R.I.P. Eliza Hart

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  “We all have a dark side, right?” Riya shrugs. “Anyway, I’m just being practical.”

  Is it just my imagination, or does she glance at me when she says dark side? Like she wants to lull me into confessing by admitting that she has a dark side, too? I have to remind myself that I don’t actually have anything to confess.

  “Did they know where the money came from?” I ask. Riya looks at me like I’m speaking Greek. Guess it never occurred to anyone to think the cash might have come from anywhere but her family. Like Riya said, the Harts are loaded.

  “Did the police give her parents the money?” Sam asks.

  Riya shakes her head. “They tried, but her parents want it donated to the school. The Eliza Hart Scholarship Fund, or whatever.”

  Cooper runs his hands through his sandy brown hair. “You know, I was supposed to be in San Diego this week,” he moans miserably. “Look how pale I am.” He holds a perfectly tanned arm out for Riya to judge.

  Riya shrugs. “San Diego’s not going anywhere.”

  Cooper ignores her. “I was supposed to hang with my cousin. He’s a freshman at UCSD, and we were gonna party. Think about it. College chicks.”

  “I don’t want to.” Riya makes a face, feigning disgust at the idea of Cooper hitting on a bunch of college girls. “And you shouldn’t call girls chicks.”

  Cooper just grins. “Being stuck on this campus makes me feel claustrophobic.”

  Like Cooper has any idea what it feels like to be claustrophobic.

  Riya rolls her eyes. “You’re not stuck on this campus. We’re allowed to leave. And once the police interview you, you can drive down to San Diego. If you’re so desperate to get out of here, have your parents tell the police to move you to the top of their list.”

  “Nah, I’ll wait. There are people they have to talk to ahead of me. I hear Erin Smythe was in there all morning. She could barely answer their questions she was crying so hard.”

  “Well, good for you for having a sense of priorities at a time like this.” Riya sounds genuinely surprised, like she really expected Cooper to think his vacation was more important than the police’s investigation.

  “But the minute they’re done with me, I’m hitting the road. I’ll speed the whole way and make record time.”

  Riya shakes her head, but she doesn’t really seem annoyed. Cooper puts an arm around her as we walk.

  “Apparently, Eliza had a boyfriend nobody knew about,” Riya says without missing a step.

  I lose my footing, tripping over my feet. Sam catches me before I hit the ground. “You okay?”

  I nod quickly. “Fine.”

  Sam clears his throat and turns back to Riya. “Where’d you hear she had a secret boyfriend?”

  “Arden Lin blabbed to the cops.”

  So much for keeping her secret. I’d have thought if anyone was going to let it slip, it would’ve been Erin.

  “So who is this guy?” Cooper asks.

  “Arden didn’t know. Erin, either. They said he was probably in college or something.” Sam and I exchange a look. “Eliza told them he was a little bit older. That’s why she had to keep him a secret from her parents.”

  Would Cooper and Riya be impressed to discover that I know something about Eliza even Arden and Erin don’t know? I’d be a hero, the girl who pointed the police in the right direction. Everyone on campus would like me for a change.

  Or maybe they’d just take it as more proof of my obsession with Eliza. Only a stalker would know where her secret boyfriend lives.

  I lag behind, letting Riya, Cooper, and Sam lead the way up the hill. Maybe I shouldn’t tell the police about Mack. Not (just) because Sam thinks he’s innocent, but because it’ll only make everyone here that much more convinced that I’m obsessed with Eliza. The wind picks up as we get closer to the cliffs, to the spot still ringed with crime-scene tape. I shiver.

  Suddenly, Sam stops walking. “I’m starving.” He nods in the direction of the cafeteria. “Ellie and I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He turns on his heel and heads into the dining hall. I follow, realizing how hungry I am, and grateful for the excuse to leave Cooper and Riya behind.

  It’s past lunchtime, but the cafeteria is crowded with students. I wonder how many of my classmates are as irritated as Cooper was about missing out on their spring break plans.

