When I went back to the cabin to grab a sweatshirt before dinner, the girl who’d asked about Ollie was there. She and her friend erupted in giggles and I smiled back full-faced before I saw what they—or someone—had done. Hanging from the rafters, a ratty shoelace around her neck, was Ollie. The sign taped to her chest said “DEAD BIRD” in block letters. Her big feet and little wings flopped above me.
Pain squeezed my heart and I wanted to scale the bunks and save her, but the girls’ expectant gazes froze me in place. I couldn’t show them my devastation. I wouldn’t give them what they craved.
I tried to keep my expression unchanged. “Oh!” I said. “Haha. So funny.”
Uncertainty flickered in their faces, or maybe it was disappointment. “You’re not mad?”
“No!” I insisted. “That’s hilarious. Who did it?”
They swore they didn’t know but agreed it was genius, and I kept my smile plastered on and followed them to the mess hall, leaving Ollie where she was. Inside I was screaming. I wanted to claw those girls’ eyes out, make them wail the way I wished I could be wailing. I wanted to rescue Ollie, cradle her in my arms, and take her someplace safe from this humiliation and awfulness. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I deserted her. I was a traitor to the only friend I had.
When we returned to the cabin that night, Ollie was no longer dangling from the rafters. The counselor who’d cut her down returned her to me with some sharp words about “the kind of humor that doesn’t belong at Camp Paddywack,” as if I had done that horrible thing to my own fuzzy friend and thought it was funny. I didn’t correct her. I accepted Ollie back, removed the remnants of her noose, and tucked us deep inside my sleeping bag, where I wished I could stay hidden forever, or at least until the end of camp.
I told Dr. Rita about Ollie in our session yesterday and she waited with that I’m-really-listening face therapists get, then asked, “How did that make you feel?” I burst into tears, not because of the mean girls and Ollie and my failure as her protector and friend, but because when I told you this same story, you didn’t ask how I felt—you knew, immediately, without needing to be told. You exhaled out your nose like a bull blowing smoke, and said, “Fuck those girls. They’re not worthy to pet the soft tufts of Ollie’s behind,” so viciously that the story suddenly seemed funny—not like something shameful I had suffered alone, but a slight you rebuffed on my behalf, a pathetic attempt by those girls to deflate me. An experience we were in on together.
You asked me what Ollie was doing this summer, and I admitted I’d left her propped on my bed with a copy of Anne of Green Gables. You nodded and said, “Good. She deserves some nice R and R.” Then we debated Anne of Green Gables versus Emily of New Moon, Nancy Drew versus Cam Jansen versus Charlotte Holmes versus Harriet the Spy, and Paddington Bear versus Corduroy (a standoff promptly won by Winnie the Pooh).
I’ve never had a friend who gets me like you do. Did.
But I didn’t want to go into that again with Dr. Rita, so I let her think I was crying over the mean girls and Ollie—over what happened way back when, instead of over you. I didn’t mention I had ever even told you that story. Because it’s starting to feel like the more I talk about you, the less anyone understands, and the further I get from you, the real you, even though you’re only two weeks gone. I can’t capture you correctly with words or even memories, can’t keep you present and real through stories (the way you could make anything real in the telling). I don’t want to explain our friendship to other people who weren’t in it. I only want to talk about you with you. But these letters are as close as I’ll get.
There’s another kind of candle-making I learned that summer besides the hand-dipping kind. We also used wet sand to form molds that we filled with hot wax—poured it in smooth and fast, then let it cool and harden around the wick. That’s the way you and I became friends: swift and sudden, no gradual buildup. Overnight, our friendship solidified, as though by some grand design. We burned hot and bright, and I thought the flame would last forever. Then Jackson snuffed it out.
You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I never dreamed it would end with the worst.
