by Eli Easton
After we cleaned up, we flopped back down to cuddle, just hanging out and being quiet. Brian played with my bangs, which needed to be cut. It was nice to leave the phone and pads and computers off for a while, to have no input but his skin and the sight of him, the sound of his breathing.
I cleared my throat. “It’s Friday. Think your dad would care if you stayed later tonight? I’ll be in Springfield all day tomorrow, so we won’t get a chance to hang out.”
He froze for a moment before continuing to play with my hair. He started to say something, hesitated. “You’re still doing that tomorrow?”
“Yeah. A bunch of us are going. It’s all set.”
He nodded with a little frown. I knew he wasn’t happy about me going to Springfield. I was going with my mom, Madison, Josiah, and five other students from The Wall. We were holding a gun-control rally at the Illinois state capitol building, and a lot of people on social media said they’d show up too. Brian didn’t want to go, and I didn’t press him about it. He didn’t like being in a crowd or out in the open. Eventually that would fade; at least I hoped so. But for now there was no point in him doing something that made him uncomfortable.
“Do you think you can stay for a while?” I asked.
He gave me a forced smile. “God, I hope so. I’ll call my mom.”
I leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. “Do it. I’ll go get us a snack.”
I hummed to myself as I got up, put on a T-shirt and sweatpants, and went downstairs. It was highly unlikely my mom would come home early. But I didn’t like to run around the house half dressed just in case. It would be epically embarrassing if she walked in.
I figured my mom knew Brian and I were having sex. She knew we were a couple now. She’d given me way too many fond looks, ruffled my bangs, sighed over “young love,” etcetera. But knowing it and seeing it were two very different things—for both her and me.
Dear God. No one needs that level of teen drama.
I grabbed a bag of SunChips, a couple of bananas, two seltzers, and went back upstairs. Brian was just putting his phone down. He smiled at me. “I can stay. She said I could even stay the night if I wanted.”
“Really?” I beamed at him. “Awesome!” I landed on the bed with a bounce, offering him my bounty of food as if I were a mighty hunter.
Brian immediately went for the SunChips. “My dad’s going bowling with Bull tonight, so he’ll be out late. And drinking beer. He won’t even notice I’m not home. She said I should be home early in the morning, though. Like by eight.”
“We can do that.” I peeled a banana and waggled my eyebrows at him.
He rolled his eyes as if to say I was being cheesy, which was true, and lay back against the headboard. He put his feet in my lap, happily munching on chips.
When we were at my house, we were always touching. Even if my parents were there, Brian had his leg against mine, or his hand on my arm, or an arm around my shoulder, or his feet in my lap. Something.
It had been only two weeks since Thanksgiving. Two weeks since I stopped trying to shove Brian into a “friend” box and allowed myself to admit how much I wanted him, since he told me he wanted me too. Now that there wasn’t this bro barrier between us—the one where you weren’t supposed to touch too often or for too long—Brian had become the best kind of octopus. My octopus.
Ever since the shooting, we’d had this superglue connection. Even that first week he’d gone back to school. He walked closer to me than normal, hung out at my place more than Josiah or Madison had ever done. Like, if there was an opportunity, or excuse, for us to be together, we grabbed it with both hands.
But now that we’d gone past friendship—way, way past friendship—the whole connected thing took another quantum leap forward. I wasn’t sure if Brian was a touchy-feely guy, or if needing that physical reassurance was part of his healing process. But I sure didn’t mind. Touching him soothed something inside me too. It was as if the memory of him lying on that cafeteria floor, bleeding so terrifyingly hard, so wounded, was still—and maybe forever—buried inside me, and touching him, looking at him, seeing that he was well, eased my fear.
Sometimes, lying in bed with him in the afternoons, looking into each other’s eyes, it felt like we were two people alone on a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Only our ocean was grief—grief and pain and anger and hopelessness. A damn turbulent sea. And maybe that’s why we clung so hard.
“Open,” Brian said, aiming a piece of chip at my mouth.
