That's Not What Happened

by Kody Keplinger

  I have the option to stay in the dark.

  So I don’t really feel like the tragic, inspirational figure everyone wants me to be. If anything, I feel like a fraud. I’ve spent years feeling guilty about not being in more pain. Which is pretty screwed up, if you think about it.

  I don’t think I deserve this scholarship because I’m a black kid from a poor community who was born blind and then survived a shooting. I deserve this scholarship because of my ambition and talent.

  Because while I was never able to get a grade for that app I was making freshman year, I did make others. For now, they are pretty basic—no overnight successes—but they are all accessible for people with visual impairments. And I have ideas for more. And one day, I really think I could change the game when it comes to assistive tech and accessibility.

  Not because I want to inspire people—I’m pretty tired of being “inspiring” at this point—but because I could help people. And, yeah, let’s be honest. For selfish reasons. I’m tired of being Denny Lucas, the blind VCHS survivor. I’m ready to be Denny Lucas, Tech God. Or, at the very least, Denny Lucas, the guy who makes really cool stuff.

  I know there’s a good chance I’ve disappointed you here. But I’m hoping that won’t keep the committee from seeing why I should get this scholarship. I have big goals. I am driven and ambitious, and I know that with a bit of financial help, I could do some really awesome things.

  So I am asking you to please consider my application. Not because of who I am or what I’ve been through—but because of who I could be in ten or fifteen years. I know I have potential and that I will use the money well. I hope you feel the same way.

  Sincerely,

  Denny Lucas

  Denny’s scholarship letter blew my mind.

  I don’t know why, but until I read his words, it had never occurred to me that any of the other survivors were struggling with how our stories were being told. I was so wrapped up in my guilt over what had happened with Sarah and Kellie that I’d never even considered the other narratives being spun. Knowing Denny had his own frustrations about how the world saw him made me feel less alone, but I wasn’t sure if it made me feel better.

  What I did know was that I had to tell him the truth about Kellie and Sarah. Since reading the news about the McHales’ book, I’d felt constantly on edge, a buzzing hive of anxiety, and if I didn’t confide in someone, I thought I might burst. Now I was sure that if anyone would understand, it was Denny.

  “I read your scholarship letter,” I told him over lunch the next day. We were sitting at one of the small round tables on the edge of the cafeteria, one that made it easy for me to see all of the exits. Miles was sitting next to me, his head resting on a thick book he’d been lugging everywhere for the past week, with his eyes closed. I wasn’t sure if he was awake or not. During our lunch hours, Denny and I usually did most of the talking.

  Well, Denny did most of the talking.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how brilliant am I?” Denny asked. “One is brilliant. Ten is brighter than the damn sun.”

  “Negative four,” Miles said, not opening his eyes.

  Denny laughed. “Accurate. But really. How bad is it, Lee?”

  “It’s good,” I said. “It gave me a lot to think about.” I hesitated as I speared a small piece of the greasy school pizza with my fork. (Yes, I eat pizza with a fork. You are free to judge me. Miles and Denny have already informed me of just how unacceptable this is.) Just before I put the fork to my lips, I added, “I was actually hoping to talk to you more about it after school.”

  “You mean like give me notes or help me edit it?” he asked.

  My mouth was full, so I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. I’d known Denny for most of my life and been friends with him for the past three years. It was embarrassing how often I still made little mistakes like this. I chewed and swallowed quickly, then answered, “Yeah. Something like that. I can give you and Glitter a ride home after school if that’s okay.”

  “Okay? That’d be great,” Denny said. “Any day I don’t have to worry about maneuvering Glitter around a school bus is a good day.” He reached down to where the yellow Lab was lying next to his seat. She lifted her head, pushing her nose against his palm. I watched as he ran his hand backward across her muzzle and to the top of her head, where he began scratching her ears.

  Then I felt a pair of eyes on me.

  Miles had lifted his head, and he was raising a questioning eyebrow at me.

  “You … don’t mind taking the bus home, right?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s fine.” But he didn’t take his eyes off me. He knew something was going on. Or else I would have just asked him to tag along for the extra stop on our way home. He didn’t ask, though. I’d known he wouldn’t.

  But Denny did.

  That afternoon, when I parked my truck in his driveway and proceeded to sit there quietly for a minute, not sure how to begin what I wanted to tell him, he did the work for me.

  “I’m going to guess this isn’t about my letter.”

  “What?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “You told Miles to take the bus home. It’s not hard to figure out something is up, because my scholarship letter doesn’t warrant this kind of secrecy. So what’s going on?”

  I let out a breath. “It is sort of about your letter, actually,” I said.

  “Really? Crap. Now I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be,” I told him. “At least … not about your letter. It’s good. Really good. And it made me think about some stuff … about the shooting.”

  “Oh,” Denny said. “Well, this sounds like it’s going to be a pretty heavy conversation, so I vote that we get out of this truck, raid my fridge, and head to the backyard so Glitter can take a break while we talk.”

  “I can get behind that.”

