Where the Truth Lies Read Free Page B

show up, so they put me with Hillary instead.” She pauses. “Don’t you know where she went? Didn’t your dad say anything?”
    I shake my head. “Just that she wasn’t coming back. I figured you would have talked to her by now.”
    “Well, I haven’t. You know what she’s like. If she doesn’t want to talk, she’s not going to talk.”
    I almost smile. There was nobody else like Madeline. I never understood how she and Renee got to be so close, but their relationship was practically telepathic. For a moment, I imagine how I’d feel if Franny or Steph or Grace suddenly disappeared, never to be heard from again. I’d be heartsick.
    “Want to know why she did it?” Renee asks, her tone shifting from nostalgia to bitterness.
    “You know why Madeline left?”
    “No. Want to know why Hillary put the tape down?”
    “Oh. Sure.” With the room split in two, it’s obvious this is a mismatched pair of individuals. Renee’s side is a mess: piles of clothing and shoes litter the floor; the bed is unmade; Renee’s desk is covered with books and papers and a coffeepot that is half-full, definitely not fresh—there’s fuzzy white mold climbing the sides of the pot, growing on the surface of the sludge. Amidst the mess on her desk, there are several framed photographs of Renee with Bruce Graham. In one of them, she’s standing beside him on the red carpet at, like, age twelve, his “date” to the Academy Awards. I remember that so vividly from eighth grade; Renee going to the Oscars for spring break was the talk of the school.
    Hillary’s side of the room is spotless—at least it was, until Renee threw her towel on the floor and got into the bed. There isn’t a stitch of clothing in sight; all of Hillary’s schoolbooks are stacked neatly on a small bookshelf. Above her bed, there’s a collage of photos, mostly of her and her boyfriend and a few other friends. I don’t see Renee in any of them.
    “Last Saturday, I came home early from the city, and Hillary was gone—off somewhere with Max, of course.”
    Max Franklin is Hillary’s boyfriend. The two have been inseparable since the ninth grade. They’re the kind of couple who makes everyone, including me, want to gag. They’ll probably get married someday.
    “So Hillary rolls in around midnight, drunk as a skunk, and she starts puking everywhere, right?” Renee sits up, getting angry all over again. “I mean everywhere . I was asleep, and she woke me up with … well, let’s just say it was disgusting.”
    “But you said she’s the one who put down the tape?”
    Renee’s tone is calm. “Would you listen to me, Emily? I’m trying to explain something to you. After she passed out, I was so … I don’t know, so kertwanged over the whole mess. But somebody had to clean it up, right? I mean, we’ve gotta live in this room, obviously.”
    I glance at the moldy coffeepot again. “Uh-huh.”
    “So I cleaned it up all by myself,” she finishes.
    “And that’s what made Hillary so mad?” I give her a doubtful look. “Really?”
    Renee shrugs. She tries to hold back a smile without success. “Well … I used her clothes to clean up the … mess.”
    “You used her clothes ?”
    “Right. But not her uniforms—I mean, we had school the next day. Hillary’s a clotheshorse—she’s all about couture and whatever, you know?”
    I do know.
    “I used her real clothes. Some of them got ruined.” She sighs, looks around the room. “I might have gone a little too far. Hence the tape. We’re still adjusting to each other.”
    “So I take it Hillary’s still mad?”
    Renee shrugs. “She’ll be over it soon.”
    That’s what it’s like here: things flare up and diffuse, flare up and diffuse. You get really good at conflict resolution. Ten girls in a dorm—you can’t be mortal enemies with anyone, especially your roommate. It would make life miserable.
    But we’re way off track. I cross my arms and try to glare at her. “Listen, I don’t