  There are always snacks in the cafeteria. Little packets of organic peanut butter and West Coast bagels, a bowl of fruit and yogurt. I head for the coffee machines, lined up in a row facing the windows. This building is just yards away from the cliff where they pulled up Eliza’s body. If I crane my neck, I can see a series of ledges built into the rocks.

  Eliza died out there.

  In fact, someone spotted her body from this room. Maybe that’s why it’s so quiet in here. Maybe the cafeteria will never feel like anything but the spot on campus where you can see the place where Eliza landed.

  I’ve never liked cafeterias. I’m not the first (and unfortunately, I won’t be the last) unpopular kid to suffer the misery of mealtimes at school, to feel the anxiety of having no one to sit with, no one to talk to.

  In kindergarten and first grade, still living in California, I always sat with Eliza. Second grade through fifth, in Manhattan, the teachers made us sit with our class, so I always had people to sit with, even if I wasn’t necessarily included in the conversation. At the time, I believed that sitting at a crowded table where no one includes you was even lonelier than sitting at a table by myself, than eating in the girls’ room like the losers and loners did in the movies.

  I was wrong.

  Things got worse in middle school. In middle school, we were allowed to sit wherever we wanted.

  I didn’t exactly sit alone. Usually there were one or two other girls and even the occasional boy at my table in the corner of the cafeteria. But we didn’t talk much. We mostly listened, even though we were too far from our classmates’ chatter to make out much of what they were saying.

  I thought it would be better here. I thought I’d have a bunch of friends at this small, inclusive school, and not only would I have people to sit with, but I’d participate in conversations. I thought I’d actually be part of the chatter.

  Wrong again.

  On the very first day of school, I gripped my tray and walked toward the table where Eliza was sitting. After all, she was the only person I knew, other than my roommate, and he and I hadn’t done much more than exchange the occasional hello and good-bye at that point. (In fact, at that point, I could barely look him in the eye. I blushed every time I looked at him and remembered that I was sharing my living space with a boy.)

  Eliza’s back was to me, but I still think she knew I was coming, because she didn’t look the least bit surprised when she saw me. Erin and Arden were sitting on either side of her, so I had to walk around the table to the opposite side.

  “Mind if I sit with you guys?” I wanted to sound nonchalant, but instead it came out overeager.

  Neither Erin nor Arden spoke. Now I wonder if Eliza had already told them her stories about me by then.

  She shrugged, her wavy blond hair falling over her shoulders.

  Not exactly a yes, but not technically a no, either. I sat. The four of us ate in silence for a few seconds.

  “You all unpacked?” I asked finally. No one answered, so I repeated the question, louder this time.

  “Finn!” Eliza called. A boy across the room headed toward us. “Arden, Erin, I can’t remember if you guys ever met Finn. We went to Sunday school together literally a thousand years ago.”

  “Well, not literally,” I interjected brightly, hoping it would sound more like a joke than a correction. But Eliza kept her eyes on Finn.

  Later, I actually wondered if that was why she hated me. Because I corrected her grammar.

  Finn sat at our table. Then Cooper, with his suitemate, whose name was Tina. Then a couple more girls who lived in Harlan. They all talked. I tried to join in, but I couldn’t t
hink of things to say quickly enough—by the time I spoke up, they’d already moved on to another topic. They’d had all of middle school and the first two years of high school to learn how to talk to their peers. They hadn’t spent all that time stuck at a quiet table in the corner like I had.

  Eventually, I stopped trying to participate.

  If I’d told this story to my mother, or to one of my old therapists, they’d have all encouraged me to try again the next day. To keep sitting at that table until I figured out a way to join the conversation. I can practically hear my mother telling me not to give up. They just don’t know you yet. You just have to make a little effort.

  But I never sat with Eliza again. In fact, I avoided sitting in the cafeteria whenever possible, grabbing snacks to take back to my room.

  Now I shake myself like a puppy after a bath and grab a yogurt. I can’t seem to stop myself from looking out the window at the cliffs where they found Eliza.

