The Cheerleaders

by Kara Thomas

  My mother made Tom stop putting off the surgery in the spring. The doctor gave him Vicodin for his recovery; on a bad pain day this summer, I saw Tom sneak a couple pills from the bottle in his desk drawer.

  The pain has destroyed my ability to think straight. It must have, because I’ve convinced myself that if the bottle still has pills left, Tom won’t notice one missing. I just need one.

  Tom doesn’t lock the door to his office. He and my mom shared one in our old house. Their desks were practically on top of each other’s, and when their work-from-home days overlapped, they didn’t do much other than snipe at each other. Now Tom’s office just looks like he didn’t know what to do with all this space.

  I pad over to his desk and tug at the handle of the top drawer. Rifle through the detritus—Post-its, a tipped over tray of paper clips and thumbtacks, dried-up Wite-Out pens.

  I shut the drawer and move on to the one below it. When I yank, the contents rattle. Mango starts barking and trots into the office to investigate.

  “No. Bad dog.” I nudge him away with my foot and paw through what’s inside the drawer. No Vicodin prescription.

  A stack of envelopes, bound together by a rubber band, catches my eye.

  They each have a printed label, all addressed to Tom Carlino, at our old address: 13 Norwood Drive, Sunnybrook, NY.

  I run my finger over the tops of the envelopes, counting them. There are four. Every one is postmarked the same date—November 7—each one a year apart from the last.

  I set the envelopes down on my lap, trembling.

  November 7 is the day my sister killed herself.

  I throw a glance over my shoulder. Mango is lying across the threshold of Tom’s office door, watching me.

  I unfold the piece of paper in the first envelope, revealing a black-and-white picture. The quality is crappy, like someone printed it off the Internet. It takes me a moment to process what I’m looking at.

  The photo of my sister and her friends. The one in the trophy case at school.

  I scan the page, hands trembling when I read the words at the bottom. I cast the picture aside and tip the next envelope so the contents fall out.

  Every envelope contains the same thing. Four pictures total, each with the same message typed at the bottom.

  I KNOW IT WASN’T HIM. CONNECT THE DOTS.

  November 7 was the worst day of our lives. And apparently, every year since the first anniversary of Jen’s death, someone has been sending my stepfather anonymous letters.

  Does my mom know? Are the letters the reason she and Tom wanted to sell the house so badly—to get away from them?

  I know it wasn’t him. Connect the dots.

  I turn the letters over, inspecting every envelope inside and out. They’re all postmarked from Newton, the next town over. There’s no return address, and our old address is typed onto a label.

  I replace the letters exactly as I found them. Suddenly the Vicodin isn’t so important. The next drawer down doesn’t budge when I tug on the handle. I give it another jangle to confirm: it’s locked, not stuck.

  Key, key. I rifle through the rest of the drawers. There’s a ring of tiny keys in the top drawer. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. There has to be something else here that could explain these letters. Why Tom would keep them—and what the hell they mean.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Rachel:

  I fire off a response:

  In the doorway, Mango sits up straight and lets out a throaty growl. Moments later, a car door slams. My mom is home already.

  I shut Tom’s desk drawer. Scramble to my feet and rush Mango out of the office. He takes off for the front door, barking, sliding around on the hardwood because he’s still not used to not having carpet. I close Tom’s office door and slip up the stairs before my mom’s key turns in the lock.

  * * *

  —

  It’s almost midnight, and the rain has picked up again. It sounds like quarters being dropped on the roof. I’m in bed, watching the droplets run down the skylight. Next to me is a fraying copy of the novel I’m supposed to be reading for English. I’ve barely touched it.

  Some weirdo could have sent those letters to Tom. An anonymous creep. Juliana’s and Susan’s murders had made national news, briefly, before the headlines were consumed by a trifecta: a sex scandal involving a congressman, a terrorist attack in Europe, and a brutal wildfire in California. Jen’s suicide barely registered on the media’s radar. People kill themselves every day.

