranger, but he has a cross symbol instead of a diamond.
“It means he’s MIA,” a voice says from behind me.
I twist about, my finger still on the cross. Blake stands a couple of feet away with his hands in his pockets and his black hair tucked under a baseball cap. I raise a brow, and he tilts his head toward the wall.
“A diamond if the soldier’s confirmed dead,” he explains. “A cross if he’s missing in action.”
“Oh,” I say, tracing the cross with my finger again. Alex Petrov has been missing for decades. His family never knew what happened to him. Maybe they still hope he will be found.
I touch Carey’s class ring that hangs around my neck. He has to come home. I limp through each day knowing I’m in limbo—a limbo that ends when he tells the truth. Someday, none of this will matter. Not Jamie or Ang or my father. Someday, when Carey returns, these days will be a shitty reminder of a time when we weren’t the best versions of ourselves.
But “what if” won’t go away. What if this is it—the best things will be? What if Carey is dead? What if we never know what happened to him? What if I can never tell Blake the truth about what I feel for him? Do you have to keep promises to dead people?
I hate myself for even wondering.
Blake’s hand covers mine on the wall.
We are both thinking Carey’s name. It hangs in the silence that is always between us.
The touch is meant to comfort. I know that. Yet . . . His breath heats my neck, and his thigh brushes mine where he crouches beside me. The black granite wall reflects our bodies. His eyes trained on me, he waits. If I turn my head, my lips will be near his.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about kissing Blake again. Not here. Not now.
I tug until I free my hand. He lets me go, but when I try to run away, he blocks my path. Others begin to notice us together. The gossip about our dance at the Spring Fling died down when we ignored each other at school as usual. But this will make it start all over again. Yesterday’s conflict at the elevator is too fresh.
“Blake,” I say. “What part of ‘stay away’ didn’t you understand?”
His shoulders square in determination. “We need to talk, Q. About Carey.”
“No.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and the muscles in his arms shift. Stupid guy wore a T-shirt and no coat, but he doesn’t look cold.
“We talk later,” he demands. “Or now, with everyone listening.”
“Go to hell,” I say. It worked before, but not this time.
His voice soft, he asks, “Aren’t we already there, Q?”
He’s pleading with me, but I don’t owe him anything. Whatever damage I did by sleeping with him, I’ve made up for it a hundred times by keeping my mouth shut about the photo. I can’t meet his gaze, so intense and full of things I only let myself think about when I’m alone. Those eyes steal the anger I should feel. That I do feel.
Over Blake’s shoulder, I see Jamie watching us. I flip her off, tired of feeling bashed, then wish I hadn’t given her the satisfaction of a response as she smiles like a cat. A big, predatory jungle cat hunting some poor, unsuspecting animal.
Blake turns and sighs when he sees her. “Why do you antagonize her? It only encourages her.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask, crossing my arms. “She doesn’t need encouragement. She hates me.”
“You go out of your way to mess with her. You always have.” He sounds like the old Blake, not giving me any slack, but it pisses me off because I’m not the old Q and he’s not the old Blake. We’re two used-to-be-friends who betrayed each other and made a huge mistake one night.
“Because she was always trying to steal my boyfriend!” He doesn’t look happy that I’ve brought up Carey in that context, and I’m glad. I glare at him. “Why do you do this?”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“This,” I say, gesturing between us. “Antagonize me.”
I walk away, but he clasps my arm with just enough pressure to stop me. Finally, he’s angry too.
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, you two. Everything okay here, Quinn?” Mr. Horowitz approaches, a belated champion. He glances at me with concern. I can feel everyone pressing in closer to eavesdrop, and it’s like yesterday with the room keys all over again.
We move on.
The last stop is the Vietnam War Memorial.
Two long black granite walls meet at a ninety-degree angle. Seventy panels listing 58,267 names. Columns of names. Rows and rows of names. Every single one a soldier who died or is MIA. No ranks are listed, and I guess this is because all men are equal in death. Equally dead.
Wandering away from the group, I use the directory to locate one name in particular. Charlie Deacon. George’s friend who died when his helicopter got shot down over Laos. Before I left, he’d asked me for a favor—to find Charlie’s name on the wall and take a picture of it. It seems like such a small thing to ask after everything he’s given me.
