See How They Lie Read online

  The student logs the heart-monitor readings from our Creek watches into one of the silver Creek laptops, and checks we’ve reset our calorie counter to zero. It takes him a while as he’s still new to it.

  During the squatting, Joanie gives up and rolls on to her mat.

  “Get up,” I hiss.

  “I hurt,” she says.

  She’s got a couple more minutes and then the student will have to note it down and she’ll be fined. He’s already looking at his watch. She’s five, old enough to learn that you have to keep aiming high to reach your potential. Also that when self-discipline fails, life without tokens to spend isn’t fun.

  “Come on. Imagine you’re somewhere else,” I whisper.

  Joanie rubs her thigh. “Like where?”

  I shrug. “Outside? Painting under a tree. Or about to jump in the pool?” I hold out my hand and when she takes it, I haul her up to standing.

  She starts again and I look away because I don’t want to see her wincing.

  “Mae?”

  I turn and frown. “What?”

  “I’m on the veranda with you. On the swing chair.”

  I smile. “That’s nice. Are we reading?” I ask.

  She nods. When I was her age, I was in England. I wish I had better memories of that time.

  After the class the student logs our data and we make our way to the cafeteria, which smells of freshly baked bread and sweat. We queue up with the patients to choose our breakfast. Patients at Hummingbird Creek don’t look like regular patients according to an article Dad let me read, written by a journalist he hired. The journalist said they look as if they’re on vacation in an exclusive resort. Moneyed, clear-eyed and energetic, they wear the latest hot labels and are comfortable around uniformed staff. Nobody here is out-and-out crazy. They just need support and structure. A holistic, non-drug-taking approach. A six-month stay is entirely usual. Dad says it takes time to fully appreciate the benefits of the Creek lifestyle, and to see the best results. Patients are occasionally allowed home for a couple of days and there are a few parent and guardian days throughout the year when parents are allowed to come for a special lunch and an afternoon of sampling the spa and other leisure facilities.

  The made-to-order line is extra long today, so Drew and I scoot round to the breads, cereals and yoghurt section. Someone’s complaining to the staff that the fruit platter needs topping up. We each fill a bowl with bran flakes, slosh over some milk, add a few blueberries, grab a glass of unsweetened juice and dodge the wrong way round the extra-supervised area where the eating-disorder crew sit.

  I search the room for pink. For my friend Thet. She’s inspecting the rim of her glass of juice before she takes a sip, her glossy black hair covering half her face. It’s pink juice, naturally, to match her pink sportswear. She looks up and, when she catches sight of me, her serious expression changes and she waves. We’ve known each other for nearly three years. She was discharged once but came back four months later. She never makes me feel odd for having grown up here like some of the other patients do, and she’s watched an astonishing amount of TV series which she can recall in great detail. She used to write something called “fan fiction” – stories about the characters from her favourite TV show – but recently she started a fantasy novel, loosely inspired by her grandmother, who fled a barbaric war that had killed Thet’s parents.

  Thet’s the only patient friend I’ve ever had. Actually, she’s my only female friend; I don’t count Greta or Joanie.

  “Move along, Mae,” calls an orderly.

  Although there’s no rule against us staff kids mixing with patients, it’s not encouraged. They might be a bad influence on us with their outside habits but, more importantly, they leave and we don’t. No contact with patients after they’ve left is one of the most sacred rules. They need to be free of their past as they live their new lives.

  The staff kids’ table is next to the far wall, which is papered in a photographic scene: woodland with the early morning sun shining through. We all have our preferred places; mine is between Drew and Joanie. I sit, eat the blueberries with my fingers, and feel sick at the thought of telling Drew I can’t be at his birthday meal. I’ll tell him when we’re on our own, not here with Zach, who’s already making comments behind his hand about a patient who’s being made to eat breakfast sitting on his own. I think it may be Austin, the patient with anger problems.

  Drew pushes back his chair and grips one of his calves. “Ow.”

  I’m the only one who makes a sympathetic noise. We all have muscle pains from time to time because of the amount of exercise we do, but Drew’s have been bad lately.

