***
Mom picked me up. She had to find a sub to run her bus route, and she was so upset, her voice quivered when she spoke.
“Suspended,” she said as we left the school together. “You’re lucky they didn’t expel you. Ranting and raving about the shooting? Picking a fight? What is wrong with you?”
I ground my teeth together, which sent pain shooting through my jaw. She had no idea. Of course she didn’t. Because I never told her. Not anything. Not about the years of being called names. Not about finding Nick and Jeremy at Blue Lake the day before the shooting. Not about what happened May 2nd in the Commons. She knew none of it.
Say something. Just say it.
But I’d held it in for so long, I didn’t know where to begin. The words seemed too long, the story too big. I’d never felt so guilty in all my life.
When we got home, I went to my room, leaving Mom hollering from the kitchen, something about being grounded and how lucky I was that they were still going to let me walk at graduation and what was this she was hearing about me skipping school and I wasn’t suicidal or on drugs, was I?
“It was a mistake,” I yelled back. “I made a mistake.” And I shut the door, hearing Nick’s voice. What if they’re just mistakes?
I flopped on my bed and grabbed my laptop, searching for the Garvin County Sun-Tribune and the reporter who had practically lived at our school after the shooting.
Say something. Say it.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number on the screen. “Hello? Is this Angela Dash? You’re the one writing all the stories about the Garvin High shooting? Yeah, I have a tip for you. Someone knew that the shooting was going to happen and didn’t tell. And it wasn’t Valerie Leftman. You should check out Nick Levil’s other friends.”
I hung up and laid the phone on my chest, staring at the ceiling. If I didn’t have the guts to say it myself, maybe someone would find me out and say it for me.
Junior Year
201. Jacob Kinney
202. Jessica Campbell and her SBRBs!!! ←DIE ALREADY AND MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY!
203. Parents and their relationship issues. Grow up.
204. All of them. ALL!!! OF!!! THEM!!!
May 2nd. Like any other May morning. Mom running off to get to her bus before I was even out of bed. Dad downstairs, the radio playing some old Pearl Jam song from his glory years. Brandon sleeping. Sara and I numbly eating cereal. Sara was going to be graduating in two weeks, but I still had another year of numbly eating cereal ahead of me.
Mason came in, messed with the fish, and we walked, the grass making the toes of our shoes wet, Mason’s cigarette smoke punching through the air ahead of us.
“I can’t make it twenty more days,” he was saying. “I will throw myself off that bridge over there if I have to listen to one more minute of World History.”
A black muscle car rumbled up next to us and stopped. Jeremy was at the wheel. The passenger-side window rolled down, bringing with it the sound of a baby crying in the backseat. Nick’s face, pale behind sunglasses, tilted up at us.
“Want a ride?” he asked.
As much as Mason liked to get his smoke on in the mornings, and as much as that crying baby was already making my ears bleed, we weren’t about to pass up an offer. We jumped in, squeezing in the back, next to the car seat. The baby cried harder.
“Shut the fuck up, Dylan! Damn!” Jeremy shouted before rolling up the windows and taking off again. “Bitch owes me big for taking him today.”
Nick mumbled something that we couldn’t hear over the squalling, and he and Jeremy both laughed. They were high. I could tell from the smell. And from the weird way Nick was smiling into the side mirror.
“So you ready for the last day of school?” Nick asked, turning around, aiming that creepy smile right at us.
“Twenty days left,” I mumbled. He watched me for a while—or at least I think he did, behind those glasses—and then turned back.
“Yeah, man, not long before it’s all over,” he finally said.
“Gonna be over before you know it,” Jeremy added, and again with the laughter.
I glanced at Mason, but he was just looking out the window. He didn’t seem to be weirded out by Nick and Jeremy. Of course, he hadn’t seen the list or the scratched-out names. Or the gun at the lake.
Jeremy rolled to a stop on Starling, right by the soccer fields. I could see Stacey and Duce already on the bleachers.
