Chapter Two

And, after all, what is a lie?
’Tis but the truth in a masquerade
~Lord Byron

I LAY ON MY BACK, puffing for air. A fish out of water.

Not even a limber, aerobatic fish. A puffer fish.

Who was I kidding? I’d joined the pep squad at my middle school in Midtown “Hotlanta” as a joke, but that was three years ago. Trying out for cheerleader here? Right.

Sorry, Mom. It’s not going to happen.

Staring up at the sky, I tried dragging in some air, but my lungs felt as if they’d collapse. I hacked and hacked.

No one offered me a hand when I pushed up on one elbow and glanced around to see the damage. My nearest audience, the current members of the cheerleading team, quickly wheeled their backs to me, mouths hidden behind hands, as if I couldn’t tell they were laughing their heads off after my disastrous attempt at a vault. The cheer coach and her assistant had already forgotten my existence, too busy scoping out the other hopefuls waiting farther down the line.

“Are you okay?” co-cheer captain Tiffany Bensimon called sweetly, forcing her face into a mask of concern.

Tiffany and I had Pre-Calculus together. The first student to speak to me that week, she’d encouraged me to try out—probably as a joke. I was a fool to think I might fit in here. Even before I’d demonstrated my klutziness, I’d recognized my downfall.

The name “Bensimon” stood in giant letters over the luxury car dealer Mom and I had passed when we’d first arrived in Beaufort County. Two other cheerleaders had more intimidating surnames. One was related to Mike Childers, some tennis guru even I had heard of, though I knew nothing about tennis. And another one was—no lie—a freaking Hilton.

Who was I to them? A nobody.

My hopes of making the team…any team?

Not a chance.

Maybe I’d lost my grip on reality, like Dad. Obviously I’d hallucinated my first night here, imagining water that evaporated as quickly as I’d felt it and then seeing the shadow of a boy who died two years ago. Even though I didn’t know he’d ever existed until after I’d seen him.

Then today, having delusions of grandeur and trying out for cheerleader…

Mom often suggested I lacked compassion, so, though I would never look the part, I’d meant to at least try to understand the Barbies.

Mr. Ramsey had also been eager for me to participate in social activities. I suspected he’d pulled strings with the director of admissions for me to attend the selective school. He’d gone out of his way to make Mom and me feel welcome in his home so far. The two of them stayed in his office writing most evenings while I ate in peace, alone in front of the TV. Luckily, his ex-wife had allowed their over-privileged son Geoffrey to skip school and stay at her place. Rose, the housekeeper, lived in Beaufort, the town north of ours, and was only around during the day. That had left Dorothy, a terrific Southern cook but a sourpuss of a woman, in charge of driving me to school for the past three days.

“No, I’m fine.” I smiled through the pain, blinking away the tears in my eyes. No way I’d let them see how much it hurt.

Tiffany shrugged and went back to her friends, leaving me to wallow in my misery.

I sat up and pulled my legs in, burying my face against my knees. I didn’t know what I wanted to do more: laugh or cry.

Suddenly, I felt a thump beside me and glanced to see a football wobbling just inches away. Wonderful. Had the whole football team witnessed my spectacular fall? I heard someone running and lifted my face.

A boy dressed in black towered over me, a chiaroscuro swatch of dark against the light of day, catching his breath. “Rusty, eh?”

“Excuse me?” I shaded my eyes with my arm so I could see him better.

He squatted down to snatch the football, and I couldn’t help but notice the wide leather cuff with dangling chains on his arm, his worn jeans, and the Periphery concert T-shirt. Back in ATL, a lot of nonathletic kids went out for sports to get out of their school uniforms for at least one period a day. This guy seemed to fit that category. The black ink of a tattoo peeked out from his shirtsleeve. It was amazing that the school had allowed it, not to mention the jewelry, on the field.

“Haven’t kicked a football in over a year. I suck, right?” He nodded at the ball.

