Strange Lies Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  STRANGE TRUTH

  (Previously titled We Know It Was You)

  “A fast-paced, sassy, and sultry whodunit.”

  —School Library Journal

  “The definition of a page-turner. Thrash’s unique ability to balance humor, mystery, and teen angst blew me away. Hilarious, twisty, and full of unforgettable characters—this is damn good stuff.”

  —John Corey Whaley,

  Printz Award–winning author of Where Things

  Come Back and National Book Award Finalist Noggin

  “[Strange Truth] has all the elements of a great read: mystery, humor, romance, and drama. . . . Thrash’s writing is so mesmerizingly good I found myself rereading sentences for the sheer pleasure and surprise of them.”

  —Cecily von Ziegesar,

  New York Times bestselling author of the Gossip Girl series

  “A complicated and twisty tale that blends noir mystery, gothic romance, and dark humor.”

  —VOYA

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  To Dean, with hatred

  What no one realized about life was that every second you weren’t free, you were dying. Every breath you breathed was a criminal waste of air if you weren’t free.

  He stared at the cream-colored horse and carriage stationed anachronistically in the school parking lot. It was quiet now, but in an hour everyone would be crowding outside to wave and cheer as the Homecoming King and Queen took their triumphant ride around the block. It was one of many social customs at Winship Academy that underscored the school’s unwritten motto: Some people are better than others.

  He’d come outside with the vague objective to look at the stars and experience a sublime moment of inner peace. But of course it was the city, and only one star was visible beyond the bruise-colored dome of light pollution. As if the goal of urban existence was to keep everyone looking down instead of up.

  He stroked the horse’s cheek and golden mane. The horse seemed restless, jostling its head trying to shake off its harness and leather blinders. It, too, was ready to run. The driver was asleep in his polyester Dickensian costume, the reins lying in his open hand. The horse would be gone if it knew its own power.

  He was being followed. He was aware of this, but he wasn’t worried. Everything was falling into place; soon escape would be his. He gave the horse a final pat, and then he went back inside, a shadow followed by a shadow.

  One week earlier, Thursday

  Yasmin Astarabadi’s house, 6:00 p.m.

  She’s gone.

  Yasmin Astarabadi’s entire body buzzed with megalomaniacal glee. Zaire Bollo was gone. According to Virginia Leeds, who was supposedly there when it happened, she’d run off to Spain and was never coming back. Of course, Virginia was an insane pathological liar and normally Yasmin wouldn’t pay attention to anything that girl said, but an entire week had gone by with no sign of Zaire at all. Then a truck had pulled up to the Boarders and hauled all Zaire’s stuff away—her gold-and-black wardrobe from Milan, her mountains of books, her imported stationery and tins of tea—everything. She was gone.

  Carefully, and with great reverence, Yasmin removed Zaire’s photo from the large bulletin board on her bedroom wall. A web of ribbons came away with it, leading to index cards with words like “SATs,” “Governor’s List,” “Summa Cum Laude,” “clubs,” and “yearbook” typed in color-coded ink. She placed the photo faceup in the trash can. The next time she threw away some chewed gum or a Kleenex with a dead bug in it, she wanted it to land right on Zaire’s annoying, haughty face.

  “Another one bites the fucking dust,” she said, delighted by her own corniness. She repositioned the remaining photos on the board, moving each one up a position, like horses in a race: Calvin Harker now at number one, herself at number two, Benny Flax lagging slightly behind her at number three, and DeAndre Bell behind him at a distant fourth. Now that Zaire was gone from the board, its quotient of physical beauty had dipped severely, Yasmin couldn’t help but notice. DeAndre was arguably handsome, but his smarmy, politician’s perma-grin ruined him in Yasmin’s eyes. As for the rest of them, Calvin Harker was lean and grim and ghoulish. Benny Flax was okay-looking, but dopey and distinctly hopeless. And if Yasmin contributed any beauty to the group, it certainly wasn’t evident to her. They were three ugly nerds.

  Whatever, she thought. Beautiful people were stupid. That was a literal fact. Their brains developed differently, growing larger in the areas dedicated to reinforcing self-worth through the affirmation of others. It’s what made people think it was valuable to spend thirty-five minutes on their hair in the morning. That was thirty-five minutes Yasmin could be spending reading Sun Tzu or researching political internships. Time management was the key to life. Yasmin considered any moment in which she was not actively engaged in the advancement of her goals to be a quantifiable loss.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that the top students in their class were all minorities in some way. The white kids at Winship didn’t bother competing academically. They would get whatever they wanted in life whether they had the grades to back it up or not; their fourth-generation country club connections were the only currency they needed. Yasmin felt sorry for them. They would never know the powerful, ecstatic satisfaction that she felt at having to work hard to distinguish herself.

  Yasmin gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror. She didn’t like her outfit. On non-uniform occasions at Winship, you had basically one option unless you wanted to look like a freak: a cardigan set (color of your choice) with a short black skirt. In the spring and summer you could wear floral, but obviously not past Labor Day. Preppy outfits were always designed to exhibit—never overshadow—the assumed natural radiance of their wearer. On Yasmin, they looked average and drab, but she didn’t second-guess her choice. Being different just wasn’t worth the hubbub.

