Nobody Knows But You

by Anica Mrose Rissi

  Everyone thinks they know about you. They have no idea.

  There are so many things I won’t tell them.

  Love,

  Kayla

  September 4

  Channel 13 News

  “This just in. Prosecutor Marsha Davis today filed charges of second-degree murder against sixteen-year-old Elaine Baxter, known as ‘Lainie’ or, more recently, as the alleged ‘Summer Camp Slayer.’ Maplewash County police arrested Baxter on August twenty-second in connection with the apparent murder of her summer-camp sweetheart, Jackson Winter, who was reported missing and found dead near Camp Cavanick grounds on August fourteenth. Although Baxter, at age sixteen, could still technically be considered a juvenile, the DA chose to file charges in adult court, due to the severity of the alleged crime and the defendant’s history of low-level infractions, such as two previously undisclosed shoplifting charges.

  “Baxter’s court-appointed attorney, Michael Desir, said in a statement, ‘Lainie is innocent of these terrible charges and welcomes the chance to clear her name in the upcoming trial. We have no further statement at this time.’ At the arraignment, Baxter entered a plea of not guilty.

  “The defendant remains in custody at the local juvenile detention facility where she has been held since her arrest. The judge set bail at two hundred thousand dollars, but the defendant’s family has been unable to pay it.

  “A spokesperson for the family of the deceased, Jackson Winter, asked for privacy and declined to offer comment at this time, other than to note they are still in mourning for a promising life cut tragically short.”

  September 5, 2:15 p.m.

  Hey

  It’s Nitin

  I don’t know if we’re allowed to talk or if you even want to hear from me but

  I wanted to check if you’re okay

  Kayla?

  hey

  Hey

  Sorry I didn’t reach out sooner

  this whole thing has been just

  awful

  I haven’t known how to talk about it

  words seem insufficient

  I figured you’re the one person who’d understand

  You still there?

  yeah

  it’s probably not a great idea for us to talk

  sorry

  Oh

  okay

  Take care of yourself then

  you too

  yeah

  September 6

  Dear Lainie,

  I knew this was coming, so it shouldn’t be a shock, but it’s still jarring to hear they’ve pressed charges. Your name out there in the media now. Charged as an adult. Branded a murderer.

  It’s all so official and real, but surreal, unreal, too. Four weeks ago, we were swearing to make the most of our last week at camp. To not even think about saying goodbye until the moment we had to—but even then, to be sad but not too sad, since the end of the summer wasn’t the end of our friendship, just the beginning of its next chapter.

  Now you’re stuck in jail and Jackson is gone, and I’m forbidden by my parents’ lawyer from contacting you.

  I should do it anyway. I should get in the car and drive straight to your side. I should bang down the door and bribe all the guards, or whatever it takes to make them let me see you. I should stage a sit-in, a hunger strike, and insist they can’t keep us apart.

  I daydream about it. I imagine it’s what you would do if our roles were reversed. But I’m scared.

  I’m scared of what you might say if you saw me. I’m scared of what you might not.

  I texted your number two weeks ago. It was already someone else’s. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but you can add that to the list of things I somehow didn’t see coming.

  Maybe it’s safer that we’re only talking like this, in my head, for now. But I hate that I can’t reach you.

  It’s a ridiculous thing to focus on, but it makes me cringe, the fact that now everyone knows your real name. Maybe I’m stuck on it because the rest is too much to process, but I know you’ve always hated being called that. It’s not a bad name; it’s just not a you name. I remember how you described it: as the ultimate proof that your parents never understood you.

  All summer, no matter who asked, you insisted that Lainie was your given name. Even Jackson and Nitin weren’t let in on the truth, but to me you confessed it out of nowhere. You’d brought tea candles out to the dock that night, and we tried to shelter them with our limbs, but the wind kept gusting them out, so you kept relighting them. You were sparking the flame with your thumb when you said, “Can you believe my mother named me Elaine?” The wick caught and you glowed, then it blew out again.

  Weirdly, of all the secrets you entrusted me with, that’s the only one you made me swear to keep. And I did. But now everyone knows, and I hate that, possibly even more than you do.

  You should get to be you. Though, granted, this whole thing isn’t you—you’re not a murderer. I know that. I hope you know I believe you, even if no one else does.

  I didn’t know about the shoplifting, though. Is that real or another stupid rumor?

  I hate that I can’t ask you. I hate that we can’t talk about it. I hate that there’s anything about you I don’t know, and with each day that passes, there’s more of it. We’re both moving further and further from who we were over the summer. We’re becoming who we are in the After.

  DUN-DUH.

  Sorry. That’s the kind of thing that would have seemed deep and real if uttered out on the dock in the middle of the night, just you and me and the lake and the stars (and the occasional loon, plus crickets), but typed up it’s melodramatic and ludicrous. MY BEST FRIEND HAS BEEN CHARGED WITH HER BOYFRIEND’S MURDER AND I’M WRITING HER LETTERS I’LL NEVER SEND BECAUSE I MISS HER AND IT’S MY WAY OF MOURNING AND REMEMBERING OUR RELATIONSHIP. Okay, this whole situation is melodramatic to the extreme. Let’s just acknowledge that.

