Count My Lies

Chapter 10

10

The next morning, Friday, I wake up feeling lighter than I’ve felt in years. I never have to go back to the spa. Never, ever again. And what’s better, I’m meeting Violet for a walk. She’d texted me last night, asking if I’d meet her at the playground instead of her house, so she could get some steps in before picking Harper up from school. Of course! I answered. I’d have agreed to meet her anywhere. I practically float out of bed, cartoon birds chirping merrily as I dress.

Most of my workout clothes are old and musty-smelling, but I find a pair of barely worn black joggers in the back of my closet that I pair with a loose T-shirt, knotted up on one side. I put on my New Balances, wishing they were a little less worn-out, less scuffed. Then I tuck my hair into a baseball cap, tie a hoodie around my waist. I consider putting in my contacts, but when I glance at my phone, I realize— shit —I don’t have the time, so I grab my purse and head toward the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I spot Violet at the entrance to the park. She waves when she sees me. I wave back and pick up my pace.

Her dark hair is pulled into a high, bouncy ponytail, a few loose strands on the back of her neck, bangs brushed to one side. Like me, she’s in a pair of running shoes—though hers are newer—but she’s better dressed, wearing ribbed high-waisted leggings and a matching stomach-baring sports bra, horseshoe logo winking.

“Hi!” she says when I get close. “Thanks again for meeting me here. I feel like I never exercise anymore, so I’ve been trying to fit it in where I can. Jay bought me a Peloton last Christmas, but I use it more as a clothes rack.”

“What’s ex-er-cise?” I joke, drawing out the syllables like I’m saying it for the first time. Violet laughs and I feel a little rush.

Frankly, a little exercise would do me well, too. I’m not overweight—or particularly thin—just an average build, a little pudgy around the waist, a bit of a jiggle in my thighs, unlike Violet, who’s lithe and long-legged. I could probably stand to lose a few pounds, but I loathe the gym. I hate the sweat-masked Lysol smell, the stuffy air, the women with their pristine Nikes and tanned, flat midriffs. I don’t need to feel more schlubby than I already do, thank you very much. Actually, I considered buying a Peloton, too, but when I saw the exorbitant price tag, that bubble burst. The thought of using a three-thousand-dollar gift as a glorified hanger is so ridiculous I almost laugh.

“I’ve actually been meaning to get back into it myself,” I say. “I used to run track in college.” It’s a nice addition to my list of lies: one, my name is Caitlin; two, I am a nurse; three, my mother has lupus; four, I am a runner. I like the way it sounds.

“I ran in high school, too!” Violet says. “Cross-country.”

I smile back, pretending to be delighted at the coincidence. Shit. “I loved it, but I tore a ligament in my knee just before graduation. I haven’t been able to do it since. So walking’s perfect for me, actually.” The last thing I want is for her to suggest we jog together instead. The thought alone is horrifying.

“Great!” she says. “I thought we could head to the water then up toward Brooklyn Bridge Park. How does that sound?”

I shrug. “Sounds good to me.”

We start to walk, faster than I’d anticipated. To keep up, I do a little half jog every few steps or so. Soon, I start to feel beads of sweat prick at my hairline, my breathing becoming heavier.

“I’m more out of shape than I thought,” I say sheepishly, doing my best to keep from panting. Violet smiles at me encouragingly, but doesn’t slow down.

After a few minutes, we settle into a comfortable pace, making small talk as we walk, mostly chatting about Harper, about her schedule, her likes and dislikes, eating habits Violet thinks I should know about—like how the only fruit she’ll eat is strawberries and how she loves yogurt but only vanilla-flavored.

I manage to slip in a casual question about Jay here and there, learn that he has one older sister, three nieces, that he’s always wanted to live in New York. “I wasn’t so sure about raising Harper here,” Violet says, “but he talked me into it. Jay can talk anyone into anything.” She smiles, rolling her eyes affectionately.

By the time we reach the park, the sun is high in the sky, a blazing, bright ball. The temperature is already in the low eighties, the day sticky, hot, even for April. I’m sweaty, my T-shirt damp under my arms, against my back.

Violet looks as fresh as she did when we started the walk. Her face has the slightest tinge of pink, but she’s otherwise untouched by the heat.

We slow, strolling toward a bench at the edge of the water. We don’t sit, instead standing behind the bench, using its back for balance as we do a few light stretches, heels drawn up behind us, then bending over into a tabletop position. I’m not quite out of breath anymore, but close.

“How do you make this look so easy?” I ask. “I look like I just ran a marathon. I’m a mess!” I pull my wet shirt away from my body, billowing it to get some air, hoping to cool down.

“It’s an illusion,” Violet says, laughing. “I’m barely holding it together. Underneath it all I’m a disaster.”

“You? Sure.” I wrinkle my face in disbelief.

