Eliza didn’t even have to say a word. She’d set the stage back in September, and that was all it took. The other students—teachers, too—looked at me like I was a monster. I never got to explain that I just hadn’t known, that of course I didn’t want to slaughter and imprison animals.
Now Sam peels himself off the doorframe and steps inside. He pulls out my desk chair and sits on it backward. He looks perfectly at ease, like he’s sat there a thousand times before, like this isn’t his first time inside my room. I sit up, bending my legs so I can rest my chin on my knees. My hair falls across my eyes, and for a second I think Sam is going to reach out and brush it aside to get a better look at me. My heart starts beating faster, anticipating his touch.
But instead of fixing my hair, Sam tightens his boy bun even though (it looks to me) it’s already tighter than usual. “Elizabeth …” He sounds uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Insist on calling me Elizabeth instead of Ellie? I tell you almost every day that I like to be called Ellie.” I flip my phone over and over on my bed just to have something to do.
Instead of answering, Sam says, “I know how hard this must be for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not hard. I barely knew her.” Like my mom said. I look away from the concern in Sam’s eyes. Quietly, I add, “I’m not crazy like she said I was.” (Not as crazy, anyway. Or anyway, not the same type of crazy. She said I was a stalker and a pathological liar. Which is ironic, come to think of it, since that was a lie. If only she’d known about my phobia, she would’ve had a real reason to tell everyone I was nuts.)
Sam stands up, tapping his fingers against his thighs. “I just don’t think you should give them another reason to wonder about you.”
“To wonder what?” None of them ever seemed the least bit uncertain about me. As far as I can tell, they believed everything Eliza said from day one.
“Just get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the other room. I’ll tell them it was my fault we were late.” Sam is already out the door, quietly closing it behind him.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, gazing at my pale feet sticking out of the bottoms of my plaid flannel pajamas. I wonder what color Eliza’s toes were painted when they found her. Like a lot of California girls, she wore flip-flops whatever the weather and she had a different color on her toes every week.
I saw Eliza sitting in the meadow once with Arden and Erin, passing around nail polish. She painted each toe a different color, giggling over their silly names: light pink was called Ballet Slippers, and tan was called Sandy Toes, and there was a creamy color she claimed was called Starter Wife.
I wasn’t eavesdropping. Or anyway, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just that she and Arden and Erin looked exactly like what I thought life at Ventana Ranch would be: sitting in the grass, laughing with my friends. They looked so beautiful and happy, so at ease with one another. It was impossible not to want to join them.
When Eliza saw me staring, she leaned in and whispered something to Erin, who laughed. Arden lifted up her hand like she was trying to shoo a bug away, but I knew the gesture was meant for me.
I walked away. Into the woods where no one would see me cry.
Now I cross the room and open my sock drawer. Then my T-shirt drawer. Then my jeans drawer. I don’t take anything out. What are you supposed to wear to a memorial service for a girl who hated you? I look out my open window at Eliza’s dorm. What would she have worn, if I was the one who’d died and it was my memorial service being held in the student center? She probably would’ve had just the right outfit. It’s probably hanging in her closet right now, alongside all her other perfect clothes. I wonder what they’ll do with her clothes now that she’s gone. I wish I could wear what she would’ve worn.
I shake my head. Maybe I am as crazy as she said I was. Longing to wear a dead girl’s clothes doesn’t exactly sound like the wish of a sane person.
I swipe on some lip gloss.
“Come on, Elizabeth!” Sam shouts from the other room. I swallow, then decide on black pants and a blouse. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Whatever I wear, it won’t be right.
Whatever I wear, it won’t be nearly as perfect as what Eliza would’ve worn.
Sam and I stand in the back. All the seats have been taken by students who actually got here on time.
“Took you long enough, Whitker,” someone whispers to Sam from the row of chairs in front of us. I’ve never actually spoken to him but I know it’s Sam’s friend Cooper.
“No clue what to wear,” Sam returns with a shrug. I wonder if the lie is obvious to someone who doesn’t live with him. Sam’s the kind of person who can walk out the door just minutes after his alarm goes off, and I’m pretty sure he’s never worried about what to wear.
I’m wearing the wrong clothes, just like I knew I would. Everyone else is in pj’s or yoga pants, greasy hair pulled into messy buns, not even a hint of makeup on their tear-stained faces, like their grief was too raw to take the time to care about how they looked. I rub my lips, but it only brings attention to the lip gloss. I don’t know what I was thinking with these black slacks, like I’m thirty-six instead of sixteen.
My dressier outfit doesn’t look respectful. It doesn’t even look like I’m trying too hard. It looks like I care more about how I looked than I care about Eliza, unlike everyone else here. It’s just another way I don’t fit in, another way that they’re all in this together and I’m standing on the outside wishing they’d invite me in.
(Get a grip, Ellie. You shouldn’t be jealous that they’re mourning together and you don’t feel like you’re part of it.)
Cooper leans over to whisper to the girl sitting next to him, loud enough so I can hear. “I heard someone threw her over the cliffs.”
