Free Deadly Little Lies by Laurie Faria Stolarz

asks.
    “What do you think?”
    “I think it takes a lot of courage for him to come back to school. It must be very difficult with a reputation like his. With so many people against him before he even has a chance to open his mouth.”
    “ I’m not against him.”
    “I know. But it still might be a good idea to give him a little space, especially since he’s asking.”
    “You sound like Wes and Kimmie.”
    “Well, they’re pretty smart friends, don’t you think?” As she gets up to fix herself a cup of dandelion tea (her surefire cure for tension), I wash my plate off in the sink and snag a couple granola bars for later.
    Before I head off to my room, I grab my mail off the kitchen table and then turn to say good night, but Mom isn’t paying attention. She sneaks one of her tranquilizer pills and sips it down with her tea, not even noticing that I’m still standing here.
    “Mom?”
    “Huh?” she says, finally tuning in.
    “How’s Aunt Alexia doing?”
    “Not so great, I guess. She’s being transferred to a hospital in Detroit. They have a specialist out there who wants to work with her. . . . She specializes in treating women her age who have suicidal tendencies.”
    “Don’t they have specialists here?”
    She takes another sip. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
    “But maybe I want to know.”
    She looks away. “Well, I really don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”
    I give a reluctant nod, wondering if this is the kind of thing she opens up about in therapy. After everything that happened last fall, my once chemical-free mom started meeting with a pill-prescribing therapist once a week, though she barely ever mentions it at home.
    “Did you have enough to eat, sweetie?” she continues.
    “More than enough.” I give my stomach a good patting, grateful that she didn’t see me throw most of my food away.
    “Well, there’s plenty more in the fridge if you want a second helping.”
    “Thanks,” I say, then give her a kiss on the cheek.
    I tell her good night and head off to bed, part of me feeling guilty for keeping things a secret; another part glad to be sparing her the truth.

19

    In my room, I drop my book bag to the floor and sift through my stack of mail. I’ve been receiving tons of college stuff lately—mostly brochures, postcards, and information packets—thanks to an online survey I filled out.
    I open a large padded envelope from the University of Hawaii, trying to picture myself studying on a sandy white beach, a coconut-filled drink in one hand and some exotic fruit in the other. The thought of it makes me smile, and when I think about it, this is probably the first time I’ve smiled all day.
    I take a deep breath and continue through the pile. All of the other schools, regardless of how big their dorm rooms are or how pristine the facilities promise to be, pale in comparison to the hula girl idea now stuck in my head. The idea of me getting far, far away from here.
    Finally I reach the last envelope and tear it open. But instead of the standard letter inviting me to tour the campus, there’s a newspaper clipping inside. At first I think it might be some new and innovative marketing tactic to snag my attention, but then I notice it’s a clipping from our town’s paper.
    I turn it over in my hands, suddenly feeling a tunneling sensation inside my chest. It’s the article about Debbie Marcus’s accident last September. The heading reads “Hit-and-Run Leaves Girl in Coma” and details what happened that night, how a car traveling at least thirty miles per hour knocked Debbie to the ground. A witness—some guy who’d just come out of Finz, the restaurant on Columbus Street—said she fell and hit her head against the pavement. There’s a photo of the restaurant beside the article.
    I grab the envelope, in search of a return address, but there isn’t one, nor is there a postmark. Only my name and address are printed on the front, meaning someone must