She Lied She Died by Carissa Lynch (books to read for teens TXT) 📗

she was young, and Joey’s mom raised her as her own daughter. So, I think there was already some resentment there.”

“What did he do when he realized she was dipping into the stash they were supposed to be selling?” I pressed.

“He showed up drunk one night. Dad wasn’t home; he never was. Joey beat the hell out of Mom. Gave the boys a good ass-kicking too.”

“And you? What did he do to you?”

Chrissy’s smile was shaky. She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, then said, “What do you think he did?”

I could only imagine the number of creepy things shitty mean uncles might do to a young, vulnerable girl like Chrissy…

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Chrissy’s solemn expression spread into a wide smile, then she shocked me with a snort of laughter.

“I’m messing with you, Nat. He didn’t lay a hand on me. My uncle was many things, but he wasn’t a pervert. And although he beat the boys and Mom too, I was never a part of that. I was his favorite and when he left me that night, cleaning up blood and knocked-over furniture from the fight, he told me: ‘Chrissy, try to get them in line, would ya?’”

Chrissy cackled, and coughed, eyes fuzzy as she thought back to that day.

Her laughter was strange, and so out of place, but I couldn’t help seeing it for what it was: a way to deflect the pain. Chrissy grew up rough and I’d always known that, but hearing it from her felt different. I could see the pain she was trying to hide behind the tough exterior and the inappropriate laughing.

For the first time since meeting the real Chrissy Cornwall in person, I tried to imagine her doing all those things they said. Memories of Jenny’s bloated face from the crime photos … the knife wounds on her neck and back … the burn marks on her hands and face…

My stomach curled in on itself as I considered that she might be just as guilty as everyone said.

But still, I don’t quite believe that.

Chrissy reached for her pack of smokes again, studying my face as it became clear.

“Look, I know it’s strange that I can laugh about it now. But when you grow up the way we did, you have to find humor in the stupid shit. Weeks later, my daddy broke Joey’s nose in a bar brawl, and then the next thing we knew, he was coming around to apologize to mama, and to the boys. They all mended their ways and Joey got out of the drug business. Years later they would laugh about that night … I guess that’s why I’m laughing too.”

I thought about what it might be like—really like—growing up as a Cornwall in Austin. Sure, my family was poor. But Chrissy’s family took it to another level, and they never apologized for it.

“Tell me about John Bishop.”

Chrissy took a drag and narrowed her eyes, thinking for a minute before she spoke.

“The papers said I was obsessed with him, but it was him who pursued me…”

“Were you boyfriend and girlfriend?” It sounded so childish saying it that way, but I didn’t know how else to ask. According to the media, John had been dating both girls.

“Boys like John Bishop didn’t date girls like me. They dated girls like Jenny Juliott. The only thing he wanted from me was sex,” Chrissy said, bitterly.

Thinking back to pictures of John and Jenny as a couple … even in the dead of winter, John had this dog days of summer tan—golden brown and healthy, his hair white hot like it was bleached by rays of the sun. And Jenny … she was even more noticeable. With her hitched-up skirts, narrow waist, and voluptuous curves she reminded us all of a playboy bunny. Her skin was tan, her beachy waves golden blonde to match John’s. But despite her grotesque beauty, she was lovely and kind, and just as smart as she was sweet. She was what the papers and stories would call “the girl next door”.

But I guess that all depends on who lives next door. For me, through the field and across the creek was a wild and rambunctious girl who was pretty but dirty, attractive but damaged … Chrissy was “the girl next door” to my family.

When the news broke of Jenny’s death, I saw so many ludicrous headlines. They didn’t really bother me until I was older, until I was wise enough to get it, to finally understand how the world worked…

“Too pretty to die” read one of the headlines. As though ugly people are more deserving of murder…

And another: “What could have been—Jenny Juliott’s Potential”. It was an article in Fifteen magazine … an analysis by a “modeling expert” that went on to claim Jenny had had everything they were looking for. Perfect skin and cheekbones … the height, weight, and unique presence needed to make it onto the runway.

As though somehow her potential in modeling made her death more meaningful … Jenny was smart, but nobody ever mentioned that in their articles. It was all about her skin and her cheekbones … her shocking baby blue eyes…

“What are you thinking about?”

I jumped at the sound of Chrissy’s voice; her question sounded so intimate and she was leaning across the table, her hand stretching toward mine, so close I could almost feel her odd vibrations bursting from her fingertips and seeping into my own…

“I was remembering Jenny,” I said, earnestly.

“Ah. Yes, Jenny…”

“You knew they were dating. I mean, yes … you were homeschooled. But everyone in Austin knew that John and Jenny were a couple. Can you tell me how you and John met? When did it start between you…?”

Chrissy said, “Well, I’m sure you know what they said in the papers. What the prosecutors said in court…”

I nodded. I did. But I wanted to hear it from her.

“It was summer when I went to the party with Trevor. My brother was older,