  Ten minutes later, with sodas and a bag of freshly popped popcorn in hand, Denny and I were making our way through his house and toward the back door. Glitter was out of her harness now, closely following behind Denny, with her eyes fixed on the bag of popcorn.

  “Glitter, please stay out from under my feet,” he said as she bumped up against him. “She’s trained not to expect food from people, and usually she’s good about it, but I swear, she loses her mind over popcorn.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  He laughed. “Not really. Popcorn is God’s food.”

  “Did you know Miles hates popcorn?”

  “Does he? I think I might have to end our friendship over that. Shame. I was starting to like him.”

  He navigated through the house smoothly, without the help of Glitter or the cane he used before getting her back in the fall. The only sign that he couldn’t see was the way he occasionally held out a hand to find the wall he knew was close by. When we reached the back door, he unlocked it with one hand and pulled it open. He’d barely pushed on the screen door before Glitter bolted past him, out into the fenced-in yard, nearly knocking Denny off his feet.

  “God, Glitter,” he said, holding back a laugh as he stepped out onto the little wooden deck.

  Glitter was already running around the yard in large circles, a tennis ball that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere clutched between her jaws. Even though I’ve seen her like this plenty of times since Denny got her, it’s always startling. She’s so calm, so focused when her harness is on. Denny says it’s like her business suit. When it’s on, she knows it’s time to be professional. But the second it’s off, it’s time to party.

  We sat down on the steps, the warm bag of popcorn between us.

  “Okay,” he said, carefully popping the tab on his can of soda. “Now that we have our supplies, tell me what’s going on.”

  I heard a light tapping sound on the wooden planks and it took a minute to realize it was my foot hitting the bottom step, bouncing with nervous energy. Talking to Denny seemed like the right thing, like I might finally be able to get this off my chest and tell someone who would
understand. But now that I was here, with him ready to listen, I felt like I might combust from the anxiety.

  “Lee? You okay?”

  Spit it out, I told myself. Just say it. It’s time to say it.

  “It wasn’t Sarah’s necklace.”

  The words came out in a rush, a single, shaking breath.

  Denny just sat there for a second, a fistful of popcorn frozen in midair, halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “Wait … what?”

  My leg wasn’t the only thing shaking now. My hands were, too. I folded them tightly in my lap. “The necklace they found in the bathroom, it wasn’t hers. I don’t know how that rumor got started, but it wasn’t Sarah’s. And she never said anything to him. Not a word.”

  “Are … Sorry, but are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I said. “I don’t know what else happened in the bathroom. I don’t know what really happened with Kellie. But the story about Sarah isn’t true.”

  “Wow,” Denny said. “That’s … wow.” He shook his head. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Your letter got me thinking,” I said. “About all the misconceptions people have about the shooting. About us. I guess for a long time I thought it was just me—just Sarah’s story that people got wrong. But I don’t think it was. I know it’s different, what you were writing about, but … I don’t know.”

  “It is different,” he said. “But I think I get what you’re saying.”

  “And then I was thinking about what you said on the anniversary,” I continued. “About how when we graduate, the last people who were really there will be gone. And everyone at VCHS will just be going off of what they heard or saw on the news and … and that’ll become fact. And then the McHales’ book will be coming out …”

  “I heard about that,” Denny said. “Have you told them about this? About Sarah?”

  “No.” I chewed on my bottom lip, my stomach writhing with guilt. “I almost did. A few years ago. But I … I felt like I would’ve been taking something away from them. Like they really needed to believe the story. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  “That’s tough,” he said.

  “I know it’s three years too late, but I’ve got to do something. I just keep thinking about Kellie. I don’t know what really went down with her in the bathroom that day, but she was right that the Sarah thing didn’t happen. And you remember what happened to her. I didn’t do anything then and I know I should have. I need to now. I just don’t know who to tell. Or how.”

  “You didn’t even tell Detective Jenner?” Denny asked. “When he questioned you after?”

  “I hadn’t heard the story yet when I talked to him. I just told him the basics. That he came in, that we were in a stall, and that he killed her. When Detective Jenner tried to ask me more, I … I started having a flashback and freaked out, so we cut it short. He probably would have asked me about the necklace if I hadn’t. I don’t know. I screwed this up bad, didn’t I?”

  “You were a fourteen-year-old who’d just seen her friend killed. I think you can be forgiven for being a mess afterward.”

  I wasn’t sure I could, though. Not when it led to someone else getting hurt.

  “Maybe Detective Jenner is a good place to start,” he suggested. “No matter what you decide to do next, he should know.”

  I let out a long breath. I was sure Denny was right—if anyone should know, it was the officer who had investigated the shooting—but he was also one of the last people I wanted to see. He entered my life during its darkest days, when I was barely sleeping, having frequent panic attacks, and still trying to find the right dose of medication. I’ve come a long way since then, but I still feel like I’m walking along a tightrope. One misstep, one wrong move, and I could go spiraling back to where I was three years ago.

