One of Us Is Back (ONE OF US IS LYING)

Nate

Wednesday, June 24

The digital billboard at the edge of Clarendon Street has had the same ad for as long as I can remember—a dancing energy drink—so the fact that it’s changed catches my attention while I’m stopped on my motorcycle at a red light.

time for a new game, bayview.

Those are the only words, red against a stark white background. They fade off the screen and I wait, mildly intrigued despite myself, to see what’s next. Then the ad copy cycles back to time for a new game, bayview once again. So much for building suspense. Or letting people know what the hell you’re promoting. A-plus job, advertisers.

The light changes and I roar through it, following the familiar route to the Bayview Country Club. For a lot of people, summertime in Bayview means beaches, barbecues, and one-upping one another on social media with their no-filter vacation pictures. For me, it means a second job. Construction work by day, serving drinks to Bayview’s McMansion crowd at night, then trying to sleep for a few hours in a house filled with five other people who have nothing to do except throw parties they keep trying to drag me to.

Living the dream.

I pull into the parking lot and settle my bike between two freshly painted white lines, then take out my phone to check the time. There’s a new text waiting for me—a picture of Bronwyn and Stan, my bearded dragon, sitting side by side on an oversized rock in Bronwyn’s garden. Now that she’s home from Yale for the summer, she’s decided that Stan needs, as she puts it, “more exercise and mental stimulation.” So, some days when she’s done with her internship, she picks him up, brings him to her house, and hangs out with him in the backyard. As far as I can tell Stan isn’t moving any more than he usually does on these field trips, but he does seem to like having a new rock to sit on.

I grin, my mood instantly lifted. My girl’s back in town for the next two months, so I guess I am, in fact, living the dream. Bronwyn’s prelaw, and she had her pick of internships in New Haven or New York for the summer, but she chose one in San Diego. It’s a fantastic job with the kind of woman-owned start-up that she wants to be general counsel for someday, so I don’t even have to stress about her giving up opportunities to be closer to me.

Don’t let a bird make off with him, I text back.

I WOULD NEVER, Bronwyn responds with a horrified-face emoji.

Of course she wouldn’t. There’s not a person in the world you can count on more than Bronwyn Rojas. I know exactly how good I have it with her, and that’s why I’m doing all this—the jobs, school, the cheap-ass house with too many roommates so I’m not blowing everything I make on rent. One of these days I’m going to be the guy Bronwyn deserves, not the guy she had to save from prison while we were in high school.

In the meantime, though, I have drinks to serve.

I shut off my bike, pocket the keys, and head for the giant pillars that frame the country-club entrance. At the edge of the parking lot, there’s a bulletin board filled with flyers hawking landscaping services, tutoring, housecleaning, dog walking—all the stuff rich people can’t do on their own, because they’re too busy hanging out at country clubs. My eyes land on one I haven’t seen before that’s a lot more glossy than what’s usually there. Bright white, with just a few words in a large red font:

time for a new game, bayview.

My steps slow, and I frown before yanking off the flyer and turning it over. There’s nothing on the other side. It’s clearly a companion piece to the billboard ad I saw on my way here, and I still don’t understand what it’s for. Unless…

It’s probably a company trying to be edgy. But it hits me, now that I’m holding the words in my hand, that some asshole might want to remind Bayview of the Truth or Dare game that killed Brandon Weber. That kind of thing happened a lot after Simon died—copycats of Simon’s gossip app, About That, kept springing up around school. Those were created by students, though, not somebody with the kind of money to rent a billboard. Although come to think of it, there are probably plenty of Bayview High kids who could.

“In the market for some tutoring?” calls a voice behind me. I turn to see Vanessa Merriman in a sheer, nearly see-through white sundress over a striped bikini. Vanessa and I graduated together, and she was Addy’s friend until she took Jake’s side during their breakup. Somehow, even after Jake wound up in jail, Vanessa never seemed to think she had anything to apologize to Addy for. I guess she’s back for the summer from whatever college she went to, which I don’t know because I couldn’t care less about Vanessa Merriman.

She leans provocatively against the side of the bulletin board and adds, “Maybe I could help you out. I excel in many subjects. Human anatomy, for example.” I just stare at her, until she laughs and says, “Come on! Lighten up; that was a joke.” She raises a hand like she’s about to slap my arm but freezes before she makes contact. “Wait. Weren’t you practically blown up a few months ago? How do you still have all your limbs?”

“Reports were exaggerated,” I say.

Vanessa cranes her neck, eyes widening as she catches sight of my left arm. I got the worst of Jared Jackson’s bomb attempt in March, since I’d been walking with Bronwyn in an arboretum behind the restaurant where Ashton and Eli were having their rehearsal dinner. Knox, who had no idea we were there, tossed the backpack he’d seen Jared leave beneath the restaurant a few feet away from us. We had to run for our lives and didn’t make it out of range before the bomb exploded. I’d thrown myself over Bronwyn, shielding her, and ended up with an arm full of shrapnel. The wounds have healed, but the scars will never go away entirely.

