This Is How It Happened

by Paula Stokes

  I spend the next few days holed up in my room working on last-minute school stuff, not venturing farther away from the house than going outside to grab the mail from the curb. On the weekend, Dad and Rachael invite me to go with them to a barbecue that one of Dad’s colleagues is throwing in St. George, but I tell them I have to study for finals.

  Then on Tuesday I wake up at five a.m. when my phone starts to blow up with text alerts. It’s Shannon.

  Her: I know you’re probably sleeping, but call me when you get this.

  Her: It’s not true what people are saying, is it? I’m your best friend. You would tell me, right?

  Her: It makes a weird sort of sense, though. It would explain why you were so upset at school, and why you were in such a hurry to get out of town.

  Panic rattles my insides. I don’t know what Shannon is going on about, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

  Me: I WAS sleeping. What are you talking about?

  Her: This.

  There’s a link attached to the message. I exhale a deep breath before I open it.

  THE SCOOP

  Was Dallas Kade About to Be a Father?

  QUINN KING, 2 hours ago

  New information has come to light regarding the death of YouTube sensation Dallas Kade, a Fusion recording artist whose first single “Younity (featuring Tyrell James)” debuted at number eleven on the Billboard Top 40 charts and has been at number one for the past two weeks.

  Kade’s girlfriend, Genevieve Grace, who was driving Kade’s car the night he died, has vanished, leaving the people of her affluent Lake St. Louis community to wonder where she went . . . and why.

  Sources close to Genevieve have informed us that she was pregnant the night of the car accident, and that her abrupt departure is because she has gone into seclusion after the loss of her unborn baby. Neither Genevieve nor her mother, Elena Grace, MD, were available to comment on this story.

  Criminal defense attorney Max Collier from Collier and Dunst Legal, who is not personally involved in this case, informed us that if Grace was in fact pregnant the night of the accident, and the accident was determined to have ended her pregnancy, Brad Freeman might find himself charged with not one, but two counts of vehicular manslaughter.

  Recent Comments:

  dallasismybae: awww. this is so sad :( i hope it’s wrong and that genevieve has just gone into hiding so she can have the baby without people bothering her. she seems so nice.

  SoccerStar5151: Two of my friends go to school with Genevieve and apparently one of the teachers said she’s still pregnant and her doctor might have put her on bedrest until the baby is born.

  pxs1228: If she really had a miscarriage because of the accident, I hope they decide to charge Freeman with murder, or at least two counts of manslaughter.

  CeliaRN0612: it might depend on how far along she was, whether the fetus was viable outside the womb at the time of the accident.

  Kadet4Ever: I read on a message board that the source for this article was actually a member of Dallas’s family.

  Lila Ferrier: link?

  “This is ridiculous,” I mutter. It’s no one’s business where I am or whether I’m pregnant, and there’s no way my teachers or anyone in Dallas’s family would be gossiping about it. I can’t help but feel a slight sense of relief, though. If people believe this is true, they’ll probably be less likely to try to hunt me down.

  I log on to Twitter and sure enough, almost all the tweets mentioning me are talking about this story and how everyone should #PrayForGenevieve and #RememberDallas and demand #JusticeForDallas. I scroll through the first few tweets in my notifications feed:

  Karla French @klf1222 • 6m

  @GenevieveLGrace omg gurl. i lost a baby in a car accident too. I know just how ur feeling. hang tight. and remember god is luv.

  Aksel @VictoryIzzMine • 11m

  @GenevieveLGrace I hope that SOB #BradFreeman gets charged with 2 murders. Don’t let him scare you away from testifying!! #JusticeForDallas

  The Mad Marvel @psylockeshock • 17m

  Hey @GenevieveLGrace, the #KadetKorps has got your back. Wherever you are, we’re all thinking of you and wishing you well #PrayForGenevieve

  I notice that my followers have increased from eight thousand to twelve thousand. I log off Twitter and call Shannon. “I am not, nor have I ever been, pregnant,” I tell her. “I don’t know who these ‘sources’ are, but they need to stop making shit up.”