I couldn’t place his accent, but it definitely wasn’t the local twang. My gaze roamed up his pale face to his shaggy sable hair and back down to his warm hazel eyes half-hidden in the messy locks. My toes actually curled.

“I-I thought you meant me. That I was rusty.” Idiot! He probably hadn’t even noticed my tryout disaster. Way to point it out, Einstein.

He glanced around, rolling the ball idly in his hands. “Are you all right, then?” His crisp accent made him even sexier.

“Dandy.” I snorted.

My face went hot. Dandy? Who says that? And did I just snort?

He held out his hand. I stared at it, frozen, looking at the heavy silver band on his index finger, adorned with a skull and gleaming onyx eyes. Finally I got my head straight and let him pull me up.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as he released my hand. Flexing my fingers behind my back, I felt them tingle from the brief contact.

“Yeah.” He flipped the football in his hands. He couldn’t have looked more out of place on the field if he’d tried. Cheerleaders on one end, football team on the other, and him standing there looking all emo. And deee-lish.

He frowned as he cast a look down my length. Not the kind of reaction I’d want a cute guy to have as he checked me out, so I looked down too.

That’s when I saw it. Grass and dirt all over my gym shorts. I twisted around and saw I was covered in it. My hands flew to my hair. Oh yeah, there too. Pieces of green turf hanging out of my frizzy brown and blue ponytail.

I laughed as I swatted helplessly at the crap all over my backside.

I no longer had his attention, though. One of the football players in uniform waved at him. The guy yelled, “Are you done with that?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He hurled the ball back.

“Thanks, Geoffreeey,” one of the other guys drawled in a girly voice and fell into laughter.

My rescuer strode off the field, flipping them the bird, without another glance at me.

Geoffrey Ramsey? Could it be?

Geoffrey Ramsey should’ve been a senior, but he wasn’t. Mom told me that much.

Apparently, Geoff, the maniac driving the Vette that had nearly killed me, was in my Advanced Lit class, and today was his first day back after three days of absence.

Like the rest of us, he wore the school uniform in class, with the only addition being an Academy hoodie pulled over his head. When I found the courage to turn around and steal a glimpse of him, all I saw was the hood, his head bowed over an open book. We were supposed to be silently reading some stupid poem in our text. I was dying to see how he entertained himself.

“Mr. Ramsey, I hope you’ve read the poem,” Mrs. Sutton murmured, pausing over his desk.

“Yeah. Read it.” His voice was barely audible.

“And you’ve already written your interpretation?”

“I didn’t write it down.”

My hands balled into fists in my lap. I hated to see anyone put on Front Street like that. Especially not someone who seemed like a loner…like myself, even if he was a jackass behind a steering wheel.

“Mrs. Sutton,” I called, “I have a question.”

Her gaze lifted to mine. “In a minute, Chelsea.”

She touched Geoffrey’s desk. “May I see what you’re reading? I’ve noticed you’ve been quite absorbed.”

Geoffrey leaned back and his hood fell away. His eyes were hard and guarded, staring up at her. A muscle tightened in his jaw.

Everyone watched the exchange now. The tension in the room crackled. No one wanted to help him? At my old school, I’d seen the other kids rescue each other from the wrath of the faculty by using perfect distractions. I’d never had many friends there, but no one would’ve left me at the teacher’s mercy.

I had to do something.

“Mrs. Sutton, I’m so lost. I can’t understand any of this.” I snapped my textbook shut for emphasis.

She sighed, clearly disgusted at me, and then headed in my direction. I flashed a conspiratorial smile at Geoffrey, but it went unreturned. Instead, his eyes darkened before he jerked his gaze away.

What the hell? I’d just saved him. How could he be pissed about that?

“Byron’s poem is about doomsday,” Geoff announced flatly. The teacher halted and turned to him, as did every other person in the room. Staring straight at me, he quoted:

“The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.”

I felt a strange charge run through my body at the sound of his cool voice laced with the same British accent as his father. Guilt poked at me, but there was no reason for it. I wanted to turn away, and yet wanted to scratch through this new hard layer to see his unguarded hazel eyes of earlier that morning.

