She Lied She Died by Carissa Lynch (book recommendations for young adults txt) 📕

swinging my left foot around in front of the right. I took three baby steps, then wobbled, raising my hands straight out on either side for balance.

The wood felt decidedly unsteady now, but after several more steps, it was too late to turn back.

In my youth, I probably could have run across it, prancing like a prized gazelle to the other side, no problem…

But now my gait was wobbly and slow, and I felt less sure than before.

I took one more step, then suddenly, my right foot slipped out from under me. I plunged forward, arms flailing desperately … then my chest smacked the log with a painful thud.

“Ugh.” I laid there, belly down on the log, for what felt like several minutes. The fall had knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to suck in a deep breath of air.

I need to go to the gym, or something. I’m way out of shape these days…

I considered trying to stand back up, using my hands and feet like a primate to get across. But that felt stupid, like some sort of backward evolution, so instead, I scooted across the rest of the way, tearing up my hands and the butt of my pants the whole way to the other side.

I was almost, blissfully, to the very end of it when I could have sworn I heard a tiny whistle of laughter.

“Who’s there?” I squeaked, looking left and right through the trees. I stood up, once again using my arms for balance, and I leapt the final foot to the shore, feet slamming so hard on the ground that my teeth rattled.

This time the laughter was loud and clear, a wild chuckle ricocheting through the trees.

“Hello? Chrissy…?”

A blur of wild black hair swished by in the distance, and then there was someone else there too … a boy. They were running, a young girl and boy, heading straight for the Cornwalls’ old property.

I imagined they were Chrissy and Jack. Secret lovers racing amongst the trees…

But as I followed their path, emerging on the other side, I saw two young teenagers who in no way resembled my brother or Chrissy.

However, I did recognize one of them—that girl again, the one from the other day … Amanda Butler, Adrianna’s daughter.

“You again. Why are you here? This is trespassing, you know.” I glared at them both, huffing, trying to catch my breath, as I stepped out into the Cornwalls’ old yard.

Amanda frowned at me, lifting a lit cigarette to her mouth. She blew out a ring of smoke then said, “This isn’t your property, lady. This here used to belong to the Cornwalls.”

The boy beside her was tall and gangly; he looked two or three years older than her. He had an earing and a strange haircut—long on top but shaved on both sides.

“Yeah, so leave us alone,” he said tactlessly, rolling his eyes at me.

“The Cornwalls don’t live here anymore. That trailer there is abandoned. Probably not even safe,” I said.

Amanda exploded with laughter and her pseudo-edgy comrade laughed too.

“This property belongs to the county now. And kids come here all the time. It’s safe inside and I know that because I’ve been in it a million times,” Amanda said, nastily.

“Yeah, it’s a shit hole but nothing’s wrong with it. We’re just having a little fun, so get the hell out of here,” the young man snapped.

“I’ll do no such thing, young man,” I said, painfully reminding myself of my old-lady status. “What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in school?” I directed my question at Amanda.

Amanda rolled her eyes and took another drag, but I could tell that my comment about school concerned her.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to call your mom. I bet she doesn’t know you’re out here.”

I glanced past the kids, taking in my view of the trailer for the first time in years. It was dilapidated, the old white siding rotted, and green streaks of dirt and mildew licking up the sides of it. As my eyes traveled to the front, I spotted crude letters painted on the front door. Someone had graffitied the word TRASH in blocky black paint.

“Did you do that?” I asked, pointing.

“No! It’s been that way for years,” Amanda hissed, defiantly.

“Fuck this. Let’s get out of here before Winslow spots my truck … this bitch isn’t worth our time, Amanda,” the boy said, tugging at her sleeve impatiently.

I refused to look at him, studying the girl. She was trying to look and act older than she was, smoking a cigarette in her torn-up jeans and holey black T-shirt.

I knew her type. Hell, I’d been her type at that age.

Who knows? Maybe I still am.

She wasn’t even wearing a jacket; I fought the urge to ask her if she was cold. Gosh, I really am turning into my mother. Or how a mother should be, I thought, drearily.

“Why aren’t you at school?” I asked again.

Amanda pursed her lips together. “We got out early today. Teacher meetings, or some shit.”

I highly doubted that were true, but I let it slide.

She looks so much like her mother at this age. That hair … those eyes and nose … the attitude.

“Your mom and I used to be friends; did you know that?” I blurted out.

Amanda stubbed the cigarette out, looking from the boy to me.

“Fine. Whatever,” the boy said. I watched him turn his back on her, then skulk down the dirt road that led away from the front of the Cornwalls’ old property. Moments later, his silhouette evaporated through the foggy mist that surrounded the trees. But I could still hear the heavy tromping of his boots on the ground.

“Yeah, I know,” Amanda said, her response strangely delayed. “I know about you and my mom. She said you all used to be best friends.”

Used to be. Until she turned her back on me when I needed her most.

“Your mom’s parents—your grandma and grandpa, I guess—wouldn’t let her come over to