Lie for Me (Find Me, #0.5) by Romily Bernard
Prologue
Three years ago . . .
When I was six, my parents moved us to East Bumble, Alabama, because my dad found work as a truck mechanic. In terms of life events, this was basically an alien abduction minus the anal probe. Nothing I had learned up until that point worked in East Bumble. I got my ass kicked regularly by older kids in Wranglers. I had no friends.
But it ended up not mattering because Dad got fired within eight months and we were off again. By the time I was fourteen, we’d lived in eleven different places—twelve, if you count here, which I almost don’t because it’s my aunt Charlotte’s unfinished basement and my mom won’t stop crying.
She’s locked herself in the bathroom again. That makes three times this week.
Not that I’m counting.
“Mom?” I lean into the door, test the handle. Locked. “Mom?”
No answer. Coming to stay with Aunt Char was my mom’s idea. She said it would make her better, but her crying—sobbing, really: the kind that rips from your gut and rolls through the air—is a regular thing now.
Usually, I can get her to stop. My dad says I’m good at it, but this time, she won’t listen and I’ve stopped talking—and that scares me almost as much as realizing it’s pointless to try getting her to stop.
When she gets like this, nothing makes her feel better, nothing makes it up to her, and if I’m lucky, crying will be the worst of it.
Doesn’t stop me from sitting outside the bathroom door though. She might need something.
Plus, Dad could be here any minute now. He took an overnight job and is supposed to be headed back to the basement, should already be on the road. If he were to come in and she’s like this . . . well, he hates Mom’s tears even more than I do. It just kills him.
And that kills what’s left of me, so I wait. After ten minutes or so, Tucker, my cousin Ben’s golden retriever, comes downstairs and sits beside me. His fur is rabbit-soft and his breath smells like ass.
“What do they feed you, buddy?” I scratch Tuck under the chin, watch his eyes roll in his head. At least I can make someone happy.
“Will?” It’s Aunt Charlotte. Tucker’s ears prick and he dashes toward her voice, bounding up the steps three at a time. “Ben’s almost ready to go.”
Which means I need to be ready too. It’s the first day of school—my new school. Ben’s supposed to take me.
“Coming!” I stand, wait with one hand on the door handle, hoping she’s going to turn it, come out so we can say good-bye.
She doesn’t.
I grab my book bag from the table and double-check that my sketch pad and pencils are inside before swinging it over my shoulder.
“I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” I head for the stairs before she can answer. It’s easier to pretend I didn’t hear her than know she didn’t respond.
Aunt Charlotte’s waiting for me at the top of the steps. Her eyes are creased with worry . . . or maybe that’s how they usually look. I don’t really know. Charlotte’s my mom’s older sister, and supposedly they were super close as kids, but this trip is the first time I’ve ever met my aunt.
“Do you want breakfast?” Charlotte asks, gaze skittering past my shoulder to the stairwell.
“No, thanks. I’m not really a breakfast person.” I smile and my aunt frowns. I have no idea how to talk to her. Every time I say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, thank you,” she gets all focused. It’s like she’s trying to find something else underneath the words. I don’t want to brag, but usually adults love me. It’s a talent. This one though? No luck.
“Everyone is a breakfast person, Will. It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“Griff.”
“What?”
“I go by Griff.” I keep the smile so she knows I’m not being an ass, even though I’m kind of willing to be on this. My full name is William Reed Griffin. I go by Griff. Always.
Charlotte’s attention swings to the stairwell again. Her hair’s darker than mine or my mom’s. It’s completely black in this light, like a bruise. “Your mom isn’t coming to see you off?”
“She’s tired.”
Her frown deepens.
“It’s been a really hard week for her. She’ll be better with some rest.” Charlotte’s gaze shifts to me and I can see I’m hitting all the right notes: My aunt’s shoulders are relaxing, her face is smoothing. I sound like my mom’s behavior is no big deal. It’s a lie I’ve used so much, I almost believe it myself.
“Come get something to eat,” Charlotte says at last, motioning me toward her bright yellow kitchen. “You look like you need it.”