“Ouch,” Vanessa says. Then she pats my cheek and adds, “Well, it could be worse, right? At least nothing hit that pretty face of yours.”

Looks like Vanessa’s priorities haven’t changed since high school. She reaches for the flyer I’m holding, but I drop it into the trash before she can grab it.

“What was that?” she asks, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Vanessa has expensive-looking hair; the kind that’s darker on top and lighter on the bottom, with lots of different-colored highlights. Addy would know what it’s called. “Why’d you throw it out?”

“Because it’s weird,” I say, resuming my trek toward the entrance.

Vanessa falls into step beside me. “Weird how?”

I’m not interested in swapping theories about mysterious billboards with Vanessa Merriman. “Don’t you have a pool to get to?” I ask.

“I need a drink first,” Vanessa says, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. Then she starts telling me about the trip to Ibiza she just got back from, and she keeps up a steady stream of one-sided conversation all the way from the parking lot through the front entrance and the main corridor, until we reach the restaurant where I work. She hops onto a stool at the U-shaped bar, takes off her oversized sunglasses, and says, “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

“Nice try.” I step behind the bar and wave to Gavin, one of the bartenders, who’s serving an older couple at the other end of the bar. “But it doesn’t matter how good your ID is when you graduated high school with the barback.”

“Oh, come on, Nate.” Vanessa pouts. “No one cares. It’s not like I’m driving.”

“Then what were you doing in the parking lot?”

“Okay, it’s not like I’m driving far.”

“Here.” I fill a glass with ice, soda water, and a lime. “Use your imagination.”

Vanessa sighs and takes a long, resentful sip. “You know what? You’re a lot less fun than you used to be.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She makes a face. “Don’t.”

“Nate, my friend.” Gavin comes over and claps me on the shoulder. His pale skin is still sunburned from the weekend, and his light-brown hair is darkened at his forehead with sweat. There’s too much open air around the bar for the AC to make much difference. “Stephanie just called from the road. She’s almost here, but I’m already running late to meet someone and need to take off. Can you…you know?”

You know is code for cover for me. Technically, I’m not supposed to pour drinks since I’m not twenty-one, but country-club management doesn’t pay much attention to the bar. Half the time, I’m like a second bartender anyway.

I’d been hoping to grab some food before starting work, since I came here from my day job at Myers Construction. There wasn’t enough time between shifts to make going home worth it, and besides, home is worse than ever thanks to my newest roommate. The only guy I semiliked moved out two weeks ago, and guess who moved in? Reggie Crawley, the former Bayview High student best known for being outed by Simon Kelleher for having a camera in his bedroom. In that case, Simon actually did what he always claimed to do: expose the assholes. And it’s not like Reggie has improved with age; when the Bayview Blade interviewed people about a true crime show that made Jake look like a decent guy, Reggie went on record with this gem: “He was always pretty cool to me.”

That’s not Gavin’s problem, though, and he’s so generous about splitting tips that I can’t insist he hang around until Stephanie shows up. “No problem,” I say.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” he says, stepping out from behind the bar.

Vanessa perks up, sensing a new target. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Vanessa Merriman,” she says, extending one bracelet-clad arm.

Gavin takes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Vanessa Merriman,” he says, repeating her name like he’s memorizing it. Which he probably is. Gavin is a college student and didn’t grow up around here, but he knows more Bayview people than I do. Bartending trick, he says. Improves the tips.

“Don’t serve her,” I say, grabbing some clean glasses from beneath the bar and hanging them in the racks above me. “She’s nineteen.”

“Okay, now, that is just rude,” Vanessa whines.

Gavin grins and pulls off the tie he always wears, even though we don’t have to. “Sorry, Vanessa. Have fun with the happy hour crowd, Nate.”

He takes off, and Vanessa sulkily squeezes her lime in my direction. “Not all of us are happy,” she says. Her eyes stray over my shoulder, and then her face takes on a new expression that’s almost…hopeful? It’s a weird look for Vanessa, so I follow her gaze and see a trim, well-dressed, middle-aged woman settling herself into a stool a few feet away.

“Hi, Ms. Riordan,” Vanessa calls out. “How are you?”

Jake’s mom looks our way. It surprised me, when I first started working here, to learn that she and Mr. Riordan still come to the country club. It’s not like I spent time thinking about the Riordans, but if I had, I would’ve assumed they moved out of town like Simon’s parents did. Or at least kept a low profile after their only son wound up in the middle of Bayview’s biggest scandal. Then I got to know Mr. Riordan and it made sense, because the guy’s a grade A dick. He still thinks he’s the king of Bayview, and he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen—and everyone who doesn’t, too—that Jake got a raw deal. He acts as though he has no clue who I am, like his son never framed me and my friends for Simon’s death. On top of all that, he tips for shit.

