“I’m Valerie Leftman,” I said.
“I know who you are,” she answered. Her voice was full, a little masculine. She whisked down the hall and I stumbled behind her to keep up. She disappeared into a dingy little office with almost no light, save for the gray lighting of the computer screen. I followed her in.
She sat at her desk. “Boy, have I tried and tried to talk to you,” she said, her attention on her computer screen, her fingers clicking madly on the mouse. “You’ve got some protective parents.”
“I didn’t know they were screening my calls until a lot later,” I said. “But I probably wouldn’t have talked to you anyway. I didn’t really talk to anyone back then. Not even my protective parents.”
She glanced briefly, uninterestedly, from her computer screen. “What brings you here now? Finally ready to talk? Because, if so, I’ve gotta tell you I don’t think we’ll need you after all. This is a pretty overdone story already. Except for the suicide attempt and the moment of silence, there’s really nothing new here. We’re ready to move on. The shooting’s old news.”
While Angela Dash didn’t look like the person I thought she was going to be, she definitely acted like her, which only emboldened me. I unzipped my purse and pulled out the article I’d filched from Ginny’s hospital room. I tossed it on her desk.
“I want you to stop writing this stuff,” I said. “Please.”
Her mouse finger stopped clicking. She pulled off her glasses and used the hem of her shirt to clean them. She put them back on and blinked. “Excuse me?”
I pointed at the paper. “The stuff you write isn’t true. It’s not like what you’re saying in your articles. You’re making everyone think that we’ve all moved on and it’s one big love fest in that school, but it’s not.”
She rolled her eyes. “I never said love fest…”
“You made Ginny Baker look like some suicidal freak who can’t get over what happened when everyone else has,” I said. “And it’s a lie. You didn’t even talk to Ginny Baker. You never have. The only person you’ve talked to is Mr. Angerson and you’re spinning the lies he wants you to spin. He doesn’t want to lose his job, so he has to make it sound like everything’s normal at Garvin High again.”
She leaned forward on her elbows and gave me this cocky little grin. “Spinning lies, huh? And where are you getting your information?” she asked.
“From living it,” I said. “I’m in that school every day. I’m there to see what people are still doing to each other. I’m there to see that Ginny Baker is not the only girl still suffering. I’m there to see that what Mr. Angerson sees and what Mr. Angerson wants to see are two totally different things. You’ve never been there. Not one day. You’ve never been to my house. You’ve never been to a football game or a track meet or a dance. You’ve never been to the hospital to check on Ginny.”
She stood. “You don’t know where I’ve been,” she said.
“Stop writing,” I said. “Stop writing about us. About Garvin. Leave us alone.”
“I’ll take your advice under consideration,” she said in this fake pleasant drawl of a voice. “But you’ll forgive me if I listen to my editor first and you second.”
I noticed for the first time how squat she looked behind her desk—this person who I’d always considered a giant with tons of power.
“I have a story to get back to,” she said. “If you want to see ‘the truth’ in writing, maybe you should consider writing a book. I ghostwrite on the side, if you’re interested.”
And suddenly I knew that the story Angerson wanted the world to be told about Garvin High was the story that would be told. That Angela Dash was lazy and a bad journalist and would say whatever he wanted her to say. That the truth about Garvin would never be heard. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Except maybe there was.
I walked briskly back outside, where Mom was still waiting for me at the curb.
“Get what you need?” she asked, scanning me with her eyes. “You got the research?”
“Actually, yeah,” I said. “I think I got exactly what I needed.”
42
I wasn’t sure if it was too late to get back on the StuCo project or not, but I wanted to give it a try anyway. There were only a couple weeks of school left and I wanted to share with Jessica my plans for the memorial.
I walked hesitantly into the room, bracing myself to face the entire Student Council, but the only one in the room was Jessica, bent over a pile of papers.
“Hey,” I said from the doorway. She looked up. “Where is everyone? I thought there was a meeting.”
“Oh, hey,” she said. “Canceled. Stone has the flu. I’m just studying for my Calc final.” She rubbed her elbows and squinted at me. “You wanting to come to a meeting? I thought you quit.”
“I have an idea for presenting the memorial,” I said. I moved across the room and sat in the desk next to her. I pulled out the piece of paper I’d been working on all night long—an outline of my plan—and handed it to her. She took it and started reading.
“Yeah,” she said, a smile growing slowly across her face. “Yeah. This is good. This is great, Val.” She glanced up at me sideways. “Need a ride?”
I grinned at her. “Okay.”
Our first stop was Mr. Kline’s house. It was a small, cozy brown house with untended flower gardens in the front and a skinny orange cat sitting on the porch steps.
Jessica pulled into the driveway and shut off the motor.
“You ready for this?” she asked. I nodded. Truth was, I’d probably never be ready for this, but it was something I had to do.
See things for what they really are, I reminded myself. See what’s really there.
We got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front door. The cat meowed at us plaintively and scurried under a bush. I rang the bell.
