by Paula Stokes
“And mine,” I say.
Chris rests his elbows on the table. “Look, Genevieve. I want you to know I’m on your side, too. You’re here, helping get the truth out into the world. That’s admirable, and I won’t throw you to the wolves, no matter what you tell me. You can strike anything you say off the record if you want.”
“That’s very understanding of you,” Dad says. “My main concern is protecting my daughter’s personal information so that she isn’t harassed by internet nut jobs.”
“Understandable,” Chris says. “And do both you and your ex-wife have unlisted phone numbers and addresses?”
“I do,” Dad says. “And Genevieve will be staying with me for a bit. Isn’t that right, hon?”
I nod. I came back here to clear the air and take responsibility for the things I did, but that doesn’t mean I have to hang out and let strangers throw rocks at me. I’ll miss Shannon and my mom, but I feel like I have unfinished business in Springdale. I want to help with the displays for the Zion Canyon Touch Trail and watch kids use it after it’s completely finished. I want to get to know Rachael better, and spend more time with my dad. And then of course there’s Elliott. I’m not ready to let him go yet either.
The waiter reappears with three glasses of water and takes our order.
After he leaves, Chris turns on a tape recorder and I start to tell the story again. He lets me get all the way through, redirecting me a couple of times when I wander off topic.
“What made you originally want to tell the truth?” he asks.
“My conscience, I guess. I’ve always believed in telling the truth. Going through every day having to face the fact that an innocent man was being blamed for something I did forced me to realize I was being a bad person.”
The waiter arrives with our food. I pick at my toasted ravioli, dipping a deep-fried square into the marinara sauce until it’s almost saturated. I nibble at a soggy corner.
Chris samples his fettuccine and then takes a big drink of water. “Was there one moment that pushed you over the edge?”
“The first person I told was this guy I met in Utah. And instead of condemning me, he encouraged me to tell the truth.” I pause. “Before that I had talked to my dad about a time when he had to come forward about something. The two of them helped me see that although everyone might not forgive me, the people who care about me would at least try to understand why I did what I did.”
“So this guy you talked to—is it the guy I’ve seen pictures of you with?”
“Probably,” I say. “I haven’t been online in a couple of days.”
“So you’re dating again?” Reale arches an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “Yes. I know a lot of people aren’t going to understand, but I don’t have to defend my feelings. I loved Dallas—I will always love him—but in the months preceding the accident, we’d starting growing apart, heading in separate directions. We were fighting that night, in fact. I was pretty insecure when it came to him being a celebrity.”
“If you hadn’t been fighting, do you think it would have changed how the rest of that night played out?”
“Probably. I’m trying not to go down those ‘what if?’ rabbit holes anymore, because they’re long and dark and they never end. I made a decision that we had to go home; I made a decision to drive. Those choices had horrible consequences, but I can’t go back in time, you know?”
“I do,” Chris says. “More than you know.” He asks me a few more questions and has me and my dad sign a few release forms. As we’re heading back to the entrance of the restaurant, Chris touches me lightly on the arm. “How scared are you about the public response to this?”
“I’m not looking forward to it,” I admit. “But the pain of public outrage doesn’t compare to the pain of realizing a second person almost died because of me.”
Chris nods. “I hope you’re getting some help for that.”
“I have an appointment with a therapist back in Utah.”
“Good. What’s the best way to reach you in case I have any follow-up questions?”
“You can email me,” I tell Chris. “Or call me. I don’t have a problem answering follow-up questions. Just know that I probably won’t read the article because I don’t want to read the comments.”
“I’ll read the article.” Dad wraps a protective arm around my shoulders. “And maybe we can read the comments together.”
We head back to Utah on Friday and the article goes live the next morning. I’m back in my room at Dad’s house and I don’t even log on to look. Instead I get up early with Rachael and head to Zion. I’m greeted by a smile from Elliott and a warm hug from Halley.
“Good to see you back,” Elliott says. “Did everything go okay?”
“I guess. I’m avoiding the internet so I won’t have to read all the horrible comments.”
“There aren’t any,” Elliott says. “Chris turned the comments off on his article. He said it was a short factual piece to set the record straight and that the truth should speak for itself. He said he’ll be doing a follow-up opinion piece later in the week and that people so inclined can comment on that.”
“That was nice of him,” I say. “But I’m sure there are plenty of comments in other places.”
I’m right, of course, and after I get home from work my dad skims through a bunch of them. “They’re not as bad as you expected,” he says. “It’s mostly just a bunch of people criticizing you for not telling the truth. But hey, there are a few votes of support mixed in with all the rage. Some people think you’re pretty brave. And look, your hashtag is trending.”
“Fabulous. What every girl dreams of.” I dare to peek over my dad’s shoulder. “Wait, go back,” I say, as he skims through the #JusticeForDallas and #GenevieveGrace threads on Twitter. “Did someone just tweet that I killed Dallas on purpose because he was about to break up with me?”
Dad scrolls back up and taps the screen to expand a conversation. Sure enough, there’s a stream of tweets that reads:
Lila Alice Ferrier @Lila_Roxx • 4m
I know someone who was at the Try This at Home release party and she saw #GenevieveGrace and #DallasKade fighting.