  Carry on, chap. (Your British accent was the worst. I miss that too.)

  If you’re wondering whether joking about this stuff is helping me freak out less, the answer is no, not really. It might be helping me hide it better, though. It seems important to at least try to hold myself together, though I don’t know why or for who. But writing these letters does help in general. Dr. Rita was right about that. I feel less alone when I’m writing to you, and it helps me focus. Looking at the words gives me something present and real to concentrate on. It gives me a break from picturing you in a jail cell, or Jackson facedown in the lake. It lets me stop spinning on the morning after, and the things you said, and the things you didn’t. It keeps my candle from blowing out in the wind.

  Speaking of deep conversations on the dock, do you remember this one? It was after you got together with Jackson, but a night when only you and I were out. Maybe you guys weren’t speaking, or maybe you were feeling nostalgic, so we snuck out just you and me. We were lying on our backs, looking at the sky, making up names of constellations.

  You: “What do you want your legacy to be?”

  Me: “My legacy?”

  “Yeah. Like, once you’re dead and gone, what do you want to be remembered for?”

  “Besides discovering the Medium Dipper?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  I said the first thing that popped to mind. (You were right: My brain is random.) “I used to be able to burp the whole alphabet.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  I couldn’t tell if you were teasing or being serious. No one has ever truly appreciated that talent, not even my brother. (I assume he was jealous.) “We can’t all cure cancer,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

  I paused before telling the truth. “Maybe I’d rather not be remembered.”

  I felt you roll your eyes at that one. “I think it’s something we should be deliberate about,” you said.

  “Our legacies? Now?”

  “If you don’t decide and pursue it yourself, someone else will decide for you.”
<
br />   “That’s fine. I’ll be dead. I don’t think I’ll care,” I said.

  “I care.”

  “Okay, fine. What do you want your legacy to be?” I asked.

  You shook your head. “I don’t know. But I feel like I’m doing it wrong. Reaching for the wrong stuff. Failing at it.”

  We were quiet for a minute. I stared into the Milky Way. “I love who you are,” I said. “I wish you did too. I wish you’d stop letting Jackson jerk you around. It’s a game to him, and you can’t win it. I hate when he makes you feel small.”

  I felt you stiffen, and held my breath. You let yours go and didn’t fight me. “I know.”

  The silence felt warm and pliable around us. Maybe I should have pushed you harder then. I didn’t.

  I thought it was a turning point. I thought it was enough.

  I pointed at the stars. “There’s Antelope’s Revenge.”

  “Mmm. Right next to the Maiden’s Testicle.”

  “I love that one. Hanging just off the edge of the Chastity Belt,” I said.

  “I thought it was called Vulva’s Crest.”

  “I think it’s regional. Like ‘pop’ versus ‘soda.’”

  You sighed. “See, this is why I don’t believe in science.”

  “Because dinosaurs claim the constellations were named through evolution?”

  “Exactly,” you said. I thanked my lucky stars that you’d found me.

  You were right, though. You were reaching for the wrong things. Jackson had thrown you off track. And because of it, you lost control of your legacy. No matter how the trial turns out, you will always be remembered for this.

  It changed my legacy too, by changing the course of our friendship and cutting it horribly short. Though it looks like I’ll get my wish and be unremembered in the aftermath. No one ever remembers the role the sidekick played. I’m okay with that.

  I only wanted to be central to and remembered by you.

  That night, beneath the stars, I thought you would change course and follow a different constellation. Stop navigating by the light of Jackson and go back to shining bright on your own.

  Not on your own—with me beside you. Two stars in Vulva’s Crest. (Ew. Never mind, let’s join the Medium Dipper.)

  I want to believe this could still end differently.

  Love,

  Kayla

  P.S. I heard from Nitin yesterday. Maybe you’re right, maybe he did have a thing for me. I don’t think so, though. I think he was being kind, or needed someone to talk to and flip out with.

  Either way, I shot him down. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone but Dr. Rita or my parents about you, not without the lawyer present. Not that I’d want to anyway. I only want to talk to you.

  I’m worried I’ll get called to testify. I don’t know what that would be like. Even with Dr. Rita, I’ve told the truth but not the whole truth.

  I don’t like to think about some of it. I’d rather ignore the parts that don’t add up.

  There are pieces of this story I don’t want to be true, and truths I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I don’t want to talk about those. It makes my throat close up and my eyes sting just thinking about it. And I’ve never been a good liar. Not compared to you.

  September 10

  Now Today

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, ELAINE BAXTER SEEMS LIKE THE kind of girl anyone might kill to be, or be with: Friends say she’s more than just beautiful. She’s also smart, adventurous, entertaining, and fun.

  But the charismatic sixteen-year-old is not only vivacious; she is also, by many reports, troubled. Some of her peers describe her as a skilled storyteller, while others paint her as having a loose relationship with the truth. Prosecutors in the Jackson Winter murder case have suggested there’s a simpler word to describe her: liar. They say the statement Baxter gave police the morning Winter’s body was found—a statement she later retracted when it became clear how many holes and errors it contained—was only one of many deceptions the suspect attempted to spin over the course of that fateful summer. They say the “disturbing pattern” of false and misleading stories Baxter is alleged to have told is “just the tip of the mountain of evidence” they will share with the jury at trial, as they work to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Baxter’s claims of what really happened between her and Jackson Winter the night of August thirteenth are not to be believed.