I could hear a small dog yapping ferociously just inside the door and some shushing noises that were doing nothing to quell the noise. Finally the door was pulled open and a mousy woman with mussed hair and giant glasses peered out at us. She was flanked by a squinty-eyed kid sucking on a popsicle.
She pushed open the storm door a crack.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said nervously. “Um, Mrs. Kline? I’m Val—”
“I know who you are,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”
Her voice was like shards of ice and I felt my bravado melting off of me. Jessica glanced at me and must’ve seen me looking scared because she piped up.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” she said. “But we were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes. It’s for a project that will involve your husband.”
“A memorial,” I added without thinking. My face immediately burned afterward. I felt embarrassed for mentioning her husband’s death in front of her. As if mentioning it would somehow make it more real to this sturdy little woman having to mother her children alone.
She looked at us silently for a long time. She seemed to be considering things very carefully. Maybe worried that I was carrying a gun and might blow her away and make her children orphans.
“Okay,” she said, pushing the door open a little further. At the same time she backed to the side, giving Jessica and me enough room to squeeze into the cluttered living room behind her. “But I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Jessica breathed and we went in.
Forty minutes later we were at Abby Dempsey’s house—an emotional journey for Jessica, who was Abby’s friend and who hadn’t seen Abby’s parents since the funeral—and an hour after that we were talking to Max Hill’s older sister, Hannah, on lawn chairs in their garage.
As evening pressed in on us we sat in Ginny Baker’s hospital room, watching her cry into a mountain of crumpled used tissues. Ginny was having a bad day. She wanted to go home. But the night before she’d broken a compact mirror and used a shard to try to slit her wrists. She’d be there for
a while, and she wasn’t happy about it. We talked to her mom in the hospital waiting room.
By eight o’clock, we were starving and we had one stop left to make. Jessica pulled into a gas station and we filled up on Slim Jims and bags of chips. I called my mom and told her I’d be home a little late and almost cried with happiness when she told me it was no problem, to just check in and be careful. Something she’d have said before the shooting. We sat in the gas station parking lot, stalling.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I said, feeling nauseated after all that grease.
“Are you kidding me?” Jessica said, popping a Cheez Doodle into her mouth. “It’s a great idea! And we’re almost done! Don’t doubt yourself now.”
“I’m just thinking maybe it will be more hurtful than helpful. I’m just thinking—”
“You’re just thinking you’re scared of going to Christy Bruter’s house. I don’t blame you, Val, but we’re going.”
“But she’s the reason it all happened. My MP3 player…”
“She is not the reason it all happened. Nick was the reason it all happened. Or fate. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. We’re going.”
“I’m not sure.”
She crumpled up her empty Cheez Doodle bag into a ball and tossed it into the back seat. She turned the key in the ignition and the car fired into life. “I’m sure. We’re going,” she said. She pulled out of the parking lot. I had no choice. We were going.
“It only hurts sometimes,” Christy said, sitting between her mom and dad on the couch. She would only look at Jessica when she talked. I didn’t blame her. I had a hard time looking at her, too. “And I wouldn’t really even say ‘hurts’ anymore. Just feels weird. Like my body’s weird.
“The worst part, honestly, is not getting to play softball anymore. I had already been offered a scholarship. Plus, my dad used to coach me and now…”
Her dad interrupted, clamping down on her knee with his palm. “Now he’s glad he got to coach for all those years,” he said. “Now he’s glad to have a daughter who’s alive to go to college.”
Christy’s mom made a small noise that sounded like “Amen” and dabbed at the corner of her eye with her fingertip. Mrs. Bruter hadn’t said much since Jessica and I got there. She sat by Christy’s side, alternately patting Christy’s knee and nodding her head in agreement to things Christy said, a trembling and not very convincing smile holding up her mouth the whole time. She nodded again when Christy’s dad mentioned that he had only prayed for a daughter who would be happy and have a long life, not one who could play softball.
“Do you…” I blurted, but faltered, unsure of what I wanted to ask her. Do you blame me? I wanted to ask. Do you hate me even more now? Do you wish Nick had killed me? Do you have nightmares with me in them? My mouth opened and closed. I swallowed.
Mr. Bruter must have sensed my discomfort because he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked me straight in the eye. His hands dangled between his legs.
“We’ve learned a lot about forgiveness since this happened,” he said. “We have no interest in seeing anyone else suffer over this tragedy. Not anyone.”
Christy stared at her hands in her lap. Jessica shifted toward me slightly.
“There are heroes who died for their school,” Mr. Bruter said softly. “And there are heroes who almost died for their school. And there are heroes who stopped the shooting. Who called nine-one-one when Christy went down. Who held her stomach to stop the bleeding. Heroes who… who lost people they loved. We appreciate all of the heroes of Garvin High.”
Jessica reached over and touched the back of my arm. I felt surrounded. I—God, how did this happen?—felt proud.
When I got home, totally exhausted, Mom and Mel were sitting on the couch watching TV.
“It’s getting late,” Mom said, wrapped in her cocoon of Mel. Her feet were pulled up to the side. She looked comfy in a way I’d never seen before, not even when Dad was her cocoon. “I was getting worried about you.”
