Nobody Knows But You
Page 1
Dedication
For Stephanie “Jimmy” Su,
wherever you might be
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Anica Mrose Rissi
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
September 3
Channel 5 News
“Tragic accident or deadly revenge?
“Sources from within the state prosecutor’s office say the DA is close to filing charges against a teenage suspect in the sensational case that has shocked and gripped viewers across the region since the fateful night three weeks ago that left one sixteen-year-old summer camper dead and another under suspicion of murder.
“Michael Desir, an attorney for the teen who is at the center of the ongoing police investigation, maintains his client’s innocence, even as prosecutor Marsha Davis is expected to bring charges within the week. Despite few official facts having been released in the case, rumors and speculation run rampant online, fueled by social media posts from other campers and their parents and counselors. Some have suggested that the delays in pressing charges could indicate major weaknesses in the state’s attempt to build a case proving the camper’s untimely death was a passion-fueled crime, not a tragic accident.
“The prosecutor’s office would not comment on whether the teenage suspect will be charged as a minor or—given the severity of the alleged crime—as an adult.”
August 22, 10:58 p.m.
hey
I miss you
you don’t even know how much
I wish I could tell you everything
I wish I could tell you I’m sorry
for all of it
all of it except you and me
Sorry but I think you have the wrong number
fuck you for not being her
August 23
Dear Lainie,
I swore to you we would always keep in touch, that I’d call and text and visit and write, so here goes, though neither of us could have imagined it would be quite like this. I’ll delete this as soon as it’s written, of course. Destroying the evidence, just like you taught me, haha.
Remember that? The first night we snuck out. You set your alarm on vibrate and promised to wake me at 12:13 a.m., but I didn’t sleep while I waited. I lay frozen after lights-out, barely breathing, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it would wake our whole cabin, if not the entire camp. Each second took minutes, millennia, to squeak past, and my brain was freaking out the whole time, spinning cartwheels around the trouble we’d be in when we got caught.
I rehearsed a billion excuses, but soon my stomach ached for real as I imagined the shrug you might give before slipping out the screen door into the night, leaving me behind and forgotten—my shot at being your friend, partner in crime, or anything else, blown completely. I still didn’t know why you’d invited me along in the first place. It was only the third day of camp and we’d barely spoken four words. (I’d barely said that much to anyone.) The invitation felt random, but also—don’t laugh—it felt a lot like fate. Like a chance to change my fate.
But I couldn’t do it. I’m a rule-follower at heart, not a rebel like you. I was going to chicken out.
Just when time had slowed so much it was basically standing still, it skipped forward, too fast, and before I knew it, you were climbing down from the top bunk, swift and silent, like a cat. Without moving a hand, you pulled me with you. I forgot my excuses and the fear dropped away as you walked out the door and I followed close behind, barely believing the person who, in that moment, at your invitation, I’d become.
It was freaking exhilarating.
You led the way past the cabins, down the hill toward the lake. A twig beneath my feet cracked like thunder, but it didn’t wake the counselors or the dead. (Okay, I winced when I just wrote that, the word dead. It made my stomach twist so hard, I thought I might vom, but then I heard your laugh in my head—you always laughed in terrible moments like this—and now I want to puke and cry and laugh too, all at once. Picturing that makes the you in my head crack up harder, which is all I want: to be laughing at something completely inappropriate with you again. So now I’m sitting here grinning through tears like a snotty mess, and I miss you so fucking much, can I just say that?)
How weird is it to think that before this summer, I never used to curse? You, my friend, were a terrible influence.
(Now the you in my head is rolling her eyes and nudging me. “Ahem. You were telling a story?”)
Right. I’ll continue.
I followed you to the lake, out onto the dock, and we sat cross-legged on the cool wooden planks while the waves lapped softly below us. You leaned back on your hands, tilted your face up to the stars, and the look of total peace that came across it made me wonder what troubles had come before. You smiled at the universe like you owned it, then you turned that smile toward me. “Isn’t this the best thing you’ve ever done?” you asked, already sure of the answer.
