There had to be a reason, and it seemed to them that I was the only one who knew what it was. Except there was absolutely no way for me to explain what I knew, so all I could do was shake my head.
What about the message?
I could only shake my head again. There was no message, except maybe something about Boston that made no sense at all. Also, besides everything that went down, besides everything I understood, maybe Burn really had a message and somehow I had missed it. Who could say?
I couldn’t. I was pretty sure that he was there to die and take all of us with him.
It was Connelly who deflected their attention. The reporters were as eager to hear from him and the rest of the Faculty Lounge Hostages, as the newspapers would later call the nine people who shared the room with Burnett that day.
Connelly was apparently all too eager to talk, and it sounded to me, from what I could hear, that he had somehow gotten it in his head that he was the real hero of the day. All I could hear was “I” did this, and “I” did that, and “I” challenged Burnett. But then, in a surprise move, he turned toward me, with all of the cameras rolling, and personally thanked me for saving his life and the lives of the teachers and my fellow students. And then, in front of the cameras and the newspeople and the mics, he called me a hero.
I was thinking, that should pretty much bring my C– up a few notches, to the A range, don’tcha think?
Then the reporters were back to me and the same questions all over again, what was the secret, and now I was getting more than annoyed.
So I made my way down through the crowd, not looking at the mics and the cameras, but focusing only on my family, and when I got there, my mom gave me a hug to rival Burn’s grip and Jamie joined in. Then not only Jamie, but Christina and then my friends and it was pretty much a lovefest on the lawn of Meadows High.
And then Caroline, being Caroline, made it clear that her family was ready to go home. She had even managed a police escort, which I thought was amazing, until I realized that the police had their own questions for me, and a bunch of detectives followed us back and stayed the afternoon and interrogated me, making me go through my day, minute by minute (which is pretty much the reason that I remember things so completely, even after all these months, so thank you Officer Kenyon and the rest of your posse and all of the guys in the FBI, even though tell you the truth, you were pains in the asses that afternoon and I always got the feeling that you didn’t totally trust me).
And then they made a superbig deal the next day in the papers, calling me the “Hugging Hero” and a “Class Act” and other names like that. The Times ran a long story, detailing the lives of everyone involved and talking about the circumstances that led to Burn’s public breakdown. There was a shorter article about me, with pictures of my family (where did they get those?), and somehow Jacob got his business into the mix and managed to get mentioned in many of the articles about the siege even though he had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Leave it to Jacob. Way to go, Dad, mooching off your son’s celebrity.
And hundreds of newspapers throughout the country ran pictures of me and Burn and Meadows and anyone they could get and the headline was virtually always the same:
CRASH AND BURN
Except for the Post. The Post ran the headline “Hug of Life,” with an exclusive photograph of me and Burn intertwined in the faculty lounge. I didn’t remember anyone being there when it happened who could have taken that picture. Maybe it was Connelly for all I knew.
Speaking of Connelly, I received a big-deal gift basket the next morning from him and his family, with a new PlayStation 3 and all kinds of video games and a new camera. It must have cost a thousand bucks. With a card that said, “Thanks for saving us all.”
With that and his story about Roxanne, I started thinking, maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. Naaah, he sucks.
There were other articles, a few about the guns and an investigation into how a teen had access to assault weapons. Then the inevitable comparisons to shootings in other schools. Then more on David’s past, complete with pictures of Aunt Peesmell’s Victorian, looking like a haunted house, which it may have been by now. Pictures of Roxanne and David as kids, then Roxanne in full goth gear (that must have been taken off the porn site).
There were pictures of our class, the Class of 2008. There were pictures of the school and the devices that were planted throughout the campus. The police eventually confirmed that there were enough explosives to completely demolish the school if they had been detonated. No question that the auditorium and the gymnasium would have been blown away. So to anyone wondering if Burn could have really killed us, no question, he had the means, between the explosives and the assault weapons, and as a reminder, he was, in case you weren’t clear about this, totally and completely gone. Did I mention that?
And there were other gifts and thank-you cards sent to me, which my mom said I would have to respond to. (Didn’t she know who I was? And who writes a thank-you card for a thank-you card anyways?)
As for Meadows, it closed down for a week while the investigation continued, and after that, when school opened and I got there the first morning, there was a banner up in the lobby, by the front entrance, that read:
WE LOVE YOU, CRASH!!!!
And the mayor or whatever he said his title was, the runner of our town, had me down to town hall, where a picture was taken of the two of us, with him handing me a commemorative plaque.
And of course Jacob got involved, no surprise there. He said that I was a hot commodity at the moment and I needed to have representation. So next thing I know, I’m in the city, meeting with all these adults and being told how to dress and what to wear. And then there’s Sally something or other, an agent from William Morris, and she’s going to get me on television. And meanwhile I’m being interviewed one by one for the cover pages of national magazines.
And they size me and fit me in new clothes and wake me up in the middle of the night to get to a studio in time for the morning news so that they can interview me. And mostly the interviews were short, because Sally knew exactly how to run a client like a business. So more than news, it was a goodwill tour.