“Sorry,” I said. “This project has to be done before graduation.”
“Did you get it finished?” Mel asked and I found, to my surprise, that I didn’t mind him asking. All in all, Mel was a pretty good guy. And he made Mom smile more, which, in my opinion, made him a pretty great guy.
“Well, I got the research finished,” I said. “I got all the interviews done, anyway.”
He nodded in approval.
“I saved dinner,” Mom said. “It’s in the oven.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Jess and I ate something already.” I walked over and stood behind the couch. “I think I’m just going to go to bed.” I gave Mom a kiss on the cheek—a gesture I hadn’t given her in years. She looked surprised. “’Night, Mom,” I said, walking toward the stairs. “’Night, Mel.”
“’Night,” Mel called back loudly, drowning out Mom’s voice.
43
I burst into my last session with Dr. Hieler practically buzzing.
“I think I’m starting to figure out who I am,” I said, smiling wide as I dropped back onto the couch and popped open my Coke.
“Who you are?” Dr. Hieler asked, grinning widely. He flopped into his chair and draped one leg over the arm of the chair like always.
“Yeah, I mean, I know this sounds stupid, but I think talking to all those people reminded me of who I really am.”
“And who are you? Who did you remember yourself to be?”
“Well,” I said. I stood and paced the room. “For starters, I liked school. I really did. I liked being with my friends and hanging out and going to basketball games and stuff. I was smart and driven, you know? I wanted to go to college.”
Dr. Hieler nodded, pressing his forefinger to his lips. “Good,” he said. “I would agree with all those things.”
I stopped pacing and sat back on the couch, a knot of excited energy. “And the Hate List was real. I really was angry. It wasn’t a show for Nick. I mean, I wasn’t as angry as he was, you know. I didn’t even realize how angry he was. But I was angry, too. The bullying, the teasing, the name-calling… my parents, my life… seemed so messed up and pointless and I really was pissed about it. Maybe back then a part of me was suicidal and I just didn’t know it.”
“Possible,” he said. “You had good reason to be angry.”
I jumped up again. “Don’t you see? I wasn’t faking it. Not entirely.” I turned and looked out the window. Mist was settling down on the cars in the parking lot. “At least I wasn’t a poser,” I said, staring at the water beading on the hoods of the cars. “At least I wasn’t that.”
“Yeah,” he said, “But can you do a killer back handspring?”
“No, still can’t do that.”
“Really? I can.”
“You cannot. You’re such a liar.”
“But I’m good at it,” he’d said. “And I’m proud of you, Val. I’m not lying about that.” And we’d moved over to the chess board, like always. He beat me, like always.
44
“I know you don’t want me to get excited,” said Mrs. Tate. A doughnut sat, half-eaten, on the desk in front of her. Her coffee cup steamed. It smelled good in Tate’s office first thing in the morning. It smelled like waking up was supposed to smell—rich and bright and comforting. “But I can’t help it, you know. This is exciting news.”
“It’s not news,” I said sleepily from the chair across from her desk. “I’m just saying I want those catalogs now. For later.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Of course, for later! Absolutely. Who would blame you? Later’s a good thing. How much later?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. However long it takes. I need some time to think things over. But you’re right, college was always part of my plans before and I shouldn’t just let go of who I am.” Now that I knew who I wasn’t, I was determined to remember who I was. Who I would become.
Mrs. Tate opened a file cabinet and pulled out several thick catalog
s. “I can’t tell you, Valerie, how proud I am to hear that,” she said, beaming. “Here you go. Lots to choose from. You know you can call me if you ever have any questions or need help deciding.”
She handed the books to me and I leaned over to take them. They felt heavy in my palms. I liked the feeling of it. For once the future seemed heavier than the past.
PART FOUR
“Alas, how shall this bloody
deed be answer’d?”
—SHAKESPEARE
I can’t say the TV cameras didn’t make me a little bit nervous. There were so many of them. We’d expected some—were banking on it, really—but this many? I felt my throat go dry and scratchy when I tried to talk.
It was hot for May and the gown was sticking to my legs when the wind blew. Graduation was, as it had always been, held outside, on the vast lawn on the school’s east side. Someday, administration had always warned, graduation would be moved to a big auditorium to accommodate school expansion and unpredictable Midwest weather. But not today. Today we were following tradition. At least we could do that, this troubled class of 2009. Tradition felt good to us.
I could see my family—Frankie sitting between Mom and Dad, off to the side, near the back. Briley sat on the other side of Dad.
Mom had a grim set to her face and kept shooting hostile glances at the cameramen. I was suddenly struck with gratefulness that she’d somehow managed to keep the cameras mostly away from me throughout all of this. The only reporter I’d even spoken to was Angela Dash, when I’d made the trip to her office. It made me realize, with something akin to shock, that despite all of the accusatory things said and the mistrust placed over the past year, Mom didn’t just work to protect the rest of the world from me; she also protected me from the world. Beneath the struggle there would always be that basic love, that safe place to come home to.
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