This is Our Story

by Ashley Elston

  I back out of my spot and notice Pat checking on me, making sure I leave. I wouldn’t put it past him to call Mom and tell on me if he thought I was up to something I shouldn’t be. I turn out of the parking lot but stop once I’m hidden behind some overgrown azalea bushes. Grabbing my camera, I fire off several quick shots of the group. Henry is gesturing wildly while Logan rocks back and forth on his heels, like he’s just waiting for the second they’re all going to tear into it. John Michael hasn’t moved an inch. But Shep is the one who surprises me. From this angle, I get an unobstructed view of his face. And he looks pissed. Very pissed.

  One more shot, zoomed in close.

  I study them. Study their body language. From a distance, they are four boys in a tight circle, but looking closer, it’s easy to see the divide. Shep and John Michael are on one side and Logan and Henry are on the other.

  The group is split right down the middle.

  I finally pull away and Mr. Stone’s words bounce around in my mind. The trick now is going to be figuring out where the weak link in that group is. If one of them breaks, I think the whole group will fall apart. If that happens, we may have a chance.

  So which side has the weak link?

  • • •

  Mom and Mr. Stone are thrilled to see me bearing food when I get back to the office. Mom clears off a corner of his desk and I unload the bag with Pat’s fried fish.

  “Who wants a drink from the vending machine?” Mom asks as she reaches for her purse.

  Mr. Stone holds up an enormous water bottle. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “I’d like a Coke, Mom.”

  She leaves, and I skim the top of Mr. Stone’s desk. The tall pile of files, the box with Grant’s personal belongings, and pictures of the boys litter the area. My mind wanders to Grant. Just like it does every day. I wonder who else is fighting for him. Who is going to make sure justice is carried out for him? Right now the focus is on the River Point Boys and whether or not a case can be made against them. When you watch the news, Grant’s name is hardly mentioned. The utter fascination is with the four boys who walked away from that hunt.

  “I saw the River Point Boys while I was getting food from Pat.” I’m not sure what makes me blurt this out.

  Mr. Stone pauses, a piece of fish midway to his mouth. “They were there getting food?”

  “No. They were across the parking lot. They were just there.”

  His forehead scrunches up. “What were they doing?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Looks like they meet there just to talk.” I’m very conscious about how I answer him. I really don’t want to give him anything but cold facts, without adding in my personal feelings or opinions, but I want him to understand how weird they were acting.

  Mr. Stone leans back in his chair. “That’s interesting.”

  I glance at the door, making sure Mom isn’t about to walk back in. She wouldn’t want me involved with this case outside of the office. “And Pat said they’ve been meeting out there almost every evening.”

  That just sort of hangs in the air a minute. Finally, Mr. Stone says, “Very interesting.”

  We eat in silence another minute or so before he says, “Let me know if you see anything else that seems…odd.”

  I nod and am about to ask if he wants me to actively search them out, but Mom comes back in the room.

  Mr. Stone digs into his food. We’re just about done eating when he says with a smile, “Kate, this was a wonderful treat. Pat’s food is some of my favorite. Feel free to surprise us with it anytime you wish.”

  I’m pretty sure I just got his permission to spy on the River Point Boys.

  Some of us are starting to panic.

  Some of us are a little too cocky.

  Some of us are as clueless as the police.

  But we are all paranoid. No one wants to use his phone or meet at each other’s houses when we need to talk.

  So with a single text message that lists a time, we all know to meet here, in the middle of nowhere.

  Today’s meeting is because one of our dads wants us to take a lie detector test.

  It can be private, no one needs to know the results, he said.

  In case things go wrong in the grand jury, there’s no reason for all of the boys to get in trouble, he added.

  Every one of us acts like he’s for it, because really, the only one who would be against it is the shooter, right?

  But then other events of the night find their way into the conversation—the drugs, the fights, the missing money—and we know silence is our best weapon.

  We’re fighting about the same things over and over. It doesn’t change the fact that one of us going down would be as bad as all of us going down.

  We all look at each other, each of us trying to figure out who it is. Only one of us knows the truth.

  And I’m going to make sure it stays that way.

  SEPTEMBER 15, 3:05 P.M.

  GRANT: What’s up?

  KATE: I’m buried under paper in the filing room. I could die up here and it would be days before anyone found me.

  GRANT: Are you already at work?

  KATE: Yeah, I have a work pass. But don’t be jealous. Days like this I’d rather be in school than here.

  Reagan and I walk down the hall toward science lab. “Okay, so Halloween is in three days and I’m still not sure about our costumes,” she says.

  “Are you going to tell me what we’re going to be yet?”

  Halloween is Reagan’s thing. Every year since eighth grade, she’s come up with costumes for us. She likes it to be a surprise, but most years she’s given in and told me what we’re going as weeks before Halloween. Reagan is being more secretive than normal this year.

  She flings her arms up in the air, and a swish of iridescent fabric billows around her. “I feel like we have to kill it this year. I mean, it’s senior year. I had an idea but I don’t know now. I think it might be boring. I’m not sure I can do boring.”