I opened. He threw it. His aim was good, but the chip didn’t have enough weight. It fluttered to the bed between us.
“From fumbling footballs to fumbling a chip,” I teased, picking it up and eating it.
Brian laughed, but I saw a glint of sadness in his eyes. I almost asked him: Do you miss it? But I didn’t. I knew he missed football. He must. And he’d already been hedging about whether he’d play baseball in the spring.
I hated the thought that he’d give up sports entirely because he was too afraid to perform before a crowd. It wasn’t fair.
I lay on my side at the foot of the bed, still eating my banana. “Since we have all night, want to work out with weights for a bit before dinner? Get your PT in and try to put some meat on my chicken arms?”
He smiled. “Sure.”
Chapter 22
Brian
WHEN DECEMBER arrived it was like, oh, shit, it’s December. The semester at The Wall ended on December 19th, which meant I only had two and a half weeks left to cram on schoolwork and negotiate extra credit assignments to bring up my grades. Fortunately, my teachers were helpful, even the ones I least expected.
“Brian Marshall.”
Mr. Fishbinder was standing outside his classroom door as I tried to get into my American History class. Like a lot of teachers, he played hall monitor between periods, keeping the halls safe for democracy or something.
“Hey, Mr. Fishbinder.”
“Before you go inside, I want a word.”
“Uh. Sure.”
I stood there in the hall, thumbs hooked in the straps of my bookbag. A few girls pushed past us, smiling at me. Fishbinder made me wait, looking down the hall at something with a frown.
Which made me look. I saw one of our janitors, a big, beefy, middle-aged guy with a crew cut and scarred face, mopping up by the water fountain. Slop, slop, slop. His bicep flexed as he moved the mop around. Sweat made his forehead shine.
Out of nowhere, dread prickled my neck and my knees wobbled. Maybe it was seeing a water fountain. Or maybe it was the mop. I wondered if that same mop had been used to mop up after….
Screw this. I had to go inside and sit down. I took one shaky step to pass Fishbinder.
He held out an arm to block me. “Brian. I heard a few of your other teachers talking in the lounge. You asked them for extra credit assignments to make up for your absence.”
I stepped back and took a few deep breaths. If I didn’t look at the water fountain or the janitor, I could do this.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Yet you didn’t make a similar request of me.”
I blinked at him. “You don’t do extra credit. So.”
He tutted and shook his head. “I’m not entirely inflexible, Mr. Marshall. I realize your difficulties this semester are no fault of your own. What would you suggest for extra credit?”
I felt a flare of hope. “Oh. Great! Um. For a few of my other classes I’m writing an essay about my recovery process with the surgery and aftercare and everything.”
“I see.” He looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin. “It’s not exactly fair if you turn in the same essay to all your classes and get multiple points for work you’ve done once.”
Shit. That had been precisely my plan. “Okay. Then what about something on the Civil War?”
“No, no. The basic idea is sound.” He gave me a rare smile. “Tell you what. Write up your memory of the day of the shooting like a historical eyewitness account. As if you wer
e writing for a newspaper. Can you do that?”
I nodded. “I can absolutely do that. Thank you, Mr. Fishbinder.”
“You’re welcome. And I expect at least an eighty on your final test, Mr. Marshall.”
Yeah, if wishes were alligators. Or something like that. I walked past him.
Sitting in my chair, I regretted telling him I’d do it. It was one thing to write about my hospital stay and recovery. It was another to relive that day in detail. Eyewitness account. Fun times.
But in the tradition of a true procrastinator, I decided to worry about it later.
The next day after Biology, I stood at a lab table for a few minutes after the bell rang, checking my email. Someone slapped their palm down in front of me, and I jumped.
I looked up, ready to duck or run. But it was only Dixon, the goth kid. He gave me a hate glare.
“Jesus! What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting in your face. I’m sick of you staring at me, Marshall.”
“Dude. I was looking at my phone,” I said, even though I knew what he was talking about.
