That's Not What Happened

by Kody Keplinger

  “Maybe.”

  I wish I’d followed through with that. Even if I hadn’t borrowed it from Jared, I could have checked it out at the library or ordered a copy online. I don’t know why I never did. I guess I didn’t take her suggestion seriously, or worried she was setting me up just to tease me or something. Looking back, I don’t think she was, though.

  As much as Rosi liked to shut me out and overshadow me when our family was around, I do think she wanted us to have something to talk about. Some common ground to share. Maybe if I’d tried a little harder, we could have been close.

  Or maybe not. We were just so different that it’s hard to imagine a world in which we were friends.

  Still, I think about that day in Abuela’s living room a lot, about Rosi clutching the manga in her hands, the popular cheerleader extending a geeky olive branch. And as much as I regret not taking it, that’s a memory I want to hold on to.

  I can’t forget the bad things about her and pretend she was perfect the way people seem to want you to after someone dies. But I can remember little moments like this and believe that, maybe in some parallel universe, Rosi is alive and the two of us have worked things out over a stack of manga.

  I needed to see Miles.

  I stopped at a gas station on my way back to Virgil County and sent him a text message. I still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened at prom the night before, why he of all of us wouldn’t want to tell his story, but after talking to Kellie, I realized that maybe he’d had a point.

  He sent me back an address. He, Denny, and Amber had gone to a party at some junior’s house. I groaned and put my phone away before starting up the truck again. A crowded party was the last place I wanted to be, especially the night after prom, but I knew that if I went home now, I’d just end up sitting around, waiting for Miles and driving myself into a spiral of guilt and anxiety.

  The sun had already set by the time I parked my truck down the street from the address Miles had given me. I texted him again, letting him know that I’d be at the house in a minute and that I wanted to talk. He didn’t reply, and I was sure he was worried I’d just come here to pressure him into writing a letter again.

  I ran up the front steps of the house, one of the larger ones in the county, and walked through the front door with a group of laughing girls. The local Top 40 station was blasting from a stereo in the living room. Some girls sang along while a group of boys sat on the floor around the coffee table, playing quarters.

  I wove my way around furniture and past groups of friends standing in corners and piled onto couches, talking and shrieking with laughter. Like they weren’t having to fight off the hum of death anxiety. Like they weren’t worried about what might happen if someone barged through the front door with a weapon. Or what it felt like to stop existing.

  I envied them.

  Even when I’m having fun, that fear is always going to be there, even if it is just a quiet, fleeting thing. It will never leave me entirely, I’m certain of that.

  I was sure that Miles and Denny had similar fears—at least the ones about escaping a confined space—so when I saw that the back door of the house was standing open and people were outside on the deck, I headed that way. It seemed likely that they’d be outside, where it would be easier to follow through with an exit plan.

  I hadn’t quite made it to the door yet when I heard someone shout my name. I jumped and spun around, only to see two older guys—ones I was sure had graduated a year or two before—moving toward me through the dining room. I didn’t recognize one of them, but the other I knew, at least in memory. Peter McHale, Sarah’s older cousin. And as you might expect, he looked furious.

  Crap, I thought, and tried to walk a little faster, toward the back door.

  But just then, Tara Chambers stepped through it. She saw me, then she glanced over my shoulder, and the guys headed my way. She gave them a nod and started walking to me herself.

  I backed up and stumbled, my feet tangling with the leg of a chair. When I righted myself again, they’d come nearer. Closing in. Crowding me back until I was standing in a corner, surrounded by three angry people.

  I could feel my throat starting to close up.

  “We need to talk to you,” Peter said, jabbing a finger at me. “You’d better shut your damn mouth about my cousin.”

  I wanted to make myself small. To shrink down to the size of a mouse so I could run past their feet. Or to evaporate, becoming a ghost and disappearing through the wall. But I was still solid, and very much human-sized, and they were too close. Sealing me in. Blocking my view of anything or anyone else.

  For a minute, they weren’t people anymore. They were walls. The walls of a narrow bathroom stall, and I was trapped there, waiting for the world to end.

  “My aunt and uncle are a mess because of you,” Peter was saying. “Haven’t they been through enough? What the hell is your problem? Do you need attention this bad that you’ll just come in and start a bunch of crap like this?”

  I couldn’t breathe. It felt like there was a hand clamped around my heart. I tried to rush forward, to push past them, but Peter caught me by the shoulders and shoved me back against the wall.

  “Pete,” I heard Tara gasp, like this—just this—was the first thing that had gone too far.

  Peter ignored her. “Aw, are you scared, Lee?” he asked, his voice all menace and mock concern. “You should’ve thought about that before you started telling a bunch of lies. If you want attention, you’re gonna get it.”

  His face changed then. Nose shortening, cheeks rounding, hair shifting from auburn to dishwater blond. Until he wasn’t Peter McHale anymore, but him. Peering over the edge of the stall, gun pointed down at us.

  I whimpered and sank to the floor, pressing my face into my knees and wrapping my arms over my head. I could hear screaming and the pop of gunshots. I knew it wasn’t real. I knew this was just a panic attack, a flashback. But my body didn’t seem to understand what my mind did. My chest ached and my lungs begged for air as I panted.