  Denny couldn’t read my mind the way Miles could, but it didn’t take a telepath to know what I must’ve been thinking in that moment. I’m sure all of us associated Detective Jenner with the same thing. He was a nice enough man, but none of us were eager to see him ever again.

  Still, Denny said, “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “I know I don’t have to,” he said. “But I will. We can go after school later this week. I’ll make up an excuse for my parents.”

  Glitter darted toward us then, slobbery tennis ball in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet, then hopped up, putting her front paws on my knees and licking my cheek. As if to say, And I’ll come, too.

  Despite myself, I laughed.

  “Okay,” I said, scratching her ears. “Thank you.” Then, as she departed from my lap and did another loop around the yard, I reached over and put a hand on Denny’s shoulder. “Really. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “I’m the best.”

  I’m realizing that I’ve said a lot about Sarah and almost nothing about the other victims. Which doesn’t make me much better than the media. There was so much coverage about Sarah, but the other people who died were pretty much forgotten within a few weeks. They quickly became the unnamed dead, just part of the “nine killed.”

  But just like I knew Sarah, I knew these people, too. Maybe not as well. Some only by name. But they were people. Kids, most of them. And their deaths mattered just as much as hers, even if they didn’t allegedly die as martyrs for their faith.

  So I’m going to try and fix that as best I can, with a little bit of help from the other survivors, who knew some of these people better than I did.

  I guess I should start with Ms. Taylor.

  Ms. Taylor was the first person killed on March 15.

  I didn’t actually know her very well. I saw her in the hallway on my way to class every morning. She was young, only twenty-three, and very pretty with golden-blond hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders. I remember that she always seemed to wear floral patterns, always in bright, warm colors—reds and oranges and pinks. I planned on taking her class the following year, since I’d need an elective and shop really wasn’t my thing.

  Obviously, I never got that chance.

  So, since I didn’t know her that well, I emailed Denny and asked if he’d write something for this.

  Hey, Lee—

  So you want to know more about Ms. Taylor? Let’s see …

  Well, I could start with the first day of freshman year. My first day of high school and her first day of teaching. I wasn’t in her class yet, that was the next semester, but I was already a computer nerd. So during lunch, Jared and I had skipped the pizza line to go and investigate the computer lab instead.

  Ms. Taylor was in there, of course. She introduced herself when we walked in and gave us permission to use one of the computers.

  “Ah, man,” Jared said. “They’re all old. Just like the dinosaurs at the middle school. I was hoping for something better.”

  “That sucks,” I said.

  “If the school wouldn’t spend so much freaking money on football, they could afford better computers.”

  “You’re just mad you didn’t make the team.”

  “Shut up,” he huffed. “Besides, it’s fine. Bomb Shelter Four comes out next month and I’ll need the extra hours to play.”

  I mostly just sat there while Jared fiddled with the computer. None of them had screen-reader software installed yet. The school wouldn’t even bother until I had a class where it was necessary. That’s how they’d always been. Only accommodating when they absolutely had to.

  But then Ms. Taylor was standing beside me. I knew because she said, “Denny, this is Ms. Taylor on your left.”

  “Hey, Teach.”

  “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Have I already managed to get in trouble?”

  “No. Not at all.” She sat down next to me, on the opposite side as Jared. “Do you think you’ll be spending a lot of time in here?”

  “I don’t really know,” I said. “It’ll depend when I take my f
irst class in here. They won’t have software until—”

  “Let me rephrase,” she said. “Do you want to spend time in here?”

  “Of course he does,” Jared said. “Denny loves computers.”

  “That’d be correct.”

  “Good,” she said, and I could hear the smile. “Then I need you to do me a favor and tell me exactly what you need installed. Not what they usually install for you—there’s no point if you don’t find it helpful. So tell me what will work best to make these computers accessible, and I’ll make sure it gets done.”

  That’s when she became my favorite teacher.

  Maybe it’s a small gesture, but I’m so used to people assuming they know what I need better than I do. One of the hazards of being disabled, I guess. So to have a teacher actually ask—and listen—was exciting. And she made good on her word. She got one of the computers set up with a decent screen reader and even had me help show her how it worked. None of my other teachers had cared to learn anything about my assistive tech.

  And then, of course, I had her as a teacher for a while that next semester. By then I already had my extremely inappropriate schoolboy crush on her. Even though she did tell really, really awful dad jokes sometimes.

  Oh God. Okay, so this was her favorite joke to tell:

  “Why didn’t they let the teenage pirate see the movie? Because it was rated arrrrgh!”

  I swear she told the class this joke a dozen times, and every time she’d make herself laugh so hard she’d start to snort.

  We can’t all be perfect.

  Anyway, I don’t know if that’s the kind of story you were looking for. I only really knew her as a teacher, so I don’t know much about her life outside of school. I think her family was from northern Indiana, and she told me once she’d grown up on a farm.

  But I know she was the best teacher a fourteen-year-old nerd could have asked for, and that’s how I choose to remember her.

  Hope this helped, Lee.

  —Denny