  “You can tell me what it is and I can give you my opinion,” I say in a singsong voice as we push through the double doors and drop our bags on the table.

  “Maybe I can put glitter in the blood,” she says, almost to herself.

  I turn toward her. “There’s blood?”

  She looks at me, scrunching her face up. “No,” she says. “I’m changing it.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Whatever. You’re the expert. I’ll just wait until you tell me what to put on.”

  Julianna walks through the door a few minutes later and I motion for her to stop by our table.

  Reagan and I both say, “Hey.”

  She smiles at us. “Hey, what’s up?”

  I pull out my phone. “We need to schedule a time for the group cheer pics for the yearbook. Can y’all do next Wednesday during lunch?”

  Julianna is the head cheerleader and it’s easier to make plans with her than it is to try to track down the cheer sponsor.

  “Yeah, that should be fine. I’ll tell everyone to bring their uniforms and we’ll be ready during the second half of lunch.”

  “Okay, good.” We both add it to the calendars in our phones; then I ask, “Hey, how’s Bree?”

  Julianna tilts her head to the side and frowns. “I don’t know. I tried calling her but it goes straight to voice mail. I heard her parents took her to the ER when she had a panic attack,” she says in a whisper.

  Reagan asks, “Do you know the other two girls in that picture?”

  Julianna shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, I know who they are, but I don’t know them. They came to St. Bart’s after I left. All three of them are seniors, but Bree is gone, one is getting homeschooled now, and the other one is still there.” She scrolls through her phone and shows us a post from a guy at St. Bart’s. “St. Bart’s thinks that picture was part of the prank war, so they just announced this year’s Battle was the last one because things have gotten so bad. It’s a shame. The game was so fun to watch.”

  R
eagan’s face scrunches like she’s smelling something bad. “Ew. Who would do that for a stupid prank war? It’s sick.”

  “So they think it was a junior who did it?” I ask.

  Julianna shrugs. “I think so. The seniors were pretty hard on them this year, so the school thinks the juniors took that picture to retaliate.”

  She starts to walk to her table in the back but stops and says, “The last time I saw Grant Perkins was at that game. Weird to think he’s gone.”

  My hands start to shake, so I press them together in my lap. That was the last time I saw him, too. That’s where I took the picture of him, walking off the field with that girl. We had planned to meet later that night at the party after I got done taking pics at the science bowl. But I got Miranda, another photographer, to cover for me so I could go to the game.

  “Did you know him pretty well?” Reagan asks.

  “Yeah, I went through elementary and middle school with him. He was sort of a screwup, you know. Always getting in trouble and clowning around, but no matter what he did…you still loved him.” She stares off into space, lost in her memories. “He was just so fun to be around. He had a weird sense of humor for sure, but he was so full of life it was impossible not to be completely charmed by him.”

  I want to ask her questions about him. I want to know everything. Anything. But my throat is locked up.

  Julianna smiles. It looks a little sad. “And Grant made the winning touchdown for the seniors.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, not trying to be all weird about the guy who died,” she says just before slipping away from our table.

  Reagan looks at me and I can tell she knows I’m about to lose it. “Your eyes look funny. Are you okay?”

  I shrug. “I’m fine.”

  She raises one eyebrow and I know she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push.

  Reagan knew Grant and I had been texting, but she didn’t know just how much. Or that I had completely fallen for him. She knows I was upset when I heard the news—she even went to the funeral with me, and there was no hiding the tears from her. There were so many people there we had to wedge ourselves somewhere in the very back, and we never even got close to Grant—thank God—or his family, or the River Point Boys, although I heard they were all there.

  Everyone was there.

  It’s not like I set out to hide my real feelings for Grant from her, or from our other friends. Truthfully, I thought Grant would get tired of talking to me and move on to someone else, so the fewer people to witness that embarrassment, the better.

  “It really sucks what happened to those girls. Freaking St. Bart’s. I bet if they find out who did it, they won’t get in any trouble just because of who their daddies are,” she says.

  My hands curl into such tight fists I can feel my nails digging into my palms. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s probably right.

  • • •

  I drop my bag just inside the office and Mom jumps like she’s being shot at.

  Her hand flies to her chest and she says, “Good grief, Kate. Are you trying to put me in an early grave?”

  I laugh and pull her in for a hug. Mom and I are not touchy-feely people, but it’s been a hard day and I’m craving some human contact.

  “I’m not sure I can fuss at you now that you’ve hugged me so tight,” Mom says.

  I pull back and look at her. “You can’t fuss at me at all, and you know it.”

  She shakes her head and nods toward the door. Mr. Stone is at lunch, as he usually is when I first get here. She closes the office door, gestures for me to sit in the chair next to her desk, and plops a legal-size printout in front of me.

  “This is the list of contacts from Grant Perkins’s phone.”