“I was so nervous,” I admitted. “I’ve never straight-up broken the rules before. I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of crime.”
You shook your head. “You were born for this. You’re a ninja. A fox. A motherfucking stealth pro.” I couldn’t tell if you were teasing or serious or both, but a giddiness spread through my chest. A giggle escaped, and you were laughing too, silently, your shoulders shaking and your lips pressed tight to hold it in.
The dock rocked beneath our butts and the smell of lake water filled my head, and I asked, “Do fishes sleep?” and you released an epic snort and laughed so hard you almost fell over.
“You’re so random,” you said when you’d caught your breath. It felt like the best compliment ever.
Your face got serious and you reached into your pocket, pulled something out, and announced, “I brought contraband.”
I’d been preparing for this moment since the day in fourth grade when Officer Dunkel warned us about the dangers of peer pressure, but no one had ever offered me cigarettes or drugs before. (I told you I lived a sheltered existence.) I was polite but firm. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“What?” You blinked, then choked on another laugh. “Oh my god. Raaaaaaaandommmmm,” you sang, and as you opened your hand further I saw what lay inside: two sticks of gum. The white wrappers shone in the moonlight. So did your grin.
“I thought it was cigarettes. Or, like, pot,” I explained. “It looked like a joint in the dark.”
You shook your head. “Okay, Randy.” I wasn’t even embarrassed, just thrilled you’d given me a nickname. I accepted the gum and folded it into my mouth, and you produced a lighter from your hoodie. You flicked it on and your eyes danced with fire. “The first rule of crime is: Always Destroy the Evidence,” you said solemnly. You held your wrapper to the flame and we watched it burn. The ashes blew over the water and disappeared, and you handed the lighter to me.
If I could turn back time, give us a chance to start over—figure out how to change what happened to you in the end—which moment would I send us back to? I think about this a lot. I know it’s a pointless question. I’m not going to stumble across a time machine or wake up to a second-chance summer. But the answer still seems important, like I need to figure it out. Like if I can pinpoint the moment where things went so wrong, I might rewrite the terrible ending.
Dr. Rita, the shrink my parents are pushing me off on so they won’t have to help me through this themselves, says I can’t blame myself for what happened, and I don’t. I blame Jackson. Duh.
And sometimes, a little bit, in the wor
st moments, I blame you, or at least wonder how I could have convinced you. I know it’s not my fault, any of what happened with you and him, but that doesn’t stop my brain or heart from cycling through the what-ifs. And there are a lot of those.
Here’s a big one: What if on that last night, the night of the accident, when you climbed down from your bunk—stepping left to avoid the spot on the middle rung that creaked—what if I hadn’t held still and pretended to be asleep? What if I’d gotten out of bed, followed you outside, and insisted on tagging along like the third wheel I’d sometimes become? Would you have sent me away? Would Jackson? Would it have changed anything? Or everything? Or nothing?
It hurts to think about. It hurts to imagine how things might be different now, the million-and-one ways. I could be writing you messages you’d actually read and reply to. Driving up to see you on weekends. Making you laugh again for real.
But I didn’t. You aren’t. You won’t.
You never will.
I hate this so much and I can’t even tell you.
I miss you more than you’ll ever know.
Love,
Kayla
August 27
Dear Lainie,
I didn’t want to go to Camp Cavanick. I wanted to stay home and sleep late, read books, enjoy air conditioning, and avoid bugs and “fun” and other humans. But my parents wouldn’t tolerate “another summer of you moping around the house” and I didn’t get into the science camp that was my first choice of torture. (Which is fair—I suck at science. Or rather, I’m as average at science as I am at everything else, no matter how hard my parents refuse to accept that. I’m sixteen years old and have shown zero signs of excelling at anything, but Adele and Peter still seem to be awaiting my acceptance from Hogwarts, or for my hidden superpowers to suddenly reveal themselves at the dinner table, proving I’m as extraordinary as everyone else in this family, not the dud of the bunch I’ve so far turned out to be. Not because they see any particular aptitude in me, but because they are so accomplished and high-achieving, it’s unfathomable that one of their children would turn out to be normal. Poor them. At least they’ve got my brother upholding the family standard of excellence—at Swarthmore, no less. La-di-da.)