And almost every interviewer shook my hand, asked me the same five questions, and called me courageous. They always ended with the question, “Can you tell us what Mr. Burnett whispered to you?”
And I always ended with my answer: “That’s between me and Mr. Burnett.”
And Sally was out-of-her-mind pleased with my performance, especially the fact that I withheld information. This was gold to her. So she contacted the publishing companies and promised them a book written by me, a book in which I reveal the truth about what Burn told me the day of the siege.
Now, in spite of the constant search by authorities, not much had been disclosed about Burn’s intent in taking the school hostage. The police went through his room, his house, his car, his computers, everything that he had ever touched, and basically came up with nothing. There was a list, and my name and Christina’s name and Jamie’s name, and a bunch of others were on it, but it made no sense, so they didn’t tell us anything more.
Apparently, there were no other notes, no secret files, nothing to indicate what the reason was.
Which made sense to me and only confirmed what I already understood.
And because of this, the publishing companies were in a frenzy, all wanting to know what the secret was. So with a little help from my agent, Sally, they start bidding against each other for the rights to my story.
And then, when the bidding is over, Sally calls to tell me the final dollar amount of my advance, and I hang up feeling like I just hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth, last game of the World Series, all over again.
I was not only a hero. I was now a rich-kid hero.
And a few weeks later, I’m sitting in my lawyer’s office while my lawyer and my agent are giving me the drill.
And that’s pretty much where the story begins, doesn’
t it?
Epilogue
The Last Days of Summer
There was a party last night at Kelly’s to celebrate the last days of summer. Kids are leaving for colleges tomorrow.
I go next week.
I finished the last chapters of the book just in time to be able to celebrate with the group. It took a lot out of me. If you’re reading this, you’ll probably understand why. Hopefully all of the stuff, past and present, ends up in there. If so, here’s another secret:
The final chapters were written on the deck of Christina’s uncle’s house in Woodstock, overlooking the most incredible mountain you’ve ever seen, where the trees look like aging woodsmen and the bats fly right at your face the second it gets dark.
I snuck up there, knew where the key was, and unraveled my last nuggs of Jacob’s Gold. So when you read the final chapters, just know, every word was brought to you with the help of good old-fashioned marijuana. Nothing cures ADD quite like a deep, big hit or two, no matter what the research says.
OK, I know it was illegal (not just the weed, but the house-sitting), and I could have gotten into mad trouble if anyone had caught me. But, tell you the truth, I’m pretty sure that I would have been able to talk my way out of anything. Besides, I can still count on my reputation as a hero.
Plus I promised myself that I would give them credit in the book. So here’s to you, Mr. and Mrs. Christina’s uncle. Thanks for your house. I couldn’t have written it anywhere else.
Which brings me back to Kelly’s party.
After a week of solid partying with my boys, me celebrating sending out the final chapters and getting smashed night after night after night, we all knew that Kelly’s would be our last time together as a group.
And so all week long, I looked forward to the event. And all week long, no matter how fucked up I got, I snuck into Jamie’s room, just to make sure that she was there, just to make sure that she was sleeping.
And she seems to be doing fine.
So was I.
Except I missed Christina and I missed Claudia, and I wanted to see them each once more before school started.
So last night, at Kelly’s, I finally got my opportunity to see Christina. She showed up fashionably late, and she was with that guy Ruiz that Bosco introduced to the Club back in June.
She had her arm around him, making it clear there was no room there for me. But summer was coming to an end, and I had to talk to her.
So I asked if it would be OK to talk for a few minutes. And to my surprise, she said OK.
And I told her that I was sorry for not being who she thought I was.
And she said, “Actually, you were. It was all for the best, Steven. I couldn’t get to college still a virgin, and it had to be done, so you were as good as any.” She smiled as she walked away, turned and said, “But, sadly, you are not nearly as good as he is,” pointing to Ruiz.
I shook my head, having, in a way, predicted that the two of them would hook up. I had to ask myself, where was the love? I wanted to stay with her for a while, to talk to her some more and to tell her that I still wanted her in my life, all of those things and more. But I couldn’t. Shame on me.
To be perfectly honest, my heart broke for just a minute when she left. Of course my boys saved me with a fresh redcup filled with jungle juice and a perfectly rolled blunt, our last together as a Crew.
And so we got drunk and superhigh and we laughed and told stories, and some of us cried a little, I will admit this, and we partied until the sun showed up and then we scattered.
So thank you, Kelly, for always being a perfect hostess, and thank you Kelly’s parents, for always being in Europe or some other country.
And school on Monday. College.
Which should get me pretty excited, as in new opportunities and all.
But the inevitable truth is that I know that I am leaving my home, where people consider me a hero, to go to a place where I will be just another kid with another story to tell, among thousands of kids who have been told that they are special with their own stories to tell.
