It Wasn't Me

by Dana Alison Levy

  But Alice is nodding thoughtfully. “I know exactly what you mean,” she says. “When I’m filming, especially if it’s an outdoor shot with heavy special effects, I have to figure out how to get the best possible performance from the actors before their blood dries or the bruises start to gray out. You know? The worst thing is when we spend forever getting it right, and getting the mats into place so whoever is being stabbed or thrown from a building can fall safely, and then, right when we’re set and everyone’s totally ready, some idiot dog walker comes through!”

  She looks about as angry as I’ve ever seen her. With the extra eye, it’s particularly creepy, and suddenly I get how she might star as the killer in her slasher films.

  “It’s always the dog walkers,” she hisses.

  Silence while the rest of us carefully don’t make eye contact, in case she’s about to go serial killer on us. My alarm grows.

  Then she grins again and does her HEE-HEE laugh. “Was that creepy? That was a line from my last movie, where I totally got revenge. I think I killed off, like, four dog walkers in that one. And a bunch of dogs.”

  Again silence reigns as we all process Alice’s murder of Shipton’s numerous parka-and-snow-boot-wearing dog walkers.

  She waves a hand impatiently. “Actors, obviously. Anyway, moving on.”

  I blink and catch Andre’s eye, and his expression mimics what I’m feeling. I would characterize it as an I Don’t Even Know What the Right Expression Should Be for This Scenario but I’m Getting Nervous face.

  I jump in.

  “Thanks, Alice,” I say, which doesn’t make sense but seems better than trying to unpack her dog-walking hatred. “I, uh…yeah. Totally.”

  Everyone is looking a little lost. Jax has wandered over to his backpack and is methodically pulling out what appears to be a massive pile of Matchbox cars. Everyone else is still hanging out by my camera but standing around like they can’t remember why they’re here.

  “Anyway. The cameras,” I say, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that Molly and Erik look relieved. “I was just messing around with this one, but if you guys want…I mean, I can make a few others. Just, you know, to kill time.”

  To my surprise, it’s Jax who speaks up first, and loudly. “Yeah, let’s do it. I bet you can make something totally lit. I’m down to help, so, you know…what do you need?”

  I look over at him. He’s surrounded by the Matchbox cars, a bunch of Starburst wrappers, and a stack of notebooks.

  “Well,” I say slowly, “I’m not sure why you have a bunch of toy cars, and I’m not judging you—”

  “Dude, they’re my brother’s. He’s always hiding stuff in my bag when he’s supposed to clean up,” Jax says, rolling his eyes.

  I can’t help it. I grin. “Sure they are. Well, your ‘brother’s cars’ ”—I make air quotes with my fingers—“could make a good subject, if we set them up right.”

  Jax fake scowls. “If they were my cars, I would own that! I would declare, loud and proud, that I brought my best Matchbox cars in. And I wouldn’t bring this sad…What is this?” he examines one of the cars. “This Pinto or whatever the heck. I’d be rolling in with my Lambo or Bugatti.” He shakes his head, pretending to be annoyed. “Yo, if I bring my Matchbox cars, you’ll know.”

  I nod seriously. “Yeah. Good to know you keep your best ones at home. Probably in a glass curio cabinet with special lighting.”

  He bursts out laughing.

  “And you maybe even go down to Boston to the Convention Center, for when they have those classic toy sales. I hear those places are totally hype. Great place to meet the ladies too, if you know what I mean.”

  It should be noted that when Jax chooses a car to throw at my head, he does, in fact, throw a Ford Pinto. Luckily, he misses.

  “Enough!” Molly shouts, with only a fraction of her usual You Are All Too Stupid to Be Alive voice. “Are you going to show us how to make these cameras or what?”

  I look at her. She’s standing with Alice, Erik, and Andre.

  “Uh, sure,” I say, silently tossing the Pinto back into Jax’s backpack. “Let’s get started.”

  Ms. Lewiston comes in five minutes before dismissal, clearly frazzled.

