This Is How It Happened

by Paula Stokes

  “Cactus Cooler?” I say dubiously. “It’s not prickly pear flavored or anything, is it?”

  “You’ll like it. Trust me.”

  Shrugging, I pop the top. “Looks like orange soda to me.” I take a long drink, surprised by the twist of something tangy running through the sweetness. “Wow, that’s tasty.”

  “It’s orange-pineapple,” Elliott explains.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” Halley says. “But FYI, prickly pear is delicious.” She gestures toward the lodge behind us. “The gift shop sells prickly pear everything—chocolate, caramels, jelly, you name it.”

  “Prickly pear jelly?” I wrinkle up my nose.

  “Don’t knock it till you try it,” Rachael says. She drops down to the ground next to the rest of us and starts distributing the sandwiches. The three of us eat mostly in silence. I watch some of the lodge guests toss a Frisbee around. A Zion Park shuttle pulls up and a bunch of people pour out—mostly retirees and families with little kids. I smile to myself when I think about how soon they’ll have a special trail just for them.

  After we finish eating, I return to digging the trench. Rachael hangs out with us and helps for a while. She verifies Halley’s placement of the flags and moves a couple to adjust the path of the trail just slightly. Then she picks up a Pulaski and goes to town on the dirt. She doesn’t necessarily look like she’s in good shape, but she has incredible strength and endurance.

  “I’m amazed by how much progress we’ve made in a single day,” she says.

  “Me too,” Elliott says. “You didn’t tell us your stepdaughter was Superwoman.”

  I grin. My hands and arms and back are aching from using the Pulaski for hours, but there’s no denying that the three of us did a ton of work today.

  “See you tomorrow,” Elliott says as I hop into Rachael’s Jeep.

  “Bye.” I give him a half wave.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Before I can even fumble it out of my pocket, another text comes in. My fingers close around my warm plastic case and I tap at the screen. Two messages from Shannon. The first one says: Genevieve? Are you there? The second one is marked 911 but it’s just two words: Call me.

  CHAPTER 17

  The second I’m home and inside the safety of my room, I call Shannon back.

  “What’s up?” I ask when she answers the phone.

  “Freeman is trying to pin the accident on you,” she says.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Everyone figures that this is a ploy cooked up by his attorney. Since you never remembered exactly what happened that night and the crash site evidence was deemed inconclusive, if Freeman can convince jurors you caused the wreck, it might be enough to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Oh.” I lie back on my bed, my brain spinning. With everything going on at Zion, I had almost managed to forget about Brad Freeman.

  “Oh?” Shannon repeats, her voice incredulous. “I figured you would be, like, screaming mad. This asshole gets drunk, gets behind the wheel, hits you, kills your boyfriend, causes you to need dangerous brain surgery, causes so much interference in your life that you move across the country to escape it, and now he’s trying to say it was all your fault. And your response is ‘Oh’?”

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice wavering. “I’m just in shock, I guess. What about the eyewitnesses? And the DWI?”

  “Freeman is insisting that the blood test is inaccurate. He admits to having a couple of drinks after work that night, but not enough to impair his driving or put him over the legal limit. The bartender and two of his coworkers are vouching for him not being drunk, and apparently he and his lawyer are contesting the BAC results because the hospital did the test different than police officers do it or some bullshit.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed. And according to his lawyer, none of the eyewitnesses are credible. The one who saw the actual accident is supposedly a huge Dallas Kade fan who couldn’t have clearly seen the road that night from her bedroom window as claimed.” Shannon huffs. “And there are some lovely quotes online from Freeman’s lawyer about the rate of accidents among teenage drivers, and how isn’t it possible that you were reaching down to change a CD or texting or something?”

  “No, because Dallas’s car didn’t even have a CD player, and who would I be texting at one-fifteen in the morning?”

  “Right? And they could pull your phone records to verify that. Don’t panic. I’m so sorry to bring this up. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate it.” Blood pounds in my ears. Genna, what are you doing? The fear in Dallas’s voice was almost palpable. But was it real? I close my eyes and try to return to that moment. I see the road. I see the rain. And then I see the flashing lights and firefighters.