  “You’re such a baby,” says Zach. He’s a year-and-half younger but much bigger than me. I reckon he hates the fact that he’ll never be as cool as Drew.

  I reach across and tug the hem of Drew’s shorts. “Perhaps you’re growing too quickly. Look how short these have got.”

  “Mae,” says Drew. “Leave my shorts alone.”

  Zach sniggers loudly and I turn back to my bran flakes with a flushed face.

  When I return to the apartment to shower and get dressed for morning lessons, the shutters are up and a cleaner is vacuuming the living room. We say hello to each other politely. As I leave to meet Drew downstairs, she’s dusting the collection of glass horse ornaments that Mom keeps in a cabinet in the hall.

  Horses. A link to Mom’s past. I have a small plastic horse in my bedroom that I’ve had for ever which I keep on my chest of drawers, in a pottery dish I made in art therapy. Mom often picks it up when she’s in there. I think I only like it because she loves it so much.

  I press the button for the elevator and wish I’d had time to take Frank’s phone number before Jenna came back. He must have been calling from England. I wouldn’t be able to phone or write to him if I had his details now, but I’d have them for when I leave the Creek in a couple of years. Very few people have access to an outside phone line, and anyone coming into the Creek has to hand in their cell phones at the security building until they leave. We’re a cell-phone-free environment. Not that there’s any signal out here that makes them worth having. And all letters that leave the Creek are read to ensure the privacy of other patients, especially the celebrity ones who are here trying to stay under the radar.

  Drew’s waiting for me in the lobby, sprawled across the corner sofa and flipping through one of the new Hummingbird Creek brochures that someone’s left lying around. He throws it in my direction, and it lands at the end of the sofa.

  “Allow us to give your teenager world-class care in the most exquisite of surroundings,” he quotes from the brochure’s strapline at the top, then grimaces as he stands up and puts weight on his aching leg.

  We walk towards the schoolhouse and I take a deep breath. I tell him about picking up the phone to Frank and making Mom hysterical. Before he can comment, I tell him about my punishment.

  He curses. “Your dad…” He shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Drew stops, which means I have to turn and face him. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

  “It is. I shouldn’t have picked up the phone.” Since we’re not walking for a moment, I slip my feet out of my flip-flops and feel the soft grass. It’s still slightly damp from the overnight sprinklers. “I think we should stop smoking,” I add.

  Drew walks past me. “God, Mae. Your tiny rebellious streak didn’t last long, did it?”

  I pick up my flip-flops. “I’m just refocusing on core values,” I snap at his back.

  Drew snorts. I push him and he pushes me back. I want to talk to him more about Mom’s family, but by the time the pushing’s over the moment’s passed and we’re at the schoolhouse.

  Staff kids are separated from the patients for lessons, as well as sport and most activities, because it’s considered less disruptive for us. We get the cute building. They get schoolrooms in Larkspur. Our teacher, Ms Ray, is sitting at her desk when we arrive, staplin
g pieces of paper together with Joanie. Ben and Luke are on the floor, playing a board game I’ve never seen before.

  Ms Ray just started working at the Creek two days ago, and Drew’s right – she does look young. I think it’s because she doesn’t wear make-up and her wavy hair is loose around her shoulders. Her pale blue shirt is plain but has different coloured buttons up the front. Perhaps she’s more of a pre-school teacher.

  “You’re ten minutes late. I’ve already told you I want you all here on time. And where’s Zach?” she asks. “I thought everything worked to a strict timetable here.”

  “Lessons are different,” says Drew. “No one minds.”

  Ms Ray frowns. “I mind. And I’m waiting to start a science test.”

  Ben looks up from the board game. “I don’t want to do a test.”

  Drew says, “We never do tests. I mean we have health tests, and fitness tests. Verbal reasoning and non-reasoning tests. But not tests in lessons.”

  Ms Ray doesn’t believe him. “Never?”

  “We’ve never had one,” I confirm. “Haven’t you had an induction with Earl? The tall guy in charge of admin and security? He usually gives out a list of dos and don’ts.”

