Darkness My Old Friend

highly of her, her advanced comprehension and her creative writing. I think we can all work together to keep her on track.”

Obviously Mr. Vance hadn’t ratted her out for being so inappropriate in class. For some reason that only made her feel worse about it.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Bethany. She seemed to relax a bit. “I think so, too.”

Sitting there looking out the window now at the kids heading to the field for that mundane misery they called physical education but which everyone knew was just school-sanctioned torture for anyone other than the naturally thin and athletic, Willow felt it. As she listened to her mother and Mr. Ivy talk about her behavior, her schoolwork, their expectations, Willow felt the now-familiar dark lash of anger. It turned to something cold and black inside her, and she let herself sink into it.

She’d felt it the first time she realized that her father was gone and that he wasn’t coming back. That he’d call when he should, make all the appropriate appearances, send money and gifts. But that he’d moved on in a way that fathers weren’t supposed to ever move on from their children. And then she finally understood what they’d told her, that he wasn’t her natural father, not her biological father. They’d carefully explained to her over the years that he was her stepfather but it was just the same, that he couldn’t love her any more if she had been his real daughter. But that just wasn’t true, was it? His love for Willow was intimately connected to his love for her mother. And when he stopped loving Bethany, he’d stopped loving Willow, too. He stopped wanting to be her father.

And on the day that this finally dawned on her, she felt this thing settle inside her-but it wasn’t a thing, really. It was this terrible, ugly absence, a hollow. And she didn’t fight it off, though something told her that she should, she should fight it back with all her strength. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. It was like drinking something that made you sick but liking the sickness somehow.

Willow had seen Jolie when they’d entered the school. Jolie was leaning against her locker, and she gave Willow that sly smile she had. The smile asked, Wanna get high, girl? And Willow did. She did want to get high, so high that her whole world was just a small black dot a million miles away. Willow loved that smile of Jolie’s. It made so many promises.

“Are you listening, Willow?”

“Yes. I’m listening.” But, startled, she’d said it with that sullen snap her mother hated. And Bethany’s face changed just like that. It went from open and hopeful to tired and disappointed in a millisecond. And probably nobody but Willow would even have noticed. She’d seen that look a lot. She didn’t think her mother herself was aware of the expression on her face. It wasn’t something she did on purpose, like her stern look or her trying-to-be-patient look. This was the expression that her face took on when all the other masks she wore failed her.

“No more cutting, Willow,” said Mr. Ivy. “If you’re struggling, having a hard day, having trouble with the other kids, teachers, whatever, come see me. I’ll always make time to talk it through.”

He meant it. She could see that in his eyes. He wasn’t a fake, like her stepfather, Richard, with all his expensive gifts and “heartfelt” apologies. Mr. Ivy didn’t want anything in return, didn’t have a guilty conscience to be massaged or a skittish ego to be stroked.

“Okay,” she said. “I promise I’ll do that, Mr. Ivy.”

She offered him a shy smile. Embarrassed-but-trying was the look she was going for. Mr. Ivy seemed to buy it, giving her a warm smile and an approving nod. He leaned back in his chair. Bethany released a breath beside Willow.

“Good. Great,” said Mr. Ivy.

“Well,” Bethany said, slapping her palms lightly on her thighs. “I feel like we’ve accomplished something.”

Lies, good lies, were about more than words. They were about tone, expression, and body language, too. The best lies contain a little bit of truth. Some details, but not too many. More than any of that, though, you had to believe the lie yourself. You had to be the lie.

Her first lie had been about a Britney Spears concert. Her father-and of course she’d always thought of him that way then, because she didn’t know anything else-was supposed to take her to the concert for her thirteenth birthday. Front-row seats, he’d said. He was trying to finagle a backstage pass from one of his clients, but no promises there.

She’d told everyone-and her friends were sick with jealousy, begging to come along. And truth be told, she would much rather have had one of them with her than her father. But he had only two tickets, and Willow’s going alone with a friend was out of the question. But her mom took her to Betsey Johnson and bought her a new top, to Lucky Brand for a new pair of jeans. She felt really grown up, and she rarely had time alone with her dad. So maybe it wasn’t that lame to be going with him.

The night of the concert, Willow and Bethany had pizza while they waited for her dad to come home. They rocked out to the new CD and danced around the kitchen, using spatulas for microphones. He was supposed to be home by seven, but by seven fifteen he still wasn’t there. Bethany called his office and then left a message on his cell phone.

“If you’re caught up at work, let us know. I’ll come get the tickets and take her myself,” she heard her mother say. But he didn’t call back and he didn’t come home. Anxiety gave way quickly to a bone-crushing disappointment.

As eight turned to eight thirty, and eight thirty turned to nine, Willow wept in her mother’s lap. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t come home when he was supposed to. He had broken other dates and promises. But this was the first time he’d done it to Willow. Usually it was Bethany dressed up and waiting, falling asleep on the couch, the sitter sent home. They weren’t worried about him-that’s what Willow remembered-didn’t fear that something terrible had happened.

In her room she saw a slew of text messages on her phone from her friends. HOW IS IT??? OMG, I’M SO JEALOUS!!! SEND ME A PICTURE OF YOUR OUTFIT!! She could call any one of them and start to cry about her father. No one would judge her; not one of her friends was living with both her biological parents. They were all accustomed to the heartbreak and disappointment of divorce, ugly custody battles, blending families. But she didn’t call them. Something inside her couldn’t stand to lose face that way; she was the one with the perfect family-the famous mom, the successful plastic-surgeon father. She sent a group text: IT’S AWESOME!!! WISH YOU WERE HERE!! PIX TOMORROW!!

Just as she sent it, her mother was standing in the door.

“Willow. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Mom.”

But she could tell by the look on her mother’s face that she was taking it on, the way she took on everything. And somehow this just made Willow feel worse. She remembered everything about that night. But most of all she remembered that terrible aching sadness as she lay in bed.

Around midnight she heard her father come home.

“Oh, Christ, Beth. I forgot. I got held up in surgery.”

“Bullshit, Richard. Were there even tickets?”

Willow buried her head beneath her pillow against the crescendo of their voices. Then it got quiet for a while. Just as she was drifting off to sleep, she heard the front door slam and her mother start to cry.

The next day Willow told all her friends about the concert-using details she’d gleaned from blogs and videos posted online. No, her dad couldn’t get those backstage passes. But she told them how she’d met this really cute guy when her dad went off to use the bathroom. She gave the boy her e-mail address, because she really didn’t want to give out her number. His name was Rainer; he believed her when she told him she was sixteen years old. She told her friends how her dad took her out for a burger and a shake afterward and she didn’t get home until past midnight. It was the best time ever.

And it was all true. She should have been there-she could imagine every detail, hear the music, feel the excitement. She was there. Her lie told the truth, as it should have been. And there was not a flicker of doubt from anyone. Why would there be?

Somehow, in doing this, Willow felt a little less desperately sad, as though she’d taken back something that had been taken from her. The real truth was just so pathetic. In telling her lies that day, she felt a kind of rare power. She couldn’t control a thing about her life, her father’s persistent and growing absence, her parents’