  I swear under my breath.

  “What?” Shannon says.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about something. Anything good to report?”

  “Let’s see. There’s a totally hot lifeguard who started working at the pool with me. His name is Niko. He says he’s Greek, but I’m pretty sure he’s just a regular American with a decent fake accent. I mean, who moves from Greece to Wentzville, Missouri?”

  “Good point. What’s he like aside from being a possible fraud?”

  “Well, I can’t say I know him that well yet. It’s only been a few days.” She pauses to take a breath and then launches into the story of how they met.

  I let Shannon tell me all about Niko while I log on to my laptop and do a search for Brad Freeman. A slew of articles pop up. I click on the first one from today.

  REALE NEWS NOW

  Bradley Freeman Claims Innocence in Dallas Kade Death

  CHRIS REALE, 4 hours ago

  In his first press interview since waking up in the hospital after being part of a car crash on May 13 that left Fusion Records performer and YouTube sensation Dallas Kade dead, Bradley Freeman insists it was Genevieve Grace, not him, who caused the accident.

  Freeman said he recently regained all memories from that night, and he can clearly recall being in his proper lane on Highway Z as he returned home from work, seeing the glow of headlights from around a bend in the road, and then making the curve only to find the other car in his path with barely any time to brake and no time to figure out how to get out of the way.

  Normally in fatal crashes, an accident reconstruction team can analyze the position of the cars after impact, the skid marks on the road, and other technical elements of the event to determine what really happened. However, heavy rain the night of the accident washed away skid marks as well as bits of glass and debris that could have been helpful.

  Freeman was charged with DWI and one count of vehicular manslaughter after his BAC came back at .083. One eyewitness who lives on Highway Z claims to have seen the accident, and two others came forward to say they had seen him driving erratically that night. Freeman’s lawyer, Roderick De Laurentis, said he plans to challenge the BAC results and that the eyewitness testimony would prove unreliable in this case.

  Genevieve Grace was not available for comment, but a spokesperson for the Grace family was quick to point out that Grace has a spotless driving record. Grace suffered a life-threatening brain injury in the crash and has still not recovered her memories.

  Recent Comments:

  DadsagainstDD: WHAT A BUNCH OF BULL****. WHAT KIND OF GROWN MAN USES A TEEN GIRL’S MEMORY LOSS AND TRIES TO BLAME HER FOR AN ACCIDENT AFTER HE ADMITS TO DRINKING AND DRIVING?

  Jayden Pierce: A delusional one. Or one with a really savvy lawyer. This dude needs to be locked up.

  pxs1228: How do you suppose he is affording Roderick De Laurentis anyway?

  Izrockin: [Comment has been removed by an administrator.]

  Chris Reale: I heard De Laurentis is doing this case pro bono. I respect your passion, commenters, but please remember to abide by the terms and conditions of posting on Reale News Now. Death threats or verbal abuse will not be tolerated.

  Allison
_in_Hell: What’s funny is that if you drive drunk and hit a homeless veteran, no one cares, but hit a YouTube star and you’re Public Enemy #1. Sometimes I hate the world we live in.

  A spokesperson for the Grace family. I wonder if that was my mother or if she opted to get her lawyer involved to handle the inquiries.

  Shannon is now telling me each thing Niko has said to her since they met, overanalyzing his words to find some hidden meaning. “Do you think he likes me?”

  “Uh . . . it sounds promising,” I say. I hit the back button on my browser and scan the next article about Freeman.

  THE SCOOP

  Brad Freeman Blames Dallas Kade’s Girlfriend for Accident

  QUINN KING, 3 hours ago

  Cyberspace is buzzing today after Brad Freeman, the former paramedic charged with vehicular manslaughter in the death of Fusion recording artist Dallas Kade, made a public statement blaming Genevieve Grace for the accident that left Kade dead and Freeman and Grace in critical condition early last month.