She gives him a dirty look and clutches a wrinkled piece of paper to her chest. It’s a sign that says We’ll miss you, Eliza. “Don’t be ridiculous. If someone threw her, she wouldn’t have been found so close to the edge. She must have fallen.”
On the other side of her someone else says, “If she fell, why do the police practically have the campus on lockdown? It’s obvious they think someone pushed her.” She’s holding a single white rose. I look around and notice that a bouquet is being passed around like a packet of worksheets in a classroom: Take one and pass it down.
“My mom wants me to get the hell out of here,” someone else chimes in. “I said not before midterms.” He waves his rose like a magic wand.
The girl beside Cooper shushes him. “Show some respect.” She straightens her arms so that she’s holding her sign high overhead. The student center is round, and the chairs are arranged in circular rows curving around an open space in the middle. Across the room, someone else is holding up a piece of poster board that reads: Gone But Never Forgotten. It’s decorated with glitter, ribbons, and a smiling picture of Eliza: blond, beautiful, golden. That still photograph looks somehow more alive than half the people in this room.
At least a half dozen other students are holding signs that read: R.I.P. Eliza Hart.
Cooper and his friends fall silent, but my brain is going a mile a minute, silently continuing their conversation all by itself.
Maybe she died at the instant of impact, the very moment her body struck the cliff.
Maybe the fall only injured her, and she was trapped on the cliff and drowned when the tide came in.
Maybe the fall caused internal injuries, and she slowly bled out, bleeding internally where no one could see.
I shake my head, willing my thoughts to shut up already. Freak, I think to myself. Eliza even has me calling me names.
Dean Carson stands in the center of the round room and clears his throat. “You may have noticed that the police are still on campus,” he begins. “Once again, I urge the student who argued with Eliza Hart last week to come forward and speak with us.” He pauses. “Let me assure you that whoever you are, you’re not in tr
ouble. We just need to know exactly what happened.”
He doesn’t say, So that we can rule you out as a suspect, but it’s clear that’s what he means.
Or rule you in, I guess.
Silence. Someone coughs, and everyone’s gaze follows the sound. A senior whose name I don’t know looks at the floor, tries to swallow her next cough. After a few seconds, we return our focus to Dean Carson.
“I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day. Come forward whenever you’re ready.”
He continues, “Until we get to the bottom of this, the police will remain on campus. They will be questioning students and faculty alike.” He sent out another email last night explaining what will happen next, and now he repeats it: The police will conduct interviews. Parents and teachers can be present while we’re questioned, and no one is required to stay. The police can only request our cooperation at this stage. “As a precaution, an officer will be stationed at the front gate to sign students in and out.”
A precaution against what? I wonder. Someone making a break for it?
Or someone trying to get in?
“Thank you again for your help,” the dean finishes finally, though I don’t know why he says that since so far no one has actually been all that helpful. “I’ll be in my office if anyone would like to talk. The rest of the staff and I are here for you during this difficult time.” He leaves us alone. This memorial service is for the students, not the teachers.
A group of girls take the dean’s place in the center of the circle. Each of them holds a single rose and they’re singing a song they claim was one of Eliza’s favorites. It’s a cheerful love song and its high-pitched bubbly notes sound totally out of place. Didn’t Eliza have any more appropriate favorite songs? Maybe she never had a reason to listen to sad music.
The singing girls cluster together like they’re trying to keep warm. Erin Smythe is at the center of the group, but she’s not singing. She’s crying. The group tightens around her.
(Sometimes I have to remind myself that other people don’t have problems with small spaces. It seems like such a miracle to me that most people don’t drown when the world gets too tight.)
I shift my gaze to the window across from me. The student center is down on the meadow in the valley, and the walls are floor-to-ceiling glass. This room is usually flooded with constant sunlight, but today the fog that usually stays put at the top of the hill is rolling down, blanketing the valley. It looks like a wave, like a flood rushing down the hill and soaking us momentarily before it rushes past. It’s like the tide coming in, one wave after another after another.
When the singing stops, Arden Lin runs to the center of the room to embrace Erin. They’re both crying so loudly I can hear each individual sob. I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my wrists and duck my chin into the tan scarf wrapped around my neck like I’m trying to hide. Soon, everyone (well, not everyone: not me, and not Sam) is hugging each other and crying.
The entire student body is here. Seventy-five juniors, seventy-five seniors.
Seventy-four juniors, I correct myself.
Is one of us the person Julian saw fighting with Eliza that night?
Is one of us the person who killed her?
Sam pushes his long, lean body off the wall. “I think we can go now.”
We’ve barely taken two steps toward the door when a hoarse voice calls out, “What are you doing here?”
I don’t realize the voice is talking to me until Sam answers, “She’s leaving, Erin. It’ll be okay.”
“It’ll be okay? My best friend just died, and her stalker came to the funeral.”
I hear myself saying, “It’s not a funeral.” That didn’t come out the way I meant it to. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t go to her funeral if they didn’t want me there.
“What?”
I look at my shoes. Black leather boots. Perfect for walking around on New York City sidewalks. Pointless here. Why am I wearing these? “Idiot,” I mumble.
Arden puts her arm around Erin. “What kind of psycho are you?”