  We all look at her. She frowns and taps her stapled papers on the desk. “My induction’s been delayed until tomorrow afternoon. I’m just seeing what you know. That’s all. Joanie, your test is to see if you can colour quietly for forty-five minutes.”

  We start soon after Zach arrives. Ms Ray takes no notice of him when he says he’s too tired to use his brain. I’m surprised he isn’t curious to know what a schoolhouse test is like.

  I don’t mind the jumpiness in my stomach when Ms Ray says, “Turn your papers over now, please.” But the test turns out to be impossibly hard, with graphs and diagrams. After twenty minutes I’ve done the only questions I can, and I spend the remaining twenty-five drawing an intricate zigzag round the edge of my paper.

  While Ms Ray marks the papers, I listen to Joanie read out loud on the veranda, on the swing chair, while the boys read inside. After she’s read me her boring chapter book about a dog who is always getting himself in trouble, she snuggles into me and I read her some of the adventure book that Ms Ray gave us yesterday, about two kids who go back in time to ancient Greece.

  Mid-morning, when we take a break, Ms Ray asks me to help carry some books to her car. As soon as she hands over two not-very-heavy books, I know it’s just a way to get me on my own without keeping me behind at lunchtime.

  “How d’you think you did in that test?” she asks me once we’re out of the schoolhouse.

  “I couldn’t do it,” I say.

  “It was mixed,” she says. “You did brilliantly on the few questions that you had enough knowledge to tackle, but I’m worried about significant gaps in your learning. What are your ambitions, Mae?”

  No one has ever asked me that before. Beyond leaving Hummingbird Creek for college, I have no idea.

  “College.”

  Ms Ray nods. “Which one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you work incredibly hard over the next two-and-a-bit years, you’ll stand a real chance of getting into a very good one.” She looks around. “I’m guessing tuition fees aren’t a problem for your family.”

  I guess not. It hadn’t occurred to me that tuition fees could even be a problem.

  “Thing is,” says Ms Ray. “I’d have to teach you topics that don’t feature in the home-school booklets.” We’re walking to the small staff parking lot by the kitchen building. She points at the only ancient car. One of the side panels is a different shade of red to the rest of the car. “That’s mine.”

  “Don’t you live on-site?” I ask.

  Ms Ray nods. “Yes, but my room’s too small for all my books so I keep some of them in the car. I had to hand my keys to admin because I’m only allowed to drive Creek cars while I’m here but I keep it unlocked so I can use it for storage.”

  Her car could do with an inside-out valet service, or a sort-out at the very least. The floor at the back is covered with stacks of books, and on the seats there are candy wrappers, carrier bags full of science journals, some scrumpled clothing and a jumble of sandals. Ms Ray places the books we’re carrying on top of the clothing.

  “Don’t look too hard in there,” she says. “I’m not very tidy.”

  As she slams the car door shut, a car a couple of spaces away reverses out at speed. I see stiff blonde hair. A crying face. The wheels make a slight screeching noise as they turn. It’s Jenna. She speeds down the path, past the restaurant building, towards the security building, then stops for the heavy gates to open slowly. I run towards the car.

  Something’s wrong. “Jenna!” I shout. “Wait.”

  I’m almost in touching distance of the trunk when she accelerates out of the gates, before they’re fully open, on to the road towards Pattonville.

  “I have to go,” I tell Ms Ray as I pass her on the way back, and run to reception.

  One of the newer receptionists is there. She narrows her eyes at me. “What do you want, Mae?”

  “Why was Jenna leaving in such a hurry? What’s happened?”

  “You’ll have to ask your father that.”

  “Tell me,” I persist. “Please tell me.”

  “Jenna no longer works at Hummingbird Creek. That’s all I’m prepared to say.” She shifts her attention to the computer screen in front of her. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d go. You aren’t welcome in reception any more.”