  According to Freeman, he didn’t drink enough for his driving to be impaired and it was Grace, not he, who caused the accident by veering onto his side of Highway Z in Wentzville, Missouri. Several eyewitnesses to Freeman’s erratic driving have come forward, including one who witnessed the accident through her bedroom window, but Freeman and his lawyer say those people are all mistaken.

  What do you think, Scoopers? Sound off in the comments like I know you love to.

  Recent Comments:

  The Black Death: Freeman better watch his back. I am Justice and I am coming for him, and ain’t gonna be pretty.

  boxxofmonkees: Hey guys. I started a Fire Brad Freeman Facebook page if you’re interested. Every person who posts on it has been tagging Eight Ball Bar & Grill in New Melle, MO, Freeman’s place of employment. Be sure to share it and tell your friends to boycott Eight Ball until they fire this lying sack of ****

  Brad_Freeman27: My lawyer told me not to comment on any of these articles but I’m sick of hiding. Please take down that Facebook page and stop calling my work. I understand why people are angry, but I’ve been charged and there’s going to be a trial. Please don’t get me fired. I need my job.

  pxs1228: Well look who it is. You should have thought about how you needed your job before you got wasted after work, got in your truck, and killed a rising celebrity.

  Brad_Freeman27: I didn’t get wasted and I didn’t kill anyone. You’ll see.

  pxs1228: Says you. I feel sorry for your mother, having to watch her son take advantage of a teen girl’s brain injury to try to prove his “innocence.”

  shanthewoman: Hey Freeman, why don’t you just go die, you degenerate piece of redneck scum?

  Never Forget DK: If there was any justice in this world, you never would have woken up.

  I shut my laptop with shaking fingers. There’s a crushing pain around my chest, and for a second I imagine my ribs folding and breaking, jagged shrapnel stabbing me in all my organs.

  “Genevieve? Are you still there?” Shannon asks.

  “Yeah.” My voice cracks. “You’re not responding to any of the articles, are you?”

  “No,” Shannon says. “I might have retweeted a couple of things because they were so well worded, but nothing bad.”

  “Look. Sorry, Shan. I have to run,” I say. “Literally. I’ll talk to you later.” I disconnect the call before she can protest and go immediately to the small chest of drawers. I trade my jeans and boots for shorts and running shoes and head for the front door, a sheen of sweat already coating my face. I need air. I need space. I need to get out of here before I lose it in front of Dad and Rachael.

  They’re both in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter chopping lettuce for a salad while she stirs a pot of spaghetti sauce.

  “There you are,” she says. “I told your dad you were working that phone like a madwoman in the car and that you were probably talking to your friends. We’re making manicotti, but it won’t be ready for another twenty minutes or so.”

  “I’m actually not that hungry,” I say. “I’m going to go for a run.”

  My dad frowns. “After working all day? Rachael thought you’d be too tired to even stand.”

  “I have a lot of nervous energy, I guess.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I promise I’ll eat something when I get back.”

  “All right,” Dad says, but I can see the worry in his eyes.

  I head out the front door and turn toward the park without even thinking about it. The soles of my Nikes pound against the concrete. My heart beats in my ears as I run. Pieces of the online articles flash in my brain like billboards. Freeman said he wasn’t driving under the influence. Freeman is blaming me for the accident. Strangers are trying to get him fired. He needs his job.

  It’s a little past seven p.m. when I reach the entrance to Zion. It’ll be getting dark in the next hour or so—not exactly enough time to go on a hike or anything. I could keep running. Just going and going until it all makes sense. That was my original plan. But that crushing feeling is back in my chest and my breath is coming in sharp shrill gasps. I’m not sure how much farther I can make it without collapsing onto the warm pavement. I turn toward the Visitor Center. They closed about fifteen minutes ago and the area is mostly deserted. I get a drink from the fountain, the water cool against my sunburned lips.