  I open my browser and type in Sunnybrook NY deaths. The top result is an article from the Westchester Courier, dated the January after Juliana and Susan were killed.

  OFFICER CLEARED IN DEATH OF MURDER SUSPECT

  An internal investigation has determined that a Sunnybrook police officer acted reasonably when he shot Jack Canning, 38, the suspected murderer of two teenagers in October of last year. Mr. Canning died in his home after a confrontation with two Sunnybrook police officers, Thomas Carlino and Michael Mejia.

  Even after all these years, the sight of Jack Canning’s name twists my guts. Tom and his partner, Mike, had just started their shift that morning when Mr. Ruiz found the girls and called the police. They were the first officers to arrive on the scene.

  As the ambulances and backup were arriving, Jack Canning stepped out onto his porch. When he saw Tom, he went white in the face, ran back into his house, and slammed the door.

  Tom and Mike went after him; when they cornered Jack, he pulled a gun on them. Tom shot first. While he was bleeding to death on his carpet, Jack Canning grabbed Mike by his shirtsleeve and muttered the words I’m sorry.

  Later, when the police were processing the scene, they tossed Jack Canning’s bedroom and found several pictures of Susan sunbathing by her pool.

  My brain circles back to those months after the murders, while the investigation was ongoing. They were the worst of our lives; Jen was dead, and we didn’t know if Tom would face any charges in the shooting. I can still see Tom sitting in the dark in our den every night, beer bottle wedged between his knees. Killing Jack Canning was the only time my stepfather had ever discharged his weapon.

  I force myself to read the rest of the story.

  Jack Canning lived next door to Susan Berry, 15, one of the teenaged victims. Court records show that when Mr. Canning was 20, he was arrested for a lewd act with a minor. Due to the victim’s refusal to cooperate with police, the district attorney’s office decided to drop all charges.

  Many in Sunnybrook feel that this oversight cost two young women their lives. “This was a preventable tragedy,” says Diana Shaw, who lived across the street from Mr. Canning and his mother. “We should have known that a predator was living in our neighborhood. The justice system failed, and now two beautiful girls are dead.”

  According to officers Carlino and Mejia, they pursued Mr. Canning into his home upon seeing him behaving suspiciously near the crime scene. The officers claimed Mr. Canning barricaded himself in his bedroom. Upon breaking the door down, Officer Carlino found Mr. Canning removing something from his dresser drawer. When Mr. Canning refused to show his hands, Mr. Carlino fired. Mr. Canning died at the scene. Later, investigators found a revolver in Mr. Canning’s dresser drawer and several photos of Susan Berry, including ones of her sunbathing by her pool.

  I sit back in my chair, an odd thrumming in my body. Something isn’t right.

  This article says that Jack Canning was reaching into his dresser drawer before Tom shot him.

  I read the paragraph again, searching for any mention of Jack Canning pointing a gun at Tom and Mike. When I don’t find one, I double back to the search results and narrow the hits to ones that mention Tom and Mike by name.

  This can’t be right. They all say the same thing, that Jack Canning was reaching into his dresser, where he kept a gun, when Tom ki
lled him.

  So why, in the version of the events I have in my head, was Jack Canning pointing the gun at Tom and Mike?

  In the weeks that followed, my mother shielded me from the news. She said Tom had to shoot Jack Canning, or Canning would have shot Tom and Mike. Everyone else in town was saying it too—that Jack Canning murdered two girls and would have murdered two cops as well if Tom hadn’t taken him down. In public, and especially when the cameras were rolling, they all spoke about what a tragedy that night was. In private, I heard people whisper about how glad they were that my stepfather had killed the pervert and how they hoped Jack Canning suffered in his final moments.

  I bring my feet up to my chair. Hug my knees to my chest. If Jack Canning hadn’t really been reaching for his gun…

  My door creaks open, sending my stomach into my throat.