  “I’m so relieved,” she says. “I mean, of course I would support you if it were true. But just the thought that you felt like you had to go to Utah and avoid all your friends was horrible. You know you can always confide in me, right?”

  “I know,” I say softly. And I wish it were true. But I feel like there’s a statute of limitations on secrets. If I tell her I’m worried I might have caused the accident, she’ll want to know everything that happened at Tyrell’s house, and that probably means telling her about Dallas cheating on me. And if I tell her that, she’s going to be hurt that I kept it a secret for so long. “Hey,” I say, as my feed updates with additional notifications. “I’m going to delete my social media accounts so random strangers will quit bothering me.”

  “Seriously?” Shannon asks. “But . . . what will you do? I mean, how will you talk to people?”

  “Shan, you’re one of the only people I want to talk to, and you’ll still be my friend if I don’t like all your Instagrams and YouTube vids, right?”

  “Of course. I just . . . I can’t imagine giving up social media. Aren’t you going to be bored?”

  “I don’t know. Rachael says I should go outside or something. But I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding you, okay? You’d better still text me.”

  “I will,” Shannon says. “Outside, huh? Like, for fun? Very retro-chic. I trust you will email me some pictures of small-town Southwestern style so I can poach anything good and pretend I invented it?”

  I snicker. “You know it.”

  “I just wish I was closer so I could give you a hug.”

  “All the hugs for you,” I say.

  “And all the hearts for you,” Shannon says.

  It’s the way we usually sign off on our texts, only reversed.

  Shannon swallows back a yawn. “I should go find some coffee so I don’t fall asleep during one of my finals.”

  “Just think. A few more days and you’ll be able to sleep in.”

  “Hardly. I have to be at the pool by seven a.m.”

  “Oh, right, I almost forgot.” Shannon works as a lifeguard during the summer. My only summer job has been working for my mom in her lab. I suddenly dread the idea of an entire summer without any specific place to be. Maybe I can find a coffee shop or something around here that needs someone for part-time work.

  But as soon as I think of that, I think of handing over my driver’s license to some college-aged hiring manager. She’ll see the name Genevieve Grace and ask where she’s seen it before. Or she’ll just Google me.

  Maybe I can register for an online college course or two instead.

  “I should go call my mom so she doesn’t freak out if she saw this article,” I say. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “Okay. Take care,” Shannon says. “And remember, send me some pictures!”

  “Will do.” I end the call and find my mom’s number in my contacts menu. It’s going on six-thirty a.m. there, so she’s probably already at work. For a minute I debate letting it go—after all, she’s probably not stalking the Dallas Kade newsfeeds. Then again, it would be bad if she heard about my fake pregnancy from one of the scrub nurses. With a sinking feeling, I tap the screen.

  The phone rings twice and then my mom comes on the line. “Are you calling about the newest articles?” she asks. No “Hello, how are you?” No “I miss you.” Straight to business—that’s my mom for you.

  “Yeah. Sorry to call so early. I just wanted to assure you I’m not, nor have I ever been, pregnant.”

  “
Oh, I know that, honey. The hospital does a pregnancy test on everyone of childbearing age before they’re given any kind of scan. Of course your initial CT was emergent and done before the results came back, but if you were pregnant, your father and I would’ve been informed.” She pauses. “I’m more worried about the other rumor.”

  “What other rumor?”

  “The one that says the real reason you left town was because Brad Freeman threatened you. Did that man make any kind of contact with you?”

  “What? Someone is saying that now? No, Mom. I have had no contact with Brad Freeman. How can people write articles that aren’t true? Do you think I should respond and tell them they’re wrong?”

  “I wouldn’t,” my mom says. “It’ll just fan the flames. Plus, it’ll make it easier for tech-savvy types to find out where you are.”