  “Trying to remember the exact spot where she fell?” I spin around. Behind me, Arden Lin stands with an empty coffee mug. I step out of her way so she can fill her cup. (Hazelnut, no sugar.)

  “Remember?” I echo just as Sam steps in, saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, Arden.”

  Arden said remember because she thinks I was there when Eliza went over the cliffs. Sam calmly takes a bite of his apple, keeping his gaze casual, as though Arden just accused me of taking the last of the coffee, not of murdering her best friend.

  Arden tosses her long hair over her shoulder. “It’s not ridiculous. The police said in a case like this you have to consider all the possibilities.”

  “Elizabeth isn’t a possibility,” Sam says firmly.

  “I think I know more about Eliza than you do,” Arden counters.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from shouting No, you don’t! I know what Eliza was really doing when you and everyone else thought she was out hiking. I know her secret boyfriend’s name and what he looks like and how his eyes narrow when he says her name because he has to concentrate to keep from crying.

  Arden pours cream into her coffee and spins on her heel, so graceful that she doesn’t spill a drop.

  I may know more about Eliza, but that’s not the same thing as having known her. Even if I told Arden about Mack, and even if she believed me (and she wouldn’t), all this new information just leads to more questions, not more understanding. Eliza has become even more mysterious in the past twenty-four hours.

  It’s like she’s not quite dead because there’s still so much to learn about her.

  The sound of a mug shattering draws me out of my thoughts. Across the cafeteria, Arden is staring at her phone. Her mug is in pieces at her feet, and she’s covered in coffee.

  “The police determined her cause of death,” she breathes.

  She’s not really talking to Sam and me, or even to the handful of other students in the room, but someone shouts out “What?”

  Arden looks up from her phone. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Exposure,” she whispers. “They think she died around five in the morning on Wednesday.” It sounds like everyone in the room is gasping at the same time. I hear a student behind me start to cry. Someone puts an arm around Arden, leads her to sit at a nearby table.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sam says softly. Even though the hardwood floor is perfectly even, it reminds me of our hike this morning: I watch where he puts his feet, and try to put mine in the same place.

  Just seconds ago, it felt like Eliza wasn’t really gone. Like she was still dropping hints and leaving clues so that we could piece the real story of her life together. But there’s no such thing as not quite dead.

  She’s gone. We just found out what killed her.

  Dean Carson texts me again, explaining that in light of recent discoveries, they aren’t available to speak with me at four o’clock anymore.

  Please be at Professor Clifton’s office tomorrow at 2pm Sharp.

  Sitting on my bed, I stare at the capital S at the beginning of the word sharp.

  Maybe I should text back that I need to see the detective today. I could say I have information that could lead them to Eliza’s killer. My finger is poised above the letter I, just waiting to begin my response, but I can’t seem to make myself start typing.

  The sound of water running makes me look up. Sam must be getting in the shower. Sam, who doesn’t think I should tell the police about Mack.

  Exposure. It’s what killed her, but it’s not how she died.

  Does exposure make it more or less likely that Mack pushed her over the cliffs? If he threw her with any force, she probably would’ve cleared the ledge, gone down to the sea, never to be found. That’s what a smart killer would want: no body, no evidence.

  If they were arguing and she just fell—an accident—she might have ended up on caught on a ledge.

  But if it was an accident, wouldn’t Mack have gone to the police—called an ambulance, search and rescue, the Coast Guard—immediately? If it was an accident, he wouldn’t have left her there to die, no matter how mad he was at her.

  Right?

  Maybe he thought it was already too late.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and Google: How long does it take to die of exposure?

  Dying from exposure means death resulting from lack of protection over prolonged periods to extreme temperatures, environmental conditions, or dangerous substances.

  Prolonged periods. If Mack had called the police the instant she went over, she might have survived. I keep reading.