Love,
Kayla
August 14
Channel 5 News
“Developing news we’re following closely tonight: Police in Maplewash County are asking parents and campers to remain calm and stay put as they investigate the circumstances of a teenage camper’s death that occurred late last night or early this morning at Camp Cavanick on Jaspertown Lake. There has been no official statement from Camp Cavanick administrators to the media as of yet, but concerned parents of the approximately two hundred thirteen-to-seventeen-year-olds at the camp say they were notified at around noon today of the unfathomable tragedy that occurred overnight, only one and a half days before the eight-week session was to end.
“Here’s what some parents on the scene, awaiting news from their campers, had to say about it.”
“The email said almost nothing. Just that a camper had died but it wasn’t our kid, and police and grief counselors were there, and more information would be forthcoming. But nothing has been forthcoming yet; we’re just hearing a lot of rumors. The kids are in shock. They’re all grieving.”
“We got right in the car the minute we got the email. A thing like that happens, you want to make sure your kid is safe—to hold them in your arms and know it’s true. Camp phone lines were jammed and most phones don’t get good service here; you can only get through on text. So we drove right up, three and a half hours, my wife redialing the whole time, but not until we arrived did we get to talk to her. They don’t want us to take them home yet, say it’s best for them all to stay put. Well, they don’t get to decide what’s right for my family, my kid. That’s my decision to make as a parent.”
“You send your kid off to camp, it’s just the last thing you expect. This is so traumatic for the kids—someone they knew, spent all summer with, for a thing like this to happen. I hope the people in charge know good lawyers because I can’t be the only one who heard this news and thought, My kid shows any harm, any damage from this, one hair out of place, and I’ll sue. Just imagine what the parents of the dead kid are thinking. It’s every parent’s nightmare, I’ll tell you that.”
“We don’t have a lot of information. They say the police are still interviewing everyone and I guess a few kids already gave statements and were cleared to leave and pack up, but they expect to let most of us take our kids home tomorrow. So until then, we’re here. We’re here for them, and we’ll wait.”
“But one camper will not be returning home tomorrow, or ever again. Police are still conducting preliminary interviews with any and all individuals who might have relevant information to share, and awaiting results of an autopsy. At this time, they say they are investigating all leads and are unable to yet rule out any possible scenarios for the cause of death, including suicide, tragic accident, or foul play.
“We’ll share more details as the story continues.”
August 14, 12:14 p.m.
Oh my god, Kayla
We got an email from the camp. What is going on there?
Please tell us you’re okay
I’m not ok
Oh, honey. Your dad and I will be there soon.
no
We’re coming to get you
don’t
mom
I can’t leave her
I don’t want to go
Camper and Counselor Interviews, Statements, and Posts
August 14–November 24
“Sure, I knew them. Everyone did. Lainie, Kayla, and Jackson were Camp Famous. Everyone knew who they were and what they’d been up to. We were all watching and talking about them, long before anything bad happened.”
“Lainie and Kayla were joined at the hip from day one. Got in all sorts of trouble together. I figured they knew each other from before, but I guess they just insta-bonded or whatever. At first I kind of thought
they were a couple, before Jackson came along.”
“Lainie and Kayla were just this unit. You would have thought they’d been friends for years, though camp time is like that. One week at camp is like six months in the real world. And at the same time, it flies by so quickly. It’s weird. I have friends I was tight with only the last ten days of camp and I know them better than people I’ve been friends with all of high school. You kind of have to experience it to know about it, but it’s true.”
“Yeah, Lainie. She and Kayla had this totally codependent relationship. Like . . . what’s the thing they talk about in Biology? Where two different organisms have to feed off each other to survive? Symbiosis! They were like that. Inseparable. You’d have thought they were one being, like lichen or some shit . . . at least until Lainie met Jackson and started siphoning off him instead.
“Wait, is it called something different if one of the organisms destroys the other?”
