The Darkest Lie by Pintip Dunn Page B

you’ve been drinking. And I really don’t care if you’ve climbed into the backseat with any boys.”
    I smile. “No, no, and not really.”
    She takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes. “You’re a good girl, CeCe.”
    I bend down and kiss her forehead. Her skin is as soft and warm as bread dough. With Gram, I have a bit of the same relationship I had with my mom. Even though she’s my paternal grandmother, she charges headlong into life the way Mom did, and the only time I ever relax anymore is in her presence. “You haven’t really lost your life’s savings, have you?”
    â€œNah. I’ve got that trip to Vegas in a week and a half, remember? Gotta save for that.” She hands me a five-dollar gaming chip she won at a Kansas City casino. “Here. For your bank account.”
    My bank account, as she calls it, is a briefcase under my bed, filled with the clay discs Gram dispenses like candy. “This is an investment in your future,” she explained a few months ago. “When you’re of age, you can decide if you want to redeem your chips—or if you’re going to follow in your Gram’s footsteps and gamble it all on a single hand. You could lose it all, or turn a single coin into a hundred. But what is life if not a risk?”
    For her, maybe. Not me. Life’s hard enough without betting it all on something I can’t control.
    â€œCeCe?” Gram says as I turn to leave the room. “Your father tells me you’re not applying to Parsons. Is that true?”
    I frown. “You’re on the verge of hovering, Gram.”
    â€œNot even close. In my profession, we can’t afford to hover. We have to go all-in with our pocketbooks—and our hearts.” She drums her fingers on the laptop. “What I’m trying to say is: If you’re staying in Lakewood on account of your father, don’t. He can take care of himself. And I’ll be around.”
    â€œNo offense, Gram, but your version of a home-cooked meal is a Lean Cuisine. And you dry-clean all of your clothes, even your underwear. You probably haven’t touched a laundry machine in the last decade.”
    She flashes me a smile. “Made it sixty-five years, didn’t I? Life only deals you one hand, CeCe. But how you play it is up to you.”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” I say, more to get her off my back than anything else.
    She turns back to her computer. “Good.”
    I go to my room and lie on my bed, the phone nestled against my chest. It vibrated a couple more times while I was talking to Gram, but I don’t bother to check the number now. Probably a random student calling the hotline after the party, wanting to gossip.
    Instead, I sit up and type the Web address for the Parsons School of Design into my phone’s Internet browser. Once the page opens, I read about the Parsons Challenge, an exercise all undergraduate applicants must complete. This year’s challenge is to explore something that you normally overlook in your daily life.
    As always, my insides clench as I read the words. Because there’s one thing I’ve been deliberately, systematically overlooking for the last six months. My mother.
    Her picture is facedown on my dresser. The clothes we shared are shoved to the back of my closet. Even the sandalwood jewelry box is buried in the mix of old shoes under my bed.
    Sighing, I lower my phone. Even if I were willing to share such a personal viewpoint with a random admissions officer, I can’t leave my dad now. Maybe he takes the laundry and the meals for granted, but at least he’s clean and fed. That’s what Mom would have wanted—if she bothered to think of us at all in her last moments.
    The phone pings in my hand. Not a call this time, but a text message. That’s different. Must be Alisara, wanting to see if I’m still awake.
    I check the number. I don’t recognize