I’ll Never Tell Read online

  NOW

  The chaplain in prison loves to talk about turning points. The moment we chose the wrong path, the point of no return. It’s supposed to help us, to take us back to the place it all started. We’re supposed to know better now, you see, understand the error of our ways. So, we pick over our past, tracking back crimes and consequences through our short lives until we find the linchpin. That one decision that could have changed everything.

  This was mine.

  I can see it as clear as the moment I was standing there myself: the three of us in the jumbled athletics office, midday sun through the windows, and the sounds of the lacrosse match drifting in from outside. An invitation. An adventure. Elise’s eyes, bright with friendship and possibility. Melanie’s round face guarded with jealousy. And me, wavering there between them.

  If I’d said no that would have been the end of it. Elise would have gone back to hovering quietly in the folds of her shiny, perfect clique, and I’d have eaten lunch alone in the library, been tormented by Lindsay until graduation. Our worlds would probably never have collided again, merely passed in the hallways and spun off on our different orbits, to college and first jobs, white-confetti weddings, and babies nestled, safe and gurgling on our hips.

  She’d be alive. I wouldn’t be accused of her murder.

  CUSTODY

  My cell is ten feet by twelve. It has bare concrete floors, and chalky whitewashed walls, and orange paint peeling from the bars.

  I’ve been here twenty-two days.

  There are two hard bunk beds set with thin mattresses, and a metal toilet in the corner bolted to the wall that makes me ill with the smell. Everything’s bolted down, smooth, too; no sharp edges to catch accidentally against our clothing or wrists. I have a thin blanket, and sheets that make me itch, but it’s still too hot and I still can’t sleep, surrounded by the strange, ragged pace of other people’s breathing.

  Their names are Keely and Freja and Divonne. They’re older, or maybe just look that way, and after the first stare-down, have paid me little attention at all. They strut around the place with their shirts tied high and contraband lipstick on their faces, bumping fists and calling to cellmates across the aisle. They’ve been here a while, and will be for some time, bantering and laughing with one another in their foreign tongue. I don’t understand a thing except the bitter note in their voices, and the suspicious looks they send my way when they’re talking about me and my many terrible crimes.

  I never thought I’d miss the pounding silence of isolation, but some nights, I do.

  They wake us at six for bed-check, then herd us to showers, and then the dining hall. We line up for trays of flavorless oatmeal and bruised fruit, eat at long metal tables. “Like school,” the young assistant from the American consulate told me during our weekly visit, trying to sound cheerful. Not mine. Hillcrest had salad bars and off-campus privileges; my group would gather at the far right table in the cafeteria, reigning over for all to see.

  I’ve lost at least ten pounds. There was a time I’d think that was an achievement.

  After breakfast is free time, then lines in the dining hall again for lunch, and dinner—so many lines, I half expect us all to join hands, like in nursery school, snaking across the playground. I’ve been told I’m lucky there’s no work duty, just long days I fill by watching TV, reading the dog-eared paperback books in the makeshift library, and trying not to catch someone’s eye in the rec room. I walk for hours in the yellowed grass of the exercise pen, trying to memorize the sprawl of blue sky to take back inside the cell at night. The prison is set on the edge of a cliff: the stretch of blue ocean beyond the walls on one side, an expanse of barren earth separating us from the rest of the island on the other. But we can see neither, of course, just the solid walls and barbed wire penning us in, and the guard towers stationed, always watching.

  I can make calls from three to three thirty p.m., but I have nobody to talk to. Dad is back in Boston, trying to remortgage the house and keep a lawyer paid. My friends were swept home by their parents the moment the police allowed them to leave; now they talk to reporters and newscasters, spilling stories and theories about the three of us, Elise and Tate and me. Lamar sent me letters the first couple of weeks, but even those have stopped now—the only time I see his face is scowling in the back of paparazzi shots, his hand blocking the camera as he enters the school gates. He and Chelsea broke up; her and Max’s parents are talking about moving them back to California, away from everything.

