Page 55 of The Last Time I Lied

“One: My mother once got so drunk that she passed out in our building’s elevator,” I said. “Two: I’ve never kissed a boy. Three: I think Theo is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

“You’recheating,” Vivian said, her voice singsongy. “None of those are a lie.”

She was almost right. My mother had passed outwaitingfor ourbuilding’s elevator. I had found her facedown in the hallway, snoring lightly, a small puddle of her drool seeping into the carpet.

“But I’ll allow it,” Vivian said as she pulled her oar from the water and set it aside. “Just this once. Mostly because of your incorrect guess during my turn.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I totally know you don’t have a flask. Besides, I saw that you can’t swim.”

“Guess again.”

Vivian stood suddenly, the canoe rocking as she shed her clothes. There was no bathing suit underneath. Just matching pearl-colored bra and panties, silky and shiny in the afternoon glare. Before I could utter a word of protest, she dove into the lake, making the canoe pitch so sharply I thought I was going to tumble in as well. I yelped, grabbed the sides of the boat, waited for it to stop rocking.

It was only then that I noticed Vivian slicing the water like a knife through butter. Her strokes were quick, powerful, elegant. Tanned back flattening as her arms swept out in front of her before arcing to her sides. Feet flicking in short, strong kicks. Hair billowing like cream in coffee behind her. A mermaid.

When she finally came up for air, she was ten feet from the canoe.

“Wait,” I said. “You really can swim?”

She grinned. Her smile was slanted, sly, colored pink by her lip gloss.

“Duh,” she said.

“But the other day—”

I stopped talking as Vivian ducked below the surface again, emerging with a mouthful of water that she squirted through pursed lips, like a fountain.

“You told Theo you didn’t know how,” I said.

“You can’t believe everything I tell you, Em.”

I thought about the drama of that day on the beach. The panic. The splashing. Vivian’s wide-eyed terror as she flailed. I remembered Becca, her camera trained on the chaos, yet her attention aimed at me.

I told you so.

“I thought you were drowning,” I said. “We all did. Why would you lie about something like that?”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t one of your stupid games!”

Vivian sighed and began the swim back to the canoe. “Everything is a game, Em. Whether you know it or not. Which means that sometimes a lie is more than just a lie. Sometimes it’s the only way to win.”

17

The dinner hour is torture, and not just because of the food, which is predictably awful. Runny sloppy joes and french fries. Despite having consumed next to nothing all day, I can only stomach the fries, which glisten with grease. Right now, my main concern is getting back to Dogwood and learning what’s in the book Vivian had buried. And that requires privacy, which is in short supply.

Skipping dinner to read it would only make the girls more suspicious than they already are. On the canoe trip back across the lake, they bombarded me with questions about the map, the rocks, our purpose for roaming so far from camp. My vague, mumbled answers did little to appease them. So I force myself to suffer through dinner, delaying the reading of the book until the girls are at the campfire.

I take my tray to what’s already become known as the adults’ table. It’s a full house tonight, with every counselor and instructor present, including Becca. She sits at a slight remove from the others, her eyes glued to her phone. I get the feeling she thinks there’s nothing left to say to me. I think otherwise.

I head to the opposite end of the table, where Casey is listening to the counselors play a game of Do, Dump, or Marry. I remember it well, having played it fifteen years ago with Vivian, Natalie, and Allison. Only Vivian had given it a more brutal name—Fuck, Marry, Kill.

As the counselors choose between the men at Camp Nightingale, I sneak a glance at Casey, as if to say,Isn’t this such a silly, sexist game?Yet I suspect Casey is mulling the choices, just like I secretly am.

“I’d do Chet, dump the janitor, and marry Theo,” the counselor named Kim or Danica announces.

“I think he’s technically a maintenance man,” another one says.

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