She shakes her head. “This”—she motions to herself—“takes a lot of work.”

“You’re kidding.” I raise an eyebrow, a skill I proudly mastered in the long hours I spent alone as a kid, bored in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’m not. This took me an hour this morning with the flat iron.” She points up at her glossy ponytail. “Left alone it’s like a rat’s nest. The cat-sized kind that live in the sewer.”

“I doubt that very much,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“My bangs alone take fifteen minutes. And without concealer, you could pack a whole wardrobe in the bags under my eyes. More suitcases than bags. And not the carry-on kind. Really, it’s that bad.” She groans. “And don’t forget the eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What do you do to your eyebrows ?” I study them. They’re thick and well shaped, but look natural. I’ve thought little about mine, save for plucking them every once in a blue moon when I notice a too-long hair. They’re fairly sparse, not particularly noticeable, though it didn’t occur to me to do anything about it.

“Trimming, penciling, brushing,” she says. When she sees my face, she laughs. “I’ll show you. I’ll do yours. It actually makes a big difference.”

I roll my eyes again, smiling. It’s something beautiful women say to ingratiate themselves to average-looking people. She’s exaggerating, I’m sure. She probably looks red-carpet-ready when she wakes up—skin dewy, dark eyes bright, eyebrows or no eyebrows. Venus de Milo doesn’t need makeup, and neither does Violet.

“Really!” Violet says. “I look like a gremlin without brows. Which is why I set my alarm for five thirty every morning.”

I shudder. Any hour before seven feels inhumane. “Oh god, why bother?” Then, quickly I add, “Because I don’t, obviously.” I give a little self-deprecating snort, motioning to my glasses, my baseball cap. “I mean to—I want to—but that snooze button… it calls to me. But if you don’t want to, why do it?”

Violet laughs. “I don’t know,” she says finally, slowly, considering. “Jay…” She starts, then pauses, stops, starts again. “Not just Jay, but everyone—well, take the other moms, at Harper’s school. They make me feel… oh, I don’t know, they’re just so… much ,” she finishes, grasping.

She sees my face and laughs. “I’m not making any sense. You probably have no idea what I’m talking about.”

But my expression isn’t because I don’t know what she’s talking about. It’s because I do. All too well. Mockingbird, the school I taught at, was the same way—a private Montessori whose tuition ran close to fifty thousand a year. It’s why I recognize all the brand names, the designer bags and the jewelry. The parents—the mothers, specifically—looked like they’d stepped off a runway, polished and crisp, Chanel bags and four-inch Louboutin stilettos, Cartier bracelets and three-carat diamond rings, fresh blowouts, unwrinkled, Botoxed foreheads, syringe-filled lips, breezing in and out of the classroom on their way to the office.

They air-kissed their children, also dressed in Balenciaga, Dolce & Gabbana, each other, barely grazing the cheek as they waved goodbye over their shoulders, phones already pressed to their ears. They didn’t all work, of course. There were some, like Violet, whose husbands’ salaries were more than enough, or who had family money, generations of wealth filling their pockets, who didn’t work, at least not outside the home. Instead, they hosted charity events and late lunches at Clover Hill, managed social calendars and household staff, dressed their nannies in last season’s Burberry coats, in intentionally scuffed Golden Goose sneakers that looked like they cost sixty dollars instead of six hundred, handed down after only a handful of wears.

“It’s stupid, I know,” Violet says, “but they make me feel completely inadequate. This”—she motions to herself again—“is my attempt to fit in.”

I study her, glancing at her profile out of the corner of my eye. It’s funny that someone who looks like Violet, high-cheekboned and full-lipped, feels the same way as I do when I look in the mirror. It makes me wonder, How do people see me?

“I think you look great,” I say, because she does. Better than great.

“Thanks. I think I look old . I’m turning thirty-two soon. In June,” Violet says, studying her fingernails. Her face is placid. I can’t tell how she feels about what she’s just said, excited or disappointed, or something in between.

“June? My birthday’s in June, too!” I say.

She turns to me, animated again. “Really? When?”

“June sixteenth.”

“Another Gemini!” she says. “I’m the eighteenth. Twins.”

A smile lights up my face. I don’t know if she means as in the zodiac symbol, or if she’s referring to us, because of how close our birthdays are, but I don’t care. It’s another thing that links us. Born only two days apart. And it’s not even a lie.

Maybe she’ll want to celebrate together. It was just going to be the three of us, I imagine her saying, just a small celebration, but now, now that I know it’s your birthday, too, we should do something special . A party at their house, a picnic in the park, or dinner at a fancy restaurant where, when we’re almost finished, they’ll bring two desserts, one for each of us, both topped with candles, flames dancing. Jay and Harper will sing, even though we tell them not to, as we smile at each other across the table.