“I feel really bad for Kayla in all this. I mean, that was her best friend. I saw her the day after and she looked completely devastated. We all were, but especially her. She was broken over it, and just . . . lost. And looking back now, I wonder if some part of her saw it coming. If she knew before the rest of us that it wasn’t a terrible accident. Based on something she saw, or something Lainie had told her. Or gut instinct. It would be awful, as the best friend, to carry that.”
August 31
Dear Lainie,
The second rule of crime is Always Dress to Kill (dark clothing; no flip-flops), but I will not be killing it the first day of school, as I’ve forgotten how to wear anything besides this one grubby top I’ve had on for three days and the flannel PJ bottoms I accidentally stole from you (sorry), though I’m guessing you haven’t missed them. I still haven’t fully unpacked my bags from camp, nor tried on the clothes Adele bought. She knew better than to drag me back-to-school shopping, all things considered. Instead the entire J.Crew catalog has shown up on my doorstep, and I’m too depressed to point out that’s her style, not mine. But I’ll probably wear it. All that stuff from summer is stained with too many memories. It still smells like the lake.
Flip-flops are verboten at my high school anyway.
I will never forget the way you arched a single eyebrow and shot down the boys with a “Really? Audible footwear?” the first time they snuck out with us. It was a miracle they’d made it as far as the lake without waking a counselor with the slaps of their steps—and Jackson wore a bright white shirt that glowed like a spotlight. You looked them up and down, and shook your head with part pity, part amusement. “Amateurs,” you said.
Nitin’s smile back was bashfully apologetic. Jackson’s shrug looked semi-defiant. You made them take off their flip-flops before we continued onto the dock, and Jackson his T-shirt too. He pulled it off slowly and smirked.
“A little overdressed now, aren’t you?” he challenged. You slipped off your tank top and eyed his shorts—it was strip poker without the poker—and you both jumped in in your underwear.
Nitin and I stood there, fully clothed—except his feet—awkwardly watching-not-watching the two of you splash around, until I decided fuck this and dove in too. (Not a real dive—everyone knew there were rocks and shallow spots there, and diving head-first would be dangerous.) After a moment’s hesitation, Nitin joined us with a perfect cannonball. I admit I enjoyed how much of it splashed in Jackson’s face.
I was too shy to take off my top, but I felt pretty daring for dropping my skirt, which got soaked anyway when I pulled it back on after. I worried on our walk home how we’d explain if we got caught—our prefab excuse that I was saving you from sleepwalking wouldn’t fly with our hair and my shirt dripping wet. But we didn’t get caught. And part of me knew you would talk us out of trouble if it came to that.
Only Jackson stripped completely—and only once he was underwater, thank goodness—but the next day the whole camp knew we’d been skinny-dipping. (Hmm, I wonder who told them that?) I climbed out first to spare my virgin retinas getting burned with the sight of his bare ass. You stayed in, treading water, and the wind blew your soft laugh across the lake.
That was only about a week after we met them. Did you already love him then?
I still don’t get it.
Tomorrow I start my junior year, and you . . . do not. It’s weird and wrong in a million different ways.
This Back-to-School Eve feels lonelier than other years. Instead of wondering if this year I’ll make any new friends, I’m missing the best one I lost. Instead of geeking out over school supplies and texting you possible outfits, I’m writing you a letter I’ll never send and considering wearing first-day pajamas. Instead of hoping nobody notices the giant zit on my chin, I’ll be walking down the halls wondering who knows about what happened.
I don’t dread being called on at random this year. I dread being asked, “Hey, weren’t you at that camp where someone got murdered?”
It’s everywhere online. Most reporters aren’t naming names, but so what when everyone else is. You and Jackson are famous. Infamous. Social media’s worse than the news. Kids we barely spoke to keep posting all this shit—feeding rumors, leaking “evidence,” sharing bullshit theories. Like they know anything about anything. Like they know anything about you.
All summer I loved how our names were always linked: Lainie and Kayla, Kayla and Lainie. No one mentioned me without you or you without me, except once they started mentioning Jackson. But even then. So people are talking about me now too. Reporters keep poking around. My parents’ lawyer gave my only statement: No comment.
