The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek

by Rhett McLaughlin

  She turned onto Creek Road and soon it was nothing but lonely farms and woods dominated by pine trees. A couple minutes later, she realized she’d arrived, rolling to a bumpy stop on the road’s weed-covered shoulder.

  The beige sign read THE WHITEWOOD SCHOOL, CORRECTIVE CENTER FOR CHILDREN. Underneath the black text, in smaller font, it read PROVERBS 23:13.

  Janine stepped out of the car with her camera, her insides knotting up, and pressed record. She filled the frame with the sign, curious as to what was said in that particular Bible verse; she figured she’d write it out in a text overlay in the final version of her film.

  The old couple had been right. She couldn’t see the school, as a thick stand of trees lined the opposite side of the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the property. Three rows of barbed wire stretched along the top of the barrier. Most people would assume a prison stood behind those trees. Maybe that was the point.

  Janine walked, camera in hand, up to the front gate. Once there, she realized she could in fact see a portion of the school down the long single-lane driveway. It looked to be a three-story wooden building, painted a light beige, trim and all.

  Janine focused her camera on what she could see of the school, strands of the chain-link fence blurry in the foreground, obscuring the image as she panned left to right. She listened carefully, thinking maybe she would hear kids screaming or crying or something. There was only silence. She thought about young Donna in that building: scared, powerless, alone.

  The camera landed on an object next to the building, the image in her viewfinder so grainy that she initially didn’t recognize it for what it was: a person. It didn’t help that the large, bored-looking man was wearing what looked to be some sort of yellowish-brown work suit that perfectly camouflaged him in front of the matching school.

  “These people are really into beige,” Janine said to herself. The man appeared to be standing guard outside one of the entrances. Who do they think is going to try to break in? she wondered, before realizing the concern was more likely about who they thought might try to get out.

  She zoomed in, exhausting the capabilities of her camera, framing the man from the mid-thigh up. Cowboy shot, her film school word bank reminded her.

  He turned and looked straight into the lens.

  Janine ducked, but there wasn’t anything to duck behind. She turned off her camcorder and crouch-walked to the car, quivering as she got back into the driver’s seat and frantically peeled away.

  * * *

  —

  JANINE PULLED OPEN the swinging glass door of the Bleak Creek Public Library, a place she had never had a reason to visit during her childhood summer trips. After her stop by the Whitewood School, she’d wanted to go straight home and wash away the image of that creepy dude with some of her GamGam’s sweet tea, but she knew that gathering written resources was an essential part of any respectable documentary (if for no other reason than to have those cool shots of newspaper headlines she’d seen in Ken Burns’s films).

  As she approached the front desk, where a short, gray-haired woman sat reading a creased paperback of Agatha Christie’s Postern of Fate, she felt the faint academic anxiety that always accompanied the musky fragrance of books. The woman didn’t look up.

  “Hello,” Janine eventually said in her quietest, most library-ish voice.

  “Oh!” the woman semi-screamed, “I didn’t see you there. You’re a sneaky one!”

  “I’m sorry,” Janine said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I could use some excitement around here!” She had not yet lowered her voice. “How can I help you!”

  “I’m hoping to look at old newspapers,” Janine said. “Like, local newspapers.”

  “Well, the only one we got is Bleak Creek Gazette,” the woman said.

  “Yes, that’s perfect.”

  “Follow me.”

  Janine trailed the tiny woman through the library. As they entered the nonfiction section, a middle-aged man in suspenders over a white V-neck T-shirt looked up with sunken eyes from his XYZ volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Janine gave him a fake smile, the kind reserved for strangers you’d like to remain that way. The man stared back, trailing her with his eyes just like the old lady on the porch. Wishing she could walk faster, she continued to follow closely behind the librarian, stepping down a set of stairs to the even mustier-smelling basement.

  “So, here’s the microfilm reader,” the librarian said when they arrived at a table on the far side of the dimly lit room, her powerful voice booming throughout the basement as she pointed to a machine with a large blank screen. “What years do you want, dear?”

