Hate List

by Jennifer Brown

  Dad looked fairly miserable, caught between Mom and Briley, but whenever our eyes would catch, a glint of relief would flash across his face. And that relief was real, I could tell. In his eyes I saw hopefulness and knew, with some amount of certainty, that despite what we might have said to one another we would both eventually forgive each other. Even if we could never forget. All it would take was time.

  Every so often, Briley would lean in and whisper something in his ear and he would smile. And I was glad that he was getting a reason to smile. A part of me wished Mel had come with Mom. That way she could have a reason to smile, too.

  Frankie looked bored, but I suspected this was a planted look. Next year would be Frankie’s turn to test the corridors of Garvin High. His turn to scurry under the watchful eye of Mr. Angerson. His turn to sit in Mrs. Tate’s office, shocked and comforted by the unruliness. I had a feeling Frankie would do all right. Despite everything, he’d be okay.

  Dr. Hieler was there, too. Sitting in the row behind Mom and Dad. He had his arm curled around his wife. She looked nothing like I’d expected her to look. Neither beautiful nor glamorous. She didn’t have a Madonna-like set of unending patience and grace to her face, either. She checked her watch often and squinted against the sun and once barked something into her cell phone. I liked my version of her better. I really wanted to believe families like the one I’d imagined for Dr. Hieler existed. Especially for him.

  Behind Dr. Hieler was a splash of purple. Bea, her hair ratted up high and adorned with so many purple baubles she jingled when she moved, sat there. She wore a gauzy purple suit and clutched in front of her a purple handbag the size of a small suitcase. She grinned up at me, her face serene and beautiful, like a painting.

  Angerson stood and shushed the ceremony to a start. He gave a short speech about perseverance, but he seemed not to know exactly what to say about this class. All of the old standbys just didn’t work here. What could he say about a future to those parents who couldn’t let go of the past, who could do nothing but watch their hopes for their children’s futures fade away, their children gone for more than a year now and never coming back? What could he say to the rest of us, so marred by what happened within those hallowed halls of education we knew and once loved? There would be no sweet memories—those would be forever eclipsed. There would be no reunions—those would be traumatic.

  Soon he turned things over to Jessica, who rose confidently and climbed the steps to the podium. She spoke in an even, soothing voice about college and academia—bland stuff that would elicit no tears. And then she hesitated, her head bent toward the sheaf of papers in her hand.

  She paused so long people began coughing and shuffling, a wave of awkwardness. It almost looked as if she were praying, and, I don’t know, maybe she was. Angerson looked flustered and a couple of times wavered slightly toward her, as if he were going to prod her along or usher her off stage. When she finally looked up again, her face had changed. Softened, somehow, from the resolute Student Council president to the girl who patted my arm as Christy Bruter’s dad talked about forgiveness.

  “Our class,” Jessica began, “will forever be defined by a date on the calendar. May second, 2008. Not a member of this class will pass that date without remembering someone he or she loved, who is now gone. Remembering the sights and sounds of that morning. Remembering pain and loss and grief and confusion. Remembering forgiveness. Just remembering. We, the class of 2009 Student Council, are gifting Garvin High a memorial to remember…” her voice cracked on the word and she paused, her head bent again, to compose herself. When she looked up again, her nose was very red and her voice quavered. “… Remembering the victims of that day. Those we will never forget.”

  Meghan stood from her chair and walked to a mound in the grass near the stage. It was covered by a sheet. She grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it off. A concrete bench, almost blinding in its white-grayness, sat above a hole in the ground about the size of a television set. Next to the hole was a pile of fresh dirt and a metal box, the time capsule, its lid open. From my chair I could see that the box was mostly full of various items—pompom strands, fuzzy dice, photographs.

  Jessica nodded at me and I stood. My legs felt like rubber as I climbed the steps to the podium. Jessica moved to the side as I came toward her, but lunged toward me and wrapped me in her arms as I stepped closer. I let her cling to me, feeling the heat of her absorbing into my gown, making it stick to me even more. But I didn’t care.

  I remembered her walking toward me in the hall the day I tried to quit the Student Council project. Her eyes had been wet, desperate, her hand on her heart, her voice full and thick. I lived and that made everything different, she’d said. At the time I’d told her she was crazy, but now, clinging to her on the stage of our graduation, our project complete, I knew what she meant, and knew that she was right. That day did change everything. We’d become friends not because we’d wanted to, but because somehow we’d had to. And call me crazy, but it almost felt like we’d become friends because we were supposed to.

  Distantly, I could feel, rather than see, camera flashes popping. I could hear the murmur of reporters in the background. When Jessica and I parted I stepped up to the podium and cleared my throat.

  I saw all my old friends: Stacey, Duce, David, and Mason. I saw Josh and Meghan and even Troy, sitting in the back with Meghan’s parents. I saw everyone, a shifting sea of discomfort and sadness, each person carrying his own pain, each telling her own stories, no story more or less tragic or triumphant than any other. In a way, Nick had been right: We all got to be winners sometimes. But what he didn’t understand was that we all had to be losers, too. Because you can’t have one without the other.