He twirled his pen in his fingers. “He’s talking about men giving up their religion, or at least forgetting it when they’re faced with the end of the world. It was a volcano eruption. The ash blotting out the sun.” He dropped his gaze, put down his pen, and slumped farther down in his seat. “But that’s just what it means to me. Nobody knows, really, unless you ask the author, but you can’t because the guy’s dead.”

The room was silent. Someone snickered. I guarantee they hadn’t figured out the poem. Why hadn’t he just answered her in the first place? Now it looked like he was showing off. His eyes held mine with a challenge. They said, “See, I knew the answer. I’m not stupid.”

A dull pain made me rub my temple, and my spirits withered under his hateful glare. Although I was the new girl who’d barged into his home, I’d done nothing to him personally to deserve his crappy attitude.

Strolling back to her desk, the teacher announced, “I’m glad you understand Lord Byron so well, Geoffrey. He’s one of the authors we’ll be writing about for our first research papers. In fact—” she smiled, settling back in her seat behind the desk “—I believe you should have Byron as your author. I’ll have more authors assigned to the rest of you by tomorrow.”

The bell rang, and she dismissed us with a nod. In my old school, the bell dismissed us and everybody flew out the door while the teachers called out last-minute instructions no one ever paid any attention to. My new school reminded me of a military academy. Perfect students, rigid rules, and stern instructors. Total conformity.

Except for Geoffrey Ramsey.

And, well…me. Under different circumstances we might’ve been cool. Maybe even friends.

Passing through the rowdy departing students, Geoff steered straight for Mrs. Sutton’s desk. I filled my backpack slowly as the other students in my row left. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he shook his head, frowning. Mrs. Sutton’s smile grew wider.

A mixed girl with mocha-colored skin—the only one I’d seen in school besides me—paused by my desk. We shared a couple of classes. She leaned in to whisper, “He has anger management issues. Don’t worry about it.”

Geoffrey headed out with his bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t look my way. My spirits withered. I didn’t need any enemies. It was bad enough looking different than everyone at the Academy.

The girl smiled and adjusted her headband over perfect, glossy black curls. “I’m Stella.”

“Chelsea.” I heaved my bag onto my back.

She walked beside me as we went into the hall.

Far ahead of us, I watched Geoffrey’s backside as he merged with the crowd, his dark hair becoming a focal point in a collage of homogeneity. Judging by his height and size, he could’ve been the person I’d seen that first night on Mr. Ramsey’s balcony. “So what’s he so angry about?” I chewed my lip.

Stella shrugged. “Who knows? He got expelled last year for fighting. Tyler Myers called him a psycho because he used to see a shrink. His dad is—”

“Ben Ramsey. Yeah, I know. My mom works for him. We live in his house.”

Stella’s lips puckered with appreciation. “That’s badass! Geoff still lives in Hilton Head, right? His mom is a big-time realtor here.”

I shrugged and readjusted the backpack strap that bit into my shoulder. “Mr. Ramsey says he’s moving back, but I don’t know.”

I’d managed to find out from Dorothy, the cook, that Ben’s oldest son, George, had died in an accident. She’d teared up at the mention of the dead boy’s name, so I didn’t press her for the details I’d wanted. When I’d spoken to Mom, she said she knew about George, but that his death hadn’t come up in Ramsey’s personal interviews yet. I could tell by the concern in her eyes that she dreaded documenting that particular memory.

“My locker’s over here. Where’s yours?” Stella stopped and turned the combination on her lock.

“I haven’t used mine yet. It’s on the other side of the building.” I smiled, my face warming. “At my last school, it was too much hassle, so most of us just carried everything in our packs.”

Stella crinkled her nose. “That’s gotta be hell. Look, I have plenty of room in my locker. You can put some of your stuff in here. We have a few of the same classes, so it’ll be no problem. We can share.”

I grinned. It felt great to get rid of my Physics book. It weighed a ton.