  “Uh,” Janine said, “do you know what year the Whitewood School was founded?”

  The short woman paused before answering, her silence filled by the steady buzz from the lights. “Why?” she asked in a suddenly quieter, almost appropriate library voice.

  Janine didn’t think she should tell her the real reason. “Uh, I’ve been told that there were some great recipes in the lifestyle section of the paper that year,” she said, contorting her face into an innocent smile, hoping to convince the woman of her ridiculous excuse—that she was just a good Bleak Creek girl who wanted to cook for her man.

  “Hmm,” the woman said, staring deeply into Janine’s eyes as if trying to unlock an Agatha Christie clue. “Recipes, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Janine said, really turning on the charm.

  The woman paused another second, then turned abruptly and walked away. Was she leaving to tell someone that there was a Yankee girl sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, or just ignoring her request? Right as Janine was starting to wonder if maybe she should leave before drawing any more unnecessary attention, the woman reappeared. “Forgot the key,” she said, walking over to a nearby cabinet and unlocking it. “I know the school opened sometime in the late seventies, so you could start in the 1975 to ’79 section.” She still hadn’t returned to nearly shouting, which Janine took as her not completely buying her story. “I hope you find some good recipes.” She went back upstairs, leaving the cabinet open.

  Janine started with the 1977 microfilm rolls, scanning headline after headline for a mention of the Whitewood School, extremely grateful that the Bleak Creek Gazette was only a weekly publication. She let out a small yelp when she finally found what she was looking for in the August 27, 1979, issue:

  THE WHITEWOOD SCHOOL OPENS, WITH MISSION TO REFORM TROUBLED YOUTHS

  The long-abandoned Bleak Family Resort, which served those wishing to soak in the mineral waters of Bleak Creek Spring from 1927 to 1961, will see new life as a reform school when it opens its doors to students in September. The Whitewood School is the work of Mr. Wayne Whitewood, a town newcomer, who will serve as headmaster. “It is easier than ever for young people to be lured off the straight and narrow by any number of worldly temptations. But once they go astray, we can’t give up on them. The Whitewood School knows no lost causes,” explained Mr. Whitewood, who has also become quite popular for his enthusiastic organ playing at Bleak Creek Second Baptist Church, having replaced Donald Jeffries after his tragic lawnmower accident last year.

  Locals are excited about the prospect of a reform school. “Our children are being bombarded by rock music, drugs, alcohol, and, worst of all, sex,” said Second Baptist Church secretary, Mary Hattaway. “Many parents have nowhere to turn. It will be nice to have a place to send young folks who are not responding to discipline at home.”

  The Whitewood School will be accepting students from Bleak Creek as well as surrounding areas. Mr. Whitewood promises that if he is able to get unruly young ones in his program before they become full-fledged troublemakers, there is hope that they will grow up to be responsible, normal adults. “Bleak Creek is such a wonderful place,” said Mr. Whitewood. “I would hate to see it ruined by a few headstrong kids.”

>   There were several articles that followed in the next month, mainly repeating the same information and celebrating the school. After doing some quick math, Janine realized Donna was probably one of the school’s first students.

  When she made it to the end of 1979, Janine was nursing a headache from the stagnant basement air, but she knew she had to keep looking. If someone told the loud librarian the truth about Janine’s documentary, she might not give her access to the microfilm archives so easily. She had to dig further now.

  She dumped more rolls on the table and began flying through the headlines. The school wasn’t mentioned at all in 1980 or 1981. When she was nearing the end of 1982, she was convinced that the Whitewood School had become so inconsequential to the people of Bleak Creek that it didn’t even warrant a mention in the homespun newspaper.

  But then she saw it.

  An article entitled “Teen Dies in Freak Accident at Whitewood School,” dated December 18, 1982. Richard Stanley, a fourteen-year-old boy, had died after locking himself in the school’s industrial oven during an unauthorized game of hide-and-seek.

