I step out on the porch as Duncan comes up the walk, his board tucked under his arm. He’s wearing a red sleeveless T-shirt, jeans hacked off at the knees, and no helmet. His arms are muscled, and he has a scab on one tanned knee.
“Is this place all yours now?” he asks.
For an answer, I hold up the key. “And I think I got a job at Fred Meyer.”
“Freddy’s? That’s where my mom works. In the garden center.”
Crap. Chuck knows I’m from Portland. What if he tells the other staff that? Why did I tell Duncan I was from Seattle? Maybe I can think of a new lie that covers both the old lie and the real truth.
“Were your parents at the funeral?” I can’t remember who he was sitting with.
“They were at work. My dad works for Glass Doctor. But they thought someone from our family should be there, and I didn’t have to work on Saturday.”
“Where do you work?”
“Zumiez. At the mall. Mostly I sell skateboards to kids and helmets to their moms.” Medford is so small it has only one mall.
“And where’s your helmet?” I’m the kind of person who always wears a seat belt or a bike helmet or work gloves. The world is full of too many risks without adding more.
“In my backpack.” He gives me a half shrug. “I don’t bother when I’m just street skating, like now. Only if I’m learning a trick. Or at the skate park. You have to wear a helmet there.” His gaze flicks up to me. “Hey, can I ask you a weird question? Can I see your hand for a second? Your right hand?”
“Why?” Unconsciously, I put both hands behind my back.
“I was curious about that scar you have.”
Slowly I put my hands in front of me, palms up. The scar is about a half inch long, near the base of my middle finger, a loop with two trailing ends. It looks like one of those ribbons people wear for breast cancer. Like a broken-open infinity sign.
All I really remember about it is having to get stitches. The doctor said they wouldn’t hurt, but they did. That was before I figured out how often adults told you things they only wished were true.
“Do you remember how it happened?”
“No.” Do I?
Gently, Duncan grasps my hand. My heart stutters in my chest. He touches the line with an index finger. “Do you remember who you were with?”
Something inside me freezes, like a mouse I once saw on the floor of my apartment when I turned on the light. It didn’t so much as twitch a whisker, as if I wouldn’t notice it if it didn’t move.
Feeling like I swallowed a stone, I look up from the scar to Duncan’s steel-gray eyes. I pull my hands back and close them into fists.
“You were with me.” His voice fills with urgency. “You’re Ariel Benson.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “What? No!” Even though there’s no one around, I keep my voice low. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“All afternoon, I’ve been riding my skateboard up and down this street, hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.” He pauses and then adds, “Ariel.”
“I’m Olivia.” I pat my chest. “Olivia Reinhart. Not this … this Ariel Benson. Because I’m not her.” One of the times Tamsin took me to church, the pastor told the story of Peter, one of Jesus’s disciples. Three times after Jesus’s arrest, Peter was asked if he knew him, and three times he denied it.
“You may not remember how you got that scar, but I do. We were in first grade. I dared you to climb this big oak tree in our yard, and you lost your balance. You grabbed a branch on the way down, but it broke and cut your hand.”
As Duncan says the words, I see them. Feel them. Relive the weightless tumble, my desperate reach, the bright pain that lanced across my palm. Remember how, when I landed flat on my back, the air was slammed out of my lungs.
He lets go of my hand and reaches for his back pocket. “After I met you at the funeral, I came home and looked through boxes of old photos. I found this one of us.” He pulls out a Polaroid and holds it up, his eyes going from me to the blond girl standing next to a dark-haired boy in the photo. Her face is no bigger than a thumbprint. I don’t know how he can be so certain. It could be any blond little girl, and my hair is dark now. Duncan holds it out, but I don’t take it. “You’ve changed a lot, but I remember that scar.” He shakes his head, nearly smiling. “I got in so much trouble.”
Steeling myself, I lift my chin. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. My name is Olivia Reinhart. I can show you my driver’s license.”
He sets his jaw. “Maybe it is now, but that’s not who you used to be.” His voice softens. “What happened to you, Ariel?”
I blink so I won’t cry. “I’m sorry, Duncan. But you’re wrong. I’m not that poor little girl.”
“How did you get that scar, then?” He lifts one eyebrow.
“From cooking.” I cling to my lies, because what else do I have? “The knife slipped when I was making a stir-fry.”
“Must have been some slip. Do you always hold things in the palm of your hand when you’re trying to cut them?”
“Stop twisting everything around.”
His eyes plead with me. “Why didn’t you tell your family at the funeral? You’re Terry’s daughter. Terry and Naomi’s. Carly and Tim and Lauren—they deserve to know. You’re their niece, their cousin.”
“Look, I don’t know how many times I have to say this: I’m Olivia Reinhart. I’m not Ariel Benson. I’m not. And please don’t go telling people that I am.” I won’t admit the truth. I can’t. But I come as close as I dare. “Don’t you understand? This is my life you’re talking about. You can’t go around spreading rumors that are only going to cause people pain.”
“Don’t you think Terry’s relatives have been in pain? Don’t they deserve to be reunited with that little girl?” A muscle flickers in his jaw.
“Whoever she was, wherever she is, she’s not here. Please, Duncan, don’t go stirring up trouble where there isn’t any. Can you promise me that you will keep this crazy idea to yourself? Please?” This might be the last time I ever talk to him. That thought hurts so much.
“All right, I’ll keep your secret.” He holds my gaze for one more bitter second. “But I don’t have to like it.” He spins on his heel and stalks off. Once he reaches the street, he throws down his board, jumps on, and is gone without a backward glance.
But it has to be this way. There’s someone else out there who would be very interested in knowing who I am. The person who thought they got away with it. The person who killed my parents and then chose to drop me off at the Walmart.
Because maybe now they wouldn’t be so generous.