  She gathered up the materials for her high-voltage electric arc. Tonight was the science expo, which excited Yasmin more than any football game or dance. Academic events were basically popularity contests of the brain. And now that Zaire was gone, Yasmin had a shot at actually winning.

  She took a last glance at her newly organized bulletin board. Calvin Harker would be tough to beat. He was almost two years older than everyone else in the sophomore class. He’d had to drop out of school for ten months because he had heart cancer or a brain tumor or something. By all rights he should have been a junior. It wasn’t fair.

  At least Benny Flax wouldn’t be a problem. He was smart and had great grades, but his heart wasn’t in the race. All he cared about was his little baby club about Blue’s Clues or whatever it was. What a waste of a good mind.

  DeAndre made her nervous. His grades weren’t a huge threat, but he was the student body president, which would carry a lot of weight with the cocksuckers at Harvard. She knew for a fact that every decent college had been sniffing around him since ninth grade, when he’d taken the football team to state.

  Whatever, she thought again. The word was her talisman. With it she’d surmounted the indignities of ninth grade, which had included an assault of acne and the realization that high school didn’t magically make boys interesting—they were the same annoying dipshits they’d been in middle school, only bigger, and if Yasmin ever wanted to have sex with one of them she�
�d have to dramatically lower her standards. Not that sex was even a remote priority for Yasmin. The only climax that mattered to her was making it to the top of the class—that gleaming, perfect pinnacle—where she’d grin down at everyone she’d crushed to get there.

  Outside the gym, 6:30 p.m.

  Benny felt like an imposter. He always did on these occasions.

  It was the clothes—khaki pants, blue blazer, tie. The outfit wasn’t mandatory, technically, but it’s what every guy would be wearing. It wasn’t what he’d planned to wear. He’d planned to wear his dad’s gray wool suit, which had been hanging in the closet since the accident, immaculate and untouched. It was still in the plastic bag from the dry cleaners. The crease in the trousers was as perfect as if it had been ironed yesterday, not eighteen months ago. Seeing it, Benny had stopped. He wasn’t really going to wear this, was he? This was a man’s suit, and he was just a kid. What if it didn’t fit? What if he messed it up or spilled punch on it? What if his dad needed it? That last question was ridiculous, Benny knew. Benny’s dad had severe brain damage from a plane crash and wouldn’t be needing a suit tonight or possibly ever again. But still, what if he suddenly felt better and wanted to go out for a nice dinner in his suit, and when he went to the closet it was gone and the shock sent his brain back into its foggy maze? The idea was ludicrous, but as soon as it had germinated in Benny’s mind, he knew he wouldn’t be touching that suit.

  He sat on the curb outside the gym, waiting for Virginia Leeds to appear. They were going to the science expo together. It was not a date, as if that needed to be established. He’d never heard of anyone going to a science expo as a date. He wasn’t exactly sure why they were going together at all. Ostensibly it was for Mystery Club, but really it was just a habit they’d developed of meeting each other places—in the hall after assemblies, by the apple stand during break, in the cafeteria if they had the same lunch period. They’d report any unusual observations—usually there weren’t many—then they’d go their separate ways.

  Benny had founded Mystery Club on the basic philosophy that mysteries were everywhere, and that the greatest advantage in solving one was to Be There. Be watching, be a witness. Don’t wait for mysteries to come to you, because they won’t. Benny had learned this quickly enough. When he’d first created the club, he’d expected to be barraged with inquiries: Who started that rumor that I tongue-kissed a dog? Who put a bag of peanuts on the peanut allergy table in the cafeteria? Weird things were always happening at Winship, but people seemed too self-absorbed to care. Except for Virginia. Virginia cared—cared too much maybe. She was obsessed with other people’s business and always had been. Sometimes Benny wondered if she’d only joined Mystery Club as an excuse to spy on people.

  “Hey.”

  Benny twisted around and saw her approaching. She was wearing a soft black sweater and a gold skirt that Benny recognized as having belonged to Zaire Bollo. It looked expensive, and was short enough to glue anyone’s eyes to her legs. It was definitely inappropriate for an academic event that was mostly a spectacle for parents. Benny’s own mother was already inside, examining every tenth grader’s project to assess the competition.

  Benny was about to stand up, knowing there was no way Virginia could sit on a street curb in that skirt without flashing the entire world. But Virginia either didn’t know or didn’t care. She plunked down next to him, immediately scooching away a bit, apparently having misjudged how close to him she’d landed. Benny stared ahead. Just because her underwear was probably showing didn’t mean he had to look. In fact, it was his duty not to.

  “You look like a calculator salesman,” Virginia said.

  “I look the same as everyone,” Benny said, nodding toward a very athletic, sandy-haired boy climbing out of a blue Mazda who was wearing the same combination of khakis and blue blazer as him.

  “Oh yeah, you’re clearly twins separated at birth.”