  And then there’s Tate. He’s somewhere across the island now, in the safe cocoon of his parents’ money: waking up alone behind a door he can lock, taking showers behind the privacy of frosted glass, eating cereal straight from the box before he wanders out onto an ocean-view balcony, and meeting with his five assorted lawyers to plot his defense.

  He hasn’t come to visit me. I don’t know if I would see him if he did. I can’t forgive him for what he did—for leaving me to face this all alone.

  They say the trial will begin in four months. Three, if I’m lucky. Every day, I wonder how I’m going to make it that long.

  But of course, I don’t have a choice.

  THE TRIAL

  The photo clicks up on the display projector overhead. Although everyone must have seen it a dozen times over, I still hear the gasps of shock ripple through the courtroom.

  “Objection!” My lawyer leaps to his feet. The judge sighs, staring over her thin wire-rimmed glasses. “Your objections have been noted, Counselor. Many times.”

  I sit silently in the witness box. They’ve been trying to bring up the photos for weeks now, and for weeks, my lawyer has been fighting. They’re unrelated. Out of context. Prejudicial. If there was a jury, then maybe he would have won, but here in Aruba, there’s no jury deciding my fate. It’s just Judge von Koppel, and as she’s told him every time, she’s already seen them. Hell, everyone has. From the day some journalist browsed our profile pages and hit the tawdry jackpot, those photos have been printed and reprinted, emblazoned across every newspaper front page in the world.

  “Miss Chevalier, if you could look at the first photo . . .” He clicks again, making it larger this time. “Can you tell us, when was this taken?”

  “Halloween,” I reply reluctantly. “Last year.”

  “And that’s you in the photograph?”

  “Yes.”

  “With who?”

  “Tate,” I say quietly, picking at the skin around my left thumbnail. They said I’m supposed to keep my hands folded, unmoving, but I can’t help it. Every nail is bloodied by now, scabbed and torn.

  He’s still waiting, so I take a breath. “And Elise.”

  “The victim,” he announces, as if they didn’t know. “And what are your costumes, here?”

  “Vampire cheerleaders.”

  It sounds so stupid, out loud in court, but that’s what Halloween is for, right? Slutty nurses and zombie cats; guys with fake limbs and girls in trashy fairy-tale costumes. It doesn’t mean anything; it’s all just a game. It’s not supposed to be blown up as evidence on a display screen one day, like you planned it out from the start.

  “Elise and I were vampire cheerleaders,” I say again, “and Tate was . . . a bootlegger, I guess. Something from the twenties. He wanted to wear the suspenders and hat.”

  “And these photographs were taken at . . . the Newport residence?”

  I nod. “I mean, yes. We were going to a party, but we all met at the twins’, Max and Chelsea’s, to get dressed, and take photos and stuff.”

  He hasn’t put the other photos up from that night: Max in his zombie football player uniform; Chelsea as Princess Leia with her hair caught up in fat braided whorls; Lamar as Black Jesus, with the robes and a blinged-out cross; Melanie in her usual slutty cat outfit, whining that she didn’t know Elise and I were going to match. We must have taken hundreds of photos that night—dressing up, and posing, and later, at the party—but of course, nobody wants the rest of them. Not whe
n they have the ones they need right there: four pictures, saying everything they want to see.

  “And the blood—”

  “Fake blood,” I interrupt.

  “Yes.” He gives me a patronizing smile. “Whose idea was that?”

  “I don’t know. We found it, online,” I explain. “The same place we got the costumes.”

  “We. That’s you and Miss Warren.”

  “Yes.”

  She had been so excited, showing me the website. Proper horror costumes, like the kind they use for movies and music videos. Blood and scars and fake wounds oozing pus. We’d scrolled through the options, laughing and crying out with disgust. Alien baby. Zombie spinster. Not that we picked any of them in the end. We wanted to look hot, too. Hot with an edge.

  “And the knife, whose idea was that?”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? But that’s you holding it, isn’t it?” He clicks the photo even bigger.