“Time to take the brat to day care,” Jeremy said. “And I gotta get me some road-trip food. Gonna be holed up for a while after today. So you can get out here.”
Mason opened the door, and we slid out. I was so glad to be rid of the crying, I didn’t notice until the car rumbled away that Nick hadn’t come with us. “You think he’s acting weird?” I asked.
“That dude’s always weird. I think he fried one too many brain cells,” Mason said.
“No, I mean Nick.”
Mason shrugged. “Not really. Other than ditching more than usual.”
We walked across the field, side by side, and in my head I kept trying to convince myself that it was just me. That Nick was acting fine and I was being paranoid, and that if something was up, he would tell us. Running to tattle would make me look like a little kid and would totally piss Nick off. It was all in my mind.
But I couldn’t quite make myself believe it.
We got to the bleachers, and everybody was talking and jacking around, and soon I forgot about the ride in Jeremy’s car. It was just another day. Just another May 2nd.
Valerie’s bus arrived, and I could see right away that something was wrong.
“Look what that bitch Christy Bruter did to my MP3 player,” she said, coming up the bleachers.
“Oh, man,” I said, looking at the cracked screen. “You could get it fixed or something.” In the back of my mind I was thinking maybe I could fix it for her, and she’d start to see me as more than just a friend. But I knew that was stupid.
Something behind me caught her eye. She thumped up the last few bleachers and waved at Jeremy’s car, which had come back. Nick got out and, with a cool chin tip, headed toward us. Valerie ran down the bleachers to meet him, forgetting me completely. Why would I ever think that offering to fix a stupid MP3 player might make her change her mind about me? Why would I ever think I could outdo Nick Levil? It was hopeless.
Angerson scurried up to us and said, “All right, Garvin students, let’s not linger this morning. Time to go to class.” Duce took off, and then Stacey. Mason called out to Joey, and he was gone, too, leaving just me at the bottom of the bleachers, and Val and Nick slowly sauntering toward the school a few steps away.
I heard little snippets of their conversation—I totally hate her. I’ll take care of it. Let’s go get this finished—and I purposely hung behind them, walking slowly, sick of being the third wheel in their little lovers’ conversation. Sick of Nick’s weird behavior and Valerie’s devotion to someone who wasn’t even around anymore.
And that’s when I saw it.
A gust of wind blew, and Nick’s jacket flapped up in the back. Not much, just enough to reveal black metal sticking out from his waistband.
I looked around, but nobody else had seemed to notice. Nobody had seen a thing. But I’d seen it, I knew I had, and it was the same gun Jeremy had hidden under his leg at Blue Lake the day before.
Just like that, everything clicked into place. Everything I had known since that first day I found the hate list, since I wrote Chris Summers’s name on it and saw the predatory glee on Nick’s face. I’d known it when Jeremy said I could visit him down in Warsaw after.
I gotta get me some road-trip food. Gonna be holed up for a while after today.
I’d known it all along and had been telling myself I was wrong.
But I was so right.
Nick Levil was going to shoot up the school.
Senior Year
Graduation was in three days. I was still suspended. I’d spent
most of my time locked in my bedroom, thinking of ways to kill myself.
How pathetic was that? I could hear Chris Summers now: Drama Queen, don’t be such a girl. It’s just a joke.
I honestly don’t know how serious I was about it. How close I was to doing it. I felt stupid, like I should have at least had an idea of whether or not I wanted to die, but it wasn’t that easy.
Before the shooting I mostly liked my life. I had good parents. My sister was pretty cool. Even Brandon could be okay when he wanted to be. I liked my friends. I loved an amazing girl; and even if she didn’t love me back, she was still there—patting my knee or tapping my shoulder to get my attention or cracking jokes with me during assemblies.
