Free Truth by Tanya Kyi Page A

her scream like that.
    It wasn’t a mouse. It was a redheaded man sprawled across the floor in Ian’s parents’ room, one arm up as if he’d rolled out of bed. His arm was twisted, and the back of his head was wet with blood.
    Just breathe, I tell myself as I drum my fingernails on the dining room table. Don’t think about it. If you think about it, Officer Wells is going to know. And he doesn’t knowanything. He’s not looking for you anyway. I make my fingers stop tapping.
    It’s true that Officer Wells doesn’t know anything. He seems at a bit of a loss, slumping slightly now, his eyes wandering around the dining room and across to the living room.
    Both rooms are spectacularly ugly. So ugly that I once entered a home makeover contest that I found in one of Georgia’s mom’s magazines. No luck, though. The house is still hideous. I can imagine my mom and dad decorating it together when they moved here. I can see them choosing the rust-colored shag and the wood paneling and the couch with its wagon wheel upholstery. They must have thought they were at the height of fashion. That was the seventies. I was born in the eighties; my mom left in the nineties. The wood paneling and the wagon wheels live on.
    It’s all too much for Officer Wells. Just as my dad finally has the coffee ready, the officer stands, shakes hands with both of us, and prepares to leave.
    â€œI’ll be in touch if I need to speak with you again.”
    Ian’s party was the most exciting news to sweep the school since the computer science teacher was charged with assault. He pushed his ex-wife into a table at one of our town’s two bars. That was months ago.
    The booming metropolis of Fairfield (population: 5,000; things to do: 0) is in a mountain valley. We’re over an hour from the nearest mall and two hours from the closest town with a movie theater. About a zillion hours from anything else of interest. Sticks-ville, British Columbia. My dad grew up in Vancouver. He says he and Mom moved here because they wanted to raise their children (who turned out to be just me) in a more peaceful place. Well, it’s definitely peaceful. So peaceful the whole population could knock off in their sleep and the outside world would never know.
    In the summer we entertain ourselves with bush parties. That’s when a few guysthrow some wood in the back of a pickup, drive out to the old gravel pits or the banks of the river and light a bonfire. Then people spread the word — usually in the 7-Eleven parking lot. We stash a bottle of vodka down the side panel of Georgia’s ancient Honda (the plastic door-handle part pulls right off) and drive out in search of the party.
    That’s the summer. In the winter we rent movies (yawn), hang out at Willie’s Chicken until it closes at eleven (double yawn), and basically try to fight off death by boredom. So when Ian mentioned that his parents were spending the first two weeks of November in Mexico, we were buzzing around him like a swarm of starving bees. Ross Reed spent a whole week telling people about the party before Ian said it was okay. Poor Ian is one of those really nice people who’s easily pushed around. There wasn’t much he could do.
    Ross organizes most of Fairfield’s parties. He knows everyone. Wherever he goes, the party goes. I think his life revolves aroundweight lifting and beer. Maybe it’s hereditary — everyone says Ross’s mom OD’d on pills after his dad took off. Now Ross lives with his grandmother.
    Rumor has it Ross and some of his friends are on ’roids. It’s probably true because they spend tons of time at the gym. Nate’s on the junior hockey team and says he wants to make it to the NHL. Ross doesn’t play any sports — I think he just likes being big. He walks like a bodybuilder, with his arms held out from his body as if he’d like to put them down, but his muscles get