  The human body is very adaptable and is constantly balancing different things, from core temperature to water content. Too hot and it sweats; too cold and it shivers. But its capability to regulate itself has its limits, and death can occur, for example, by exposure to extreme heat or cold.

  In some cases, it occurs by a combination of circumstances and stresses to the body such as a combination of hypothermia and starvation.

  It’s not cold in my room, but I’m shivering.

  When Eliza descended—after tripping, jumping, being pushed—did she believe she was going to die? Was she expecting to hit the water hard, ready to have the breath knocked out of her on impact? Maybe she thought she could survive the fall. Maybe as gravity pulled her down she was already planning to fight against the waves crashing against the cliff wall. She was a strong swimmer. Maybe she believed she could swim to safety, or that she could stay afloat on her own until she’d be rescued by a nearby fishing boat or wash up on a sandy beach.

  But then she landed on the ledge.

  Was she awake while she lay there? Did she shout for help, her voice carried off on the wind? If Mack was at the top of the cliff, did she believe he would save her?

  Was there finally a moment when she understood she was going to die?

  I hope the impact of the fall knocked her unconscious. No one deserves to lie awake like that, just waiting to die.

  Not even a mean girl like Eliza Hart.

  Cooper texted Sam the results of the autopsy. It revealed that there were broken bones in Eliza’s left arm and leg. The medical examiner couldn’t determine whether Eliza broke her bones when she first landed on the ledge, or if she fell again, trying to climb the side of the cliffs.

  I think she must have broken her bones when she first landed there. If Eliza had tried to climb out, she’d have made it.

  Unless Mack was waiting on the top of the cliff to push her back down again.

  My phone buzzes in my hands.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Exhausted,” she answers with a laugh. She starts listing the errands she’s been running and the meeting that went badly. But she doesn’t actually sound exhausted. Maybe it’s my imagination, but ever since I moved to California, I think there’s been a lightness in her voice (as long as we’re not talking about me). Like when I moved out, an enormous weight was lifted.

  Mom pauses,
then asks, “How are you?”

  I roll over so that I’m sitting up with my back against the wall. I run my fingers over the bedspread, remembering when Mom and I went to Bed Bath & Beyond in August to pick it out, along with my shower caddy and robe and towels. She kept saying that Ventana Ranch was going to be a fresh start for me, and I smiled and nodded because at the time I believed it, too.

  What if I told her the truth? Not just the truth about Eliza (the rumors, the whispers, the way they practically kicked me out of her memorial service), and not just the truth about what I did today (following trespassers away from campus, confronting them and almost getting myself killed, two claustrophobia attacks).

  What if I told her that even though I haven’t seen a therapist since I got to California, I haven’t given up on curing myself, that I’ve been inducing attacks in an effort to overcome them?

  But then she’d ask how it was going, and I’d have to tell her that I haven’t made any progress at all.

  I swallow a sigh, knowing that I won’t tell her any of it. Ever since that attack in school last year, neither of us has wanted to talk about it. I don’t want to disappoint her again.

  “Ellie?” Mom prompts. The lightness disappears from her voice as the all-too-familiar Ellie tone takes over.

  The sound of running water stops; Sam’s getting out of the shower. With my thumbs, I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my wrists.

  Here’s another truth I’m not telling my mother: I want her to drop whatever she’s doing, to miss Wes’s basketball game, to buy a ticket and get on a plane and fly across the country to sit next to me and hold my hand while the police question me less than twenty-four-hours from now. I want her to explain that they can’t question me in Professor Clifton’s office for perfectly legitimate and not-at-all-crazy reasons. I want her to stand up for me.

  I want her to help me decide whether I should tell the police about Mack.

  I want her to tell me that it isn’t my fault that all the other kids hate me.

  I want her to tell me that dying from exposure doesn’t hurt.

  Holding my phone against my ear, my hand is shaking. The truth is, she’d come if I asked her to. But she’d sigh and tsk and we’d both know she’d be happier staying at home with Wes and my stepdad, happier believing that Ellie has it all under control.