Where the Truth Lies Read Free

sets.
    “All right,” I say, sighing, wrinkling my nose as the smoke from her cigarette wafts past me. “Spill. Who got you stoned?”
    Tug. Gaze. Let go. Then she crosses her arms. “Why?”
    “Because, Franny, you could have fallen out the window. You’re kind of delicate, you know?” I put my hands on her arms. All I can feel is bone under her skin. “Tell me.”
    Franny rolls her eyes. Her left eye gets lazy when she’s tired, like right now, giving her a kind of sad look, her long hair—it reaches almost to her butt—greasy and in dire need of a trim, her underwear announcing to anyone who might happen to walk in that it’s SUNDAY !
    I don’t know why I even bothered asking. As soon as her gaze flickers toward the hallway, before she has a chance to open her mouth, the answer is obvious.
    “Renee,” we both say at the same time.
    I glare at the doorway. “Ohhh … she’s gonna get it.”
    “Can I take a nap now?” Franny asks. She grinds out her cigarette against the side of a coffee cup that she keeps beneath her bed specifically for use as an ashtray.
    “Yes.” I tuck her in tightly, as though the sheet might be enough to keep her in place. I sit on the side of the bed and smooth the hair away from her sweaty brow, leaning over to give her a kiss on the forehead. Then I get up, turning off the light on my way out. “Just promise me you’ll stay away from the windowsill.” I pause. “And quit tugging your hair out.”
    “Um-hmmm. I’ll quit breathing while I’m at it, Mom .”
    Renee Graham: a sophomore at Stonybrook and the only child of three-time Oscar winner Amy Wallace. Her last name comes from her mom’s second husband, Bruce Graham, who is a Tony, Golden Globe, and Academy Award winner. I’ve never met Amy Wallace in real life, although I’ve seen plenty of her movies, and Renee looks exactly like her. Bruce Graham, however, is around plenty: he comes to all of the parent weekends, picks Renee up for vacation, and even shows up out of the blue sometimes to take her out for dinner. He hasn’t been her stepfather since she was ten, but from what I’ve heard, Renee doesn’t even live with her mom; when she goes home for the holidays, she stays with Bruce in Manhattan.
    Even though she lives directly across the hall, Renee and I aren’t what you’d call friends. She’s nice enough, I guess, and we aren’t enemies or anything. We’ve just never bothered with each other much. First of all, there’s the fact that I’m a year older than she is. Besides that, I have Stephanie and Grace and Franny, and Renee has … whoever. Besides, Renee is so aloof, so casual and cool, that it’s impossible not to feel intimidated by her. Even at a school with so many celebrities’ kids and overachievers, and even though she’s only a sophomore, Renee has a quality to her that’s almost magical. I guess it’s what you call charisma.
    Like when she answers her door, after I’ve been banging on it for a good thirty seconds. “Hola, babycakes,” she says, batting her long brown eyelashes at me. “What’s up?”
    She’s just gotten out of the shower; a short, white silk bathrobe clings to her still-damp body, which is lanky and flawless. Her dark hair is wrapped tightly in a towel, her widow’s peak exposed on her forehead. I know for a fact that Renee, with all her money, does not own a blow-dryer. She just lets her hair air-dry, runs a comb through it, and voilà: tousled perfection. I don’t know why, but I’m infinitely annoyed by this factoid. I mean, who doesn’t own a hair dryer? It’s like not owning a toothbrush or something.
    Personally, I don’t know what I’d do without one; I have long red hair that is thick and wavy and will not respond to a hairbrush without a heavy spraying of detangler beforehand. Nobody knows where the color came from; both of my parents have brown hair. I’m also covered in freckles. You’d think that, being a redhead and all, I’d have one of