This is Our Story

by Ashley Elston

  “We’ll stand by you. We’ll use every resource available to make sure you don’t go to jail,” another one of the dads adds.

  “My son wouldn’t have done this,” one of the moms says.

  The woman next to her spins around. “And mine would?”

  They’re turning on each other.

  “Maybe we should just get our own lawyers,” one dad asks. “Maybe we’re better off individually.”

  “Oh, so you can make a deal on the side? Have your boy go in alone and rat the others out?”

  “The lawyers told us we’re better off if we stick together. If the police can’t pin this on one of them, it’s not likely they can pin it on any of them,” another dad says.

  The four of us sit on the couch, side by side, as a united front.

  These are the same arguments we made to each other in the parking lot of that abandoned store. These are the same things we fight about. It didn’t change anything then and it doesn’t now.

  We have no choice.

  We made a pact in those woods.

  Either we all get out of this or none of us does.

  We all know the consequences.

  It’s as simple as that.

  OCTOBER 2, 10:03 P.M.

  GRANT: Battle of the Paddle starts at 5. I can pick you up at 4

  KATE: oh no! I totally forgot! I have to take pics at the science bowl. I signed up for it weeks ago. Can I meet you at the party when I’m done?

  GRANT: Yeah that’s fine

  KATE: Sorry I won’t see you play

  GRANT: It’s cool

  Thank God for Fridays during football season. Once the pep rally is over, Reagan and I will only have about two hours before we leave for work. It’s a joke, really.

  Reagan and Mignon sit on the bench against one wall of the gym while I plop down next to Alexis on the floor in front of them. Reagan nudges me with her knee, and when I look back at her, she asks me in a quiet voice if I’m okay. She’s asked me this four times already this morning. Yesterday was hard on me and I can’t exactly hide my bloodshot eyes or the dark circles under them, but I nod, giving her a tight smile.

  We’re off to the side, ready to document, photograph, and basically ensure full coverage of the pep rally for the newspaper, website, and yearbook. The other two photographers are stationed on the other side of the room.

  I check my camera settings while we wait. Our football team is good. Maybe even great. We make the playoffs every year and most times win state. Our cheerleaders perform in Orlando on ESPN, and they had to build a new glass case for the trophies the dance line wins. So every pep rally is a show, especially this one since it falls on Halloween.

  But I can’t get into it this morning.

  Mignon leans closer and says, “So Alexis and I want to do a piece for the newspaper on the River Point Boys, and we need some pics of them to go with it. Maybe after the pep rally we can pull them aside and you can take them?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to them,” I say. And I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. I’m having a hard time getting over the crime scene visit.

  Her face scrunches up. “So don’t talk. Just take a few pics.”

  Reagan leans in close. “What are you going to ask them?”

  “I just have a few ‘get to know you’ kind of questions,” Mignon says.

  Reagan leans back. “Boring. Ask them who pulled the trigger.”

  “Have you even asked them for the interview?” I ask.

  Alexis smiles. “No. We’re going for the ambush approach. That’s why we need you ready.”

  This is a bad idea on so many levels, but I find myself warming to the idea of witnessing this confrontation. What if she did ask them who pulled the trigger? If they were caught off guard, would their facial expressions give something away?

  As soon as that thought enters my head, the four of them appear in front of me, shoulder to shoulder, as they search for a place to sit. Minus the mandatory blazers with the crest on the pocket, they are still dressed as they would be for St. Bart’s. And despite how they seemed to be falling apart in the parking lot next to Pat’s, they are a united front here at school. If I hadn’t witnessed them fighting, I would’ve never known there was a problem between them.

  Just like on the first day they arrived and the crowd parted for them in the hall, a space opens up on the bleachers, front and center. But the difference is, people aren’t making room in an attempt to avoid them. In the week they’ve been here, they’ve become something close to living legends. The horror of what they are accused of has morphed into this crazy fascination with them.

  “I’ll come with you on the ambush, but there’s no way they’re going to talk to you,” I say to Mignon.

  Alexis leans forward. “They will. We always get our story.”

  The gym goes dark for a few seconds, and screams and cheers echo through the cavernous space. I can feel Alexis move past me as she gets up to film the dance line’s opening. A black light pops on overhead and there are thirty girls dressed in all black, with glow-in-the-dark stripes outlining their bodies, bent at odd angles. The blast of music makes us all jump, and within moments they start their routine. In keeping with the Halloween theme, they look more like skeletons than girls, and it’s amazing to see their kicks and flips in perfect synchronization in the dark gym. Girls are flying through the air and tumbling across the room, and you can’t help but be in awe of these performances. I turn away from the show and try to make out the four boys in the front row. They are easy to spot, since their white dress shirts are glowing in the black light, illuminating each of their faces.

  Shep and John Michael are spellbound by the show, but Henry and Logan have their heads bent in deep conversation. I analyze their every movement, look, and gesture just like I do when watching their videos.

  I feel like I know them. Sitting at that desk at work, their voices coming through the headphones with everything else blocked away, I get sucked into their world.

  So now, here in the gym, I can tell Logan is saying something Henry doesn’t like, because Henry’s knee is bouncing, just like it did in the video.