  “Apologies, apologies,” she says, rushing over. “Ms. Davis…” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Ms. Davis needed my assistance with something, and I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

  We’re all crouched around the fourth and last (and most complicated) pinhole camera, a totally wack foldable one that we decided to set up facing the Matchbox car, filtered to try to get a funky vintage effect.

  It’s almost done and would probably be finished already, except Alice somehow managed to create a massive fake slash across her cheek while the rest of us were looking at the camera, and when Molly saw it, she startled so badly she knocked off the front piece, which had taken ten minutes to attach.

  Honestly, it was worth it. Alice is pretty awesome.

  Anyway, Ms. Lewiston looks at us and then at the clock, then sighs. “I really am sorry for this. But we aren’t going to have time to circle back up. So unless someone wants to share before we pack up, I’m afraid we’re going to have to come back tomorrow.”

  She looks around. “I was really hoping we were getting somewhere, and we might be able to wrap up today so you could have the second half of your vacation week.”

  We’re all quiet. I have nothing to say and don’t really want to look around at the five faces to see if I can guess whether someone looks guilty. Despite my best attempts, though, my eyes fly up. I meet Andre’s, and he gives a half grin.

  “It’s cool,” he says. “I kind of want to see how these photos come out anyway.”

  Molly, Erik, and Jax all nod.

  “Same, bro,” Jax says. “I’m not saying anything, but I think that Matchbox shot has Pulitzer written all over it.”

  Alice raises her hand. “Oh! I think the skull one is going to be the best! I mean, come on!”

  The skull one will be sick, if it works. Though I admit, when Alice brightly announced she had a mouse skull in her bag if we wanted it for a photo, I was at a loss. There’s really no good answer to “Do you want to use my mouse skull?” other than “Sure.” But it may actually be awesome.

  So the four shots are:

  Mouse skull on the windowsill

  Matchbox car posed on a diorama of the Grand Canyon we found on a bookshelf

  Ms. Lewiston’s quote, rewritten in fancy script on a piece of construction paper that Molly did some complicated scissors work to so that it looks kind of like a snowflake, and taped to the wall down low by the floor

  Closet door with a fake candle inside it

  Ms. Lewiston smiles, and her frazzle-dom seems to ease a little. “Well, thank you for being gracious. And, Theo, those cameras look fascinating. I can’t wait to see how the images come out. Will you be able to show us tomorrow?”

  I nod. “Yeah, as long as we can go to the darkroom for a little bit in the morning.” I turn to the others. “But remember—no guarantees they won’t be a total fail. I mean, that’s the risk with these things. So I don’t know—”

  Jax cuts me off. “It’s all good. Dude, I can write a novel about things that are supposed to be great turning to a pile of fecal matter.” He shrugs. “It’s cool to see what happens.”

  I nod, trying not to give my cheesy smile that makes me look like a five-year-old chipmunk. But I kind of want to. This is actually turning out to be fun.

  I close the blinds so the room will be mostly dark, and Ms. Lewiston ushers us all out, turning out the lights behind her. I look back before the door closes and can faintly see the fake candle flickering in the closet. It’s a dull gray winter day, and the light is warmer and brighter than you’d think a tiny little drugst
ore light would be.

  As we walk out toward the driveway, Molly’s lecturing Andre on the benefits of joining the school band while Andre politely nods. But when I catch his eye, he makes a never-in-a-million-years face at me, and I snort-laugh.

  “What?” Molly says, scowling. “Are you laughing at school band? Because I’ll have you know, we’re actually pretty good. And there’s a jazz band too. Plus we play for the school musicals…” She goes on, but I escape by walking faster and catching up with Alice. Sorry, Andre, dude. But it’s every man for himself when Molly’s on a school-spirit rampage.

  Alice beams at me. “You know, this is turning into a really fun week,” she says, her happy face only partly mangled by the fake slash and dried blood.

  Erik overhears. “It is pretty good,” he says, and once again his cheeks go blotchy pink.

  Dude. I think Erik might be getting like-like feelings for Alice.

