If the Witness Lied by Caroline B. Cooney Read Free Book Online Page B

first. We say women have the right to make a choice, but we don’t mean it. We believe they have to make a particular choice. Here we are in your own house with the curtains pulled and the shades down so that strangers who accuse your mother of suicide and want to force her to have chemo can’t see in. Your mother isn’t paying attention. She’s made her choice and she’s ready.”
    “I’m not ready,” whispered Smithy.
    “Neither am I. But you know what, Smithy? You and your brother and sister have strong names. Smith. Jack. Madison. Those aren’t wimpy, weak, washout names. Those are names for people who lift their chins and keep going and wake up smiling. That’s what your mother is counting on. And so am I.”
    Lying on the bench in the school bus in the fetal position, Smithy admits at last why she doesn’t answer her grandparents’ e-mails, or send postcards of her own, or hang out with them when they visit.
    Smithy didn’t lift her chin and keep going. She cannot be counted on.
    The bus hits a bump and flings Smithy half off the seat. She struggles to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes to make it look as if she’d been sleeping, rather than weeping.
    They have not hit a bump. They are here. The teachers are already off the bus. Kids gather their stuff and exit single file.
    Smithy isn’t ready. She needs more time before she makes herdecision. After all, she loves boarding school. It tells you what to do. It’s the most organized, well-packed box of life out there. If Smithy runs from boarding school, she’s smashing this life, too.
    Smithy steps into the aisle. Walks forward. Now she’s next to the driver. She’s on the top step.
    The teachers move toward the museum entrance.
    Smithy tugs her tangerine hood over her hair, steps off the bus, goes the other way around it and crosses the street in the middle of the block. When she gauges that the bulk of the bus is between her and the museum entrance, she glances back.
    Nobody is looking.
    She flies down the sidewalk, galloping to the corner. Safely around the bend, she flags a taxi. “Back Bay Station, please.” Smithy sinks down in the seat as if enemy agents are after her.
    She has no idea what the train schedule is, but she’s in luck. There’s a train at eleven-forty. She buys the ticket with her rarely used ATM card and decides to get a hundred dollars cash back. The twenty-dollar bills are so exciting to a person who leads a shopping-free life. She has a vision of hitting the malls with her sister, and Madison saying, Why would I want your company? You didn’t want ours.
    Smithy gets a blueberry muffin, an orange juice and a fashion magazine and finds a seat. She can’t eat, drink or turn the pages. The art teachers may not realize they are down one student, but some kid will say, “Where’s Smithy?” and panic will set in. The field trip will be ruined and the teachers will be in trouble.
    Smithy needs to notify the school. She’ll wait until the train leaves the station and they can’t get her back. Then she’ll text,that wonderful method of communication where you aren’t available for questioning.
    They can’t arrest me for going home, she tells herself. Aunt Cheryl can’t ship me back, either. I’m too old and tall for shipping.
    Suddenly she is wildly happy.
    *   *   *
    Mrs. Griz pats her hair and straightens her blouse. “Your aunt Cheryl is on her way over here with a friend of hers,” she tells Jack. “A producer! He’s looking into doing a television special.”
    How well Jack remembers this tone of voice. The hot, thick anticipation of somebody who might get on TV.
    After they gave him Dad’s wallet and watch, a friendly cop drove him home from the hospital. His sisters were told by phone that Dad hadn’t made it. (That was what the adults said: “Your father didn’t make it.” As if it were Dad’s fault.)
    Somehow Jack got out of that police car. The door felt exceptionally heavy. His body seemed