  Mrs. Tate gnawed at a fingernail as she watched me. Mom sat with her eyes closed. She looked like she wasn’t breathing. It occurred to me, only briefly, that maybe I should go with my first instinct after all and use this time to apologize. Formally. To the world. Maybe, more than what I was about to give them, an apology was what I owed them.

  But I felt Jessica’s hand slip into mine, her shoulder rub up against mine, and at the same time I saw Angela Dash dip her head down to a notebook and begin writing. I glanced at my speech.

  “At Garvin High we were dealt a hard dose of reality this year. People hate. That’s our reality. People hate and are hated and carry grudges and want punishments.” I glanced at Mr. Angerson, who seemed to be perched on the edge of his chair, ready to jump up and stop me should I go too far. I felt myself shudder, falter a little. Jessica’s hand tightened around mine just slightly. I went on. “The news tells us that hate is no longer our reality.”

  Angela Dash shifted back against her chair. Her arms were crossed, her reporter’s notebook and pen forgotten. She glared at me with pursed, ugly lips. I blinked, swallowed, willed myself to go on.

  “I don’t know if it’s possible to take hate away from people. Not even people like us, who’ve seen firsthand what hate can do. We’re all hurting. We’re all going to be hurting for a long time. And we, probably more than anyone else out there, will be searching for a new reality every day. A better one.” I looked back, past my parents, toward Dr. Hieler. His arms were crossed over his chest, his forefinger rubbing his bottom lip. He nodded at me ever so slightly, almost not a nod at all.

  I shuffled a half step to the side. Jessica leaned in to the microphone, still grasping my hand.

  “We do know that it’s possible to change reality,” she said. “It’s hard, and most people won’t bother to try, but it’s possible. You can change a reality of hate by opening up to a friend. By saving an enemy.” Jessica looked at me. She smiled. I smiled back, sadly. I wondered if we would go on to be friends after this. If we would even see one another again after today.

  “But in order to change reality you have to be willing to listen and to learn. And to hear. To actually hear.

  “As president of the senior class of 2009, I am asking all of you to remember the
victims of the May second shooting and hear the reality of who those people were.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Many of the people who died, did so because the shooter…” I trailed off. I couldn’t even look up at Dr. Hieler, who I knew would be wiping his eyes and nodding encouragement to me. “… my boyfriend, Nick Levil, and I thought they were bad people. We only saw what we wanted to see and we…” I swiped at one eye. Jessica let go of my hand and began instead rubbing my back. “Um… we didn’t… Nick and I didn’t… we didn’t know… the reality of who these people were.”

  Jessica leaned forward again.

  “Abby Dempsey,” she said, “was an avid horseback rider. She had her own horse named Nietzsche, and she rode Nietzsche every Saturday morning. She was scheduled to perform next summer in the Knofton Junior Rodeo. She was so excited about it. She was also my best friend,” she added huskily. “We’ve put a lock of Nietzsche’s mane into the time capsule on Abby’s behalf.”

  She stepped back and I stepped forward again. My fingers were shaking around the note cards I was holding and I still couldn’t look up. But it was getting easier as I remembered the faces of all the parents Jessica and I had talked to. All the parents I had finally personally apologized to. All the parents who accepted my apology—some who forgave me. Some who didn’t. Some who said I never owed them one. We’d cried together and they’d been thrilled to share stories of their children with us. Most of them were out in the audience right now, I suspected.

  “Christy Bruter,” I said, “has been accepted to Notre Dame University and plans to study psychology. She wants to work with trauma victims and is already co-writing a book about her near-death experience. Christy has placed a softball in the time capsule.”

  Jessica leaned forward again. “Jeff Hicks had just come from the hospital seeing his new baby brother for the first time the morning of May second. He was running late to school, but was thrilled when he left the hospital, excited to have another boy in the family. He even suggested a name for the baby—Damon, after a favorite football player. In honor of Jeff, his parents named the baby Damon Jeffrey. We placed Damon Jeffrey’s hospital wristband in the time capsule on Jeff’s behalf.”

  “Ginny Baker,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was so much I wanted to say about Ginny. Ginny, who’d suffered so much. Who’d keep suffering. Who couldn’t be here because she was busy trying to find ways to finish the job Nick started. To punish herself for the bullying she felt she’d set in motion. “Ginny was winner of the Lads and Lassies contest when she was two years old. Her mom says she was always putting on talent shows and taught herself how to twirl the baton when she was only six. Ginny has elected…” I paused, trying not to cry, “not to put anything in the time capsule.” I lowered my head.

  We went on like that—taking turns offering trinkets and stories about Lin Yong and Amanda Kinney and Max Hills and the others. Mr. Kline’s widow sobbed out loud when we placed a quarter in the time capsule on his behalf, symbolizing his habit of tossing quarters at students who answered questions correctly in his class. One of his daughters kept her face buried in the folds of her mother’s dress, immobile.

  We got to the last one and I walked back down the steps to my seat. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone—the sound of noses blowing was too deafening.