I was still a little gun-shy from two-faced Tiffany and the tryout disaster, but Stella seemed genuine. Finally an honest-to-goodness friendly face.

I nearly stumbled in my tracks when Mr. Ramsey, not Dorothy, waited in the parking lot that afternoon. As I dodged exiting cars, he and Geoff stood between his white Cadillac and his son’s black Corvette. When I got closer, I made out some of the older man’s words. Something about home and responsibility. His face flushed as he spoke, hands flying angrily.

I froze. Should I interrupt?

People stared as they drove past the Ramseys, and Geoff averted his face from the onlookers. His arms were folded, his body half-turned from his father. Then he lifted his hand and something flashed in his grip. Keys dangled from his fingers. Mr. Ramsey snatched them away.

Geoff saw me and frowned. His dark eyes seemed to melt my bones and kept me from leaving, as I longed to do. He ran a hand through his wild hair and returned his attention to his dad, who still ranted.

My arms hung limp as I waited, feeling useless and impotent. But I couldn’t just stand there like a signpost after I’d been seen. It was too cowardly. Besides, they looked like they could use an intervention. I took a deep breath and approached them.

“Um, hi.”

Ramsey flexed his jaw and drew back a step from his son. “Chelsea.” He nodded.

“I guess Dorothy isn’t coming,” I said softly. I could feel the heat rolling off Geoff. I wondered if his smoldering emotion came from humiliation or anger.

“Actually, no. I’ve given her the evening off. I want to introduce you to my son Geoffrey.”

“Hi, I’m Chelsea Rodgers.” I smiled and gave a little wave. The boy gave me a slight nod, while his eyes pierced his father. I felt I should explain Geoff’s lack of enthusiasm about the intro, though he certainly didn’t deserve it. “We kinda met this morning. We have a class together.”

Ramsey slid his son’s keys in his pants pocket and tossed a different set to Geoff before turning to me. “I’m going to have the boy’s Vette washed, and he’s going to drive you home in my car. Your mother is sifting through some of our family photos, making the first list of questions for me. I’ll pick up dinner on my way back. How does pizza sound?”

“Pizza would be great, I guess. Whatever you’re eating.” I tried to gauge Geoff’s thoughts, but I couldn’t make it past the hard look on his face.

“Chicago or New York?” Ramsey jangled the keys in his pocket, and his lips twisted into a fake-looking grin.

I shielded the sun from my eyes. “Um—”

“She said she doesn’t care. Get whatever you want.” Geoff strode around the Caddy and opened the driver’s door to throw his backpack in the back seat.

“It really doesn’t matter. Thanks, Mr. Ramsey.” I forced a smile of my own and climbed in the passenger side.

Geoff shut his door, and we drove away, leaving his father staring after us. Inside the car, the radio droned with a dry-voiced NPR speaker until one jab of Geoff’s ringed finger blessedly cut it off. Yet, without the noise, any noise, the silence crushed around me. I shifted in the car’s squeaky leather seat, unable to get comfortable, and cradled my backpack in my lap. I’d never been inside a vehicle this nice. Glancing around at the interior, I spotted a suitcase in the back by his bag.

“Is that your stuff?”

“Guess so.” He sighed and reached for the air button.

I put my seat belt on. No way I’d let NASCAR Ken drive me without one. “Your dad packed for you?”

He gave a short laugh. “He wouldn’t have a clue what to pack. Carol must’ve. I’m sure he made her.”

“Who’s Carol?” I closed my eyes briefly against the blur of vehicles as he swung us into the thick highway traffic, narrowly missing a semi.

“My mother. His ex. He took my car so I’d have to go to his house.”

“Oh. My parents are divorced too.” My dad wasn’t much better. He wouldn’t have been able to pack for me, either. It would’ve been a nightmare of clothes I’d outgrown and childhood toys, nothing I couldn’t live without, like my art stuff, my iPod, my laptop, my e-reader. “Sorry if Mom and I are causing you trouble. You probably don’t want to stay there and play chauffeur to me, huh?”