“You watch me like you think I’m a murderer.” He sounded both pissed off and frustrated. “Well, I didn’t shoot you, Brian. Even with as big a dick as you’re being, I wouldn’t fucking shoot you.”
I swallowed. If he wanted to have it out, I was game.
“Then where were you that day?”
Frustration seemed to win out over his anger. He backed off a little and flicked his long hair back with an irritated gesture. “Yeah, that’s what everyone thinks, right? I’m gone for a few hours and suddenly I’m a mass murderer. Suddenly I’d gun down fourteen-year-olds. Because I dress like this.” He waved a hand at his black clothes. “Turns out I was at a doctor’s appointment, which the cops have verified with six eyewitnesses, including my mom, the doctor, and his staff. Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock.”
“Oh.”
Of course, Dixon could be making that up. But I had the feeling he wasn’t. It wouldn’t be that hard to check. And it would certainly explain why the cops hadn’t done anything about him.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ I’m not interested in hurting anyone. Except myself, some days.” He gave a short, bitter laugh and looked away, folding his arms over his chest.
“Do you have any idea who did it?” I asked. Because why not?
He glowered angrily. “No. But a girl I liked was killed. So whoever it is, they can burn in hell as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “They can burn in hell.”
His anger was real. I decided I believed him. Which made me a total dick.
“Sorry,” I said. “For staring. And, um, looking in your backpack that day.”
“Whatever.” He kicked at the linoleum. “Sorry you were shot. But you’re still an asshole.” With a huff, he exited the classroom.
I couldn’t really argue with him.
I filled Josiah and Madison in on my encounter with Dixon the next day. We met in the library during fourth period. I was still on a pass from gym and Josiah was skipping gym too. Madison’s Drama class was rehearsing scenes from A Christmas Carol that she wasn’t in, since her role as Mrs. Cratchit was limited. She managed to get a pass to the library to study. But Landon, who was playing Bob Cratchit, was stuck in rehearsals.
We got a table in the back near the Eyewitness encyclopedias, map books, and huge-ass dictionaries.
I opened up my notebook, which was filled with pages of my observations and suspects. Most of them had been eliminated.
I crossed “Dixon Adams” out with a heavy marker.
“Dixon is out?” Josiah asked, scooting closer.
“Yeah. He’s got an alibi for the time of the shooting. Doctor’s appointment.” I told them about how he’d confronted me, embarrassing though it was.
Madison blew a grape-scented bubble and popped it. “Mr. Soames is out too.”
“How come?” I asked.
“So you know how you figured out he’s teaching at Hermitage High School in Richmond, Virginia?”
I nodded. I’d found that using my Google Fu. But just because he taught there didn’t mean he couldn’t have called in sick on the day of the shooting and driven to Missouri.
“Well, I was poking around their school website last night and found this in their gallery.”
She swiped through pictures on her phone and held it out for me and Josiah. It was a selfie of two girls.
“So?” Josiah said.
“That was taken in an assembly on September 28th. And look who’s in the background.”
I zoomed in on the area behind the girls. There was a man there in a white button-down shirt who was in three-quarter profile. It definitely looked like Soames.
“Well, that sucks,” Josiah said.
I sighed. “Good work. I mean, yeah, it sucks, but that’s one more suspect off our list.”
“Thanks!” Madison smiled and gave Josiah a smug look while I crossed off Soames’s name.
“I’ve got a couple of new things to share too.” Josiah looked around and leaned closer, whispering. “So you know that janitor who’s really big and looks ex-military?”
“Yeah,” Madison and I said simultaneously.
I remembered how the Gollum in my head had gotten nasty when I’d seen the man mopping up water in the hall.
Josiah waggled his eyebrows knowingly. “Well, guess what? He’s ex-military.”
Madison laughed-snorted. “Astonishing insight there, Josey.”
“No, for real! Ty Traynor wants to go into the Army or something when he graduates. He says they’ll train you on tech stuff, and it’s way cheaper than college. So he talked to that janitor about it. His name is Freddy. Ty said he was in the Marines, and he was wounded in Afghanistan. He took shrapnel to the head, and he’s sort of screwed up, so he’s living with his parents.”