I’ll go to the little shop where I found my necklace and buy another. I’ll say I had it made for her, because she liked mine so much. You shouldn’t have , she’ll say, as she opens the box excitedly, her cheeks flushed, but I’ll be able to tell that she’s happy I did. Then her face will light up when she sees what’s inside. She’ll grin and put it on, right there, proudly hooking it around her neck. How do I look? she’ll ask, turning to Jay and Harper. They’ll both tell her she looks beautiful, because, of course, she does.

I break from my reverie to find her looking at me expectantly. Did she ask me something? “Sorry, what?” I say.

“I just asked how old you were turning.”

“I’m turning thirty-two, too!” I’m not. Lie number five.

“Really?” She cocks her head, her eyes widening. “We should do something together!”

I nod enthusiastically. “I’d love that!”

She beams. Then, “Ready to turn around?”

I nod and we resume the walk, heading back the way we came. She tells me how, growing up, she hated having a birthday in the summer because she never got to celebrate it at school. She was jealous of all the other kids whose parents brought in cupcakes or goody bags, who sat in the middle of the class as the other students sang “Happy Birthday.”

“Anyway,” Violet says, waving a hand. “I’ve talked enough about myself. Tell me more about you. Where’d you go to college?”

That’s what she doesn’t get. I’m not bored of hearing her talk about herself. I don’t think I ever will be. But I indulge her, skipping over the two years I spent at community college before I transferred to Brooklyn College, a state university, mixing the truth with some lies. I tell her how my mother raised me on her own, about how we moved from town to town in the South, before settling in New York when my aunt got sick.

“And you said your dad is from Philly?” she asks when I finish.

I nod. “That’s what he told my mom.”

“I was born there,” Violet says. “It’s where both my parents were born and raised. They moved to Piedmont, just outside San Francisco, when I was six.”

I feel a jolt. A current of electricity lighting up every cell. “That’s funny,” I manage.

“Small world.” She smiles. “Like I said, Gemini twins.”

Maybe not twins, but sisters. I’ve always wished I had a sister, more than anything. What makes it even harder is that there’s a chance I do have one, somewhere. I think about it all the time. My dad probably went on to get married and have more kids. And those kids would be my siblings. If Violet’s dad is from Philly, then maybe—No. I stop myself.

I smile back. “I visited once, on a school field trip.”

“You’re probably more familiar with the city than I am, then. I barely remember it.” She tells me about what it was like growing up near San Francisco, how she and her friends would take the BART across the bay, how one day, she hopes to move back to California.

Before I know it, we’re back in the neighborhood, on the corner of Fifth and Smith. It’s almost eleven thirty. We’ve walked for just over an hour, two and a half miles, according to Violet’s Apple Watch. I’m hot and sweaty. Without even seeing myself, I know my cheeks are splotched red, my hair frizzy under my hat.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Violet asks.

I bite my lip. I do, I really do, but I don’t want to seem overeager. I know how strong I can come on. I need to bide my time, take it slow. No sudden movements, nothing that might scare her away.

“I would, but I have to get my mom to an appointment,” I say ruefully.

“No worries! I’ll see you on Tuesday afternoon, then? Harper gets home at one, so do you want to come over a little before?”

“Sure!” I say. “Sounds good.”

“Okay, great. Have a good weekend!” She starts to turn, then stops. “Oh!” she says. “I want to show you what I mean. Before I go.” She begins rifling through her bag.

“Mean about what?”

Triumphantly, Violet holds up what looks like a pencil. “What a difference brows can make! Come here.”

“Right now?”

She nods. “Right now.”

Hesitantly, I take a step toward her. She uncaps the pencil and leans in, then gently lowers my glasses. We’re almost the exact same height. Her breath tickles my face, warm and minty, and I close my eyes, feeling the light touch of the pencil tip against my skin. “Start at the thickest part,” she murmurs. “Then up to the tip. Down, then blend.”

Violet moves to the other brow, repeats herself. Then, “Okay, done,” she pronounces, stepping back. She takes a compact from her purse and opens it, angling it toward me. “So, do you like it?”

I study myself in the small mirror. My new brows shoot up in surprise. They look fuller, like Violet’s, darker, more arched. Even behind my glasses, my eyes seem brighter, somehow, the angle of my cheekbones more pronounced. She’s right. I do look different.

“How’d you do that?” I ask, still staring at my reflection, turning my head left and then right.

“I told you.” She smiles, smug. “With this. Here, take it,” Violet says, handing me the pencil. “I have like three others at home.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I take it from her, holding it like a treasure. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “See you Tuesday!” She turns, waves, and heads down the block.

My smile stretches into a grin. I can’t wait. I turn toward home, too. As I do, I catch myself in a reflective storefront window. For the first time in a long, long time, I like what I see.