  “Good point. I didn’t even think of that. Has anyone asked you where I am?”

  “The police know, but they won’t tell anyone. Some reporter called me on the phone and I told him you were spending the summer with your grandparents. Let him hunt for you in South Dakota or Michigan, or Africa for that matter.”

  “Do you think they’ll eventually find me?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how deep they dig. Hopefully something else will come along to distract them,” my mom says. “But enough about all that. What else is going on? Why are you awake so early?”

  “Shannon texted me. That’s how I found out about the article.”

  “Ah. Are you still working on stuff for Ridgehaven?”

  “I’m almost finished,” I say. “I already emailed in three final projects. I just need Dad to watch me take a couple of online exams and sign off on them. But I should finish everything by the deadline, so I’ll get my grades on time.”

  “Good, good,” my mom says. “And you’re sure you won’t regret not walking in your graduation ceremony?”

  I heard before I left that graduation was going to be dedicated to Dallas’s memory, with a slide show of him before the ceremony and music from his album playing on the way in and out of the auditorium. I’m surprised no one asked me to give a speech.

  “Positive,” I say. “It’s high school. It doesn’t mean that much.”

  “I see,” Mom says. “So what else are you doing there? I assume your stepmother has taken you to see the national park?”

  “I haven’t done much of anything yet,” I admit. “I’ll get out and see some stuff once I finish my finals.”

  “Are you unhappy? You can always come home if you want.” My mom says it lightly, but I can sense the loneliness beneath her words.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I guess I’m just afraid someone will recognize me and start asking me questions.”

  “Oh, honey. You are completely entitled to tell anyone who bothers you that what happened is none of their business. Please don’t let that fear keep you cooped up in the house all summer. Your father and I might not see eye to eye on most things, but I completely agree with him that where he lives has breathtaking scenery and loads of outdoor activities, and you should take advantage of that stuff while you’re there.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I will. Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you,” she says.

  “Love you too.” I disconnect the call and set my cell phone back onto my nightstand. Maybe I do need to get over my obsessive fear of being recognized. But that doesn’t mean I have to listen to people spreading lies about me online.

  I go from Twitter to Tumblr to Instagram to YouTube to Facebook, deleting all my social media profiles. Each time I zap another electronic version of Genevieve Grace out of existence, I feel a little bit lighter. I might not be able to escape my own thoughts about the accident, but I can escape everyone else’s.

  Running away, that voice in my head reminds me.

  I shush it. There’s nothing wrong with tuning out a bunch of hurtful gossip and speculation from random strangers. If anyone has anything important to say, I’m sure I’ll hear about it one way or another.

  CHAPTER 14

  My fingertips are trembling as I close my laptop. I take in a deep breath and shake out my muscles. I go to my bedroom window and slide open the glass. The early morning sky looks in at me, all purple-black and hazy, wide swatches of clouds blotting out the moon. The desert breeze snaps the silky cloth of an American flag hanging in front of the house across the street.

  Yawning, I open up the dresser and pull out a pair of running shorts and a top. Quietly, I change into my clothes and tie my hair back into a ponytail, covering my scar with a purple headband. I slip on my shoes and open my door a crack.

  There’s a light on under the bathroom door, which means either Dad or Rachael is already awake. Not surprising, since they both start work early. I tiptoe quickly down the hallway and let myself out the front door.

  Outside, the desert wraps around me—walls of red sandstone, the rounded silhouettes of prickly pear cacti, grains of sand swirling like miniature storms at my ankles. Stars peek through breaks in the clouds. I had no idea anywhere could be so beautiful in the dark.

  I turn in the direction of the national park and start running. My feet pound the asphalt. I breathe in deeply. This is the first time I’ve run since the accident, and my body aches from the impact of each stride, but it’s a good kind of pain, like my muscles are waking up after a long nap. My heart keeps pace with my feet.