  “Pete,” I heard the other guy’s voice whisper, “maybe we should—”

  “Don’t feel sorry for her,” Peter snapped. “She’s just being a drama queen. She’s an actress, remember? She just wants us to feel sorry for her. Get up, Lee.”

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even force out the words on the tip of my tongue, not even a feeble command for them to leave me alone.

  “I don’t think she’s acting,” Tara said.

  And then there were more voices. Familiar ones.

  “Is that Lee?”

  “Get away from her!”

  “What’s going on?”

  I raised my head slowly. Tara and Peter’s friend had moved back, and in the gaps between their bodies I could see Denny, Amber, and Miles standing there, like they’d just come through the back door.

  Miles looked furious.

  “I said get away from her,” he snarled at Peter.

  Tara and the other guy kept backing up, as if to distance themselves from what had just happened. But Peter stood his ground.

  “Or what?” he asked Miles.

  Miles started to move forward, his arm already pulled back for a swing, but Denny threw an arm out to stop him.

  “Or I’ll have Glitter here bite your ass,” Denny said.

  “You’re lying,” Peter said. “Service dogs don’t bite. They’re trained not to.”

  “You want to test that theory?” Denny asked.

  Peter hesitated, but I guess he wasn’t as sure as he thought. After a second, he huffed and marched off toward the living room. “Whatever,” he said. “You’re all going to hell.”

  “Then we’ll see you there,” Denny called after him.

  The minute he was out of the way, Miles rushed forward, falling to his knees in front of me. “Lee?” he said, but he didn’t touch me, and I was glad for that. I didn’t want to be touched. Not right now. Not even by him.

  “Is she okay?
” Amber asked. She was hanging back, next to Denny and Glitter. “Should we do something?”

  “She probably just needs to go home,” Denny said, his own voice a little shaky now.

  “Would Glitter really bite?” Amber asked him.

  “Nah. Not unless you’re made of popcorn.”

  “Lee,” Miles said again, his voice gentle. “Come on. Let’s get outta here.”

  I nodded. I was still trembling, still not able to speak through my ragged breathing, but I managed to pull myself up on my own.

  The boys had ridden with Amber, who promised to give Denny a ride home as we walked out of the party. People were still singing, still playing games and laughing. Completely ignorant to what had just happened in the dining room. No flashbacks. No panic attacks. They were free.

  Sometimes, it feels like people who weren’t there, who didn’t witness the shooting firsthand, live on a different plane of reality.

  When Miles and I reached my truck at the end of the street, I handed him my keys. The panic attack had mostly passed, but I still didn’t feel like I should be driving. He took them from me without saying anything and we climbed into the cab, our usual positions swapped.

  We were halfway home before I managed to say anything.

  “I saw Kellie today.”

  He glanced over at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “You were right,” I said. “She doesn’t want to write a letter. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve been harassing her this whole time.” I swallowed. “I’m no better than those guys at the party.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not, though.” I shook my head. “The only difference is that they want me to shut up, and I want her to talk. I’m such a jerk.”

  “Stop,” he said. We pulled into my driveway then, and he cut the engine before turning to look at me through the darkness. “You’re not a jerk.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked. “I’ve been harassing you, too. I’m sorry. I don’t know why you don’t want to write about it, but it shouldn’t matter. You don’t want to and I should’ve respected that. I just … I’ve been obsessed with this.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I really did think I could make things better,” I said. “But … I’ve just made things worse. For Kellie. For Sarah’s parents. For Ashley.”

  “Maybe,” Miles said. “But you helped, too. Denny told me tonight that he submitted that letter for a few different scholarships. He’s already won two of them. And Eden … We were texting this morning. She told me what’s been going on. Writing your letter helped her.”

  “I still should’ve stopped when you said no. I’m sorry, Miles. I care about you so much, and I was a crappy friend. I shouldn’t have yelled at you last night. You don’t have to write a letter if you don’t want to.”

  He sighed. “Little late for that.”

  I looked at him, confused, as he reached into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a square of messily folded pages and handed them to me. I could feel the frayed edges of notebook paper, and I started to unfold them, even though it was too dark in the truck to read.

  “Don’t,” Miles said, holding up a hand. “Not … not in front of me. I can’t.”

  He opened the door of the truck and slid out. I stayed put, watching his shadow cross the yard, weave around the fence, and disappear next door.

  I waited a few minutes before climbing out myself. I wanted to make sure I was completely past the panic attack, that no lingering signs remained. I didn’t want to freak Mom out. She’d be a mess if she knew the harassment had escalated.

  Luckily, when I went inside, I found that she wasn’t home yet. She must’ve been working a later shift at the store.

  I went to my bedroom and stripped off my T-shirt and jeans, changing into the comfiest pajamas I could find. I climbed onto my bed, took a deep breath, and, when I was ready, unfolded the wad of pages Miles had given me.

  They were handwritten, in his messy, scratchy penmanship. And it was addressed to me.

  Dear Lee,

  I didn’t think I’d do this letter thing. I still don’t want to. But … I don’t know. I think I should. Not for the reasons you think it’s important. You think it’s better if the truth is out there, but for me, it’d be worse.