  It’s easy to see what no one else does.

  Studying them, I try to think about which one of them stood thirty yards away from Grant early that Sunday morning. Was the safety off? Did his finger slip and hit the trigger? Was he so drunk that he was waving his gun around in the air, being stupid? Or was it more than that?

  The routine ends to massive applause, and now that the overhead lights are on, I move through the gym, taking random candids of students while Julianna, the cheer captain, introduces the football team. When my camera lands on Shep, he’s staring right at me. I’m zoomed in so close, I actually jump back, startled by the directness of his stare. I pull the camera away from my face and study him without the camera between us. He doesn’t look away, even though this is extremely awkward. Instead, he nods his head toward the far side of the gym. I glance back in that general direction, trying to figure out what he’s gesturing to, but all that’s back there is a door that leads to the hallway.

  I peek back at Shep and he nods in that direction again, then points to his watch and holds up both hands with his fingers spread wide.

  What does that mean? Does he want me to meet him there? In ten minutes? At ten o’clock?

  What could he possibly have to say to me?

  As much as I want to blow him off like I did yesterday, that’s the one thing that’s been driving me nuts—wondering what he wanted to talk about.

  I turn away and sit down with my friends, trying hard not to panic. This could go spectacularly wrong…but what if I find out something that helps Grant’s case?

  I have to risk it.

  Julianna jogs up to my side. “We’re ready.” And then she looks at me closer. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  A hand flies to my cheek as if I could actually feel the change in color. “I’m fine.” I follow her to the center of the gym
, where the captain of the football team is standing with Coach Ford, who retired a few years ago. They are presenting him with a plaque for all his years of service to our school. I was so distracted by Shep I completely forgot I was supposed to grab this picture. I rush up and snap a few shots.

  As soon as the pep rally is over, Mignon and Alexis make a beeline for the River Point Boys. Alexis glances back at me, urging me to follow them.

  By the time I reach them, Alexis has a small handheld recorder thrust in front of them, and Mignon is asking them questions. All four boys stare at them for a few seconds, then slowly turn in my direction. All of them except Shep glare at my camera before looking at my face. It’s hard not to flinch.

  Henry shakes his head, like he’s disgusted by all three of us, before turning to walk away. Logan follows right behind him, then John Michael. Shep is the last to leave.

  My friends chase them halfway across the gym before finally giving up.

  Everyone files out of the gym, headed back to their homerooms, the River Point Boys no exception. I track their progress across the room, and just before they leave, Shep looks back at me. His eyes flicker to the same door he motioned to earlier, then he moves out of sight.

  TRANSCRIPT OF THE OCTOBER 5 INTERROGATION OF HENRY CARLISLE BY DETECTIVE MILLER, WITH BODY LANGUAGE COMMENTARY BY KATE MARINO

  DET. MILLER: Seems like you’ve been able to get out of trouble easily in the past, but today is going to be different.

  HENRY: There’s no trouble for me to get out of. I didn’t do anything, Officer.

  KATE: Henry is on the stool, leaning back against the counter. He would look relaxed if it weren’t for that leg that keeps bouncing.

  DET. MILLER: It’s Detective.

  HENRY: So sorry…Detective.

  DET. MILLER: So what’s going to happen if Daddy can’t get you out of trouble this time?

  HENRY: Like I said, I didn’t do anything wrong.

  KATE: Henry runs his hand through his hair. It’s sticking up all over the place.

  DET. MILLER: Something else interesting happened last night. A girl was brought into the ER just after midnight. She was unconscious. Took something, but her friends didn’t know what it was. They said she got it from you. That was one helluva party. Did John Michael hook you up with something? I hear he’s got everything you need out there.

  KATE: Henry shrugs, knee still bouncing.

  DET. MILLER: What did you give her?

  HENRY: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  KATE: He’s trying to come off cocky, but it falls flat.

  DET. MILLER: I can arrest you for that alone and screw up your entire future. I bet you’d lose that shit-eating grin then.

  HENRY: I guess you can try.

  KATE: Henry is sweating. If I can see it, the detective must see it.

  DET. MILLER: I spoke to the girl’s friend who brought her in. She was very eager to tell me about the party. Said there was fighting. Lots of fighting. She said your little group is falling apart. What do you think she means by that?

  HENRY: I think it means she was drunk and doesn’t know what in the hell she’s talking about.

  KATE: Henry runs his hands over his forehead, then across his mouth.

  DET. MILLER: So is that what you have to do to get girls? Get them high? Does it make it easier for you that way?

  KATE: Henry shakes his head. Then rolls his eyes.

  HENRY: No. I get plenty of girls on my own.

  KATE: Henry’s hands are clenched around the edge of the counter. His face is red and a vein in his forehead is throbbing.

  DET. MILLER: Maybe you were high this morning? Maybe when you’re out of your gourd like that, poor Grant looks like a beautiful ten-point buck? Were you the one using the Remington?

  KATE: Henry tucks his lips between his teeth and shakes his head back and forth.

  DET. MILLER: Or are you covering for one of them? When friends turn into secret-keepers, they don’t stay friends long.