I send my calls straight to voicemail, then trash them, unplayed. There’s only one person I would talk to, and you’re not calling.
I deleted all my accounts, but it’s still hard to look away. Of course I’m curious. Of course I’m constantly obsessing over who knows what and how, or thinks they do. Over when they’ll announce the charges. Or whether they’ll need me to testify—and if so, what I will or won’t say.
Even now, I’m keeping your secrets. Every one that I can.
I saw your mom on TV today. A camera followed her from the parking lot into work. She ducked and shielded her face at first, then screamed at them to leave her alone. She looked wrecked. (The most disgusted I’ve ever seen you is when you said of your mom, “She just lets things happen to her. Lets them happen, then overreacts. She only fights back when it’s too late. It’s bad strategy, first of all. And second, it’s pathetic. I will never be like her.”)
“That poor woman,” Adele said. “Kayla, honey, let’s change the channel. You don’t need to be watching this.”
My parents have been treating me like an eight-year-old ever since they picked me up from camp. Under normal circumstances I would be annoyed, but it has been easier to just go along with it. They haven’t really known what to do with me ever since I turned thirteen—their oldest patients are twelve, and my perfect brother stayed unnaturally good-natured through high school, so I’m the first moody teenager they’ve had to deal with.
(“What do you think is the source of this unconscious hostility you’re displaying?” Adele asked me, straight-faced, the first time I rolled my eyes in her presence. “What makes you think it’s unconscious?” I shot back. It did not go over well.)
But this crisis, and my willingness to let them step in and take charge—to let my parents and the lawyer and Dr. Rita make the decisions for me, as long as they leave me alone—has been a break from all that. Adele and Peter are back in their comfort zone, and I . . . well, I’m in shock and mourning and depressed, if Dr. Rita’s to be believed, and that saps a lot of energy. It’s hard to care about being babied when you no longer care about anything at all.
Your mom was furious the first time I saw her too—the first day, moving into our cabin. We never talked about that (I guess now we never will), so I’m not sure if you noticed me the way I noticed you.
I don’t remember the specifics. We must have introduced ourselve
s when we realized we were sharing a bunk, and probably our dads shook hands and chatted about traffic or something or other, but I can’t conjure any of that now. The first time we said hi or whatever is lost to history, absorbed by the rafters and cabin walls covered in decades of initials, doodles, quoted lyrics, clever sayings. Girl graffiti.
What I remember most about the first time I saw you wasn’t you, really, but your Teflon coating—that smooth, calm, impenetrable shield you built up around yourself like a force field, letting everything and everyone outside it bounce off. Your dad’s distracted distance. Your mom’s icy rage that shot out her pores like frozen daggers, piercing everything else around her. Everything except you.
The cabin was swarming with parents, siblings, and campers moving in. I was trying to make my bed without getting in anyone’s way, when, a few feet behind me, your mom shouted at your dad, “Could you just fucking listen to me for once?” and everyone near us went quiet.
Your dad smiled vaguely, like her reaction was somehow amusing. Your mom threw up her hands and stormed outside, and the screen door slammed shut behind her. People stared while pretending not to. Your dad shrugged.
You went on folding your clothes into the dresser, as though none of it was happening—and if it was, it had nothing to do with you.
My parents widened their eyes at each other, ever so slightly. I could see they thought your mom was the problem. I could see they were flat-out wrong.
My parents might be clinical psychologists, but I’m a way better judge of most people than they are—at least, people over five feet tall. You used to joke I’m so hyper-observant because of all the TV I’ve watched, and we’d laugh, but I think there’s something to that. All those true-crime shows and procedural dramas train the viewer to really notice other people’s behaviors and tune into their thoughts. I’m pretty good at picking up on subtle cues that reveal people’s feelings and motivations.
Nobody Knows But You Page 2