"Not always," he replied. "Just sometimes. And it's good to know your options, right?"
I could feel myself about to smile, which was just so strange that I turned my head as we came up to another stop sign. There was a car parked on the street ahead, halfway down, facing us. A second later, I realized it was mine.
"Still straight?" Owen asked.
"Um, no," I told him, leaning closer to the glass. Sure enough, it was Whitney behind the wheel. She had a hand to her face, her fingers spread to cover her eyes.
"Then… what? Right? Left?" Owen asked. He dropped his hand from the wheel. "What's wrong?"
I looked at Whitney again, wondering what she was doing so close to home, parked. "That's my sister," I said, nodding at the car.
Owen leaned forward, looking at her. "Is… is she okay?"
"No," I said. Maybe not lying was contagious; this reply came out automatically, before I could pick other words to explain. "She's not."
"Oh," he said. He was quiet for a second. "Well, do you want to—"
I shook my head. "No," I told him. "Take a right."
He did, and I slid down slightly in my seat. As we passed Whitney, it was clear she was crying, her thin shoulders shaking, her hand still pressed to her face. I felt something catch in my own throat and then we were moving on, leaving her behind.
I could feel Owen watching me as we reached the next stop sign. "She's sick," I said. "She has been for a while now."
"I'm sorry," he said.
This was what you were supposed to say. What anyone would say. The weird thing was, after everything he'd just told me, I knew Owen meant it. Honest, indeed.
"Which is yours?" he asked me now, as we turned onto my street.
"The glass one," I told him.
"The glass—" he began, but then stopped, as it came into view. "Oh. Right."
It was the time of day when the sun hit the glass just so, the golf course reflected almost perfectly in the second story. Downstairs, I could see my mother standing at the kitchen counter. She'd started walking to the door when we pulled up, then stopped when she realized it was just me and not Whitney. I thought about my sister, sitting two streets over, and my mom, worrying here at home, and felt that familiar pull in my stomach, a mix of sadness and obligation.
"Man," Owen said, looking up at it. "That's really something."
"People in glass houses," I said. I looked back in at my mother, who was still at the counter, watching us. I wondered if she was curious about Owen or too distracted to even notice I was in a car she didn't recognize, much less with a boy. Maybe she thought it was Peter Matchinsky, that nice senior from my gym class.
"Well," I said, reaching down for my bag. "Thanks for the ride. For everything."
"No problem," he said.
I heard a car coming up behind us, and a second later, Whitney was pulling into the driveway. It wasn't until she parked and got out that she looked up and saw me and Owen. I lifted my hand, waving at her, but she ignored me.
I knew already what would happen when I went inside. Whitney would be stomping around, ignoring my mother's cheerful, leading questions. Eventually she'd get fed up and go upstairs, slamming her door, and then my mom would be upset, but pretend not to be. Even so, I'd worry over her until my dad got home, at which time we'd all sit down for dinner and pretend everything was fine.
Thinking this, I looked back at Owen. "So when is it?" I asked. "Your radio show."
"Sundays," he replied. "At seven."
"I'll listen," I told him.
"In the morning," he added.
"Seven in the morning ?" I asked. "Really?"
"Yeah," he replied, picking at the steering wheel. "It's not the ideal time slot, but you take what you can get. Insomniacs are listening, at least."
" Enlightened insomniacs," I said.
He looked at me for a second, as if I'd somehow surprised him, saying this. "Yeah," he said, and smiled.
"Exactly."
Imagine that, I thought. Owen Armstrong smiling . In a bizarre day, this was the most surprising thing yet. "Well," I said, "I guess I should go."
"Okay. I'll see you around."
I nodded, then reached down, undoing the seat belt. Sure enough, one click and I was free. Harder to get in than out, like so little else.
As I shut the door behind me, Owen put the car into gear, beeping the horn once as he drove off. Sure enough, as I turned to look up at my house, Whitney was climbing the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. My mother was still at the kitchen island, staring out the back window.
I don't lie, Owen had said, with the same flat certainty someone else might tell you they didn't eat meat or know how to drive. I wasn't sure I could even fathom it, but I still envied Owen his easy bluntness, the ability to open himself out into the world instead of folding deeper within. Especially now, as I headed inside, where my mother was waiting for me.
Chapter Six
"Okay, girls, quiet down. Attention here, please! We're getting ready to start, so listen for your name…"
I'd been doing Lakeview Models since I was fifteen. Every summer, tryouts were held to pick sixteen girls for mall promotions like posing with cub scouts at a Pinewood Derby event or handing out balloons at the Harvest Festival Petting Zoo. The models also appeared in print ads, did fashion shows, and were part of the annual Lakeview Mall calendar, which was distributed along with the new phone book every year. That was what we were shooting today. We were supposed to have been done the day before, but the photographer was slow, so we'd all been called back now, on a Sunday afternoon, to finish.
I yawned, then sat back against the potted plant behind me, taking a look around the room. The newer girls were all together in a corner, talking too loudly, while a couple of people I knew from previous years were gossiping about some party. The only two seniors sat apart from everyone else, one with her head back, eyes closed, the other flipping through an SAT prep book. Finally, across the room from me, also sitting alone, was Emily Shuster.