Madison and I looked doubtfully at each other. “Is that true?” Madison asked.
“Ty said he talked to the guy, and that’s what he said.”
“That’s sad,” I said. I hated to hear about anyone getting wounded. It wasn’t abstract to me anymore.
“Yeah, it’s sad,” Josiah said. “But he was a Marine. What if he’s angry at the world or hates the students here because he’s sick of cleaning up our shit? And he always has that mean glare.”
“Maybe he just has a resting bitch face.” Madison shrugged. “Poor guy. I’d have one too if I were him.”
Josiah sighed. “Okay, don’t listen to me. Pearls before swine, I swear.”
“No, he should go on the list.” I wrote it down: Freddy the janitor/ex-Marine.
I thought about what Detective Mike had told me in the hospital—that my subconscious mind might remember more about the shooting than I realized. Was that why I’d freaked out when I saw him near Fishbinder’s room? Did some part of me recognize him as one of the shooters?
When an actual figure of a shooter appeared in my nightmares, the looming shape always seemed familiar. But when I woke up, I could never remember why.
“Any idea where Freddy was during the shooting?” Madison asked.
Josiah shrugged. “I can’t do all the work. You figure that part out.”
“Hey!” Madison said in a hurt tone. “I found the picture of Soames, didn’t I?”
“I’ll look into where Freddy was,” I said quickly. Madison and Josiah could argue for hours, and I didn’t want to get off track. “Anything else new?”
Madison and Josiah gave each other a meaningful look, like they’d been talking.
Josiah tilted back his chair onto two legs. “What about your old best buds, Cameron and Gordo?”
I shifted uncomfortably.
“Okay, so, as far as I know, Cameron doesn’t have much of an alibi. I never talked to him about it in detail, but at Jake’s funeral he mentioned that he was in the bathroom during the shooting.”
Josiah gaped. “Oh, that little bitch.”
“I know, I know
. It’s suspicious. But Gordo was in detention with a teacher and other kids. So he couldn’t have done it.”
Josiah glowered in thought. “There’s no one else Cameron could have done it with? You sure?”
I gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t think so.”
“Who else do you have on your list?” Madison asked, leaning over to look at my notebook. She turned a page. “Who’s Bull Smith?”
I bit my lip. “He’s an alt-right guy that works with my dad at the Buick dealership. He’s a mechanic. According to my dad, he’s got a crazy big arsenal. As in, a gun safe and tons of high-powered weapons. He seems nice at first, but if you get him going on politics, he’s totally whacked. He gets this crazy sheen in his eyes and this, like, rage.”
I was very familiar with that crazy sheen. Unfortunately it wasn’t just Bull who had it. Maybe I was biased. Maybe I hated Bull because he’d poisoned my dad. But I still thought Bull was a viable suspect.
Josiah sat up straighter, his eyes bright. “Has he ever talked about The Wall with you? Did he used to go here?”
“How old is he?” Madison asked.
“He’s from Silver Falls, so yeah, he went here. He’s around forty, I think? So it was a long time ago. But he once told me The Wall was a ‘den of sicko iniquity.’ So he’s not a fan.”
“Day-um!” Josiah said. “Do the police know about this guy?”
“I doubt it. My dad’s pretty good friends with Bull, so if the cops were sniffing around him, my dad would know about it and be upset.”
“If he was one of the shooters, who would he have done it with?” Madison asked eagerly. “Does he have a kid that goes here? Or a nephew or something?”
I shook my head. “No kids. I don’t know who the other person would be.”
No way it was my dad. Just no way. Besides, I knew Landon’s description of the shooters by heart, and neither my dad nor Bull fit the ‘manic,’ bouncing-on-toes guy. And no matter how obsessed with conspiracy theories my dad got, he’d never do that. No matter what.
If there was only one faint thing I could hold on to about my family, that was it. My dad would never hurt me or any other kids.