  “Yes. I mean, I don’t remember. There was a lot going on. It’s not mine,” I add, remembering my lawyer’s instructions not to seem sullen or withdrawn. I force a polite smile. “Someone got it from the kitchen, for the photos.”

  “Somebody.” He drags the word out, sounding skeptical. “But you don’t remember who?”

  “No.” My voice is small.

  “And you were drinking that night.” It doesn’t sound like a question, so I don’t reply. “You drank often?”

  “Objection!”

  He turns to the judge. “I’m merely trying to establish Miss Chevalier’s normal partying routine.”

  “I’ll allow it.” She nods. He turns back to me.

  “The drinking,” he prompts.

  “We all drank.” I protest. “Just some wine, or vodka with mixers, you know? The guys had beer. AK always smoked—”

  “That’s not relevant.” He interrupts me quickly. “You and Miss Warren, and Mr. Dempsey. You drank together.” He clicks to the next photo, to answer his own question, and there we are: Tate pouring vodka into both of our mouths.

  “Yes,” I admit. I know what comes next; my lawyer’s warned me well enough. He’ll ask about the weed and the pills. About my mom’s Xanax, and the times Elise tried her dad’s Percocet. About the cocaine Melanie saw Elise try over Christmas break, and the liquid X Niklas tried to feed her in the club that night. It sounds so bad, all run together like that, but there’s no way around it, save lying, and too many people saw too many things to get away with that. Besides, they told me over and over again: just tell the truth.

  I take a breath, bracing myself, but instead the lawyer clicks again, to the next photo. “Can you tell me about the necklaces?”

  I stop. “What?”

  “A necklace was ripped from the victim’s neck that night, and there’s a possibility it was the one she’s wearing here, in the photograph. You have a matching item. Where did they come from?”

  “I . . . me. I got them.” I look over at my lawyer, but he looks just as confused as I am.

  “With the costumes?”

  “No, this was before then.”

  “When?”

  “Uh, over the summer, I think.” I pause. “Yes, summer. We were up in Northampton, there’s this jewelry store there . . .” I wait, still lost.

  “Why did you buy them?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” It’s a trap, I know, it has to be, but I can’t figure out why or what for. “It was just a gift,” I explain. “We would do that: buy two of something, so the other had one. So we matched.”

  “Why this necklace in particular?”

  “It was pretty.” I shrug. “It looked cute.”

  “And can you describe to me the shape of these necklaces?”

  My lawyer’s face changes to something like panic, but I still don’t know why, so I shrug again and answer. “It’s geometric. You know, like a—”

  I stop. I can see it now. This was his plan all along, and it’s worse than we ever thought, but the word is hanging in the air waiting to be spoken.

  “Like what, Miss Chevalier?” His voice gets louder, booming in the courtroom. “What was the necklace you bought for Elise?”

  I close my eyes a moment.

  “A pentagram,” I whisper.

  “Speak clearly, Miss Chevalier.”

  I say it again. Another murmur ripples through the courtroom: shock, speculation.

  “Wait,” I add quickly. “It’s not like that. I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s enough.” He cuts me off. “No further questions.”

  “But you can’t!” I leap up. “It wasn’t like that!”

  “Miss Chevalier,” the judge interrupts me. “That’s enough! Do I need to return you to custody?”

  I sink back into the witness chair. He’s left the photos up on display. Elise and Tate and me, covered in fake blood. Me holding the knife to her throat. Tate’s shirt open, his arms draped around us both. Elise and me licking strawberry syrup off the blade. The close-up of the pentagram necklaces.

  They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but these only have one:

  Guilty.

  BEFORE

  I spend that afternoon with Elise cloistered in a coffee shop downtown, talking and laughing and pouring tiny packets of sugar into bitter espresso drinks as we gaze longingly at the ruffle-haired college boys brooding over their laptops. It’s new for me: I’ve never been one of those girls linked arm-in-arm in the street, head bent over a magazine, friendship bracelets falling, frayed, off a wrist. I’m wary at first, still waiting for the sharp comment, the mean-girl backlash, but none comes. Instead, away from her clique, Elise unfurls, hair slipping from her neat ponytail, waistband folded over another daring inch. She gets brighter, louder, almost breathless with gossip, as if she’s been keeping this part of herself back for years and can’t help but spill over in a torrent of bitching and wishful thinking and plans of traveling in Europe before college, and the California campuses far, far away from her parents.

