by Sara Kocek
The silence in the room seemed to crackle as Mr. Mancuzzi and I digested the image of Grace standing on the track—the light of the train gliding toward her—while Olive watched. The cyclone in my stomach was gone. All I could feel was numb horror.
“What did you do next?” I asked.
Olive shivered. “I ran.”
“In the woods?”
She nodded. “I was screaming at first, but nobody heard me because the train was still going. Once it stopped, I realized I should hide. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I was crying pretty hard.”
She was crying now too. Thick tears crept from the corners of her eyes and clung to her cheekbones before darting down her face. “I could see my purple jacket hanging off the edge of the track,” she went on. “And I knew they would think it was me because both of us were blond and the same height. That’s when I got the idea to write the suicide note.”
“But the note was typed,” said Mr. Mancuzzi, holding up a copy of the letter I’d plastered all over school.
“There was another note.” Olive swiped at her cheeks. “A handwritten one.”
The image of Mrs. Barton floated into my mind, and I recalled the crumpled note she’d shown me at her house—the one that looked like it was written in a hurry on the bumpy surface of a rock. The one with my name scrawled all over the back.
“I tore a page out of my notebook and wrote something on the back,” said Olive, cringing at the memory. “I couldn’t even see what I was writing. It was too dark. I took off my glasses and put them on a rock with the note pinned underneath, so the police would find it. And then I went home.”
“Home?” Mr. Mancuzzi’s eyebrows were furrowed. “But how—”
“The tool shed,” I whispered, a puzzle piece clicking into place. “That’s where you went, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
Mr. Mancuzzi shot me a look as though to say, Stay out of this. Then he turned back to Olive. “You’ve been hiding out all week in a tool shed?”
“Mostly.” She glanced over at me, but neither of us mentioned that she had sneaked into the school and pulled the fire alarm.
“If you were living in a tool shed, how did you type this note?” He held up the photocopied suicide letter again.
“By sneaking into my parents’ house,” she said. “I had to get my other pair of glasses. And food, obviously. And send a few texts. I used my dad’s phone while he was in the shower.”
Suddenly it hit me. The cookbook gal. Reyna’s father had written that.
But Mr. Mancuzzi still looked baffled. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “Why would you fake your own death? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because that’s what Grace wanted.” There was a note of desperation in Olive’s voice. “I think that’s what she meant when she said she was doing it for me. That people would listen if they thought I was dead.”
“Listen to what?”
Olive opened her mouth to answer, but she didn’t have to. I knew what she was going to say. And to my surprise, I understood completely.
“To the truth about why Grace was depressed,” I said. “To the reason she gave up.”
The hard lines on Olive’s face softened. Then she reached over and plucked the typed suicide note straight out of Mr. Mancuzzi’s hands. “In a way, this letter was true,” she said. “Only for Grace, not me.”
“She had a teacher like Mr. Murphy,” I added, recalling the printed-out conversations I’d pored over in the bathroom.
Olive nodded. “Total homophobe. Made fun of gay kids just so her students would think she was funny. Grace tried to kill herself twice that year.”
“That’s what this is all about? Something seemed to click into place for Mr. Mancuzzi. “Revenge on Mr. Murphy?”
Olive looked up and met his eye. “As long as teachers are allowed to say whatever they want, people like Grace are going to kill themselves.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Mr. Mancuzzi sighed and looked again at the letter. “I’m afraid your word won’t hold much weight now that you’re alive.”
Olive’s cheeks flushed. “So I have to get killed to matter? That’s not fair.”
“Nobody killed anybody,” said Mr. Mancuzzi. “Let’s just be clear about that. The only murder here is self-murder.”
“You’re murdering me,” she whispered. “As we speak.”
Mr. Mancuzzi pressed his fingertips together. “You would need cold, hard evidence to back up an accusation like this against a teacher. A prank isn’t enough.”
“Prank.” Olive stared at him. “You think this was a prank?”
“What do you call that?” He gestured at the photocopied letter in Candace’s hand. “Sneaking into the school? Postering the walls? It’s a prank if I’ve ever seen one.”
Olive’s nostrils flared.
“How’d you break in?” Mr. Mancuzzi leaned forward. “Did you steal a key?”
“No.”
“Were you acting alone?”
“I thought I was.”
“You thought?”
Olive glanced over and locked eyes with me. “Now I know I had help.”
At the periphery of my vision, a security guard was crossing the room, moving past me like a shadow. He reached Mr. Mancuzzi’s desk and handed him a slip of paper.
“I’m sorry,” Olive croaked at me. Her face looked small and pinched.
“I am too,” I whispered.
“Are you angry with me?”
I shook my head, coming to a decision. I was done being angry. Done hating Lucy. Done blaming the world for taking my mom. And most of all, done being a coward. “I deserved it,” I told her. “I deserved everything you wrote. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly Mr. Mancuzzi rose to his feet and crumpled the piece of paper in his fist. “Not in my school, they won’t,” he told the security guard. “No press allowed.”
