The Darkest Lie Read Online Free Page A

then wondered why the batter wouldn’t cook. If only that were our biggest problem now. “It’s not your fault my mother didn’t love me.”
    I hurry away. That’s all I seem to do these days. Run.
    At least this time, I have a destination. Mr. Willoughby’s office.
    * * *
    When I arrive, Mr. Willoughby’s stretched out on a worn beige sofa, reading a comic book and chuckling to himself.
    I hover by the doorway. It’s weird seeing him like this. I know he’s supposed to be some kind of comic book fiend. Supposedly, he even wrote his college thesis on The Dark Knight. But still, he’s a teacher. He belongs in a classroom, pointing things out on the whiteboard. He shouldn’t be kicked back, reading a Spider-Man comic, for god’s sake.
    â€œCecilia, come in.” He sits up and waves at a folding chair next to the coffee table, which holds, predictably, yet another photograph of his late wife. There’s no desk in sight, and that adds to the weirdness. But it’s not like Mr. Willoughby is a traditional guidance counselor. Due to budget cuts, we had to let go of “nonessential” staff. If Mr. Willoughby hadn’t volunteered, the student body would be without any career advice whatsoever.
    Not that I need much. At least, not anymore.
    â€œWe haven’t talked much since last spring,” he says as I perch on the chair. “How’s your portfolio going for your application to Parsons?”
    I won’t meet his eyes. “I decided not to apply.”
    â€œOh?” His eyebrows leap up his forehead, even as his voice remains perfectly calm. Too calm. “When did this happen? It’s all you’ve talked about for the past three years.”
    â€œThat was . . . before.” Before my mom died. Before my dad stopped looking at me. Before he would forget to change his clothes unless I place a freshly laundered outfit on his dresser every morning.
    Attending Parsons School of Design was always my dream, and even back then, New York seemed like a whole other world. Now, it might as well be in a different galaxy.
    â€œIt’s across the country,” I mumble. “And I can’t leave my dad right now. He . . . he would completely fall apart if he had to fend for himself.”
    â€œI see.” The lines around his eyes soften. “And have you discussed this with him?”
    I give a short laugh. “My dad is a man of few words. The only thing we talk about is what I ate for dinner. If it doesn’t fall into one of the four food groups, then forget it.”
    â€œMay I suggest you submit an application, then? You can always turn them down. No harm done.”
    I close my eyes. He’s wrong. Deciding not to apply severed the connective tissue around my heart. As it is, that organ’s holding on by a few strands. If I have to clutch an acceptance letter in my hand and then say “no”? I think my heart would float away altogether.
    â€œI know you haven’t stopped drawing,” he says. “In fact, I’m guessing that’s why you won’t turn in your self-examination journal. Because it’s filled with your sketches?”
    â€œYeah,” I whisper.
    â€œI understand, Cecilia. I really do. And I wish we could leave it like that. But if you slide by without consequences, then nobody would bother doing the assignment.” He places his hands on his knees. “So let me put it this way: If you don’t turn in your journal, I’ll have to give you a zero. Do you stand by your decision?”
    This is bigger than you think, a little voice whispers. The decision you make now could impact your GPA—and, in turn, the rest of your life.
    But I can’t give him my journal. Once upon a time, I displayed my artwork for everyone to see. The bigger the audience, the better, since that meant my drawings had a life outside the visions in my head. But ever since my mom died, it