“Jackson will be sorry he missed this,” you said, seeming to take some satisfaction from the sentiment. I wondered again if you’d ended last night on an off note or just wanted him taught a lesson for skipping breakfast.
“You guys okay still?” I asked, and you shrugged a little.
“Mostly.” You moved away to get a better view and I followed, though it was clear that was the most I’d be getting out of you for the moment. Which was fine. We’d have all the time in the world to rehash the subject of Jackson. You would tell me everything that happened that night and more, when you were ready—once his hold on you was lifted and you’d come back to me. Or so I thought.
The ambulance came back up the hill, moving slower this time. You leaned forward. “What does it mean when the lights flash but there’s no siren?” you asked.
“I think that it’s not an emergency? Like, not urgent?” I guessed.
“Oh.” You looked disappointed. “Sprained ankle or something. Figures.” Though Nurse Phil had taken care of those all summer.
I shrugged. “Or maybe the person’s already dead.”
You laughed and hooked your arm through mine. “I want Froot Loops,” you said. So we went back in for second breakfast, and this time you actually ate yours.
People remembered that later, but with the timing wrong—readjusted to make you a villain. I heard Maddie mention it online: how everyone was out there worried sick about what happened to Jackson, and you were grinning and eating cereal. “Heartless bitch,” I think she called you. Like she hadn’t been one of your devoted groupies all summer.
The next few hours passed slowly, but I was so hyped up, they’re a blur in my memory. Was there an announcement about it being Jackson, or just a rumor that quickly spread? It felt like no one knew, then everyone knew, but what we knew was wrong and constantly changing.
He was dead on arrival, then alive but badly injured. Then not alive, then close to death, then brain-dead but on life support, then conscious and asking for his girlfriend (the real one, then you), then comatose and not expected to make it. Every rumor seemed official yet completely false. It was exhausting.
They kept us in the mess hall forever, but we were back in our cabins forever too, and I can’t remember how or when we got there. They let us have our phones out so parents could text us. We were supposed to pack, but no one did, yet the drawers got emptied and duffels and backpacks stuffed, so we must have gone through the motions at some point. The police and Director Skip asked to speak to us, one by one—you were first, and I tried to go with you, but you shook your head and the counselors wouldn’t let me—but we didn’t know anything yet, so how could we answer their questions? When did they answer ours? I can’t remember. The specifics go in and out of focus.
Here’s what I do remember, vividly, though the sequence is jumbled: How when I moved close to comfort you, you pushed me away. How I was there for you to confide in, but you shut down and shut me out. I was there for you like I always am—always will be—and you made it clear you didn’t want me. You wanted no one but him.
Even once he was dead, you chose Jackson over me. I will never get over that. Never.
I truly thought you would turn to me. That once the shock sank in and your daze turned to distress, you would need me to steady and support you. I wanted to be the one to wipe your tears and calm your grief. To make you see this would all be okay—that maybe, in the end, it would even be good. I would help you remember you didn’t need him. That actually, he was kind of a shit to you. That you still and always had me.
You never gave me the chance. You were so focused on him, you could only think of yourself. You closed me out in a way that dismissed the idea I might have feelings about Jackson’s death too, that anyone might. It was all about you. Your loss. You and him. Even though I’d ended that.
I’d truly thought his death would break the spell and bring you back to me, like Sleeping Beauty in reverse: I would prick your finger and wake you from this trance. Open your eyes to reality. Free you from Jackson’s hold. Undo the poison of his kiss.
But you didn’t want to be free of him. If anything, you got worse. You were too upset to see clearly.
It sent me reeling.
I tried to help you refocus and understand how you might need me. To remind you I was on your side. “I’ll tell them I was with you,” I said. Was it before the first time you spoke to the cops, or after? I think after. You must have already been questioned once and I was waiting my turn. “I’ll say we all snuck out, and you and I went to the cabin together after saying goodnight on the dock. We weren’t there when he dove in. I’ll be your alibi.”
“What?” You’d been calm—distraught but calm, all emotions boxed in—but my words jarred you out of it. Finally, some real feelings seeped out. You got hysterical.
“Go away. I don’t need you to lie for me. I don’t need you to do anything except leave me alone for once. I don’t want a fucking alibi. I want Jackson back. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I wrapped my arms around your shoulders, ready to absorb your anger and tears. You shoved me away.
“Can’t you take a fucking hint and leave me alone for just one second? Jackson is dead. I’ll never see him again.”
“I know. It’s okay,” I said.
“It’s not okay!” you screamed. I tried to hug you again. You pushed. “Get off! God, you’re so obsessed with me.”