“I didn’t mean—” I meant I was the idiot.
Sam tugs at my sweater. “Let’s go.”
“What the hell, Sam?” Arden shouts. “How can you take her side?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side—”
“What do you call showing up here with that girl?” She spits the words that girl like they taste sour. I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me with as much hate as Arden is looking at me with now. I swallow the lump in my throat. They’d hate me even more if I cried. I have no right to cry for myself when they’re all crying for Eliza.
Sam yanks on my sweater, leading the way toward the door. But before we get outside, Erin shouts, “I’m going to tell the police about you. Just you wait.” I turn around as Erin collapses into tears.
“Everyone knows it was you fighting with Eliza that night,” Arden hisses, tightening her arms around Erin.
“What?” Butterflies flutter across my belly.
Yesterday morning, Erin asked, Who else would have a reason to fight with Eliza?
And I’m the answer Arden came up with.
Arden continues, “You were her only enemy on campus. The only person who hated her.”
“I didn’t hate her—”
“Well, you liked her a little too much.”
Sam tugs on my sleeve again. “Come on.” Sam’s voice is stern. I follow him out the door and up the hill like an obedient puppy.
Earlier, Sam said, It’ll look strange if you don’t come.
When I didn’t want to go, he said, I just don’t think you should give them another reason to wonder about you.
When I took my time getting dressed, he added, I’ll tell them it was my fault we were late.
I stare at my roommate’s back as he leads the way up the hill. The fog rolls through one more time, then disappears, leaving nothing but bright sunshine. Sam takes off his sweatshirt, revealing a white T-shirt that’s practically soaked through with sweat. Was Sam actually nervous in there? I watch his muscles as he rolls his shoulders down his back and nods his neck from side to side like he’s trying to release his tense muscles.
He knew they thought I was the one who fought with Eliza last week.
He knew they were going to blame me.
“Is that why you didn’t answer me the other night?” My voice sounds small, like I’m scared of hearing the answer.
Sam flops down hard on the couch in our suite’s common area. “What are you talking about?”
I fold my arms across my chest, standing over him. “When you came back from Wednesday Reading Night—I asked if they all thought she killed herself, too, and you didn’t really answer me.”
“Julian’s story just has everyone on edge.” Sam’s trying to look nonchalant, but he’s not very good at it—which is saying something, because he’s usually nonchalant about everything.
“You should’ve let me stay in bed this morning.”
“I just thought if they saw you …” Sam sighs. His back curls into a giant C when he slouches. “I didn’t know they’d react like that.”
I gesture toward the crowd down in the valley. “They’re your friends.” I imagine them trudging up the hill with pitchforks and torches, coming to get me like I’m the target of an old-fashioned witch-hunt.
Sam reaches up and undoes his bun. “They’re my classmates,” he corrects firmly.
I shift my gaze, looking for something to focus on other than my roommate’s earnest face. I settle for staring at my feet. I’m so sure Sam is friends with those people. At least, he acts like he is. He eats with them and parties with them and even occasionally hooks up with them.
Softly, Sam asks, “Did you ever think that maybe it’s just easier to be friendly, whether they’re really your friends or not?”
“Of course it’s easier,” I concede, still studying my shoes. “But only if being friendly comes easy to you.”
“Yo
u can be friendly,” Sam offers.
I shake my head, dropping my arms to my sides. “I don’t mean friendly like nice or polite. I mean friendly like, like—” I bite my lip. “Like knowing how to make friends.” I collapse onto the couch beside him. “Not everyone fits in as easily as you do.”
“Believe me, that took years of practice.” We’re sitting close enough that I feel it when Sam takes a deep breath. “When a kid from the East Bay moves to Marin halfway through middle school, he learns a thing or two about fitting in.”
“I thought you grew up in Mill Valley.” Mill Valley is a town in Marin County, north of San Francisco.
“My dad lives in Mill Valley,” Sam explains. “But I mostly grew up with my mom. I didn’t move in with my dad until I was thirteen.”
“Why’d you move?”
“My mom died.”
I lift my fingers to my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He leans back, stretching his long arms above us. “I really did think it would help, you know. You going to the memorial service.”
It’s hard to breathe around the lump in my throat that’s been there ever since Arden called me that girl. “They hate me.”
“They don’t hate you. They don’t know you, Elizabeth.”
I’ve never liked the sound of my full name. Elizabeth is not a cool girl’s name. Elizabeth can be smart and she can grow up to be powerful (see Queen Elizabeth I). She might even be well-liked and popular if she’s lucky, but she will never be cool. Erin, Arden, and Eliza—those are cool-girl names.
“Anyway,” Sam continues, “in a few days, the police will have interviewed you and it’ll all be over.”
“Why would the police want to talk to me? They said they were going to talk to the students who knew Eliza best.”
“They said they were going to start with the students who knew Eliza best. Eventually, they’ll want to talk to anyone who knew Eliza. Which is pretty much everyone on campus, right?” He doesn’t add the real reason they’ll want to talk to me: Erin’s promise to tell the police about me.
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her.”
R.I.P. Eliza Hart Page 6