  Janine felt queasy.

  The article wasn’t clear as to how the oven had then been accidentally turned on, leaving the boy to be found by staff the next morning. Wayne Whitewood was quoted as saying, “The entire staff is devastated. We are deeply saddened that we lost this troubled young man. He was showing so much progress, but still had a wild streak. We honestly don’t know what else we could have done.”

  It was tragic—and in this case, gruesome—for a student to die at a reform school. But it wasn’t exactly scandalous. Even so, Janine noticed she was trembling as she read the article.

  She kept going, grabbing the 1983 and 1984 microfilm rolls.

  No mentions of the school.

  Then, 1985.

  A mention of Wayne Whitewood in May. Not about the school. He’d won a barbecue cook-off.

  Then, June 12.

  Oh my god.

  “Girl Killed in Gas Explosion at Whitewood School.”

  The accident was similar to the first: a sixteen-year-old girl had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing (sneaking around to smoke a cigarette). The article included another heartfelt but blame-shifting quote from a grieving Wayne Whitewood.

  Janine’s mind was reeling faster than the knobs on the microfilm machine. Two students dead in a few years? Weren’t the people of Bleak Creek curious? Did no one consider launching an investigation?

  As she reached down to continue scrolling through the rest of 1985, she felt someone’s presence.

  “All those funerals were closed casket,” a gravelly voice said.

  Janine recoiled and turned to see the sunken-eyed man standing right behind her.

  She thought of running for the exit.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the man said with a voice reminiscent of an old car trying to start up. His dull gaze was locked on the microfilm display. He rocked back and forth slowly, his thumbs looped under his suspenders like he expected them to come undone at any moment.

  “Wha…what are you talking about?” Janine asked, trying to catch her breath.

  “The parents couldn’t even identify the bodies. Sheriff had to use dental records.”

  “Wait a second…Did you say…all the funerals?”

  “Yeah, I’ll save you the trouble. There was another accident in ’eighty-nine.”

  “What…what happened?”

  “Boy got struck by lightning out there on the property. Heard it was a pretty ugly scene.”

  Janine reached for the 1989 roll, already stacked next to the machine. She hurriedly exchanged the spools, then began whirling through the articles.

  “What date?” she asked.

  There was no response.

  Janine turned around.

  The man was gone.

  10

  REX AND LEIF walked into the cafeteria on their first day at Bleak Creek High School, feeling Alicia’s absence more than ever. This moment had been building in Rex’s mind for years, ever since his older sister, Misty, told him that whoever you sat with at lunch that first day could determine your future. “Brad Stewart was the smartest guy in eighth grade,” she’d said, “but he sat with the Gardner twins his freshman year, and now he drives an ice cream truck.”

  He, Leif, and Alicia had developed a plan: Instead of buying lunch, they would bring their own to avoid the hiccup of having to go through the line. Then they’d take their brown bags—lunch boxes were strictly off-limits, a sacrifice particularly challenging for Leif—directly to the spot of their choice, sit down, and wait to see who naturally joined them. The only rule they’d agreed on was that Mark Hornhat wasn’t allowed. “If he comes over, I’ll handle it,” Alicia had promised. “I’ll let him down easy. Don’t worry.”

  Both Rex and Leif had serious doubts about doing all this without her.

  But they didn’t admit that to each other.

  An initial scan of the room revealed that nearly every table was already taken, with very few students in line buying lunch. Maybe their plan wasn’t so original after all. They walked around methodically, not talking, Rex doing his best to play it cool and blend in (not an easy task considering he towered over almost everyone), while Leif somehow forgot to move his arms as he walked.

  After two and a half laps around the cafeteria, Rex looked at Leif and motioned with his head toward a table next to them. A handful of guys and girls they recognized as upperclassmen were deep in conversation, but there were three open seats.

  “Mind if we sit here?” Rex asked.