  I don’t want people to know the truth. Not my version of it.

  No. I guess that’s not right. I don’t care that much about other people. I don’t want you to know my story. The rest of the world can think whatever the hell they want about me, but you’re different. I can’t deal with the idea of you hating me. Which is why I never talk about what happened that day. But I can’t keep dodging this. I can’t handle lying to you anymore, so … I guess I’m writing a letter after all.

  God, I hope you don’t hate me after you read this.

  So, you know how everyone thinks I’m some kind of hero? Because I supposedly tried to protect Ashley or something? Well, all of that is bullshit. I’m not a hero. Not even close. In fact, someone is dead because of me.

  March 15 was my first day back from two weeks of suspension. I already knew I’d be repeating my sophomore year. I’d missed too much class, been in too many fights. Everyone was fed up with me by then. My grandmother, the principal, pretty much all of the teachers. The only person who wasn’t was Coach Nolan. He was my US History teacher, and he’d been trying to get me to join the football team all semester.

  “Might help you channel some of that aggression,” he’d said. “You could even get a scholarship if you get your act together.”

  I just shook my head every time he brought it up. Sports, especially team sports, have never worked for me.

  “Just think about it,” he said. “It’s not too late to turn things around.”

  For some reason, Coach Nolan believed I was more than just some punk-ass kid who couldn’t stay out of fights. He really wanted to see me do well, even when no one else thought I could.

  And I repaid him by getting him shot.

  I was pissed that morning—the morning of the shooting. I don’t remember why. I was always pissed about something. Coach Nolan had just given us a reading assignment, and everyone was opening their books, trying to get a jump start on their homework. Then some asshole senior behind me grabbed my beanie off my head.

  I turned around in my seat to face him. I’d been in detention with him before. He was just some jerk, a slacker who’d failed US History enough times to be taking it again his senior year. The kind of kid who shoved underclassmen against lockers for no reason. The kid who cursed at teachers and threw punches over nothing.

  I can’t remember that kid’s name now, but I remember that I hated him. Probably because I knew that, in two years, that’d be me.

  I tried to grab my hat back from him, but he held it over his head.

  “Hats are against the dress code, freak,” he said.

  “Give Mr. Mason his hat back,” Coach Nolan said, barely even looking at us.

  The kid rolled his eyes, but he did give it back. Because even if you didn’t like Coach Nolan, you respected him.

  I took my beanie and pulled it onto my head.

  “That is actually against dress code, though,” Coach Nolan said. But he gave me a quick smile, and I knew he wasn’t going to ask me to take it off. No one cared if I broke dress code just as long as I kept my fists to myself.

  “I was doing you a favor, freak,” the kid behind me said. “Trying to keep you from looking like the white trash you are.”

  I wanted to ignore him, but he kept going, whispering low enough that Coach Nolan couldn’t hear.

  “I know you live with your grandma,” he said. “Is that because your parents are in jail? Junkies? My guess is meth.”

  I know he was just trying to provoke me. He wanted a fight. He didn’t know me. Had no reason to hate me. And he was just taking a wild guess about my parents. Because he knew if anyone would rise to the bait and give him the fight he wa
nted, it’d be me. And he was right.

  I jumped out of my seat and threw a punch right at his face.

  He ducked and I missed, but I tried again. He was starting to stand up when Coach Nolan came behind me and grabbed my arm. “Enough,” he said before this asshole could get his swing in.

  I shook Coach Nolan off and folded my arms.

  He looked at me then. Completely disappointed. He didn’t say anything, but I knew what he was thinking. I’d been back a day, and I was already in trouble again. He was wondering if he should even bother with me anymore. That look hurt worse coming from him than it had from anyone else.

  “Come on, Mr. Mason,” he said. “We’re going to the office. The rest of you, keep reading until the bell rings. I’ll be back shortly.”

  We never made it to the office.

  I followed him out of the classroom. He glanced at me once as he walked, then turned to face forward again. “You have to cut this crap out, Miles,” he said. “You’re a smart kid. You’ve got potential. I keep trying to show you that and you just keep messing it up.”

  “Maybe quit trying, then,” I said.

  He sighed. “Maybe I should.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared down at my feet as we turned the corner.

  We heard the gunshots a second later. They were coming from down the hallway, near the old computer lab. Coach Nolan saw before I did. For a second, we both froze. Then Coach Nolan started to run. Not away from the kid with the gun but toward him. He knew that kid had a gun. He knew he could get killed. But he ran forward anyway. To help.

  Me? I just stood there.

  Ashley was running at us. I still have nightmares about that moment. About the look of terror on her face. And how she fell, tumbling forward onto the floor. And the blood.

  “Put down the gun!” Coach Nolan yelled. “Put it down! It’s not too—”

  It’s not too late. I know that was what he was gonna say. It’s what he always said to me. It’s not too late to do better. To stop. To turn things around.

  But it was, Lee. It was too late. Because before Coach Nolan could even finish that sentence, there were two bullet holes in his chest. I saw him freeze. Heard him gasp. I don’t know if it was from shock or pain. And then I watched him fall.