  “I can’t wait to see those photos,” Alice continues, apparently oblivious to her enticing appeal to Erik, who appears to be tripping over the pattern on the tiles. Since he’s literally the most coordinated human being I’ve ever seen, I have to assume he’s having an Alice attack. Guy seriously needs to get some chill.

  “You know what might be cool,” I say to Alice, sending telepathy messages to Erik to pull himself together, “you could set up some really creepy pinhole-camera shots as kind of…I don’t know…teasers for your movies.”

  Alice stops suddenly and turns to face me, causing Erik to slam into her. Of course she drops her messenger bag with a squeak, and she and Erik both get down on their knees to rescue her five million pencil cases and notebooks and, yes, what look like at least a dozen tampons.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Erik is muttering, trying to shove stuff back into the bag without acknowledging anyone or anything. He’s now achieved Molly levels of redness.

  “Oh, it’s okay. I probably shouldn’t stop so suddenly. People are always slamming into me. And at least you smell good.” She takes a deep inhale, and Erik drops the pens he’s holding with a clatter. “Like pine or something.”

  Erik’s face is approaching nuclear fusion. “My dad buys balsam soap,” he mumbles.

  I cough a totally fake theatrical DUDE, I’M RIGHT HERE cough.

  “Anyway, the photos…,” I hint, and Alice stands up smiling, apparently unaware that she has completely incapacitated Erik.

  “Right! I love that idea. I’m thinking about entering one of my shorts in the Shipton Film Festival this year, so that would be perfect. Will you help me? It’s going to be a kind of update of Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ ”

  I look at Erik, wondering if he knows the Edgar Allan Poe story of the dude who put a still-beating heart in the walls of a house. It’s gothic and weird and creepy and awesome, not unlike Alice herself. “That sounds rad,” I say. “Erik, your idea about the…bare tree branches before was really…um…funky. Maybe you want to work on this?”

  Erik finally lumbers to his feet like Frankenstein’s monster, and for a second I think he’s going to just monster-walk away. But he gulps so loud I can hear it and finally says, “Cool.”

  That’s all he manages, but I think what he means is “Dude, you are an A-plus wingman, and I so appreciate you helping me out when I have all the game of a recently neutered orangutan.” But maybe I’m projecting.

  By the time we get out front we’re full of ideas for creepy shots, and Alice doesn’t seem to notice that whoever’s in the gold Lexus is honking at her.

  After the fifth extended honnnnnnnnnk, she looks up, startled.

  “Oh! Is that—”

  “Someone seems to be in a rush,” I say politely, as though this is not the act of a seriously rude toddler.

  Alice shrugs and shoulders her bag. Her fingers gently touch her fake slash. “Yeah. He usually is.” She walks toward the car. “See you tomorrow!” she calls over her shoulder.

  Like before, the car pulls away almost before she closes the door. Turning away from the driveway, I nearly run into Erik, who’s standing weirdly close to me. I take a step back.

  “Um…,” I start. The sweaty-armpit feeling is back, and I can’t help thinking that it would seriously suck if he chose right now, outside the school and away from Ms. Lewiston, to go all Hulk-smash-psycho on me. But he just stares at me, breathing hard.

  I start getting scared for real. I want to walk away, but I’m stuck, hypnotized-mouse-in-the-glare-of-an-owl-style.

  He opens his mouth, and I brace myself. “Listen,” he starts.

  I flinch and wrap my arms around my stomach. His voice does not sound good. But before he can say more, a Toyota pulls up fast, tires scraping against the curb, and the window opens. “ERIK. If you want a ride to that stupid basketball thing you’re so obsessed with, we need to go now!” a voice calls. “Mom said I had to get you, but I’m in the middle of a review session, so let’s GO.”

  Erik blinks, and a weird look—anger? relief? sadness? I can’t tell—comes over his face.

  “Yo, see you tomorrow, bro,” he says, giving me yet another dude-punch and loping off to the car.

  I stare after him, too confused and relieved to answer. But Erik doesn’t look back; he’s staring at his phone as the car pulls away.

  Jax runs up, breathing hard. “What’d I miss? Had to hit the can before I had a serious incident. That last Gatorade…I swear my teeth were floating.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t miss much. Alice might want to do some creepy photo stills for her movies.”