Geoff didn’t answer. He merely steered us through traffic. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, half worried he might stomp on the gas and propel us off the Intracoastal Bridge and half just liking the view.

I had a difficult time adjusting to the fact that the same nice guy who’d come to my rescue on the football field that morning was the guy who’d nearly cut my life short by vehicular manslaughter.

He smirked. “I’ll have my own place next year. That’s the deal. I have to graduate high school and make a high SAT score. I’d move out now, but I don’t have a job yet. Nobody would hire me around here. Dad would make sure of it.”

It talks! I felt a bubble of excitement. Could this be the start of a conversation? “A lot of people know him, huh?”

“He and Carol invest in a lot of resort property, you know?”

I didn’t.

I wanted to know why Geoff didn’t want to live with his dad, but after the exchange I’d just witnessed, maybe I shouldn’t pry. Mom was on this kick about me practicing better social behavior—less selfishness. The only-child syndrome. “You’ve got a nice house.”

The muscles in his jaw tightened. He checked the rearview mirror and switched lanes.

“So—” I fiddled with the strap of my backpack and changed the subject “—we have Mrs. Sutton’s Advanced Lit together.”

He nodded.

“You missed the first assignment.”

“It’s an excused absence. Ben took care of it.”

Geoff didn’t look or sound like he’d been sick the last three days. I certainly didn’t want to be nosy and ask, or seem as if I was accusing him of skipping.

Nervous heat pushed from my neck into my ears. I flipped my air vent up. “You’re lucky you got Lord Byron. His stuff doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Yeah. Lucky.” His thumbs beat an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel.

Idiot. I rolled my eyes at my lame attempt at a conversation. But what were we supposed to talk about? I considered asking him what his favorite subject was, but that sounded even more dumbass.

“I guess you know more about British literature than most of the class.” I smiled. “It should be an easy A for you.”

“Why? You think I know more about English because of genetics?” His snide voice made me wince. “I must be smart because of Ben, like it passes between father and son like hair color?”

“It was just a dumb comment. You don’t have to get all shitty about it.” My pulse drummed. Keeping up with Dr. Jekyll’s moods was harder than keeping score at ping-pong.

He released an angry breath.

How on earth was I going to manage riding to school with this guy every day if he was always such an asshole?

“Look.” He paused, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he appeared to take a deep breath to rein in his temper. “I guess English has always been my best subject, so maybe it is easier for me. But it has nothing to do with Ben. I get good grades when I want to.” His stormy hazel eyes cut to me.

When his gaze tangled with mine, I couldn’t look away, even when he returned his attention to the traffic. In the sunshine, his eyes glowed gold and green, hungry for acceptance—a feeling that I, of all people, could certainly relate to. Hadn’t I felt the same when people looked at me with pity for my dad? Or worse, when they looked at me with contempt, as if my father’s condition was my fault.

My anger eased a little. I didn’t want us to be enemies, but was any topic safe with this guy? I confessed, “I didn’t read much in English last year. I missed a lot of school because of…some family problems. My dad is a graphic artist, and I…I guess that’s why I’m into art. And that must be pure genetics because we didn’t spend a lot of time together.”

His expression relaxed more. “Do you paint, draw, or what?”

“All of the above.”

The corner of his lips twitched. “Good. The Lowcountry will keep you busy. Lots to paint around here.” He gestured at the estuary along the highway.

Under a tall palmetto on the roadside, a man sat on the tailgate of his pickup beside a battered old blue ice chest, a sign taped to the passenger door reading “Fresh SHRIMP” painted in red. Behind him, a fishing dock stretched out above the briny muck where wading herons searched for their dinner, and in the deeper water beyond, two yellow sea kayaks coasted along.

Impressive. Not many people I knew had an eye for genre scenes. “You’re right. I’ve actually been sketching your property all week so far.”

He turned onto the road leading to his dad’s house. “If you want, I’ll show you some places that would make good art. At least, I guess they would. I’m no artist or anything.” He rolled a shoulder.

