This Is How It Happened

by Paula Stokes

  “What?” I dig my phone out of my purse and open up Twitter in a browser window. Sure enough, I have 8,231 followers and more than two thousand new interactions. “This is insane.” I skim the most recent tweets that have tagged me:

  Shelly Webster @ericdismylove • 6m

  @GenevieveLGrace OMG. I heard that our #PrayForGenevieve campaign worked and you’re back at school! Is it true??

  Justine @Kadet4Ever • 11m

  @GenevieveLGrace I can’t wait until you get your memory back so you can testify against #BradFreeman. He’s a #drunkdriver and a #murderer.

  Patrick S @pxs1228 • 14m

  So @GenevieveLGrace is doing okay, but #BradFreeman is still a #liar and a #murderer who should pay for his crimes. #HumanWaste

  Meera Malik @vivalameera • 15m

  @GenevieveLGrace @RealTyrellJames I heard there was an eyewitness to the actual accident. Is that true?

  Izzy Rocks @izrockin • 17m

  @GenevieveLGrace Been listening to Younity all day. Might go get some #JusticeForDallas myself. #BradTheMurderer

  The last tweet has an animated GIF of an automatic weapon spraying bullets into the air. Shannon pulls out her phone and responds to it. Another tweet appears in my feed:

  Shannon Tate @shanrocks900 • 6s

  @izrockin @GenevieveLGrace Ha! I like the way you think! #JusticeForDallas #BradTheMurderer

  I close the browser window and stuff my phone back into my purse. “Don’t do that, okay?”

  “Do what?” Shannon flips to the camera function on her phone and checks her makeup. She rubs at a smudge of eyeliner with the tip of her pinky.

  “Feed the trolls.”

  The smile fades from Shannon’s face. “I was just showing my support for you and Dallas.”

  “I know,” I say. “But there’s nothing funny about death threats. And killing someone in a car accident doesn’t make you a murderer.”

  “You’re right,” Shannon says. “But that Freeman guy is old. He probably doesn’t even have a Twitter.”

  “He can still read it, you know.” I give her a pointed look.

  “I’m sorry, Gen. I’ll delete it. Twitter will probably delete the original tweet too.” Shannon drops her voice. “But why are you defending Brad Freeman?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Some of the stuff people are saying, especially online, is really uncalled for. I guess I know what it’s like to feel guilty that Dallas died and I didn’t.”

  “But Freeman deserves to feel guilty,” Shannon says.

  “Yeah, but still. No one’s asinine tweets are going to bring back Dallas.” My voice gets louder with each sentence. “I just wish everyone would stop talking about it.”

  Shannon glances around. The girls at the next locker are staring at me. One of them is wearing a “Try This at Home” T-shirt.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I lower my voice as I turn back to Shannon. “I know everyone misses him. I know they feel bad. But what am I supposed to say to all these people? Thank you? Me too? I’m sorry I didn’t die instead of him?”

  “Genevieve.” Shannon’s face goes pale. She reaches for my hand. “No one thinks you should’ve died instead of Dallas.”

  “Forget it.” I lower myself to the tile floor of the hallway, wincing as I extend my injured leg out in front of me. “So you need my Calc homework or what?”

  “You’re caught up on your homework?” Shannon asks incredulously.

  “It gave me something to do when I wasn’t reliving every moment of that night over and over trying to remember what happened.”

  “You seriously don’t remember?”

  “Nope. The doctors say I probably will eventually, but right now it’s mostly a blank.” I pull my Calculus textbook out of my backpack. “Fortunately for you, I still remember Pappus’s Theorem.”

  “Well, in that case, let’s compare answers.” Shannon grabs her own book from the locker and sits next to me, stretching her long legs out in front of her.

  “Wait wait wait. You did your Calc homework?”

  “You’ve been out of class for two weeks, Gen. I only had two options—learn to do my own work or find a replacement for you. Do you know how hard it is to find someone both smart enough to get A’s in Calc and cool enough that I actually want to spend time with them?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s probably why I do my own work too.” Well, that and the fact that my mom would probably disown me if she caught me cheating.