Lila Alice Ferrier @Lila_Roxx • 4m
I bet #GenevieveGrace swerved into the other car on purpose because #DallasKade dumped her for @RealAnnikaLux.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 3m
@Lila_Roxx Wouldn’t be the first time a teen girl went psycho when she got dumped. #GenevieveGrace
Marco T @marcoplayspolo • 2m
@pxs1228 @Lila_Roxx How are we just now hearing about this? Are the cops going to open a new investigation into #GenevieveGrace?
Dallas Forever @dallasismybae • 2m
@marcoplayspolo @pxs1228 @Lila_Roxx idk, but either way #GenevieveGrace should be arrested. She killed someone and then lied about it!
The Mad Marvel @psylockeshock • 1m
@Lila_Roxx @pxs1228 Have u ever watched Dallas’s early YouTube vids? #GenevieveGrace is in a couple and she seems like a total psychobitch.
“People are idiots,” my dad says.
“They are angry, anyway,” I say. “What’s funny is that some of these people are the same ones who were tweeting me messages of support and speculating that I was carrying Dallas’s baby a few weeks ago.”
“Some people just want to be part of the story, even if it’s a story that’s completely fabricated,” Dad says. “But look—we read them and you survived.”
“I guess.” There was a time when a bunch of comments calling me a murderous psycho bitch would have really upset me. To be honest, they do upset me.
But I won’t let them destroy me.
EPILOGUE
AUGUST 15
“I never wanted to be a hashtag,” I say, forcing my eyes to remain up and facing the crowd. Halley is sitting four rows back and on the middle aisle, because she insisted that I could look at her the whole time if I needed to and it would seem like I was addressing the entire g
roup. This presentation for her Mormon youth group is the first of at least thirty public speaking events I plan to do over the next year.
I couldn’t get over the fact that nothing I did was technically illegal, so with the help of my therapist I reached out to organizations focused on internet bullying and drowsy driving, offering my services as a speaker or volunteer. I had a lot of takers, so many that I’ve decided to take a gap year before I start college so I can focus on helping other people avoid the mistakes I made.
Halley clears her throat and I realize I’ve lapsed into silence. “Sorry, this is hard.” I pause for a second to take a sip of water from the bottle clutched tightly in my hands. “Once I had a teacher ask the whole class to pick five hashtags we would apply to ourselves. It was just an updated version of that ‘What five words best describe you?’ interview question. I picked things like #BlondAmbition and #PreMed and #NeverSayQuit. I thought I was such a good person back then. Lately, people have been hashtagging me with things like #Coward and #Selfish and #Liar. The worst part is, they’re right.”
I swallow hard. “I did a lot of things wrong the night of the accident. And then I continued to mess up, for weeks afterward. How does someone who once tweeted, ‘Where there is truth, there is trust. And with trust, you can survive anything,’ become a #Liar?” I raise my chin and look straight at the crowd. “This is how it happened.”
And so I give them the whole story: the party, the accident, the horrible sick feeling in my stomach when I realized I was responsible. I tell them about hiding, about running away, about trying to start over, but repeatedly being drawn back into the internet drama.
I clutch a balled-up tissue in my hand. I had no idea how many times I would break down crying while telling this story in front of a group of other teens, but surprisingly I’m holding it together. Maybe that means I’m starting to accept my role in all this, or maybe I’m just out of tears.
After I take responsibility for what I did and caution people about drowsy driving, I return to the idea of the internet. “It’s funny,” I say. “Maybe you think you’re just one person. What you do doesn’t really matter. You can read a few tweets or blog posts and then publicly render your judgment of a total stranger. Who cares? You’re just one tiny voice in a huge ocean. But the thing about tiny voices is that when they band together they can be incredibly loud. Uncomfortably loud. Sometimes that’s a good thing—a strong thing. A group of voices can wake people up to the truth. But a group of voices can be a bad thing too, because we’re not always right.” I pause. “Or even when we are right, sometimes the things we do to each other still aren’t okay.”
Halley gives me an encouraging nod. “Keep going,” she mouths. “You got this.”
I inhale deeply. “Sometimes we bandwagon, we jump to conclusions, we point fingers at people, because it seems fun or makes us feel like part of something. Maybe we do it because we feel angry or powerless and it gives us the illusion of control. But we don’t think about how it feels to be on the other side of those fingers. We don’t think about what it’s like when you just need a few minutes of peace and everywhere you look people are judging you.” I pause again. “We don’t think about what it would be like if you just needed a reason to keep going and instead you got a bunch of reasons why you should go die.”
I look from one side of the room to the other. “Brad Freeman made the decision to try to end his own life, but he had a lot of encouragement. You have more power than you think. Be careful what you do with it.”
Halley congratulates me after the speech and tells me I did amazing. Several of her friends come up to me to say they were moved. I make small talk and answer their questions for about twenty minutes, but the truth is, I’m dying to get out of here. After the crowd has died down, I give Halley a hug and tell her I’m taking off.