“Press?” Olive’s eyes narrowed.
“Abby’s dad,” I mouthed.
“Don’t go anywhere—either of you.” Mr. Mancuzzi turned and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’ll be right back.” The security guard trailed after him out the door, and it clicked shut behind them, leaving us alone.
I didn’t waste any time.
“Olive, we have evidence,” I said. “We have cold, hard proof. We got Murphy on tape. I used my dad’s recorder. He called Tim a—” I paused.
Olive didn’t look impressed. She got up and walked to the window, where a tree branch was brushing against the glass. In a few minutes, the fifth period bell would ring and dozens of students would flood through the front door onto the paved path beyond that tree, heading to their next class. How many of them would notice the news van in the parking lot?
“Olive,” I repeated. “We have an audio file. It’s already online. We just didn’t have a chance to give everybody the link. Tim was supposed to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I never should have written that letter.”
“What?” I stared at her. “Why?”
“I got carried away.”
“The press is here,” I said. “This is our chance to prove you right. If we could just get everyone to download the file—”
“Give it up, Reyna.”
I stood and approached her from behind.
“Hey,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“Hey,” I repeated. “You’re alive.”
“I wish I wasn’t.”
I wanted to say, “Don’t say that.” I wanted to apologize again. I wanted touch her arm to make sure she was really there. But she was standing so stiff that all I could bring myself to do was stare at the back of her head and say, “It’s not your fault.”
Olive looked at me then, her eyes red. “She never got to see New York City,” she whispered. “That’s where she was headed when she ran away from home. She was only supposed to stay with me for a few days.”
“It’s not your fa
ult,” I repeated.
Olive looked out the window. “She talked about New York like it was heaven. Like it was the only place where she could be herself. I asked her to wait until school was over so I could go with her. I asked her to wait for the summer.”
I could see the weight of the confession tugging at the lines on her face. Every nagging thought is a pound of guilt you have to carry around when someone dies, and it takes a long time to lose that weight.
“Wait a minute,” I said as something clicked into place. “Grace was the one wearing the jacket, so she must have been the one to buy that ticket. Right?”
Olive frowned, and I realized she had no idea what I meant.
“The ticket to Grand Central,” I said. “A few hours before she died. She paid in cash. I thought you knew.”
Olive shook her head mutely.
I made up my mind right then. “I’m getting on the computer.”
She gave me a skeptical look.
“Keep watch,” I said. “If you see Mancuzzi coming back, tell me.” Fingers thrumming, I crossed to the other side of his desk, wiggled the mouse, and double-clicked on the Internet icon on his desktop.
“What are you doing?” Olive stared at me. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe,” I answered.
“He’s going to be back any minute.”
I pulled up the audio file and clicked to start the download. A blue bar popped up on the screen and began to fill slowly. “Just listen,” I said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
But the file was slow to open, and I kept glancing out the window while it loaded, watching Mr. Mancuzzi argue in the parking lot with the driver of the News Channel Four van. I couldn’t see if it was Abby’s dad or not.
“Whatever that is, why didn’t you just put it on YouTube?” Olive asked, watching the slow progress on the screen. “It would’ve been faster.”
“It’s not a video,” I started to say, but Levi’s voice interrupted me from the speakers on Mr. Mancuzzi’s desk, and I saw Olive’s back straighten as she heard him ask whether the ancient Romans had a word for gay. Listening to the audio footage was strange after having lived it in person. I cringed at the part when I raised my hand to ask about polygamy, but Olive didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She was standing absolutely still, listening to every word. When we got to the part when Mr. Murphy said, “I don’t hate faggots. I hate it when they interrupt my class,” she stepped forward and leaned over the computer. I thought at first she was going to close the media player, and I bolted straight out of my chair, assuming Mr. Mancuzzi was coming back. But Olive only sat down in my place and leaned in close to the screen. I glanced out the window. Mr. Mancuzzi was still arguing with the driver of the van.
“We have to put it on YouTube,” she said, all business. “Nobody’s going to download a file we email to the whole school. They’ll think it’s a virus.”
I didn’t mean to smile like an idiot, but it was hard not to. “So you agree? It’s solid proof?”
“It’s good enough.”
“Everybody will think I’m Mormon, but I can live with that.” I glanced out the window and felt my jaw snap shut. Mr. Mancuzzi was gone. “Never mind,” I said. “Olive, get up. He’s coming back.” The door of the Channel Four van was wide open, and Abby’s dad was climbing out. This time, nobody was there to stop him.
Olive looked up, her hand hovering over the mouse. “Are you sure?”
“I think so,” I said. “He’s not outside.”
“I’m almost done converting the file.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “I just want to overlay some text. And a photo of Grace.”
“We don’t have time.” I moved closer to the window and pressed my forehead to the glass, straining to see left and right beyond the periphery of the window, but it was impossible.
“I want to explain things. I want everybody to know what happened.”
“There isn’t any time,” I said. “Just email it to yourself and we’ll do it later.”
“Lock the door.” Olive glanced up. “It’ll buy us a minute.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Lock it.”