  I slam my laptop shut. Tom is standing there, his shape illuminated by the glow of the hallway sconce outside my door.

  “Jesus,” I say. “Can’t you knock?”

  Tom cocks his head at me. Mango rockets past him and crouches at the base of my bed. He tries to jump, but he’s not used to the height of my new bed. The result is him pathetically bouncing on his back legs.

  “I thought you were asleep,” Tom says. “The dog was scratching at your door to get in.”

  I push myself away from my desk. Scoop up Mango and deposit him on the bed.

  Tom is still watching me. “What are you doing up?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Tom eyes my laptop. “Staring at your screen will only make it worse.”

  I try to imagine what his reaction would be if he knew what I’d been reading.

  I know it wasn’t him. Connect the dots.

  I want to ask him what it means, but I can’t tell him I know about the letters. Hey, Tom, I found something weird when I was snooping through your desk for drugs. I can’t form any words at all.

  “I know,” I say. “I might take some melatonin.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he says. As he’s shutting my door, I think I see him look at my laptop once more.

  * * *

  —

  I have to make up the chem quiz I missed yesterday. I finish with ten minutes left in the lunch period. On my way to the cafeteria, a security guard spots me.

  “Where we going, hon?”

  “Lunch,” I say, and he nods and leaves it at that. No one ever says shit to me. For being in the hall after the bell, for being in the newspaper office without a pass. I’ve seen how security hassles some of the other kids—groups of black girls, the guys who speak to each other in Spanish, the rowdy football players. I’ve done worse things in one summer than all of them have probably ever done combined.

  Rachel spots me from across the cafeteria; she waves with one hand and gives Alexa’s shoulder a shake with her other. Alexa looks over at me and clamps her mouth shut. A wave of paranoia hits me.

  They can’t have figured it out. They don’t even know I’ve been with a guy since Matt and I broke up.

  Rachel moves her bag off the seat next to her so I can slide in. I hold back a wince.

  “We were just talking about the seniors,” Rachel says in a voice that suggests they totally were not talking about the seniors. “Coach didn’t pick captains yet.”

  “Isn’t it going to be the Kelseys?”

  “That’s the thing,” Alexa says. “They showed up late for the meeting yesterday because they went to Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “I didn’t show up to the meeting at all,” I say.

  Alexa’s expression darkens. “Well, you had an excuse. You were sick.”

  “Who else made it?” I ask, eager to shunt aside thoughts of what Coach will do to punish me for missing the meeting.

  Alexa takes a noisy pull from the dregs of her iced tea. “Everyone from last year, plus these two freshmen.”

  “And that girl Ginny or whatever her name is,” Rachel says. “The one in our grade.”

  Obviously Rachel knows exactly who Ginny Cordero is—our class only has two hundred kids, so it’s virtually impossible to go ten years without learning everyone’s name. But we pretend we don’t know, because it makes us feel important.

  “Her,” Alexa says.

  I look over at the lunch line. Ginny Cordero is buying a Snapple. She keeps her eyes down as she takes her change from the lunch lady and tries to slip out of the cafeteria. Joe Gabriel, Kelsey’s twin brother, stumbles back to catch a Nerf football and nearly knocks Ginny over.

  Ginny Cordero isn’t a loser or anything. People just don’t think about her much at all. She’s pretty in that untouched way—pale skin dotted with freckles, sun-streaked strawberry-blond hair she never cuts.

  Sometimes I think about her.

  When Jen was thirteen, she wasn’t in high school or on cheerleading yet, so she was still taking tumbling classes at Jessie’s Gym three nights a week. Whenever Tom had to work late, my brother and I had to ride along in the car with Mom when she went to pick Jen up.

  Jen was always talking about how annoyed Jessie would get with Ginny Cordero’s mother, who was always late picking her up. Class ended at 7:00 p.m., and sometimes Ginny’s mom didn’t show up until 7:40, and Jessie would have to wait until she did to close the gym.