  “Huh?” a blond girl with a jean skirt asked.

  “Go for it, Stretch,” a guy with a Vanilla Ice To the Extreme T-shirt said before turning back to Jean Skirt and picking up where they’d left off.

  “Thanks.” No sooner had Rex and Leif sat down than they got a powerful whiff of Eternity. Mark Hornhat appeared beside them, as if he’d been perched somewhere waiting for them to decide on a table. A very Hornhat move.

  “Hey hey, fellas,” he said, taking his lunch out of his backpack. “High school is pretty rockin’, huh? So many hot babes.”

  Rex and Leif just stared at him. They both realized that without Alicia, they stood little chance of repelling Hornhat. Freshman Lunch Plan 1992 was quickly falling apart.

  “Oh, man!” he said. “What y’all did at the Second Baptist fundraiser was so rad. I can’t wait to see Ghost Dog so I can relive it. Does Boykins have lunch this period? I want to congratulate her on her performance. Especially the part at the end, heh-heh.”

  Rex and Leif continued staring, coming to grips with the fact that Hornhat might be a permanent fixture of their cafeteria crew. Rex knew Hornhat’s dad was a doctor, so at least eating with him on a regular basis didn’t guarantee a future as an ice cream truck driver.

  “What?” Hornhat said, responding to their silence. “Did Mr. Whitewood die or something?”

  “No,” Leif said. “But Alicia…she’s not here. She’s at Whitewood.”

  Hornhat’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “Yeah,” Rex said. “How have you not heard about this?”

  “I’ve been in the Outer Banks with my family since the night of the fundraiser. You know, at our three-story beach house.” Everyone knew about his parents’ three-story beach house, seeing as Hornhat had a way of working it in to just about any conversation. “We got back yesterday. Oh, man, that sucks about Alicia…”

  “It’s not a huge deal,” Rex said. “She’ll probably be out in a few months.”

  “I don’t know,” Hornhat said, shaking his head. “Seems pretty serious to me. I mean, think about it. How many kids do we know who—”

  “Shut up, Hornhat!” Rex said, his intensity surprising even himself. Vanilla Ice and Jean Skirt stopp
ed talking to look at him. “Sorry.”

  Hornhat looked shell-shocked, caught off-guard by the scolding. “Okay.”

  “You gotta chill out, Stretch,” Vanilla Ice said before picking up his conversation again.

  “Yeah, uh, I will,” Rex said, trying to reassert his coolness.

  “Hey,” Hornhat said excitedly, “you guys hear that Marky Mark is coming out with a new album?” Rex was always annoyed at Hornhat’s tendency to bring things up at inappropriate times, usually in an effort to prove how in the know he was.

  Rex looked down, trying not to explode again.

  “Nope,” Leif said. “Hadn’t heard that.”

  “Yeah, just a couple more weeks,” Hornhat said. “But honestly, I’m not too excited about it. I think the real talent in that family is Donnie. He’s the most underrated member of New Kids on the Block, which is one of the most underrated bands of all ti—”

  “Mark!” Rex said, almost yelling once more. “We’ve got some important business to discuss. You can sit here, but please don’t interrupt.”

  “Okay, got it. Whatever you need, guys,” Hornhat said, gesturing with a partially peeled banana. “Whatever you need.”

  “Thanks.” Rex was already backfilling Alicia’s role of speaking authoritatively to Hornhat. It felt better than he expected.

  “One last thing,” Hornhat said, his mouth filled with banana. “Leif, can I breathe on your shirt?”

  “No.” Leif crossed his arms over his purple Hypercolor.

  “Gotcha. No problem.” He set aside his banana peel and moved on to a tuna fish sandwich. The smell was overwhelming.

  “What’s the important business?” Leif asked.

  “Remember the stuff that you-know-who asked for? Well, I’ve got it all. Even the fire extinguisher.”

  Leif stopped unwrapping the aluminum foil from his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “You’re not still thinking about going back to the wild boy, are you?”