  Then I lean back against the wall of the building and sink slowly to the pavement. You. Are. Alone. Normally I don’t mind being all by myself, but this is different. I’m not just isolated physically. I’m emotionally alone too. There’s no one I can talk to. The one person who would listen without telling me what to do—without judging me—is dead.

  I bury my heads in my hands and start to cry.

  The tears come hot and fast, the sobs shaking my insides. I’m not crying because of what Brad Freeman said in the article. Well, no, that’s a lie. I am crying because of that, but not because he’s taking advantage of my head injury to prove his innocence. I’m crying because Brad Freeman is right. I did cause the accident.

  I’m the reason Dallas is dead.

  I remember everything now.

  CHAPTER 18

  MAY 12

  I sat in Dallas’s car for what felt like forever, waiting for him to make his rounds and say his good-byes. It was almost midnight by the time he showed up.

  I gave him a look as he slid into the passenger seat, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry,” he said. “A lot of those people supported me even back before I made the album. I didn’t want to be rude to them.”

  “Just to me, huh?” I said snippily, immediately regretting my words.

  “You could’ve waited inside,” Dallas reminded me.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Let’s just get out of here.”

  I started the car and pulled away from the curb in front of Tyrell’s house. His neighborhood was dark and quiet. Next to me, Dallas reclined his seat, his eyes drifting shut.

  Ass, I thought, as I twisted and turned through the Central West End and merged onto Forest Park Parkway. Must be nice to have millions of people fawn all over you, to have local celebrities throw you parties where they serve you alcohol even though you’re underage, and then to have your girlfriend as a handy designated driver.

  I realized I was going fifty-five in a thirty-five and hit the brakes. I glanced over at Dallas. He was snoring softly. I considered waking him for a second to ask for help setting the cruise control, but then I decided just to let him sleep. At least we weren’t fighting for once.

  I merged onto Interstate 170, which was also mostly deserted at that time of night. Keeping a careful eye on the speedometer, I headed north, away from the city. I probably should’ve taken Highway 40, but I grew up listening to my parents talk about how many accidents happen on that road. Dallas usually drove when we went someplace, so I’d never taken 40 anywhere and that night didn’t seem like the night to try something new.

  A big eighteen-w
heeler truck blew past me on the left and cut back in front of me. I slowed slightly to reestablish a space cushion like I learned in Driver’s Ed.

  Dallas’s phone buzzed in the console. I turned my head just enough to see it in my peripheral vision. I wondered who was texting him so late. Was it her? It had to be her. Even though I had once told Dallas I didn’t want to know, I was suddenly overcome by the need to find out her identity—what girl had screwed up everything so royally between Dallas and me? I reached down for his phone with one hand while keeping the other one on the wheel.

  Suddenly, his eyes flicked open. “Genna, what are you doing?”

  “I, uh, was wondering who was texting you this late,” I admitted.

  Dallas removed his phone from my hand. He tapped in his pass code. “It’s Tyrell,” he said. “Music stuff. Want me to show you?”

  I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. Somehow I’d become someone I didn’t even like—a girl who thought it was okay to snoop through her boyfriend’s phone. A girl who didn’t respect other people’s right to privacy. “I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t know what my problem is.”

  “It’s okay,” Dallas replied. “I’d probably do the same thing if I were you.” He paused. “Look, do you want me to just tell you who it was?”

  “You don’t have—”

  “It was Annika. And before you ask, I haven’t seen her or texted her since the night it happened.”

  “Annika Lux?” My voice squeaked. “The model who replaced me in your video shoot?”

  Dallas swallowed back a yawn. “Yeah.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “So I guess you can even blame me for your cheating. I mean, you probably wouldn’t have met her if I hadn’t bailed on you.”

  “That’s bullshit, Genna. You know I don’t blame you,” Dallas said. “I just thought maybe knowing would help.”

  A tear made its way down the left side of my face. How could he think knowing he hooked up with a Swedish model would help me? I lifted my hand and quickly brushed the tear away. “You know what? Let’s just drop it for now. Go back to sleep.”