  My mind stays blissfully blank as I run, my eyes taking in the scenery that’s waking up around me. The shop windows are all still dark, but as the sky lightens, the massive rock formations off in the distance become clearer. I remember what my dad said in the car about how the Virgin River carved out this whole area between the cliffs. Not such a weak river after all.

  It takes me about fifteen minutes of running to reach the entrance to Zion. There’s a separate entrance for pedestrians across a parking lot of restaurants and camping shops. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon and there’s no one in the ticket booth yet, so I can just wander right in. I pause inside the gate to consider a map of the park so I don’t get lost.

  Even though it’s still early, the air is already beginning to grow warm. I wish I’d brought something to drink with me. I glance around, looking for a place to get water. The Zion Canyon Visitor Center complex is huge—a sprawling network of concrete filled with educational displays. The actual building is centrally located and not open yet, but there’s a second building across the way.

  I squint and can just barely make out a sign that says “Restrooms” and a water fountain between the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Perfect. I cross the parking lot, cutting in front of a white pickup truck.

  A guy in a gray uniform shirt that looks like Rachael’s is sitting in the driver’s seat. He’s staring down at his phone, his thumbs rapidly tapping out a message to someone.

  The guy doesn’t even look up as I head for the drinking fountain. Bending over, I gulp some cool water. As I’m heading back out to the road, the guy gets out of the truck and I realize he’s about the same age as me.

  He puts down the truck bed and starts to unload a long beam of lumber. His arm muscles go tense beneath skin that is tanned from outdoor work, but I can tell he’s not plain white like me. Part Hawaiian maybe, or Native American.

  The wood is probably ten feet long, and even though this boy’s biceps are pretty massive, he’s struggling a bit due to the awkward proportions.

  “Do you need some help?” I ask. This is the first sentence I’ve spoken to anyone in Utah who isn’t Dad or Rachael.

  The boy turns toward the sound of my voice and nearly hits me with the beam he’s carrying. “Jesus,” he mutters. And then, “Sorry. You scared the shit out of me.” His dark eyes take in my outfit. “Early morning run?”

  “Yeah.” I scoot out of the way so he has more room to maneuver the beam.

  “Do you have a park pass?”

  “Uh . . .” I start. “There was no one in the
booth. I was just curious to look around. I didn’t mean to sneak in.” I back away from him slightly.

  His lips twitch. “So you’re just out trespassing and sneaking up on park staff?”

  “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you either. I’ll leave if you want. That just looks awkward, like maybe you could use a second set of hands.”

  “I’m supposed to have some help, but I don’t think he’s going to show.” The boy shakes his head in disgust. “The problem with volunteers is that they mean well, but there’s no sense of commitment.”

  “I can commit to helping carry all four of those,” I offer, pointing at the wood. “You know, in exchange for my breaking and entering.”

  The boy chuckles. “If there’s been any breaking, I don’t want to know about it.” He looks me up and down again, as if he’s not convinced I can even carry half of a beam. “This would be faster with a second person. You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Okay, then.” The boy sets the beam on the ground and grabs a pair of gloves out of the cab of the truck. He tosses them to me. They’re about three sizes too big, but they’ll protect my hands from getting splinters.

  “I’m Elliott,” he says. “We’re just taking these over there to where that railing is damaged.” He points at an area that overlooks the Virgin River. “I’m going to cut them down with a power saw later.”

  “Okay.” I take the back half of the beam and we set off across the clearing together. We’re almost there when a rustling down by my feet makes me stop sharply.

  Elliott glances back over his shoulder. “Rock squirrel. They’re everywhere.”

  The little rodent dashes across the clearing and disappears behind a sagebrush plant. Elliott and I set the beam down in a grassy area. As he bends over, a carved pendant on a black cord slips out from beneath his collar. He tucks it under his shirt as we both turn back to the truck.

  We’re on the fourth and final beam when the walkie-talkie on Elliott’s waistband crackles to life.