  We quickly go through our assignment, stopping to recheck and correct a couple of problems where we ended up with different answers. “I can’t believe we’re going to be out of here in two weeks,” Shannon says. “Are you still going to work in your mom’s lab?”

  “I think so. Mom is a big fan of faking it till you make it. She won’t want me to change my plans because of . . . everything.”

  “You know I’m here if you ever need to talk, right?”

  I nod. “Right now I just can’t.” Back in the hospital I might have opened up to Shannon, but I’ve spent so many days thinking about the accident that for me there’s nothing left to say. All I really want is to know what happened, and why. Shannon can’t help me with either of those things.

  “Okay. God, I’m so glad you’re back. The last couple weeks have been hell.” Shannon adjusts the lowest of her three buns, shaking out the hair and reworking it back into a tight circle. “Oh, random, but why are you wearing a scarf on your head?”

  “Good question. It covers the ginormous bald stripe and scary staples I am currently rocking. I thought maybe I could bring back the nineties.”

  Shannon makes a face. “More like the seventies. And probably not.” She cocks her head to the side and studies me. “Would a headband cover it? A thicker one, like Alison in Orphan Black?”

  Shannon is a self-taught hairstyle expert who vlogs about style and hair design. She also manages to stay current on a wide variety of TV shows. “Is Alison the soccer mom?” I ask. “Maybe. But will that make me look thirty-five?”

  “Possibly, but you won’t look like a time traveler. Let me think on it.” Shannon hops to her feet and then bends down to help me back up. She slams her locker and gives me another quick hug. “See you at lunch.”

  Her buns remain firmly in place, like the spikes down the back of a stegosaurus, as she heads for her first class. A dull ache blooms in the pit of my stomach. I wish I could follow her. Sighing, I grab my own books and head for AP Physics.

  And then the rest of the day goes downhill like an out-of-control skier.

  Exhibit A: In first period, my teacher pauses for a moment right in the middle of taking attendance to welcome me back. “My deepest condolences, Miss Grace,” she says. “Please know that if you need to cry or otherwise express yourself, that is completely acceptable and my classroom is a safe space free from judgment.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try my hardest to refrain from . . . emotional outbursts.” Everyone turns to look at me, and I’m half expecting the class to rise into a standing ovation or burst into spontaneous applause. Instead, the girl in the front row who sometimes gets misty-eyed during “The Star-Spangled Banner” sniffles into a Kleenex and most of the boys slouch awkwardly or stare right through me.

  Exhibit B: On the way to second-period Calculus, I pass at least three different kids playing “Younity” on their phones. One of them is crying, I mean all-out bawling, as if Dallas were her brother or best friend or something. When I see all those tears, I can’t help but think about what Dallas would say if he were here. “I didn’t realize she and I were so close,” Ghost-Dallas murmurs in my ear. “What’s her name again?”

  “No idea,” I say.

  The janitor happens to be passing by with a mop and bucket and gives me a strange look.

  Nothing to see here, I think. Just a crazy girl talking to a dead boy.

  Exhibit C: Ciara Clark, the girl who emailed me about a feature post on her KadetKorps fan site, corners me the second I w
alk into third hour. “Genevieve,” she squeals, her dark curls bouncing as she practically skips over to my desk. She wraps an arm around my shoulder like we’re suddenly best friends. “OMG. I am so sorry for your loss. Well, the whole world’s loss, really.” Before I can even answer, she’s got her phone out, snapping a picture of the two of us.

  “What are you doing?” I back away from her.

  “My readers know that I go to school with you. I have to give them something. You wouldn’t be willing to share Dallas’s last words, would you? It’d be a great exclusive for SCCKadetKorps-dot-com.”

  “No,” I say. “I still don’t remember that night and I don’t want to be on your website, Ciara.”