  My stomach bottoms out. My eyes focus on the words, and I realize the typed names in the first columns are the nicknames from Grant’s phone. The second column is the numbers associated with those nicknames. And halfway down, the third column is filled in with handwritten names. Those must be the real names matched up to the nicknames.

  I scan the numbers quickly until I find mine. It’s the last one labeled with a real name, and the nickname beside it is just three letters: FWS.

  FWS?

  What does that stand for? My initials are KGM: Kathleen Grace Marino. Not even close.

  “I know you said you’d met Grant, but I was still a little surprised to see your number listed here. And why is it listed under FWS? What does that mean?”

  I can’t tear my eyes from the paper. “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “Don’t know what? Why you’re under those initials? Or why you were in contact with him before he died? Mr. Stone asked you if you knew any of these boys, but you made it sound like they were practically strangers.”

  I shake my head and force myself to look at Mom. “I met him at the library a few weeks before he…died. We talked. He asked for my number.”

  Mom leans back in her chair. “Did you go out with him?”

  Shaking my head, I answer, “No.” And that’s the truth. “I’ve only seen him in person one time, at the library. We just texted.” I wait a beat before I ask. “Have you seen his phone? Read his messages?”

  Heat blooms across my cheeks. I’ll be mortified if Mom or Mr. Stone reads the messages. It’s not like what we talked about was bad…it was just personal. Talking to him was easier than it should have been.

  “No, I haven’t seen the phone yet. Mr. Stone wants me to go through and match the contacts with real names first. Imagine my surprise when I’m working down this list and run across your number.”

  I sink down in my seat. “Sorry. I should have told you.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “Is this going to cause a problem? I mean, can Stone get in trouble if I was texting Grant before he died?”

  “No. We can’t help that and it’s not bad the victim was a friend of yours. I shouldn’t be surprised—from the number of contacts in his phone, it seems like he was texting or talking to half this town.”

  For some reason, that comment hits me right in the gut.

  “It would look bad if you had been at that party the night before he was shot or if you are texting or communicating or hanging out with the other four boys now. You weren’t at the party, were you?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “And you’re not texting or hanging out with those other boys, are you?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  Mom looks at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you okay with all of this? If he was your friend, maybe you shouldn’t be involved.”

  I swallow hard. “Mom, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m glad I can help.”

  She watches me closely and I struggle to look normal, like this is no big deal, even though I’m crumbling inside. “If I find that this is too much for you, I’ll pull you off immediately, no matter how much Mr. Stone needs you.”

  I take a deep breath in and nod.

  She picks up the printout and mumbles, “What a mess this case is turning into.”

  • • •

  I told myself I wasn’t coming back. But Pat’s words have been like a tiny breeze that drifts in and out of my consciousness. They’ve been meeting out here almost every night.

  I’m parked across the street, my car hidden behind an abandoned semitruck. The parking lot is full in front of Pat’s, but the other side is empty. Glancing at the clock, I promise myself that if they don’t show in the next ten minutes, I’m leaving.

  Leaning back against the headrest, I tick through the case against the River Point Boys. Time is running out. So far, we’ve got next to nothing on any of them. There’s the Remington, but everyone’s prints were found on it, including Grant’s. Someone used that gun, but none of them are talking. All four boys admit to running up to Grant after they heard the shot. They all came from different directions, and when questioned as to where exactly they had been hunting, they all named a different part of the property. They had all been drinki
ng and some of them had been smoking pot, but if anything, that helps them with the whole I don’t remember, Officer thing they have going on. Mr. Stone should get the coroner’s report tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully, maybe, that will show us something the police missed.

  Six more minutes. Six more minutes and then I’m leaving.

  I scroll through my phone, but instead of looking at the messages from Grant, I pull up the ones from Shep. He’d texted me a couple of times and he seemed funny and nice, but then things went downhill. Fast.

  SHEP: What’s up

  ME: trying to decide which pics to turn in for this grant I’m trying to get for college

  SHEP: What are the pics of

  ME: Regular people but trying to make them look not regular

  SHEP: I have an excellent eye. Send me some pics and I’ll tell you which one is the best

  ME: You really want to see the pics I took?

  SHEP: Well I’d really rather see pics of you

  ME: Of me?

  SHEP: Yes u. Show me what you look like right now

  SHEP: But take your shirt off first

  ME: Now you’re getting creepy

  SHEP: I wont show anyone else. Promise.

  ME: You’re disgusting

  SHEP: Just one pic. It’s no big deal

  And that’s when I took a picture of my hand flipping him off, telling him this was the only picture he was ever going to get of me.

  Thankfully, except for the laughing emoji, he didn’t text again.

  I throw the phone on the seat of the car, my blood boiling just like it was when I first got those messages.

  One more minute. I crank the car, ready to give up, when a black Tahoe pulls into the far lot. Logan pulls it in a tight circle until the front of the car is facing the street. I duck down in my seat, hoping he doesn’t spot me. A tiny stream of smoke filters out of the driver’s window.