  FOUR

  Dad doesn’t want to hear Jenna’s name mentioned when I try to speak to him at dinner. He says she was no longer in tune with the Hummingbird Creek ethos, and I’d do well to remember that rules create structure, and structure is essential for good health. That’s all he’s going to say on the subject. Mom looks upset but carries on eating, slowly, looking at her food and not us.

  After dinner I watch TV with Mom while Dad works in his study off the living room. Creek TV changes its selection of programmes and movies every month, and I want to see ET again before it’s off-list. I sit on the sofa next to Mom. I’d like to ask her what it was like growing up with a brother who wasn’t a good role model. Does she feel different, knowing her mom is dead? She stares at the screen, expressionless. I can’t concentrate on the movie and, before ET goes home, I take myself to bed and doodle in a notebook with my favourite vintage fountain pen – a Dunhill-Namiki made in Japan in the 1930s. It has a black lacquered cap and barrel, and is decorated with an intricate golden dragon. The nib is super-fine and italic, and perfectly shaped to the way I hold the pen to write.

  When the lights automatically turn off, I usually fall asleep straight away, but tonight guilt keeps me wriggling, unable to find a comfortable position. I wonder how easy it will be for Jenna to find another job. There’s no way she’ll find one that pays as well as the Creek. I remember the day she started here, soon after Joanie was born, and she couldn’t stop smiling. She was in thrall of all the luxury facilities. “I feel like I’ve gone to heaven,” she told me. And in all the years since, she was only ever kind to me.

  At breakfast the next morning, there’s a buzz in the queue about the imminent arrival in Larkspur of some clothing samples from a couple of fashion houses. A small group is arguing about a soccer match from the previous day. I want to speak to Thet but I can’t see her – she must have had an early exercise session.

  As I eat my second mouthful of berry compote, Zach says he’s heard a rumour that I demanded Jenna was sacked because she said something rude to me. I tell him he’s wrong and stand up suddenly so that my chair makes a scraping noise and everyone in the cafeteria looks round. Drew frowns but says nothing until we walk across to the schoolhouse together.

  “Your dad got rid of Jenna because you took that phone call?” he says.

  I nod. I can’t look him in the eye. Jenna was his favourite too.

  “What a control freak.”
r />   “She broke the rules. So did I. We went against what this place stands for. Dad was only protecting me from Mom’s family.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Addictions. Damaging behaviours.”

  Drew raises an eyebrow. “You’d think he’d be more sympathetic.”

  Perhaps there’s more to it. Things that would be too upsetting to know. I have to trust Dad.

  Ms Ray reads out the day’s announcements. One of the students is organizing a water slide beyond the basketball court between three and five p.m. All have permission to attend. There’s a special offer at the spa for haircuts over the next three days: only five tokens for a trim.

  Drew rolls his eyes and I smile back at him. Dr Jesmond told Drew his hair was too long the other day. It feels unfair sometimes that the patients are allowed to get away with much more than us concerning their appearance, but I guess we understand better how taking care of ourselves is part of good discipline and inner confidence. There are very few people who don’t have five tokens in their accounts, when a basic weekly payment of fifty tokens is paid into everyone’s account (unless they are on zero privileges), with a chance to earn more through achievements, like getting high scores in brain-training sessions.

  I think how proud I used to be to tell Jenna my brain-training scores because she’d make more of a fuss about them than Mom would. I’m still thinking of her as Ms Ray begins a lesson about atoms. I only pay proper attention after she’s asked me a question, and I’m unable to answer it. She’s drawing on the whiteboard when the door to the schoolroom opens.

  Greta. She’s not supposed to be back until tomorrow evening for Drew’s birthday.

  “Hey, everyone,” she says. “Who are you?” she asks Ms Ray. “How long have you been here?”

  Ms Ray steps forward. “Hi, I’m Steffi Ray, the new teacher. This is my fourth day and you are… ?”

  “Greta, Zach’s sister.” She waves in his general direction. “You probably know that our dad is Dr Karl Jesmond.” She walks across to Ms Ray’s desk and leans against it. “I don’t mind leading a circle time if you want a break. We usually pick topics at random from old work booklets.”