I don’t love or excel at science, but I figured at least science camp would be chock-full of nerds. It wouldn’t matter if I was socially awkward or kind of a loner, because if anything, that would help me fit in.
But alas: I got rejected, even from reject camp. So Adele enrolled me at Camp Cavanick (“A Summer of Fun. A Lifetime of Memories. Exclusively for Teens!”) without my permission (though she swore she discussed it with me first), and while they didn’t exactly drag me there kicking and screaming—I do have some dignity—I made everyone as miserable as possible in the weeks leading up to my departure, lest they think they had won and there was any chance I might enjoy myself even slightly. Which of course made them all the more relieved to be dropping me off in the middle of nowhere for eight weeks of being blissfully free of me. I would feel bad about how I acted, but it’s my job as a teenager to help them detach and almost hate me, so when it’s time for me to fly the nest, they won’t feel too hopeless and sad. My awful behavior is actually deeply altruistic, see? YOU’RE WELCOME, PARENTS. Haha.
But I guess the joke was on me. I steeled myself for the worst and loneliest summer of my life (being alone with other people around is so much worse than being alone alone—I’m never lonely by myself, or at least I wasn’t before now), and instead I met you. The best thing that ever happened to me.
Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
I assumed it was Shakespeare who wrote that, but I just googled to check and turns out it was Alfred Lord Tennyson. “’Tis better to have loved and lost Shakespeare” is one of the top suggested auto-fills, though, so I must not be the only one who thought that. Man, Shakespeare gets the credit for everything, doesn’t he. All the other dead writers must hate him.
I feel like before I met you, I wasn’t even fully myself. I was a larva. A plain, unremarkable caterpillar that, in your presence, changed into a beauuuuuuutiful butterfly. It’s like you saw the very best version of me, and by seeing it, you helped me become it.
I don’t even know who I was before I became your best friend. I don’t know who I am now without you. I’m sure this new reality will sink in eventually, but right now it doesn’t compute. And I don’t want it to. “Loved and lost” or “Never loved at all” are shitty options. ’Tis better to have loved and stayed best friends forever. That’s what I wanted for you and me.
Ugh, I am so sick of crying over you. Dammit. How does someone recover from the loss of their very best friend?
No, really: HOW???
Cue Dr. Rita voice: It takes time to process and absorb, let alone move past, a significant trauma like this. You’re still in shock, and that’s okay. You’ve got many stages of grief to go through. You might not feel truly okay and like yourself for quite some time—and that’s all right too.
Well, it’s not all right with me.
She can take her bloody trauma talk and shove it.
(Get it? Bloody? Hahahahahahahahahaha *sob*)
Why am I still trying to make you laugh? Old habits die hard, I guess.
(Die! Ba-dum-ching!)
Seriously, folks, I’ll be here all night.
I will, though. I can’t sleep because I’m haunted by the ghosts of my past, who insist on replaying the highlight reel on endless loop. It’s It’s a Wonderful Life meets I Know What You Did Last Summer. Grab some popcorn and enjoy the show.
