Lies My Girlfriend Told Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

list at me, along with a fistful of cash, and then heads for the stairs. I can see why he’s in a hurry, and a mood. Ethan has icky diarrhea that’s running out the side of his diaper and down Dad’s arm. “Thanks for helping out,” he says.
    If he’s being sarcastic, I can’t tell.
    I think illegible handwriting must be a course in medical school, because Mom’s scrawl is impossible to decipher. I finally figure out that “park chips” is pork chops. Is “bd” bread or baby diapers? I’ll buy both.
    By the time I get home from Safeway, the house is quiet. Dad’s in his office working and Ethan must be napping. Dad left me a note on the kitchen table:
    If you could start the laundry, I’ll buy you a Mercedes.
    His idea of a joke. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked for a car so we wouldn’t have to share. He always has the same excuses: more car payments, exorbitant insurance costs, we don’t need three cars, blah, blah.
    Swanee told me she got her Smart car the day she turned sixteen. She even got to design it herself, online. Coolest car in the world.
    Downstairs in the laundry room, there’s a mountain of clothes to be sorted and washed. If Mom and Dad expect me to do them all, I’ll be here for a week. I stuff as many clothes as possible in one load and pour in a cup of detergent.
    Then I sprint upstairs and grab my laptop. Propped against the headboard, I log in and link to Facebook. I can’t get into Swan’s home page, but I can see that dozens and dozens of people have left messages on her profile wall:
RIP, Swan.
You’ll be missed.
RIP. RIP. RIP.
    My eyes pool with tears and I want to send her an iheart, the way I do—did—every day.
    She only has fifty-two friends. She was picky about who she’d add. In the Search area under her friends list, I enter Liana T . Nobody comes up. Maybe I’m wrong about the first name. I enter L and three people pop up. Lyndi Tartakoff. Don’t know her. I link to her profile and see she’s from Michigan. I’m curious how Swanee knows her, but she can’t be the LT I’m looking for if she wants to meet Swanee in their regular place. Libby Tyndal-Weir. She was in my keyboarding class in eighth grade. Lili Thompson. I click on her profile and see she’s Swanee’s aunt. I think I saw her at the memorial service.
    Dead end.
    Next I Google Twin Peaks .
    There are a bunch of businesses in Colorado beginning with Twin Peaks , and also a mall. If we’re meeting at a theater, she must mean the Twin Peaks Mall. It’s in Longmont, about forty minutes away. I print directions and check the time: 3:45. I’m going to have to book it.
    How often did they meet at their “regular spot”? What did they do there? My imagination is running wild, and I wish Swanee were here so I could ask about LT. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for a girl calling Swan a hundred times a day and telling her, “I love you. Sleep with the angels.” It’s almost as if she knew that’s where Swanee was headed.
    “I’m going out for a while,” I tell Dad.
    He says automatically, “Out where?”
    Why do I have to justify everything I do? Swanee hated that my parents treat me like a child. She thought it was “belittling.”
    “Just out,” I reply.
    He swivels in his desk chair and meets my eyes.
    “I got the shopping done and the laundry started. I promise to finish it when I get back.”
    For a minute I think he’s going to say no and I’ll have to sneak off with the car. Which I’ve never done.
    But his face softens and he goes, “Be careful.”
    Shock. My brain continues his thought: Because if you total the car, we’re both out wheels. Then I feel guilty for even going there.
    Traffic is heavy for a Sunday, as if everyone got out of church at the same time. I’m the one praying while cars zip in and out of lanes, honking or shooting the gaps. I know I drive too slowly on the highway, but going seventy-five makes me feel like the Prius is swerving out of