  UNKNOWN VOICE: Interview is over. Parents want a lawyer present.

  KATE: Henry pops up from the stool and disappears from the screen.

  OCTOBER 3, 11:17 P.M.

  KATE: Is it crazy that I’m kind of nervous about seeing you tomorrow?

  GRANT: Is it crazy that I’m considering going to that science bowl so I can see you sooner?

  It’s been fifty minutes since Shep signaled me in the gym. We’re both in English class, listening to Mr. Stevens drone on and on about the importance of MLA format, and Shep hasn’t looked at me once. I’m starting to believe I imagined the entire thing.

  A shrill ping that always precedes an announcement from the office pierces through the room and we all cringe.

  “Mr. Stevens, please send Shepherd Moore to the office.”

  It’s ten minutes to ten.

  Shep started getting his books together before his name was announced, like he knew they were calling for him. Mr. Stevens motions for Shep to leave and he heads to the door. Just before he exits the room, he throws a quick glance in my direction.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  He wants me to meet him at ten o’clock. I didn’t imagine it.

  The second hand of the clock above the whiteboard moves along at a swift pace while I try to decide what to do. I know Mr. Stone will be so disappointed in me if I meet Shep, with good reason, but my curiosity is winning out.

  With a minute to go, I slowly raise my hand.

  “Yes, Miss Marino?” Mr. Stevens asks.

  “May I be excused? I forgot I’m supposed to take pictures for the debate team.” And now I’m lying. The debate team is taking pictures, but Miranda is handling it, since she’s got study hall this hour.

  Mr. Stevens lets out a deep huff. “You know I don’t like you missing class for stuff like this.”

  I nod. “I know. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m lying to my teacher. I’m going to meet one of the suspects in a case my boss is prosecuting. I’m going to be in a huge pile of trouble if I get caught.

  I head to the gym, texting Reagan while I walk.

  FYI—I’m meeting Shep Moore in the back hallway behind the gym.

  At least someone will know where I am and who I’m with.

  God, I’m acting like he’s going to kill me and dump my body in some remote location.

  My footsteps echo across the empty room, and my pulse starts to race the closer I get to the back door.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  With my hand on the door’s bar, I take a deep breath before I push my way through.

  Shep is waiting there, exactly like I knew he would be. We watch each other a moment, the silence heavy between us.

  His forehead scrunches as he stares at me; then he lifts his phone, tapping the screen. My paranoid brain rushes to the first possibility—he’s taking a video. I start to back away. I can’t get caught here with him, like this. I can’t be on some recording that will be produced later and get me in a world of trouble.

  And then my phone buzzes in my back pocket, scaring me to death and making me jump. It’s probably Reagan texting me back. I pull it out and my heart drops. The notification on the front screen reads:

  Grant Perkins now

  iMessage

  Slide to reply

  Words I’ve prayed to see but never thought were possible flash in front of me. How is this happening? This can’t have come from Grant’s phone. Grant’s phone is locked up in Stone’s desk at work. I’ve seen it. I’ve been trying to get my hands on it for two days. My hand shakes when I swipe the message open.

  This is Shep. You’ve been talking to me this entire time, not Grant.

  I look at Shep. This can’t be possible. There’s no way this is possible.

  My eyes drop back to my phone. I read the message again before my eyes move to the previous message above it: I’m sorry. Please give me a chance to explain. Grant’s
last message to me.

  Not Grant.

  Shep.

  My eyes go to his once more and the truth is there.

  No.

  This is all wrong.

  This is not happening.

  I turn back to the door, pulling it open so roughly it bangs against the wall. I feel gutted. For a second, I thought it was possible Grant wasn’t really gone. There had been some big mistake. He was somewhere texting me. Somewhere alive.

  The tears roll down my face as I sprint through the gym, away from Shep.

  I can’t even process what he just told me. How could I have been talking to him this whole time and not have known? Everything in my brain rejects this. I reject this.

  I think back to when I first met Grant. I was at the library studying. Shep was with him. They were sitting down the table from me, being loud, disturbing everyone around us.

  I asked them to be quiet. Neither one of them would have noticed me if I hadn’t spoken to them first. Grant scooted down until he was right in front of me, and Shep followed along. We all talked for a while, more quietly than before. I knew who they were, had heard their names, but I’d never seen them in person or spoken to any of the boys from St. Bart’s.

  Grant carried the conversation that day at the library, and just like everyone has said—he was utterly charming to be around. Funny and sarcastic and telling stories that had me blushing, Shep was quieter, listening and watching more than talking. When I was just about to leave, Grant grabbed my phone, and I remember my heart was racing when he added his number to my contacts. He even looked at Shep and laughed, saying, “I guess I’ll give her yours, too.” He sent a text to both of their phones, from mine, to make sure they had my number, too.

  They left shortly after and I was giddy. Flying.

  When Grant texted me later that night, I was beyond excited. Shep texted me a few days later, but it was clear he was just looking for a hookup.

  I hear footsteps behind me. “Wait, Kate! Please. Let me explain.” I ignore him and keep running. I make it to the far side of the gym before Shep catches up with me. I whirl around and hold out my hand. He stops.