I definitely got funnier being friends with you, since it was basically my daily mission to make you crack up. I was good at it. I loved how your lips twitched whenever I made some goofy, random remark. (“What’s in it?” “Artichoke.” “Ah! A pirate’s favorite vegetable.”) Loved how the smallest things grew into inside jokes we ping-ponged back and forth for as long as humanly possible. (“Aye, matey, aside from Swiss charrrrrrd.” “Who told ye that, Old Salt?” “Farrrrmer Jack.” “That landlubber.” “Replace him with an arrrrrrdvarrrrk!” “Send him to the Arrrrrrrrctic!” “Farrrrrr as the carrrrrrrrr will go.”) Loved how other people looked at us when we really got going: part amused, part envious, part admiring, part confused. How they laughed along like they were in on our jokes, but never fully got them. (“Isn’t that right, John?” “That’s right, John.”) How they wished they could be part of us. We didn’t exclude them—we weren’t bitches—but I didn’t need anyone but you, you didn’t need anyone but me, and most people knew that.
Okay, that’s not true. You definitely needed other people. You needed an audience.
You reeled people in, then held them at arm’s length, never letting them get truly close. But me, you let in. I loved the real you, flaws and all.
I wish that could have been enough for you.
I know exactly how you would react to this. I can picture you so clearly, propping your chin on both hands, blinking your eyes wide, and saying, “Tell me more, Dr. Randy,” your voice the kind of mock serious that would make me toss a pillow at you if I had one. But I’m the daughter of not one but two child psychologists. It’s in my blood to psychoanalyze—or to be psycho, take your pick.
But yeah. No one else truly gets our sense of humor, which leaves me kind of screwed, if you think about it. I spent all summer perfecting my act for an audience of one, and that audience has left the theater.
Have I mentioned that I miss you?
You probably remember what I told you about the first (and only other) time I went to camp, the summer before fifth grade. How the girls in my cabin were intimidating and cliquey, and I was always on the edge of what was happening, never in on the fun or the jokes, but I didn’t understand how outside of it I was, or that they all hated me, until the night they hung Ollie.
The week before camp, I thought long and hard about which of my treasured stuffed animals should accompany m
e. I would miss each one that didn’t make the cut, but it seemed important to only bring one, so as not to seem too babyish, and I felt certain the right choice would make me seem cool. It couldn’t be a teddy bear or anything too well loved or too new-looking. It should be something quirky and interesting, the kind of companion that would make me seem interesting. One pretty enough that the others would secretly want it, but offbeat enough that it would look almost ironic propped against the pillow on my bunk. (Yes, this whole thing makes me cringe now too. I was a total dork.)
Scruffy, long-necked Ollie the baby ostrich won out. She was one of my sweetest animal friends—scrappy and a little awkward, with a trusting but intelligent face. I loved her puffy gray body and cute little beak, and her fuzzy white head felt soft beneath my chin when we cuddled in the dark.
None of the other girls in my cabin brought stuffed animals, or if they did, they kept them hidden in their duffel bags. The cooler, more sophisticated girls brought makeup kits: palettes with eye shadow in a hundred shades; plastic cases filled with polishes, powders, pencils, creams, and brushes. They sat on one another’s bunks and did each other’s faces, styled each other’s hair. Rubbed perfume samples on wrists they held out for sniffs and approval.
I studied the ways they talked and moved, in case I got a chance to be one of them.
I was never invited to the makeover parties, though I was present, just a bunk or two away. I sat, cross-legged, with a book on my lap, trying to look available but not desperate. Interruptible, but not unoccupied. But just like at school, I was an outcast. Invisible. Irrelevant. Unremarkable and ignored.
But one day, one of the girls noticed Ollie and asked me about her. She was curious and complimentary, and other kids gathered around us and cooed over how cute Ollie was. I even let a few of them hold her. My heart beat double-speed the whole time, I was so eager and thrilled to be finally making friends.
The giant bell they used to signal mealtimes and stuff clanged, and we left for afternoon activities. I dipped long wicks into containers of hot wax—lowering them in slowly, lifting them back out. Waiting, then dipping again. I thought about how making candles was like making friends: slow at first—kind of monotonous, even—and requiring patience through the endless early stages. But layer by layer, you could build something solid. My persistence was finally paying off. Maybe that night I’d be invited to join the makeovers. Maybe tomorrow I’d be included in their games.