Beth Vrabel - To Tell You the Truth

To Tell You the Truth

Beth Vrabel

TO STORYTELLERS AND ESPECIALLY STORYKEEPERS

G ran loves me.

This is the truth, heavy as the air this late August night. Its stronger than the throw-away thoughts that will keep my eyes open when I crawl back into bed. Its brighter than the lilacs that grow in tangles by the white stone marking Grans eternal rest: Dolcie B. Jacobs, beloved grandmother and mother.

But much as she loves me, Gran hates me too.

This is the new truth thats tickling me from the inside out and twisting down, down, down to where I lock away her best stories. Including the one she told me when the sky was the blue of a newborn babys eyes. Ill keep that one just for me, no matter what.

Because if theres one thing Gran couldnt ever stand, its a liar. I dont have room in this old heart for hate, Trixy, I can hear her say even now. Except for liars and thieves.

And heres one last for-sure truth: Thats just what I am. A selfish liar and a thief.

Ive been lying to Mama, stealing my grans stories, and, worst of all, Im about to break my daddys heart.

Im going to run away with Raymond Crickett.

Only Raymond doesnt know it yet.

When kids at school found out that Raymond Cricketts dad was a famous musician who went on tours, everyone thought he must be super rich. Rumors put his house at three stories tall, contended that celebrities could be spotted on the rocking chairs on his porch, and that his dad did nothing but sing and strum his fiddle all the day long. People whispered that the only reason Raymond had lunch tickets for the cafeteria and patches on the knees of his jeans was that he wanted to blend in with everyone else.

But the truth was that Raymonds house was a lot like mineonly my ranch house was yellow and his was blue. We both had big front porches and tiny living rooms. Both of our dads had pushed their old trucks into the yard when the engines refused to turn the last time.

There were differences too. While Mama had planted flowers around my house, Raymonds house had plain grass right up until the porch. The paint around the trim was flaky, and a couple of railings on the porch had splintered or broken fully off.

The house was a bit like Raymondpleasant but not quite taken care of enough.

Raymonds dad spent a lot of time playing the fiddle, but he also had a bunch of side jobs, mostly landscaping and carpentry. Like Raymond, Mr. Crickett had big brown eyes. He also had a beard like my dads, only Mr. Cricketts beard stretched into a point under his chin and his mustache curled up at the ends. Raymond told me once that his dad used product for that to happen. Tattoos ran along his arms and stretched to the sides of his neck. They were of eagles, trees, and words too swirly for me to read.

When Mr. Crickett sang, my heart paused.

Once, Mama and I went into the city and ate at a gourmet restaurant in the middle of winter. I wore a scratchy dress with silver ruffles and Mama had her hair twisted into a bun atop her head like a ballerina. Snow fell outside the windows, and all around us people rushed and slid on sidewalks. Inside the caf, it was warm enough to fog the windows. Mama nibbled on a layered cookie that had cost seven dollars. I ordered a hot chocolate, and it arrived in a gold-rimmed red mug with a huge pile of twisting whipped cream on top. I remembered that first sip, how it seemed to pour straight down to the tips of my toes, filling me with sweetness, making every silly thing I had worried aboutwhat the other diners thought of me, whether I was wearing the right dress or saying the right thingsmelt away.

Mr. Cricketts voice was like that first sip of cocoa. I couldnt be scared when he sang.

But unfortunately, he wasnt singing when I crept down the street to their house in the dark of night.

I was sure I was about to be in a world of trouble. Mr. Crickett was loading the bed of the truck with bags and equipment while talking into a cell phone tucked in the crook of his neck. Sara, Raymonds sister, leaned against the passenger side, scowling at him. I sneaked past them, moving silent as could be, toward the house.

I found Raymond sitting on the front porch stoop. He jumped when he saw me pop up beside the railing. Trixy, what are you doing here? he gasped.

I whispered, I told you I was coming along with you on your daddys tour, didnt I?

You most certainly did not. Raymonds head swiveled from side to side, making sure no one saw us. You said you wanted to come along. Thats different. And then today you assaulted Catrina and got kicked out of school! he said. Dad saw a bunch of police cars and an ambulance going to your house too! What happened to you? I thought maybe you done lost your mind! You been saying such wild things lately!

I scrunched my face and crossed my arms. Raymond Crickett, my mind is right where I left it inside my head. Nows the time to use yours. How can I get into your truck without your dad or sister seeing me?

T he first time I thought about running away was three weeks earlier. I came down to breakfast, making myself look as pathetic as possible with a sloppy ponytail and droopy face, hoping to convince Mama once again that I was too forlorn for school. I planned to tell her I was sick, which wasnt a total lie. Already my stomach was churning, churning, churning, just about at the nonstop boiling it had kept up all through school this year.

But instead, I saw a note next to a plate of sliced apples topped with peanut butter. See you after school. Daddys upstairs if you need anything.

I looked out the window, spotting Mama running up the street. Running? What was happening to our family?

Daddy had worked the third shift the night before, so he was out cold upstairs with the fan blasting in his face. Mama was getting farther and farther away from me. I could get up from the table and head off to see all the places I knew about but had never seen. Places like Memphis, where the music comes from every corner, draping like a blanket of sound to tuck in the town. Places like Nevada, where the desert fries you like an egg in a buttered pan until the sun sinks and makes your breath turn to frosty clouds, all in the same day. Places like Montana, where the sky is wider and thicker than the ground, and standing there under all that sky makes things such as mud boiling right in its pocket of ground seem almost all right. Places like the loft of a dusty Tennessee barn, where a girl could fling herself into thin air and be cradled by hay that somehow loses its tendency to scratch when its called upon to save your life.

Thanks to Gran, I knew about all these places, though Ive only ever seen but one place myself.

But I just walked down the dirt driveway to stand by the mailbox, where the school bus would pick me up.

The doors to the bus opened, parting the air, and for just a second I thought I smelled that bubbling Montana mud Gran had told me about while boiling eggs for salad last summer. But as soon as the doors creaked closed behind me, all I smelled was stinky Raymond Crickett. Okay, maybe it was the school bus itself that smelled that way, but my nose wrinkled just the same.