I stumbled backward, and understood: It was too late. I was too late. The plan wasn’t going to bring you back to me. I should have found a way to get rid of him sooner.
This was his fault. You and he were the opposite of you and me. We always brought out the best in each other. With you, I was ten times better than I could be on my own. My world and my heart were fuller, bolder, more alive, because of everything you opened up in me. And our friendship had that effect on you too. I knew it did because I’d seen, with Jackson, who you were without me. You needed me. I was certain of that. The only one who couldn’t see it was you.
That’s when I decided, I think. If you’d shown the slightest remorse, the tiniest hint that deep down, you knew you didn’t mean it, were only lashing out because you were sad and confused and embarrassed you’d let him get to your head—regretful you’d ever lied to me—I’d have forgiven you immediately, and let everything go according to plan.
His death could have been a tragic accident. It was supposed to be an accident—a thoughtless dive by a reckless kid, which ended in horrible disaster. No one at fault but the deceased, and who can blame a cocky teenager for not grasping his own mortality? He should have been fine, but these things happen. So sad.
The cops were ready to see it that way, and my plan was to let that stand. But you ruined it. You ruined it by turning on me. Turning me away. By caring more about Jackson—even dead Jackson—than you cared about our friendship.
I’d been willing to do anything to fight for us. You wouldn’t save yourself from him, so I did. I did that for you. But I wasn’t willing to do what you were asking of me next. I wouldn’t let you push me away forever, and just go.
I could never move on from losing you, and I would not let you move on from me. I would find another way to fight for us, and stop you from walking away.
All summer I’d been the Charlotte to your Wilbur, supporting you and rescuing you and helping you shine. Asking for nothing in return but the friendship you had offered. It was enough—more than enough—but now suddenly you had withdrawn it.
You were taking me for granted. You’d forgotten you ever loved me, forgotten I’d helped you survive. You denied that you could need me. You denied I was your friend. So I sat in my web and thought and thought, and realized what I had to do. I began to weave. And the message I spun was: Eat her.
It was easy. Easier than I’d imagined—it only took a few strings. Though in retrospect, the ease makes sense.
Remember when I said it’s always the boyfriend? That’s true, but what’s
even more true is this: It doesn’t matter who did it. In real life, no one investigates these things like they do in the movies—detectives working around the clock for weeks on one case, laser-focused and determined to leave no stone unturned. No police force has time for that.
The cops look for the strongest, most obvious leads, get an idea of what they think happened, and build a case to prove it’s true. Once they narrow in on a top suspect, they find the evidence that supports their theory. Arrest the person and move on. Any true-crime aficionado has seen it play out a hundred times. These small-town cops, you never know what they’ll get in their heads and run with. They only need a believable story, not a perfect one. And when it came to planting stories, I learned from the master.
I didn’t tell them your secrets. I am not that kind of friend. But I told them your lie. You did sneak out that night, and hadn’t told them. That was enough to cast suspicion in your direction. It suggested a story that people could believe in. They filled in the details themselves.
Once the story was set in motion, even you couldn’t stop it. Though honestly, I feel like you barely tried. Maybe deep down you felt guilty about it after all, and decided to pay your penance. Or maybe you stayed in denial about the seriousness of this too, and never believed a jury might convict you.
It’s such a waste. None of this needed to happen. It could have turned out so differently.
I wasn’t angry when I killed Jackson. I was sad—deeply sad, for both of us, that it had come to this. That you were so deluded and entranced. And I wasn’t angry when I told the cops what little they needed to hear. I was resigned. And regretful. But I hoped it was still reversible. That you would come around and give me a sign you were ready for another chance.
Deep down, I guess I’m still waiting for that.
Dr. Rita has helped me see I idealized you sometimes, and still do. That although you were often a good, true friend—a best friend—you could also be selfish. You used me. You weren’t always there for me the way I was there for you. I deserved to be treated better than that.
But I forgive you. I still love you. I don’t know if there will ever be a time when our friendship can be rebuilt, when I’ll write letters I’ll actually send. Call you. Visit. A time when you’ll come back to me—maybe even be grateful for what I did. But I can hope.
It would be different, of course. The end of camp made it inevitable that our friendship would change. But we could be good still. I know we could. And wouldn’t it make a better story that way?
I won’t be going back to Camp Cavanick next summer. I heard they’re closed indefinitely and might get sued by Jackson’s family and other campers’ too, for negligence, wrongful death, and emotional distress. I read that camps have insurance to cover the cost of things like this, but no one will send their precious kids there now anyhow. In a few summers, they can open again under a new name.