  I’m swept up in her exuberance too, in the tiny space of warmth and easy friendship, like a square of sunshine falling on the cold winter floor. As we sip our coffees and hum along to the indie rock songs on the café stereo, I find myself beginning to hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different after all. I look at Elise’s animated expression, her arms flung wide to illustrate her story, and see an alternate version of my life unfold for the first time: the version where I have a place to sit at lunch, a partner in the lab, after-school plans that count for something more than curling in our living room, alone, eating take-out pizza to the lonely sound of the TV.

  And then we slip back into school in time for fifth period, and Elise is gone. Back to Lindsay, and her old clique, back to following them down the hallway—walking half a step behind; her eyes down when she passes me by my locker. Back to the lesser girl she was pretending to be.

  And I go back to being nobody at all.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised. What was she going to do? Tell her friends to go fuck themselves, cast herself out of their world, all alone?

  Of all the many sins of high school, this is the worst. Better to be a sneak, or a slut, or a narc, or a bully, than alone. The rest, you can laugh off, turn away from, and pretend it’s not true, but when you’re alone, you have no one to turn to. You need them: to sit with at lunch, to save you a place in line, to wait with for the bus outside the gates after school. To stand alone says you’re an outsider. Different.

  I don’t blame her. Hell, if it was me in her place, I’d probably do the same, but that doesn’t stop the sharp sting in my chest whenever her gaze slides past me and her group explodes in a chorus of giggles. I go back to spending lunch periods in my library carrel, ignoring the whispers and the not-so-subtle way the jock boys sniff the air around me—the legacy of the milkshake prank. The week passes, and turns into the next, and one after that, too, and soon it feels like our stolen afternoon was a dream
, some out-of-body experience.

  Until Elise finds me weeping in the second-floor girls’ bathroom one afternoon, three days before spring break.

  “Anna?”

  I jolt at the voice, spinning around in panic. I got a hall pass from French because I couldn’t make it to final bell. Did someone follow me out?

  “Hey, it’s okay, it’s only me.” Elise shuts the door behind her and moves closer. She looks just the same, with her neat ponytail and blazer decorated with merit pins. I back away instinctively. “Anna? Anna, what’s wrong?”

  I still can’t speak, the tears I’ve held back all day forcing themselves from my body in great noisy sobs. These aren’t delicate tears; these are wretched and angry, and it’s all I can do to fall against the wall and slide to the ground, my shoulders heaving, my whole torso racked with pain.

  Elise crouches on the floor beside me and tries to take my hands, but I shrink away. I hate that she’s seeing this. I hate that I fell apart at all.

  “Please,” I manage, my voice hoarse and cracked. “Just go!”

  “Shhh.” She gets up, and for a moment I think she’s going to leave, but it’s only to grab a handful of tissue from one of the stalls. She sits back down beside me on the hard tile floor. “Was it Lindsay? Did she do something? I told her not to, but . . .”

  Lindsay? I try to laugh, but it comes out as a garbled squawk through my tears. I shake my head. “No, it’s not . . . it’s not that.”

  Elise waits, rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles, and eventually—long minutes later—my sobs fade away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the familiar dull throb of a headache in their place.

  “Here.” She wets a paper towel and dabs at my face. I try to duck away again, but she rolls her eyes. “Trust me. That mascara isn’t waterproof.” I quit struggling and let her pull me back together: blotting my red eyes, smoothing back my tangled hair, until there’s nothing left to do, just silence between us in the empty bathroom.

  “I’m sorry,” Elise offers finally. Her voice is soft, fearful. “I know I shouldn’t have ditched you like that, but—”