So just being Crash probably isn’t going to cut it there (well, maybe a little, as in some of the girls may have noticed me from TV or YouTube or seen my Facebook page and want to hook up with someone who was famous for a little while).
So yeah, I’m not gonna lie, I’m just a little scared. I’m sure that Felicia would tell me, so is everyone else. But then again, most of them will be able to listen in class and take notes that make sense and answer questions with the right answers, while mostly I have my rep, which may have worked in high school with teachers who heard from the guidance counselor who heard from the unstoppable Caroline Prescott that they were somehow required to give me special treatment.
And they did, as in give me the benefit of the doubt. Some of them did because they loved Lindsey and knew I wasn’t her, and felt sorry for me. And some of the others did because, well, probably because it was just easier, and they just wanted to get through their days without any hassles.
And then there were a few along the way who did because I could make them laugh, I could use whatever magic I had to make them break their adulthood for a minute or two. And when that happened, I could see a glint return to their eyes as they remember, just for an instant, what it was like for them when they were kids struggling against their own demons in high school.
So good luck to me.
And good luck to you if you’re reading this and struggling with your own demons.
And good luck to you, David Burnett. Hopefully you will be OK one day. I can’t hate you anymore. Your sister wouldn’t want me to.
And every night before I go to sleep, I think of you, Roxanne Burnett, and just like your note said, I will remember you and everything about you, now and forever: every single laugh, every single kiss, every single nasty version of my last name, and every incredible moment of the short time we spent together. What you taught me saved my life and your brother’s life and about a thousand other people. So even though I never got a chance to tell you how much you changed my life and to thank you for what you gave me, I know that you know. I guess that’s good enough for now. And even though you aren’t here to see it, this book is dedicated to you.
And every night, I say a prayer that you will find peace wherever you are.
Well, almost every night. But maybe not tonight; because tonight I’m headed back to Bedford. Claudia says she’s ready to see me again, and her parents are out of town.
Yeah, baby.
Love,
Steven Crashinsky
Crash, to you.
Acknowledgments
The single thing that separates a “writer” from a lunatic who sits in his room creating a fantasy world is the confirmation of a professional that the world that he created can actually be inspiring to others.
Kirby Kim of William Morris Endeavor is a consummate professional who assured me that I was both a writer and a lunatic after reading Crash and Burn for the first time. How could you not love a guy like that? Kirby is my personal Joe Namath, a guy who guaranteed that he would find the perfect home for my book and then managed to very confidently make good on his promise. Thank you, Kirby. And thank you also, Ian Dalrymple, for your hard work.
Which brings me to Jordan Brown and his team at Balzer + Bray. Since I threw around a football analogy in the previous paragraph, Jordan has been my personal Lombardi. When Jordan got involved with Crash and Burn, I, frankly, had no idea what exactly an editor did. All I knew was that Jordan shared my vision for the book. I figured that he would cross out a few words and take out some italics. What I did not know was that he was going to send me to training camp and challenge me on every level to make every single word in Crash’s world as authentic as possible. So never mind the opening paragraph, the single thing that separates a “writer” from a lunatic who sits in his room spinning a fantasy world is a really incredible editor. Thank you, Jordan.
Of course, none of these guys would
have had a chance to read it and improve upon the original vision if not for the constant efforts of my brother, Rich Hassan. Thank you, Richie—sorry I ate your Scooter Pies and blamed it on the dog.
Also, this book could simply not have been written without the constant contributions made by the members of RPC: Matthew Noonan, Justin Schwartz, Peter D’Amato, Karl Quinn, Mike Mueller, Dylan Lonergen, Billy Sather, RJ Kueppers, Phil Cohen, Nigel Gordon, Alex Binder, and Sam Meyer. They are and remain the heart of the Club Crew.
There are a few others who need to be mentioned, including Lee Weiss, Bill Dowling, Kristin Rosenblum, Darren Klein, Jordan Kannon, Zach Blei, Stephanie Sugin, Jackie Magee, Jamie Shankman, Alana and Derek Hassan, Nikki Pressman, Linda Pressman, Howard Elman, Linda Cosmero, Melanie Canter, Emma Wiseman, Karen and Joel Solomon, Hazel and Aaron Baer, and Morris Missry, my attorney and superlawyer, who once told me that I had to do something to commemorate the passing of my father. In fairness, he may have been thinking of a plaque or a contribution to a nonprofit group or something along those lines. In retrospect, that might have been easier.
Also, so that no one thinks I’m an ungrateful son who forgot to put his mother’s name in the book, thank you again, Lena Hassan. You are the greatest mom, and if this comes out on Mother’s Day, all the better; consider this your present.
In the beginning and at the end, there would not have been a story without Adam Hassan, who inspired Crash in the first place and who dared me to write a book that a kid with ADD could actually read, and Valerie Hassan, my first critic and second favorite editor, who stayed up late, night after night, rereading chapters with her red pen and asking all the right questions before sending me back to my room.
And finally, there’s Bonnie Hassan, without whom I probably would never have left the room at all. Thank you, Bonnie—you made this possible.
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