  “Oh, come on,” she wheedles. “You look great. You know, considering. You can even make up some last words if you want. I’d go with something super-romantic, like—”

  Luckily, the bell rings and Ciara is forced to shuffle off to her seat on the other side of the room before she can finish her thought. But as my World History teacher starts taking attendance, I keep thinking about how messed up it is that I don’t know Dallas’s last words. Did I even get a chance to say good-bye? The pressure of not knowing wraps itself around me, crushing down on my chest. I spend the entire lecture going through that night again. Why can’t I remember?

  Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any worse, my teacher runs out of slides about the Vikings and tells us to spend the last fifteen minutes of class reading the next chapter in the textbook. I stare at the print, but the words are just a blur of ink.

  The kid sitting next to me, a dark-haired guy named Jake who gets a lot of in-school suspensions, passes me a note. I don’t want to read it but he’s staring at me like I’m stupid, so I unfold the page with a sigh.

  Sorry about Dallas. You got any notes or T-shirts or stuff of his you want to get rid of? There’s a huge demand for his stuff on eBay. I can do the posting and selling and split the profits 50/50. Oh, and if you have any pictures of the accident or the smashed-up cars, that would also be an epic moneymaker.

  My throat starts to close up. Is this guy seriously asking me to help him profit from Dallas’s death? I crumple up the note and shove it in my pocket. Without looking at Jake, I slide out of my chair and limp up to the teacher’s desk. “Can I get a bathroom pass?” I ask. “I meant to go between classes, but it takes me forever to go up and down the stairs and I ran out of time.”

  “Of course, Genevieve,” my teacher says soothingly. He starts to write my name on a slip of paper. “Did you want one of the other girls in the class to go with you?”

  “Um, no. I think I can pee by myself, but I’m going to bring my books so I can go straight to lunch if that’s all right.” I snatch the pass from his hand without waiting for an answer. Out in the hallway, I take in a deep breath of air. The crushing feeling dissipates slightly. I pass right by the bathroom and back to my locker. Someone has decorated the outside of it with sympathy cards and pictures of Dallas they printed out online. Seriously? In what world do people think calling attention to the fact my boyfriend is dead every five seconds could possibly be helpful? Tears well in my eyes as I pull down the pictures. “Everyone loved you,” I whisper. “It should’ve been me.”

  I shove my books into my bag and slam my locker. “I tried, Mom,” I mutter under my breath. Then I head for home.

  CHAPTER 8

  My mom calls at what should be the end of sixth period but instead is me back in bed with the covers pulled over my head.

  I have never cut class before. I’ve never even thought about cutting class. I have no idea if she’s going to tear into me or have Dr. Chao make a house call. I cross my fingers that it won’t be the first one. The half-mile walk home took me twice as long as usual, and I don’t have the energy to get into an argument with her. I take in a deep breath, blow it out, and then answer the phone.

  “Genevieve. Where are you? The school called and said you never showed up to your afternoon classes.”

  “I went home early.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I tried, Mom. But school is . . .” I pause for a second to come up with the right word. “Unbearable.”

  She exhales in a way that indicates a forthcoming lecture. “Why is it unbearable?”

  “People won’t stop talking about Dallas.” I hear someone in the background ask for more 5.0 Prolene and it occurs to me that my mom is talking to me in the middle of some kid’s heart surgery. “We can talk about this tonight if you’re busy,” I say.

  “Stitch,” she says sharply, and then to me, “I can multitask. Dallas was their friend and your boyfriend. Your grief is their grief too.”

  It’s similar to what Shannon said, and I’m sure for some kids that it’s true. But I feel like half the school are misery-mongers, people who just want to get in on a big event so they can post about it on their blog or Facebook later.

  “Genevieve?” my mom prompts.

  “I know,” I say. “But some people really suck. This girl in third hour took my picture to post on her KadetKorps blog and then this boy asked me if I had any Dallas memorabilia he could sell on eBay. I don’t want to go back. I’m not ready to deal with all that.”

  “Stitch.” A pause and then another sigh. “I forgot how thoughtless kids could be. We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

  “All right. Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you,” she says.

  I wait for the “but” that usually follows those three words, as in “You know I love you, but you’re being overdramatic or too sensitive. . . .”

  This time my mom doesn’t feel the need to tack on a qualifier. A warm feeling spreads in my chest. “I love you too,” I say.