In some ways I like that it won’t go on without us. That seems right. In other ways it feels sad, though obviously it’s not the biggest tragedy in all of this. Dina had a summer job scooping ice cream at a fancy shoppe, and they think the place would hire me too. That might be fun. It’s a ways away, though. I don’t have to decide anything at the moment.
For now I’m just adjusting to the trial being over and the reality that life goes on. My brother came home from college this week (he leaves again tomorrow), and Thanksgiving was good. I helped Peter bake the pies (he’s extraordinary at that too, especially chocolate pecan and pear ginger), and Adele didn’t invite as many misfits as she usually does, I think to keep me from feeling gawked at. My notoriety as your friend peaked again after I testified, but Dina and Ian have been protective, and we think it will die down soon.
Adele and Peter came into my room the other night and sat on the edge of my bed like I’m five years old and still need tucking in. “We just wanted you to know how proud of you we are,” Adele said. She smoothed the covers, and Peter nodded.
“We know nothing about this has been easy or fun, and we have nothing but admiration for the way you’ve handled it,” he said. “You’re amazing.”
That was nice. My parents can be annoying and clueless, but they always have my back, and I know I’m lucky that way. I do appreciate them, even if it’s my job to not show it. If I had parents like yours, things would be a lot harder. I recognize my privilege, as Dina likes to say.
Anyway. I’ve got to text Dina back to let them know what time I’m coming over. We might go to the mall to start holiday shopping, but more likely we’ll just hang at their place and watch movies and talk. I like it there. Their dad makes great popcorn.
But I want you to know you still haven’t been replaced. You never will be, okay? I’ll always miss you. I’ll never forget.
And I will never forgive Jackson for what he did to us. Never. Some people may think justice has been served, but there’s no justice in all this. Real justice would be you and me, together again, like the way things were before him.
But that’s impossible. So here we are.
Maybe that’s the last rule of crime: You Can Never Go Back, So Move Forward.
I hope moving forward brings you back to me, eventually.
I’ll still be here.
You’re still my best friend.
I would do anything for you.
For us.
Anything.
Love,
Kayla
Acknowledgments
Much love to my editor, Rosemary Brosnan, for the ways she supports, shapes, challenges, and champions me as a writer. Thank you to everyone at HarperCollins who lends their time and talents to my books, including Courtney Stevenson, Molly Fehr, Liz Byer, Caitlin Lonning, Sabrina Aballe, Suzanne Murphy, and the marketing, sales, and subrights teams. Thanks to Brenna Franzitta for her careful eye, and Hokyoung Kim for the gorgeous cover art. Thank you to my agent, Michael Bourret, for balancing it all with grace and aplomb.
I’m grateful to the friends (writer and non) who have shared their secrets and listened to mine. Extra hugs to Lauren Strasnick, who gave me key feedback on so many things, including an early draft of this book. Thank you Emily X.R. Pan, Terra Elan McVoy, Robin Wasserman, Amy Jo Burns, Alex Arnold, Corey Ann Haydu, Claire Legrand, Terry J. Benton, David Levithan, Deb Caletti, Alison Cherry, Kit Frick, Maxine Kaplan, Bree Barton, Sarah Nicole Smetana, Tiff Liao, and Christa Desir, for crucial conversations along the way.
A special shout-out to the summer friends who burned candles with me on the dock; exchanged letters, ideas, and mixtapes; and saw and shaped who I am. Ongoing love to Andy, Max, Sulaiman, Abby, Giles, Nora, Jess, and Jo. A wink of thanks to Lainie, Jascha, Nitin, Phil, and others whose names I borrowed for this story.
Love and thanks to Nono, writer of letters; Nini, keeper of secrets; and Mama, Ati, Jeremy, Erika, Anna, Sophia, Jeff, and Arugula. How lucky I am to have you.
About the Author
Photo credit Kim Indresano
ANICA MROSE RISSI is the author of Always Forever Maybe and several books for younger readers. Her essays have been published by the Writer and the New York Times, and she plays fiddle in and writes lyrics for the band Owen Lake and the Tragic Loves. Anica grew up on an island off the coast of Maine and spent many years in New York City, where she worked as a cheesemonger and book editor. She currently lives in Princeton, New Jersey, with her very good dog, Arugula. Visit her online at www.anicarissi.com.
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Books by Anica Mrose Rissi
Always Forever Maybe
Nobody Knows But You
Hide and Don’t Seek
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Copyright
Quill Tree Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
NOBODY KNOWS BUT YOU. Copyright © 2020 by Anica Mrose Rissi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2020 by Hokyoung Kim
Cover design by Molly Fehr
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020933535
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-268533-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-268531-5
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2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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