  One night, my mother pulled into the parking lot, and Jen wasn’t waiting outside with the other girls. Petey was next to me in the backseat, straining in his car seat, fussy because it was approaching his bedtime.

  Through the gym’s front window, I spotted my sister sitting next to Ginny in the waiting area. She refused to come outside until Ginny’s mother arrived at twenty after seven.

  Now Ginny’s eyes connect with mine for a moment before she slips out of the cafeteria.

  I wonder if she remembers that night—if it’s why she’s always avoiding looking me in the face.

  “She was really good,” Rachel says. I don’t even remember seeing Ginny at tryouts on Monday.

  “You’re really good,” I say. But I can tell she’s thinking about that triple pirouette—her Achilles’ heel.

  When Alexa stands, announcing that she’s buying a cookie, Rachel turns to me, her voice low. “Why did you get called to guidance?”

  “Coughlin wants me to help with a memorial for the cheerleaders.”

  “She asked me too,” Rachel says. “After health yesterday.”

  Bethany Steiger was Rachel’s cousin. Rach hated her; Bethany only ever wanted to hang out with Rachel’s older sister Sarah, and she would make fun of the gap between Rachel’s front teeth.

  I look down at the PB&J I’ve barely touched. I tear off a piece of the crust. “Did you say you’d help?”

  “I couldn’t say no. She put me on the spot.” Rachel eyes me. “Are you going to do it?”

  I don’t answer. Part of me itches to tell Rach about the letters, just like I wanted to tell her about Brandon this summer. She and I tell each other everything; two summers ago, when Matt told me he loved me for the first time, under the porch light of my old house, I called Rachel immediately, even though it was almost midnight. I’m the only one of our friends who knows that her parents were separated for a year when we were kids and that she doesn’t remember losing her virginity to a senior on the soccer team last year at one of Kelsey Gabriel’s parties. She made me swear I’d never tell, and I know she’d do the same for me.

  But when I think about telling her why I was in Tom’s desk, and what I found there and what I read online last night, something in me screams not to. And I don’t know why.

  “Monica.” Rach waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me? Are you going to help with the memorial?”

  “I don’t know.” After a moment, I say, “Do you ever wonder if we know everything about what happened that year they all died
?”

  Rachel gapes at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I pick up my sandwich. “Never mind.”

  “No, seriously. Tell me what you mean.”

  “It’s like…the accident, and the murders…” I have to swallow. “And Jen. Sometimes it feels like they’re all dots that no one ever tried to connect.”

  Rachel almost looks scared. “Monica, what are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Forget it, okay?” I grab my empty water bottle and stand, aware that she’s staring at me the entire walk to the recycling bin across the cafeteria.

  * * *

  —

  Rachel doesn’t bring up what happened at lunch again for the rest of the day. In the first fifteen minutes of dance team practice, it becomes clear she has bigger problems.

  Our warm-up is a series of stretches, leaps across the floor, fouetté turns, and pirouettes. Moments before the song is supposed to end, the music stops abruptly.

  We all turn to Coach, trying to suppress our panting. She’s standing by the speakers, arms crossed in front of her chest. Coach is only five foot three, but somehow that makes her scarier.

  The sophomores in the row in front of me glance at each other. Which one of us is it?

  My stomach sinks; I know who it is.

  “Steiger,” Coach barks. “Get the triple by Monday.”

  Coach starts the music from the top. I spot Rachel blinking rapidly as we move back into formation. In the row in front of us, Ginny Cordero looks over her shoulder. When our eyes meet, she looks away.

  When it’s time for a break to rehydrate, the Kelseys plop themselves by Coach’s feet. What are you doing this weekend, Coach? Are you going to the game?

  It’s been three years, and they haven’t given up on needling her for signs that she is, in fact, human. There’s a photo of her son—a doughy blond kindergartener—on her desk, but we have yet to confirm that he actually exists.