Chris Summers and Jacob Kinney had made me miserable, and sometimes it was so bad that school felt more like torture, but I’d never wanted to die over it. I knew I wasn’t any of the things they called me—spineless, cowardly, worthless. But sometimes, after the shooting, worthless and cowardly was exactly how I felt. The police were looking for information, and I had it, but I was afraid to give it. Valerie was going through hell and back to clear her name, and I was afraid to bail her out. I was afraid, and I felt so guilty for giving in to my fear. The cops were looking for Jeremy Watson. The whole city was looking for Jeremy Watson. They wanted answers, and he had them, but nobody could find him. But I knew where he was. And I said nothing.
Ultimately, what kept me from killing myself were the headlines. I was afraid they would say something like: Victim of Gay Bullying Hangs Self in Bathroom.
And all anybody would see was the word gay. The headlines wouldn’t say anything about the hate list or Valerie or Jeremy Watson or what happened the day of the shooting or any of the secrets that were tearing me up inside. My mom would cry and tell the media that she never knew, that I could have come out to her. She would beat herself up over it. My dad would wonder why I didn’t just…
Say something.
Nobody would know the truth. Did the truth even matter anymore?
***
Mason came over on prom night, bored.
“You couldn’t make me go to some stupid dance if you paid me,” he said, picking through a bag of stale microwave popcorn that had been lying on my bedroom floor for days. “You should have seen how ridiculous Duce looked in that tux. Stacey’s got him so whipped.”
“Did Valerie go?” I asked, knowing how I must have sounded but no longer caring. Nick was gone; everything had changed; what did it matter now?
“How the hell would I know?” Mason replied. He stuck another piece of popcorn in his mouth. “Duce saw her at the cemetery, though. At Nick’s grave. He was pretty pissed that it took her this long.”
“Why would he even care?” I asked.
“Because she’s guilty. I mean, you know she knew. She had to have known, and she didn’t say anything. Just let Nick take the fall. My opinion, if you know something like that’s about to go down and you don’t say anything, you’re just as guilty. Might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.”
My stomach dropped, and my mouth went dry. I cleared my throat. “Maybe she didn’t know until it was too late.”
“It’s not too late now. She should fess up.” He dropped the bag back to the floor and sat up, making a disgusted face. “Screw this, let’s get some real food.”
But I couldn’t go. My head was spinning and my palms were sweating and I felt sick, like I was going to puke. I told Mason to go on without me, that I was grounded, and spent the rest of the evening sitting in my bedroom, cross-legged on the floor, with an X-ACTO knife in my hand. Trembling, crying, mumbling that I couldn’t fess up, I couldn’t tell, I needed to tell, I needed to help, but I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough, I was as weak as they all said I was.
I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want this life anymore. I didn’t want to be the person who knew and didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to be the person with that… image… in my head anymore, that image of Chris Summers’s dying moment. I didn’t want to be the person who knew that Jeremy Watson—the mysterious monster who everyone was looking for—was hiding out in his cousin’s cabin in Warsaw, Missouri. I didn’t want to face Jacob Kinney anymore, or Duce, or even Valerie.
The sun went down and my room went dark and still I sat there, snot running down my chin and onto my chest, my hand gripped so tight on the knife that my fingers had gone numb. Talking to myself, repeating how sorry I was, repeating how angry I was, just repeating and repeating.
And that was how my dad found me.
“What the… David? What’s going on?” He flipped on the light, and we both blinked. My sobbing renewed at the smell of paint thinner that wafted into the room.
“Dad…” I bawled, just like that baby in the car. Shut the fuck up, Dylan!
“Jesus,” he muttered, lunging forward and taking the knife from my hand, which he had to wrench away because I’d been holding it so tightly for so long, my fingers didn’t want to open. “Are you…? Did you…?” he was saying, turning my face with his hands, looking me over frantically. “What’s going on?” He squatted in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, and gave me a shake. “Say something!”
So I did.
I finally did.