  Jax nods. “Sweet.” He pauses. “Your stuff is pretty dope.”

  I don’t look at him, but my cheeks redden a little, and I bite my lip to keep from making the chipmunk smile. “Thanks,” I mutter, in a voice that I hope is more I Get Compliments All the Time and less I’m Auditioning For the Squeaky Red Muppet on Sesame Street.

  “No prob. See you tomorrow,” he says, and walks away.

  Molly has climbed into the same Volvo SUV as last time, which is once again parked on the farthest part of the driveway, like it’s trying to avoid everyone else. Jax walks toward the minivan, which appears to be shaking slightly. When the door slides open, I hear sea shanties, played at a volume that is probably illegal, or should be, pouring out. Seriously, a galleon full of pirates would be quieter than that van. Jax shoots me a kill-me-now look before flashing me a peace sign and closing the door. As they drive by, I can hear a chorus of “heave away, haul away” through the closed windows. Jeez. Never again will I complain about my mom’s National Public Radio obsession.

  Andre has, as usual, slipped away without anyone noticing, so I’m solo. I glance around, still slightly creeped out by whatever went down with Erik. Was he going to confess? Threaten me? Kiss me? It was unclear, and frankly, the variety of options is seriously unnerving. But before I can even try to dissect whatever that was, my mom shows up.

  “Am I on time?” she asks as I open the door. “I left work early today so I could be here early, but then I had to stop and pick up—”

  “Mom, by your standards you are early,” I say, settling into the passenger seat. “Thanks.”

  “I’m hoping maybe there was some resolution and you don’t have to go back tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “No, not really. We actually didn’t get to have our second circle. Ms. Lewiston was tied up with something. So we’ll be back tomorrow, I guess.” I pause.

  Mom glances at me. “What? What’s going on? Were people awful?” Her mama-grizzly voice is threatening to make an appearance, so I pat her arm.

  “No. Mom. Chill. Seriously, you need to chill.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, but honestly, Theo, this is not a joke. This was a hate crime. It was vandalism, and it was cruel. And then someone sabotaged your work in the darkroom the very next day! We need to get to the bottom of this. I’
m sure it’s terrible—”

  I cut her off. “MOM. No. I’m actually wondering…I mean, is there any way to talk to Ms. Lewiston and tell her to forget it?”

  My mom forgets to look at the light and is staring at me when the guy in the car behind us leans on his horn. I think of Alice.

  As she drives, my mom keeps taking quick, frantic glances at me. “Theo. Why would you ask that?”

  “Because it’s stupid! Everyone’s been really cool, and I don’t know who trashed my stuff, but even if it was one of them, I don’t think they meant it, or—”

  “They drew all over your work. They wrote slurs and graffiti on your—”

  “I. KNOW.” I don’t mean to shout, but it comes out that way. I try to lower my voice. “I know, Mom. Obviously. But I think…I mean, I think we’re over it. And I don’t really want to know.”

  She looks over again, and her face is knotted up with worry. “Is this…Theo, is anyone threatening you, or asking you to drop this?”

  “NO! Forget it. I just…I wanted to move on. To get past it, you know?” I lean my head against the window, and the icy glass feels good on my hot cheek. “I wanted to…”

  I trail off without finishing my sentence. Because the truth is, I don’t want to know who did it. I don’t want to hear from Erik, or anyone else, for that matter. I want the whole thing to disappear. For the fun of the past few days to keep going, and for the six of us to actually maybe stay friends, or at least friendly, once school starts again next week. I don’t want to know that one of them would do something like this.

  “Oh, Theo,” my mom says, and her voice sounds so sad that I want to do anything to make her stop talking.

  “It’s fine,” I start, but she keeps going.

  “Honey, I get it, I really do. But”—her voices catches a little—“if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you have to go through something to get to the other side. It’s possible whoever damaged your work will have more to his or her story than we know, and hopefully you’ll be able to hear and understand and forgive. But pretending it never happened…well, I’m here to tell you that rarely works.”