Read Online Dangerous Lies by Becca Fitzpatrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Becca Fitzpatrick
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church.”
“Thank you, Carmina,” I said, doing my best to appear sincerely grateful.
Pastor Lykins continued to glance between us uncertainly. At last his face brightened. “Stella, do you play softball?”
I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I had a good feeling. “It’s been a couple years, but I know the game.”
His eyes lit up further. “Have you heard of our teen coed softball league? Games are Friday after sundown. I saw you talking with Chet Falconer earlier. He’s in charge of the league. Why don’t I see if he can squeeze you onto one of the smaller teams? I was new in town once too, and while it takes some time to feel like you fit in, the best thing you can do is dive in and make new friends. Carmina, surely you can do without Stella for a few hours a week?”
I turned to face her. “Please, Carmina?” My tone was hopeful, begging even, but my eyes blazed with smug triumph.
Carmina pinned me with a stern glare. “I’m sure that will be fine. Stella is allowed to come and go as she pleases, within reason. The child makes it sound like I’m a parole officer.” When she caught us staring at her, she added adamantly, “I’m not .”
Pastor Lykins patted Carmina gently on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s been an adjustment balancing your previous line of work with this new, exciting endeavor of raising a girl. Two completely different situations that require different, ah, approaches.”
Carmina just stared at him blankly.
Pastor Lykins cleared his throat, then shook my hand. “Good luck, Stella,” he said with heartfelt concern.
I waited until he walked away to smile contentedly.
My work here was done.
MONDAY MORNING I GOT A call from the Sundown Diner. The owner, Dixie Jo, wanted to interview me for a carhop position. The term “carhop” made me think of girls on roller skates and the movie American Graffiti . I hadn’t put on skates since I was six or seven, and had distant memories of doing the limbo on wheels, and a sore tailbone. If she made me skate as part of the interview, I didn’t stand a chance.
It was too hot for jeans, so I threw on cotton shorts and an eyelet top. Not fancy enough to earn me a look of approval from Carmina as I jogged down the porch steps on my way out, but I was going for comfort.
Carmina had loaned me her bike, a lime-green beach cruiser with balloon tires. A wicker basket was strung up between the handlebars. Like everything Carmina owned, the paint was dinged and chipped and the surface was coated in dust. But if the bike got me out of the house, it was as good as a Porsche in my eyes.
As I pedaled into town, the rush of hot air flung my hair off my shoulders. Instead of feeling oppressive, the heat felt energizing. I was overcome by the urge to release the handlebars and tip my face toward the sun. Cautiously, I tested the feel of the wind zipping through my fingers. I felt open to infinite possibility. This road, this morning, this summer belonged to me. No one else to worry about. My mom wasn’t here. She wasn’t my problem anymore. Imagining that every pedal stroke took me farther from her, I pumped my legs harder. A smile warmed in my throat, finally breaking on my face. I was free.
At ten, an hour before the Sundown opened, I propped the beach cruiser against a streetlight and rapped on the front door. My knock was answered by a willowy middle-aged blonde. Smile lines fanned from her eyes, and her hair had been combed into a loose braid. Short, messy strands sprang from her scalp like rays of sun. She had warm brown eyes and an open, honest face.
“You must be Stella. You know, I have a sweet spot for that name. One of my best girlfriends in grade school was a Stella. She had deep hazel eyes, just like you.”
I shifted uncomfortably. It felt wrong to strike up a conversation around a name I hated and that wasn’t mine to begin with. If I took that route, I’d inevitably have to make up more lies. It was my
“Thank you, Carmina,” I said, doing my best to appear sincerely grateful.
Pastor Lykins continued to glance between us uncertainly. At last his face brightened. “Stella, do you play softball?”
I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I had a good feeling. “It’s been a couple years, but I know the game.”
His eyes lit up further. “Have you heard of our teen coed softball league? Games are Friday after sundown. I saw you talking with Chet Falconer earlier. He’s in charge of the league. Why don’t I see if he can squeeze you onto one of the smaller teams? I was new in town once too, and while it takes some time to feel like you fit in, the best thing you can do is dive in and make new friends. Carmina, surely you can do without Stella for a few hours a week?”
I turned to face her. “Please, Carmina?” My tone was hopeful, begging even, but my eyes blazed with smug triumph.
Carmina pinned me with a stern glare. “I’m sure that will be fine. Stella is allowed to come and go as she pleases, within reason. The child makes it sound like I’m a parole officer.” When she caught us staring at her, she added adamantly, “I’m not .”
Pastor Lykins patted Carmina gently on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s been an adjustment balancing your previous line of work with this new, exciting endeavor of raising a girl. Two completely different situations that require different, ah, approaches.”
Carmina just stared at him blankly.
Pastor Lykins cleared his throat, then shook my hand. “Good luck, Stella,” he said with heartfelt concern.
I waited until he walked away to smile contentedly.
My work here was done.
MONDAY MORNING I GOT A call from the Sundown Diner. The owner, Dixie Jo, wanted to interview me for a carhop position. The term “carhop” made me think of girls on roller skates and the movie American Graffiti . I hadn’t put on skates since I was six or seven, and had distant memories of doing the limbo on wheels, and a sore tailbone. If she made me skate as part of the interview, I didn’t stand a chance.
It was too hot for jeans, so I threw on cotton shorts and an eyelet top. Not fancy enough to earn me a look of approval from Carmina as I jogged down the porch steps on my way out, but I was going for comfort.
Carmina had loaned me her bike, a lime-green beach cruiser with balloon tires. A wicker basket was strung up between the handlebars. Like everything Carmina owned, the paint was dinged and chipped and the surface was coated in dust. But if the bike got me out of the house, it was as good as a Porsche in my eyes.
As I pedaled into town, the rush of hot air flung my hair off my shoulders. Instead of feeling oppressive, the heat felt energizing. I was overcome by the urge to release the handlebars and tip my face toward the sun. Cautiously, I tested the feel of the wind zipping through my fingers. I felt open to infinite possibility. This road, this morning, this summer belonged to me. No one else to worry about. My mom wasn’t here. She wasn’t my problem anymore. Imagining that every pedal stroke took me farther from her, I pumped my legs harder. A smile warmed in my throat, finally breaking on my face. I was free.
At ten, an hour before the Sundown opened, I propped the beach cruiser against a streetlight and rapped on the front door. My knock was answered by a willowy middle-aged blonde. Smile lines fanned from her eyes, and her hair had been combed into a loose braid. Short, messy strands sprang from her scalp like rays of sun. She had warm brown eyes and an open, honest face.
“You must be Stella. You know, I have a sweet spot for that name. One of my best girlfriends in grade school was a Stella. She had deep hazel eyes, just like you.”
I shifted uncomfortably. It felt wrong to strike up a conversation around a name I hated and that wasn’t mine to begin with. If I took that route, I’d inevitably have to make up more lies. It was my
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