  Jessica stood at the podium alone then, her feet planted firmly, her nose red but her eyes fierce. Her blond hair wisped in the wind like cobwebs.

  “There are two others,” she said into the microphone. I frowned, counted on my fingers. I’d thought we’d gotten them all. Jessica took a deep breath.

  “Nick Levil,” she said, “loved Shakespeare.” I held my breath. When had Jessica talked to Nick’s family? Why had she? Did she do it without me on purpose? I squinted at the bench. Sure enough, Nick’s name was there, last on the list of victims. I made a small noise in the back of my throat and covered my mouth with my hand. This time I couldn’t keep the tears from falling, especially when she dropped Nick’s old battered copy of Hamlet, the one he’d read passages of to me so many times, into the time capsule.

  I barely heard her say, “Valerie Leftman is a hero. More courageous than anyone I’ve ever known—a bullet the least of the scary things I’ve seen her face this year. Valerie single-handedly saved my life and stopped the shooting of May second, 2008, from being worse than it already was. And I’m so blessed to be able to call her my friend. Valerie has placed a book of drawings in the time capsule.” She produced my black spiral notebook and dropped it in on top of Nick’s Hamlet. My reality and Nick’s escape… one on top of the other.

  At first nobody clapped as Jessica thanked the crowd and took her seat. But then, building up like water coming to a boil, smattering applause broke into steady clapping. A few people—those who had themselves under control—stood in front of their chairs.

  I turned my head and looked: Mom and Dad were both clapping and wiping their eyes. Dr. Hieler was standing in front of his chair, not bothering to wipe his.

  Mr. Angerson stepped back up to the podium and got us back to the business of graduating, of getting on with our lives.

  I thought about the suitcase that lay opened on my bed. My things, nearly packed. The picture of me and Nick sitting on that rock at Blue Lake nestled under the underwear and extra bras. The copy of The Gift of Fear that Dr. Hieler had bought me, with an admonition to “stay safe.” The stack of calling cards Dad had wordlessly pressed into my hand last Saturday when he came to pick up Frankie. The college catalogs I’d gotten from Mrs. Tate.

  I thought about the train that I would catch in the morning—destination unknown—and how Mom would probably cry at the station and beg me once again not to go, at least not without a plan. And how Dad would probably look relieved as I watched him grow small through the window as the train pulled away. And how I wouldn’t blame him for it if he did.

  I imagined the things I might miss while away. Would Mom and Mel get married without me there? Would I miss seeing Frankie get his first job, maybe lifeguarding at the neighborhood pool? Would I miss the announcement that Briley was pregnant? Would I miss it all and, hearing about these things, would I feel that they deserved at least that much, my absence during those happy things?

  “You sure about this?” Dr. Hieler had asked me at our last session. “You have enough money?”

  I nodded. “And your number,” but I think we both knew I’d never call it, not even if I woke in the shadows of a musty-smelling hostel, my leg aching and Nick’s voice echoing in my ears. Not even if my brain finally allowed me to remember the hazy image of Nick putting a bullet in his brain in front of my bleary eyes. Not even to say Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday or I’m fine or Help me.

  He’d hugged me and rested his chin on top of my head. “You’ll be fine,” he’d whispered, although I wasn’t sure if he was whispering to himself or to me.

  And I’d gone home and packed, leaving the suitcase open on my bed, next to the horses in the wallpaper, which were—as they’d always been, of course—completely motionless.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, deep thanks to Cori Deyoe for taking a chance on me, for being my mentor and friend, for giving me the courage to put fingers to keyboard time and again, and for always being my loudest and best cheerleader.

  A huge thank-you to T. S. Ferguson for believing in my story, for teaching me so much about the craft of storytelling, for patiently answering an insane amount of questions, and for making me dig deeper than I ever knew I could. Also thanks to everyone at Little, Brown who read and helped shape this book, particularly Jennifer Hunt, Alvina Ling, and Melanie Sanders. Also, special thanks to Dave Caplan for the amazing cover design.

  Thanks to my writing friends, Cheryl O’Donovan, Laurie Fabrizio, Nancy Pistorius, and my girls at Café Scribe—Dani, Judy, Serena, and Suzy—for being there for shoulder-lending when the “I can’ts” set in.

  Thank you to my mom, Bonnie
McMullen, for not only telling me, but showing me daily that anything in life is possible. And thank you to my dad, Thomas Gorman, for always telling everyone whatever story I’m working on is the best one out there. Thanks, as well, go to my stepparents, Bill McMullen and Sherree Gorman. Also to my extended “mom” and “dad,” Dennis and Gloria Hey, and “sister” Sonya Jackson, who told me decades ago that this day would come.

  To my husband, Scott, there aren’t words big enough to say thank you for your enduring belief, support, and love. And to my children, Paige, Weston, and Rand, thank you for your patience and inspiration. I feel so hopeful about any future that includes you three at the helm.

  And finally, deep love and thanks to whoever’s pulling the strings “up there.” Jack, I ’spect it’s you. I owe you a big smooch!