I stood up and twisted the dead bolt, even though it was pointless. I was sure Mr. Mancuzzi carried a key to his own office.
“Should I use this photo, or this one?” Olive asked, tilting her head at the screen. I crossed the room and leaned over the desk to see two pictures of Grace on the screen.
“The smiling one,” I said.
“I agree.” Olive right clicked it and saved it to the desktop.
“Hurry,” I told her. “We’re already in trouble as it is.”
“I’m hurrying.” Olive leaned over and began to type furiously. “Do you think it’s fair to say that Grace’s last wish was to see justice brought to homophobic teachers?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re right.” She frowned. “Her last wish was to stare at the sky. I was the one trying to make her talk to me.”
I could practically see it—the two of them bundled up in jackets and mittens, lying with their heads against the cold, damp planks of wood along the tracks between the rails. I could see Grace’s blank eyes, gazing up at the moon. I could see Olive, full of steam, railing on about Mr. Murphy and me and all the bigots and phonies and cowards in the world. I could see the white light of the train in the distance, barely bigger than a flashlight. And then, suddenly, bigger than the moon.
“Just stick to the facts,” I said. “Say she had a teacher like Mr. Murphy. Say she was depressed. Say that a little tolerance goes a long way.”
Olive nodded and began to type.
“Say that there are millions of people in her shoes. Say that she—” I didn’t get a chance to finish. All at once, the door handle rattled behind me, and I whipped around.
“Girls?” called Mr. Mancuzzi. “Did you lock the door?”
“Quick!” I hissed. “Save the file.”
“It’s almost finished,” she said. “I just have to export it and then upload it.”
“It must be jammed, Mr. Mancuzzi!” I called through the door. “We didn’t lock it.” There was a rattling noise as he stuck a key into the door and twisted the handle. The knob turned freely, but the door didn’t open.
“Open the dead bolt!” he called, banging his fist against the wood.
“Stall,” said Olive.
“What dead bolt?” I called out. “I don’t see a dead bolt.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he answered through the door. “They have the spare key at the front desk. Are you going to make me go get it?”
“I don’t see a dead bolt to unlock,” I said again. “Sorry!”
“Shit.” Olive was drumming on Mr. Mancuzzi’s desk with the pads of her fingers. “I can’t remember my YouTube password.”
I groaned.
“Do you have an account?”
“My name with three sevens at the end,” I said. “Password: bunny.”
Olive looked at me and rolled her eyes.
“Hurry up!” I dropped down on all fours and peered underneath the door. There was no sign of Mr. Mancuzzi’s feet. “He went to get the key,” I said.
“Well, it’s uploading.” Olive stood up. “I’ve closed all the windows except for YouTube, which I minimized. We need to make it look like we’ve been doing something else so he doesn’t check the computer.”
“The filing cabinet,” I said. “We could have been snooping.” I ran over to the big gray wall of cabinets, opened one of the drawers, and began pulling manila folders at random, scattering them on the floor like a careless burglar. When I was halfway through, Mr. Mancuzzi twisted the dead bolt and swung open his office door. I straightened at once like a puppet, an invisible hand yanking on a string connected to my spine.
“What in God’s name is going on?” He stared at the papers strewn around the floor.
“I made her do it,” said Olive, stepping forward from the desk. “I wanted to see my
academic record.”
“No she didn’t,” I said. “It was me. I wanted to see mine.”
Mr. Mancuzzi yanked the walkie-talkie from his belt and called security.
“I take full responsibility for this,” said Olive, inching her way toward the door. “It was all my idea.” At first I thought she was going to make a run for the hallway, but then I realized she was moving toward me with something in her hand. Her smartphone. When she got close, I stepped sideways and positioned my hand to take it from her behind her back.
“I’m all yours, Mancuzzi,” she announced as soon as I had a firm grasp on it. She raised both her arms in the air like a criminal. “I surrender.” Her posture was straighter and more confident than I’d ever seen it as she glanced back and met my eye. I gave her the tiniest of nods.
Mr. Mancuzzi turned to me. “I don’t understand your role here,” he said. “But I don’t like it.”
“I was just looking for my file,” I lied again, shoving the phone into my pocket and following him to the receptionist’s desk in the lobby.
“Wait for me here,” he said. “Mrs. Latimer will be watching your every move.”
I nodded and sat down on the bench while Mrs. Latimer, an old Hispanic woman with a ruffled yellow blouse, pursed her lips at me in disapproval. The minute Mr. Mancuzzi left the lobby, I tapped on the phone and connected to the Internet, which was allowed at Belltown High outside of the classrooms. My fingers felt slow and clunky as I found the YouTube app and signed in. The upload Olive had started was visible in my account, but it wasn’t yet complete so I opened a separate tab, signed into my email, and composed a new message to [email protected].
It took exactly four more minutes for the video to upload. As soon as it did, I copied the URL and pasted it into the email. All that was left to do was choose a subject heading. I typed WATCH THIS, and hit Send as the fifth period bell rang.