“That would be great. Thanks.” We sat in silence for several minutes. Then we reached the gate where I’d first seen Geoff. A new burst of confidence loosened up my tongue, and I smirked. “Did you know you nearly hit our car when we arrived here last week? I thought you were the biggest jerk.” He deserved that, at the very least, for running us off the road.

“Really?” He sounded uninterested again as he idled at the keypad to type in the security code.

“Yeah. I’ve been afraid to ride with you ever since.”

“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, then.”

Huh. I’d been teasing…well, mostly. I’d expected self-defense, an explanation, or maybe even an argument, but not his agreement.

He pulled the car into the carport behind the house, leaving the space empty where Dorothy’s Impala usually sat.

Getting out of the Caddy, I eyed the outer wall of the house and the wooden lattice. The slats nailed to the house were in good condition. It looked sturdy enough for Geoff or any climber.

Ever since the first night at the Ramsey house, I’d made sure my window was locked, even though Rose assured me it wouldn’t open since it had been painted shut by the home’s last owner. I wasn’t taking any chances. The past two nights, I’d turned back my bedspread to find sand on my sheets. Lots of sand. I hadn’t let Rose do my laundry. Either someone in the house was deliberately playing tricks on me, or I was going as wacko as Dad.

Inside the kitchen, Geoff dropped his bags and opened the fridge, dismissing me without a word. I went in search of Mom and found her in the living room.

She sat on a sofa, drinking tea. A cardboard box full of photo albums sat on the table before her. Next to that, her open laptop displayed a digital photo of Ramsey at a book signing.

“Hi, honey!” She set her tea down and patted the space beside her.

I dropped my backpack and whispered, “Mom, did you know Geoff was bringing me home today?” I carefully moved a stack of old photos aside, fearing I might disturb her organization.

“Yes. I got a text message from Ben.”

I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Geoff passing the room on his way somewhere else. To the stairs, maybe.

Mom followed my gaze. “Hello, Geoffrey,” she called.

I heard him deposit his bags by the stairs. He moved into the room without a sound and nodded at my mom.

I got up with Mom as she went to greet Geoff. He’d taken his school hoodie off and wore the Periphery tee I’d seen him wearing earlier. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted out of my uniform ASAP, too.

“I’m Lori, Chelsea’s mom. It’s so nice to meet you at last.”

His gaze traveled over her face and blond hair. He looked a little puzzled before he caught himself. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Thank you for driving Chelsea home from school. I hope it won’t be a problem. We only have one car right now.”

“No prob.” He shrugged and turned away, headed for the stairs.

“I hope you can help me, Geoffrey,” she said sweetly, stopping him.

“Ma’am?” His dark hair fell into his eyes as he glanced back over one shoulder, poised like a lanky panther.

“I’m going through your dad’s pictures. I could use someone besides Ben to tell me about them. You know, give names to faces, identify the places, times, and events that were going on.”

He looked at me, his expression bewildered.

For the second time that day, I spoke up for him. “Mom, we just got in from school. Mr. Ramsey will be here any minute with pizza. Can’t we take a break until after we eat?”

“Oh, of course. You’re right.” She nodded, not showing any disappointment. “After dinner will be better. Ben can join us then, too.”

She went back to the sofa. I followed Geoff as he retrieved his bags.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered.

Rising, he slung his backpack on his shoulder. His strong arms caught my attention. I looked away before he could catch me ogling.

He paused with a hand on the banister. “You think I’m grateful?”

My mouth fell open.

He lowered his voice. “I don’t want any part of this. Why would I give a damn about helping my father write his memoirs? They’ll be nothing but lies anyway. More fiction than his fucking mystery novels.”

My stomach sank at the f-bomb he’d hurled in my direction. I recoiled. “I’m sorry. Mom didn’t mean to start anything.”

Geoff took a couple steps and turned to me once more. “I’ll tell you what. Ask Ben why there are no pictures of George in his albums. And while you’re at it, ask him about how I killed my brother. Think he’ll want your mum to put that in his book?”