49E, the directory says. The forty-ninth panel on the eastern wall. I find that panel and read down the list until I find Charlie close to the bottom.
I snap off a few shots and kneel down to touch the diamond engraved after his name, wondering what it means. I slide a pencil over Charlie’s name, rubbing it into a piece of tracing paper I brought with me. Something to bring back to George. Then I notice the engraving after Charlie’s. Alex Petrov. Alex is a stranger, but he has a cross symbol instead of a diamond.
“It means he’s MIA,” a voice says from behind me.
I twist about, my finger still on the cross. Blake stands a couple of feet away with his hands in his pockets and his black hair tucked under a baseball cap. I raise a brow, and he tilts his head toward the wall.
“A diamond if the soldier’s confirmed dead,” he explains. “A cross if he’s missing in action.”
“Oh,” I say, tracing the cross with my finger again. Alex Petrov has been missing for decades. His family never knew what happened to him. Maybe they still hope he will be found.
I touch Carey’s class ring that hangs around my neck. He has to come home. I limp through each day knowing I’m in limbo—a limbo that ends when he tells the truth. Someday, none of this will matter. Not Jamie or Ang or my father. Someday, when Carey returns, these days will be a shitty reminder of a time when we weren’t the best versions of ourselves.
But “what if” won’t go away. What if this is it—the best things will be? What if Carey is dead? What if we never know what happened to him? What if I can never tell Blake the truth about what I feel for him? Do you have to keep promises to dead people?
I hate myself for even wondering.
Blake’s hand covers mine on the wall.
We are both thinking Carey’s name. It hangs in the silence that is always between us.
The touch is meant to comfort. I know that. Yet . . . His breath heats my neck, and his thigh brushes mine where he crouches beside me. The black granite wall reflects our bodies. His eyes trained on me, he waits. If I turn my head, my lips will be near his.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about kissing Blake again. Not here. Not now.
I tug until I free my hand. He lets me go, but when I try to run away, he blocks my path. Others begin to notice us together. The gossip about our dance at the Spring Fling died down when we ignored each other at school as usual. But this will make it start all over again. Yesterday’s conflict at the elevator is too fresh.
“Blake,” I say. “What part of ‘stay away’ didn’t you understand?”
His shoulders square in determination. “We need to talk, Q. About Carey.”
“No.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and the muscles in his arms shift. Stupid guy wore a T-shirt and no coat, but he doesn’t look cold.
“We talk later,” he demands. “Or now, with everyone listening.”
“Go to hell,” I say. It worked before, but not this time.
His voice soft, he asks, “Aren’t we already there, Q?”
He’s pleading with me, but I don’t owe him anything. Whatever damage I did by sleeping with him, I’ve made up for it a hundred times by keeping my mouth shut about the photo. I can’t meet his gaze, so intense and full of things I only let myself think about when I’m alone. Those eyes steal the anger I should feel. That I do feel.
Over Blake’s shoulder, I see Jamie watching us. I flip her off, tired of feeling bashed, then wish I hadn’t given her the satisfaction of a response as she smiles like a cat. A big, predatory jungle cat hunting some poor, unsuspecting animal.
Blake turns and sighs when he sees her. “Why do you antagonize her? It only encourages her.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask, crossing my arms. “She doesn’t need encouragement. She hates me.”
“You go out of your way to mess with her. You always have.” He sounds like the old Blake, not giving me any slack, but it pisses me off because I’m not the old Q and he’s not the old Blake. We’re two used-to-be-friends who betrayed each other and made a huge mistake one night.
“Because she was always trying to steal my boyfriend!” He doesn’t look happy that I’ve brought up Carey in that context, and I’m glad. I glare at him. “Why do you do this?”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“This,” I say, gesturing between us. “Antagonize me.”
I walk away, but he clasps my arm with just enough pressure to stop me. Finally, he’s angry too.
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, you two. Everything okay here, Quinn?” Mr. Horowitz approaches, a belated champion. He glances at me with concern. I can feel everyone pressing in closer to eavesdrop, and it’s like yesterday with the room keys all over again.