  Benny gritted his teeth. Virginia always managed to blithely zero in on whatever anyone was insecure about and broadcast it to the world. Did she do it on purpose? Benny didn’t know. Perhaps she’d enjoy it if Benny pointed out that she was wearing Zaire Bollo’s designer cast-offs and her underwear was showing. At least I didn’t steal my outfit from a murderer, he imagined saying back. But he knew he wouldn’t. It might feel good for a second, but then Virginia would get that crinkled, hurt look on her face, and Benny would be consumed by guilt for days.

  Clothes, clothes, clothes, he thought dismally. These events always revolved around clothes. Winship was a uniform school, which meant that on the occasions when people had free reign to wear what they wanted, it became a matter of intense public display and scrutiny. The irony was that everyone ended up dressing the same as one another anyway, but as a collective decision rather than a mandate from above, which seemed to be an important distinction.

  Virginia was picking at a large scab on her knee. She’d been picking at it all week. It was never going to heal at this rate, and the skin around the scab was red and infected. Benny was about to say as much when she sat up abruptly and began digging through a small brown bag that didn’t match her outfit at all.

  “So, um, I got you something.” Virginia handed him a small velvet box. Benny examined it warily.

  “What is it?” he asked. The last time she’d gotten him a present, it was a bracelet with the letters W.W.B.D.? (What Would Benny Do?) sewn onto it, with a matching one for herself. It had been touching but embarrassing.

  “Just open it,” Virginia insisted.

  He snapped open the box. Inside was a silver ring. He turned the ring over in his palm and saw that it was composed of a pair of dials, one engraved with letters and the other engraved with numbers. It looked expensive.

  “It’s a decoder ring,” he said. “Wow, thank you.”

  “I got us both one!” She held up a second ring. “For writing messages. You’re always complaining about the notes I leave on your locker, so . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Benny saw that her cheeks were bright red.

  Benny had always found Virginia somewhat irritating-looking: her heart-shaped face prone to flushing, her blank staring eyes, her Afro of blond curls. But in the warm evening light, her features seemed to morph slightly, her face at some middle point between an awkward, chunky cherub and a Renaissance angel. It was an undeniable flash of . . . cuteness. Benny didn’t like the word—it evoked ponies and puppies and cupcakes—but there it was.

  “You need to learn to control that,” he said, a little louder than he’d meant to.

  “Control what?” Virginia said, turning her face away.

  “Your cheeks. You’re blushing. If you want to be a great detective, no one should ever be able to tell what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh yeah?” Virginia snapped, looking at him suddenly. “What am I thinking?”

  Now Benny was the one blushing. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m just saying . . .” He stared down at the decoder ring, pretending to be fascinated by the dials. He could sense that Virginia was glaring at him. Seconds passed.

  “So, what’s your project?” Virginia asked, back to picking her scab.

  “A study of anomalous recoveries from neurological damage. What’s yours?”

  “ ‘Trees of Georgia.’ I dunno. I suck at science.”

  Virginia’s wouldn’t even be the worst project, Benny knew. The science expo was mandatory for all students. Winship’s science program had recently been called “lacking” in the Guide to Southern Prep and Boarding Schools, a slander the administration was obsessed with correcting. But by making the expo mandatory, the result was that people who had no business contributing clogged up the works for the people who were serious. Still, Benny tried not to be bothered. He believed in inclusivity and that everyone deserved a chance. But at the same time, he couldn’t help noticing that the chance seemed to be wasted on 99 percent of humanity.

  He stood up. “I better go set up my booth. See you later.”

  �
��See ya.”

  “Um, thanks for the ring.” Benny made a small show of sliding it onto his finger.

  “You’re welcome,” Virginia said back, not looking up from her scab.

  Benny lingered a second, then gave up. He’d screwed up the moment somehow, and now it was over.

  Booth 43, 7:15 p.m.

  DeAndre’s project was the classic volcano. Classic was his thing. He’d seen all the Cary Grant movies as a kid and thought, with profound awe, That’s who I want to be. Cary Grant encompassed everything suave and cool. He was the ultimate leading man, and DeAndre channeled him in all things. Would Cary Grant go overboard with his science project? Nah, he’d do the bare minimum, but do it perfectly. Would Cary Grant be upset that the entire school was laughing at his uncle? Nah, Cary Grant would grin and brush it off. He’d probably laugh, too!

  It was hard to keep grinning, though. The thing with his uncle was getting out of control. His whole family had come up from Lakewood Heights to see the science expo, even though he’d practically begged them not to. His mom had seen Winship before, and she knew how to be cool, but the rest of his family had predictably freaked when they’d seen the facilities—the soaring brick buildings, floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the football field and the river, shining tile floors, bathrooms bigger than their entire house, with automatic toilet-seat covers and mild-smelling foaming soap instead of the standard antibacterial pink goo. It was bad enough that they’d wandered around with their mouths hanging open like they were touring the White House. But then his uncle Jeffrey saw the spread at the refreshments table and exclaimed with loud glee, “They got real ham biscuits!” which had taken approximately five seconds to become a school-wide joke. Ten years from now, people would probably still be ribbing each other and saying, “They got real ham biscuits!” long after DeAndre was gone and the joke’s origin was forgotten.