  Baxter’s lawyer describes the police’s early focus on his client as the primary suspect in the investigation as a “witch hunt” and suggested Baxter should not only be found innocent, she should be considered, “if anything, the second tragic teenage victim in the case.”

  But as more conflicting stories emerge from fellow campers and former classmates, many who thought they knew her say they’re left asking: Who is Elaine Baxter, and could she really be capable of murder?

  We’ll soon find out. Jury selection for Baxter’s trial is set to begin October 22. A spokesperson for the family of the slain teenager, Jackson Winter, says they remain devastated over the loss of their beloved brother, nephew, grandchild, and son, and hope that at last the full truth about the circumstances surrounding his death will emerge in court.

  Camper and Counselor Interviews, Statements, and Posts

  August 14–November 24

  “Lainie loved a good story, especially if she was the one telling it. I don’t think she cared so much if the story was actually true.”

  “I knew Lainie pretty well. I mean, she was in my cabin the whole time. I had the top bunk on the bed next to hers and Kayla’s. But all the stuff in the news and the things people are saying, it doesn’t match up with the Lainie I thought I knew. Like, some of the stuff she told us made it seem like she came from a lot of money, and now it turns out the opposite is true. And I’m just like, why? About all of it. But about that stuff, the little stuff, too. It feels like we might never know the whole truth about her.”

  “Lainie was always telling wild stories. I loved to hear her talk. She could be telling you what she had for breakfast and she’d make it seem like the most exciting thing around, like eating oatmeal was an adventure you wished you could go on too. I don’t think that makes her a liar. It made her interesting.”

  “I’ve never met anyone so charismatic. She was just likable, and the stories she told were part of that, even if some were exaggerated. Isn’t that what they say about all psychopaths, though? That they’re always charming? I think I heard that on a podcast once.”

  “I’m not surprised she turned out to be a liar and a murderer. Everyone thought she was so great, but she was too good to be true, you know?

  “I don’t say that just because of me and Jackson. Even if he hadn’t had a thing with Lainie, I wouldn’t have kissed him again. I’m not a boyfriend thief. We were caught up in a moment, that’s all. It never happened again.”

  “Ugh, you shouldn’t listen to a word Emma says about Lainie. She thinks hooking up with Jackson once made her an expert on them both. Like, hello, sucking face with a notorious fuckboy doesn’t show you the depths of his soul, let alone make you an authority on the other girl he’s been cheating on his girlfriend with.

  “Lainie might have spun a few tall tales, but Emma was downright delusional. She still won’t let it go.”

  “This whole thing feels like a story she might tell, one that keeps everyone gasping and guessing until the end. She was always in control of every twist and turn, and good at manipulating audiences too. People ate it right up, whatever she’d tell them, no matter how outrageous the story got. When she told it, you’d be all wrapped up in listening, and maybe after you’d have a moment of Wait, could that really be true? But she made you want to believe her, every word of it. And often it was like, well, it must be true, because who would invent something like that?”

  September 11

  Dear Lainie,

  I remember the first time I watched you lie. Or rather, the first time I saw it and knew you were lying. The first time I was
an accomplice, not a witness.

  Before that, there were other times. Times when I wasn’t certain, just confused—when it seemed like your stories didn’t quite match up or that if they contained truth, you were probably stretching it. Like that time you told the story about your cat.

  The cat story was harmless. (They all seemed harmless to me, all summer, until the last one.) People were hanging out in the mess hall after lunch, talking about ways adults can be clueless. Obvious double entendres going over a sex ed teacher’s head; parents trying to be hip about music; a chaperone who believes the bottle being passed around a bus contains only water. That kind of thing. It was the first week, and everyone was trying to show off how edgy and cool they could be. But you didn’t care about cred.

  You told us about the time your cat was off roaming the neighborhood, and another black cat came in through the cat door and made himself at home in your house. Your parents fed him and petted him and called him by your cat’s name, and nobody believed you that “This isn’t Stormy!” Until Stormy came back home hours later.

  Your parents looked back and forth between the stray cat on the couch and your cat entering the living room, hissing and raising his fur at the intruder. Your mom’s jaw dropped and your dad blinked rapidly, like that might clear his double vision. The stray cat stretched and yawned, lifted his leg, peed on the sofa, then bolted out the door. Your dad blinked one more time and went back to his iPad. Your mom cleaned up the mess. Neither of them spoke of it again.

  I laughed with everyone else, but later, when it was just us, asked, “I thought you said your parents wouldn’t let you have a pet.”

  “Oh, they won’t,” you said cheerfully. “My mom’s allergic to everything, or claims she is. I think she just doesn’t like animals or messes, but whatever. That’s my friend’s story about the cats. It really happened. Everything except the peeing part.”

  “But you told it like it’s yours,” I said, feeling slow.