Ms. Riordan is different, though. I wasn’t planning on saying a word to her unless I had to, but she surprised me, the first night I started working, by taking me aside and apologizing for what Jake did. “He’s trying really hard to make up for that,” she said earnestly. I don’t believe it for a second, but I think she actually does.

“Oh, Vanessa, hello. How lovely to see you,” Ms. Riordan says. I know what she came for, and since Stephanie still isn’t here, I go ahead and fill a wineglass nearly to the rim with the bar’s most expensive chardonnay. Ms. Riordan needs every drop to put up with that asshole she’s married to. “Thank you, Nate,” she says gratefully, taking a long sip before putting two twenty-dollar bills on the bar. “That’s for you. Put the wine on our tab, please.”

“Thanks,” I say, pocketing them. It’s more than a little strange, probably, that my best tips come from Jake’s mother, but it is what it is. I don’t have a grudge against Ms. Riordan; we even talk sometimes, about safe subjects like the weather and school and work. I know she used to be a hotshot advertising executive, and I think she misses it. I’m not sure how she fills her days now, and it’s kind of depressing to wonder.

Vanessa moves seats so she’s next to Ms. Riordan, and they start talking while I pull out my phone for a final message check. I have a few more from Bronwyn, and the recently renamed Bayview Crew group chat is going strong. Ever since the NCAA changed its rules about student athletes profiting from their names and likenesses, Cooper’s been flooded with endorsement deals. He finally agreed to take one, and his first commercial—for the gym chain where he works out—is airing next month. Naturally, Addy saw that as a reason to have a party.

Viewing party set for Café Contigo, Luis writes. Can’t wait to see our boy make his TV debut. You should’ve taken that mobile service deal, though. Way more money.

I couldn’t, Cooper messages back. It kept dropping my calls.

That’s Cooper Clay for you: the kind of guy who insists on actually using something before putting his name on it, and then politely declines a boatload of cash when it sucks.

There’s a message from my father too. Can’t find my keys, he says. Did you see them the last time you were here?

Nope, I text back, suppressing a sigh. The thing about Dad is—he’s trying. He’s been sober for almost four months, and he even has a job now, doing maintenance at Bayview High. I’m not taking bets on how long it’ll last, but I’m not trying to tear the guy down either. I relent and add, Check the side table next to the TV. Nine times out of ten, that’s where he puts them, but even when he’s not drinking he can’t seem to remember that.

Ms. Riordan’s phone rings, and she holds up a finger to halt Vanessa’s Ibiza monologue. “Excuse me one moment, please, this is…hello?” She turns away, and Vanessa extends her near-empty glass toward me with a clatter of bracelets.

“More soda water, please, killjoy,” she says.

I top her off as Ms. Riordan lets out a loud gasp. “Are you sure?” she says breathlessly. “Please don’t…I honestly don’t think I could take it if…really? You’re sure. Really?” When I look her way, her eyes are brimming with tears. “Oh my goodness. I hoped and I prayed, but I never thought…yes. Yes, of course, I know how busy you are. We’ll be there tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp. Thank you. Thank you, Carl, from the bottom of my heart.” She hangs up and presses her hands to her face.

I’ve never seen Ms. Riordan so overcome with joy and relief, and it makes my gut twist. There’s only one thing that could make her that happy. I exchange glances with Vanessa, who plucks at Ms. Riordan’s sleeve. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“It’s better than okay,” Ms. Riordan chokes out. “Jake…he…”

She can’t continue, so Vanessa prods, “He’s getting a new trial?”

Even though I was thinking those exact same words, they still land like a punch. Somehow, I can deal with seeing Mr. and Ms. Riordan, because they’ve never done anything to me directly. But Jake did. The guy who framed me and helped send me to juvenile detention—the absolute lowest point of my life, when I gave up hope that I’d ever get out—is getting a second chance. The DA’s office couldn’t wait to put me away, but Jake? Jake Riordan gets a pass, just like always.

Some things never change. They never, ever fucking change.

I yank at the neck of my T-shirt like that’ll help me breathe, but it’s no good. To hell with the happy hour crowd; I need to get away from this bar. And I need to call Addy, who’s going to feel even worse than I do. This is a nightmare come true, and the least I can do is give her a heads-up before she hears about it from someone else.

Ms. Riordan, who’s too overcome with emotion to process the fact that her good news sucks for everyone else, roots around in her bag for a tissue before answering Vanessa’s question. “It’s more than that,” she says shakily, pressing it to her eyes. “He’s coming home.”