  Just as I hang up, my phone buzzes again. I realize I have four texts from Shannon.

  Shannon: Where are you? Someone said you went to the bathroom in World History and never came back.

  Shannon: Did you fall in? Seriously, G. Are you skipping lunch today or what?

  Shannon: Did you go to the nurse? Are you skipping class?? Please respond. I’m worried about you.

  Shannon: You have five minutes to answer this or I’m calling the hospital and having them page your mom.

  Me: Sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was resting.

  Shannon: Resting?

  Me: I went home.

  Shannon: Why?

  Me: Because our classmates are idiots. This kid in 3rd hour wanted to know if I had any of Dallas’s stuff to sell and Ciara Clark asked me if I’d tell her Dallas’s last words for a blog exclusive.

  Shannon: WTF? I hate that girl. Were you and Dallas still fighting when it happened?

  Me: What?

  Shannon: You know. You texted me that night and said you thought it was over.

  My phone starts to shake in my hands.

  Me: What did I say exactly? Can you screen shot it for me?

  Shannon: Sure. You don’t remember that either? I figured you just didn’t want to talk about it.

  I wait for the image of my text to appear. I skim the words.

  Me: Thanks. I gotta go.

  Shannon: Are you all right? Do you want me to come by? I can bail on swim practice if you need me.

  The last thing I want is for this whole thing to mess up Shannon’s life too.

  Me: I’m fine. Don’t skip practice for me. I’ll text you later.

  Shannon: Okay, if you’re sure. All the hugs.

  Me: All the <333

  I read and reread the texts I sent her that night, and another memory begins to piece itself together in my brain.

  CHAPTER 9

  MAY 12

  I was just about to head back inside when a silhouette at the far side of the yard, almost all the way to Tyrell’s six-foot privacy fence, caught my eye. I squeezed past the partygoers and took the narrow wooden steps down to the grass. I froze up as I got close. It was Dallas, but he wasn’t alone. He was talking to a girl I didn’t recognize. She re
sted one hand on his shoulder in a way that looked more than familiar. “Dallas?” I said, trying to hold my voice steady.

  The girl spun around, her hand falling from his shoulder back to her side. “We’ll talk more later,” she said. She gave Dallas a beauty pageant wave and then headed across the lawn.

  He had a look on his face that I couldn’t quite interpret—a mix of surprise and amusement, with a twist of something else thrown in. Something like . . . pleasure.

  “Was that her?” I kicked one foot at the damp grass.

  “Huh?” Dallas ran a hand through his hair. “Who?”

  “You know who,” I snapped.

  Dallas looked from me to the girl’s disappearing form and back to me, as if maybe he missed something. “What are you talking about, Genna?”

  “The girl you hooked up with,” I said through gritted teeth. “Was that her?”

  Dallas sighed deeply. “This again?”

  I lifted up my hands in mock surrender. “Oh, sorry. Am I making too big of a deal out of you cheating on me?”

  Dallas swore under his breath. “That was Tyrell’s half sister, Raelyn.”

  “Pretty,” I said. And then, “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “No, Genevieve. That’s not the girl I hooked up with,” Dallas said.

  Just hearing him say the words was like being given a series of injections, the type that burn going in and then make you feel achy and sore later.

  “She was all over you,” I said calmly.

  He shrugged. “She’s kind of touchy-feely. She’s also dating a football player from Mizzou.”

  “So why were you guys out here all alone?” I glanced around the yard, making sure there was no one lingering nearby who might’ve been eavesdropping. After Dallas became famous, I realized that our words were no longer our own unless we protected them. As beloved as he was in the media, I was sure there were plenty of bloggers and reporters who would’ve loved to break a juicy story about clean-cut, boy-next-door Dallas Kade being a cheater.

  “We were talking about Tyrell. He’s been working his ass off promoting our songs and my album, so I wanted to buy him something as a surprise. I was DMing Raelyn on Twitter the other day and she promised she’d try to come up with some ideas.” He paused. “That’s what we were doing out here all alone.”