Junior Year
204. All of them. ALL!!! OF!!! THEM!!!
204. All of them. ALL!!! OF!!! THEM!!!
204. All of them. ALL!!! OF!!! THEM!!!
As soon as I heard Nick tell Valerie that it was time to take care of things, I felt my gut drop. They disappeared through the double doors, and I whipped back to find Mr. Angerson, who was always, always, always standing by the bus loop stopping everyone from having any fun.
Always.
But not May 2nd.
I raced down the entire bus loop looking for him, peering through the open bus doors and peeking in between parked buses. He had just been standing there. But now he was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Tate, our guidance counselor, was way down by the main entrance, and for a second I stood rooted in my spot, hearing the ticking of an invisible clock. I needed to make a decision, quick, before time ran out.
I was halfway between Tate and the double doors. I could either flag her down, say something, or just go in and try to find Nick, stop him myself.
I chose wrong.
Tate had a walkie-talkie. So did Mr. Angerson and Officer Belkin, our student-resource officer. Tate could have radioed Belkin. He could have gotten to Nick before anything happened. Or maybe he couldn’t have. I would never know, because I didn’t choose going to Tate.
I chose the double doors. I chose to find Nick.
The hallways were clogged, as usual, with people reluctantly going to class. Nobody in a big hurry, because nobody ever was in a big hurry to start the day. It was May; who cared about tardies anymore?
I shoved and pushed and shimmied my way through the throng, hearing shouts and protests behind me but not caring.
The first shot rang out just as I entered the Commons. There were a few startled squeals, but nobody really reacted, like they thought it was a joke or something, and even though I knew what I knew, a part of me wanted to believe right along with them. Over the crowd I could see a little scuffle, some chaos, going on by the wall. I thought I saw Nick’s black coat move quickly and steadily into the middle of the room, and then I heard a scream.
“Oh my God! Somebody! Help!” I would know that voice anywhere. Valerie’s voice.
“Valerie!” I yelled, springing forward.
I tried to get to her, but just as I started to move, there was another bang, and finally it began to dawn on people that it was real gunfire. There were shouts and screams and the sound of tables being knocked over. People started pushing toward me in droves. I still tried to shove through, but I couldn’t get anywhere. The farther I got into the Commons, the harder the crowd pushed back. My feet were getting stepped on, my sides were getting elbowed, and then someone thumped me hard on the head, and I went down.
T
he second I hit the floor, even as I clawed and scrambled to get to my feet, people raced right over me, their shoes smashing my hands, my arms. Someone’s knee hit me in the nose, and I saw a flash of light and felt blood trickle over my lips. Everyone was pressing so hard against one another, it was impossible to move, impossible to get up.
For a moment I was terrified. More bangs, more shouts, and with every shot there was a new surge, people tripping over my legs, stepping on my ankles. I doubled over on the floor, crying out in pain every time someone stepped on me, thinking I was going to be the kid in the news story who got trampled to death.
And then there was a hand. Right in front of my face, reaching toward me in the darkness.
“Come on!” I heard, and I looked up to see Chris Summers standing over me, reaching down between people to get to me. “Come on, we need to get out of here!” He gave his hand an insistent shake.
Even though it made no sense to me, rationally, that Chris Summers was going to help me, I grabbed his hand, and he pulled, yanking me up to my feet. He looked a little manic, a little petrified, running on adrenaline alone.
“He’s shooting! Go!” he yelled. He gave my shoulder a shove toward the exit, but still I stood. I watched him turn to go back into the Commons. Watched him kneel and pull a bleeding girl under an overturned table, where she’d be safe. Watched him steer another girl toward the door, pushing her farther into the crowd.
And then I saw him crumple to the floor. I saw him bleed. And I saw Nick standing several feet behind him, holding the gun out at arm’s length.
Nick looked up, and our eyes locked. His mouth twitched on one side in the tiniest of smirks. He looked scared. But also proud. And in that moment when we stared at each other, I felt it. I felt him thinking, This is ours. Because he wasn’t the only one who put Chris’s name on the hate list. I was guilty, too.