“Going to see Elliott?” she asks, a gleam in her eyes.
I smile. “Maybe.” This is Elliott’s last week of work at the park before he packs up and moves back to St. George for the school year. I know we’ll only be about forty minutes apart and will still get to see each other when I’m not doing presentations, but I still don’t want to waste the time we have left.
I slide into my dad’s Prius and start the engine. Once I got back from St. Louis, Rachael and Dad encouraged me to start driving again. It was scary at first, but Dad said if I was brave enough to tell the truth, I was brave enough to get back behind the wheel. He and Rachael took turns riding along with me as I worked my way up from the streets of Springdale to nearby two-lane highways and eventually back onto the interstate. I’m grateful to them for pushing me. It’ll make traveling to my presentations and seeing Elliott a lot easier.
A lot of other things have happened in the past few weeks too. I’ve been called basically every name there is on the internet and turned into a few unfortunate memes about lying, but I’ve also received some nice messages of support too. Brad Freeman did a TV interview where he publicly forgave me and told the world that what they were doing to me wasn’t any better than what people had done to him. Last I heard he had quit drinking completely and was working with a lawyer to try to get his paramedic license reinstated. I hope that works out for him. Tyrell James emailed me to say he’s writing a song in honor of Dallas and other performers who have died in car accidents. He plans to use the proceeds to raise awareness for driving safety. Tyrell is another person who I figured might hate me, but if he does, he’s keeping it to himself.
Clint is in the entry booth as I pull into Zion. He gives me a little wave. I park in the lot by the Visitor Center and take the Zion Park Shuttle to the lodge. Officially the Zion Canyon Touch Trail doesn’t open for three more weeks, but once everything was completed we pulled down the caution tape and let people try it out. When I see a man my dad’s age walking along it with two little girls, my eyes start to water.
I take the short trail from the lodge to the Grotto Picnic Area. I know exactly where Elliott is because he’s doing nature talks all day. Right now he’s up at Scout Lookout, giving a talk about the peregrine falcons that nest on the cliff.
When I make it up to where he’s presenting, the crowd is just starting to dissipate, some people heading toward the series of Walter’s Wiggles that will zigzag them down the side of the cliff, others moving toward the safety chains that lead out to Angels Landing. The first time I stood in this spot, part of me didn’t care if I lived or died. I’m glad I survived those moments.
“Thank you,” I murmur into the ether, just in case someone is listening.
“Talking to God again?” Elliott has sneaked up behind me.
“Maybe,” I say.
“You know, Ezra and Garrett go to this nondenominational church in St. George every Sunday. I join them sometimes. You could come along too.”
I smile. “I’ll think about it.” I wouldn’t say that I’ve found faith or anything this summer, but like my dad said back in St. Louis, I’m more open to the possibilities now.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Elliott says. “How did it go?”
“Not bad, actually,” I say. “No one spit on me or cussed me out.”
“Mormons are good like that,” he says with a wink. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.” He pauses. “So what’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I just wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad.” Elliott points at a wide flat rock across the clearing. We make our way over to it and sit down, just a couple of feet from the edge of the cliff. A curious chipmunk comes to investigate us.
“Shoo,” I tell it. “There are no handouts here.”
Elliott watches the chipmunk disappear into a clump of sagebrush. “I wish I wasn’t moving next week. I can’t believe you’re not going home.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “I can’t believe this place is starting to feel like home.”
“Do you have any hesitations? About not starting college?”
I shake my head. “
I can take some online courses to complete a few gen-ed requirements if I want, but doing these presentations feels more important, you know?”
“And your mom is okay with it?”
“Yeah. She’s being really supportive of the decision,” I say. “I know she’s going to miss having me close, but I plan on visiting her a lot. She even said she might come out here for a long weekend sometime so I can show her the trail we made.”
“Awesome. Of course you’ll have to help me with my hair and outfit before I meet her.” Elliott grins. “I want her to like me.”
I laugh. “I think she’s actually changed a lot over the past couple months. You’ll probably be okay.”
“If not, we’ll just bring her to the gym and I can wow her with my mad ninja skills.” He winks.
“Sounds like a plan.”
We sit holding hands, looking out at the view—red cliffs banded with pink and white stretching out into the distance, the sinewy twists of the Virgin River and the park’s scenic drive below us. The sun is beginning to set and I know that soon we’ll have to start back, but I want to enjoy this moment while I can.
“You been online lately?” Elliott asks. We both know I can’t avoid the internet forever.
“Not much. I peeked at Twitter yesterday. Megan Freeman had tweeted a couple of things about me—like she wondered how I could sleep at night and she thought her dad was wrong to forgive me.”
“You’re going to have to see her again soon, right?”
“Yeah, in October.” A film student working on a documentary about internet shaming culture had reached out to both Brad Freeman and me, asking us if we’d be willing to talk on camera. As far as I know, Carly and Megan are also going to be part of the interview.
I wonder if Megan will ever forgive me.
I wonder if I’ll forgive myself.
“Hey.” Elliott yanks a small pair of binoculars out of the side pocket of his uniform pants and holds them up to his face.