Nobody Knows But You

by Anica Mrose Rissi

  ATTORNEY DAVIS: All those characteristics match those of the hoodie you saw Elaine Baxter wearing that night?

  THE WITNESS: Yes.

  ATTORNEY DAVIS: Then what’s different?

  THE WITNESS: The— The stains. The stains on it. On the sleeves. Those weren’t there before.

  ATTORNEY DAVIS: When you saw Miss Baxter wear this hoodie on previous occasions, it did not previously have bloodstains?

  THE WITNESS: It— No. It did not.

  ATTORNEY DAVIS: And to the best of your knowledge, when Elaine Baxter left the cabin wearing the hoodie to go meet Jackson Winter on the dock the same night that he died, there were no such stains on the hoodie already?

  THE WITNESS: No. I mean, that’s right.

  ATTORNEY DAVIS: Thank you, Kayla. I have no further questions, Your Honor.

  November 16

  Channel 5 News

  “The state rested its case against Elaine Baxter today after an especially dramatic day of testimony. Sixteen-year-old former camper Kayla Martin, who described herself as Baxter’s ‘best friend,’ served as a clearly reluctant witness for the prosecution, testifying that she saw Baxter leave their cabin after midnight during the night of Jackson Winter’s death and return hours later, no longer wearing the infamous blue hoodie that was recovered days later, splattered with Jackson Winter’s blood.

  “During cross-examination, Baxter’s lawyer, Michael Desir, made several attempts to poke holes in Kayla Martin’s story, challenging everything from the time Baxter allegedly returned to the cabin, to Martin’s certainty that Baxter was even wearing the blue hoodie when she left to meet Winter in the first place, to the closeness of the girls’ relationship. The teenage witness appeared to be fighting back tears when she told the defense attorney, quote, ‘I wish so hard I could tell you a different story. I really do. I’d give anything for there to be a different end to this. But there isn’t.’ End quote.

  “When the witness left the stand, she appeared to mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’ in the defendant’s direction. Elaine Baxter, who appeared stone-faced and unresponsive throughout her friend’s testimony against her, turned her head and looked away.

  “The defense will call its first witness when the trial resumes tomorrow morning. Elaine Baxter, sources tell us, is currently not expected to take the stand herself.”

  November 17

  Dear Lainie,

  I barely recognized you in the courtroom yesterday.

  No, that’s not right.

  I recognized you immediately, of course. But the blankness of your stare—the indifference in your eyes as you looked straight at me and let my words wash over you—was not the you you used to be with me. It was all Teflon. Any pleas I tried to send in your direction bounced right off. Your posture, your expression—you gave nothing away, and you were letting in no one, especially not me. Of all the truly awful things about yesterday, that is what made it a nightmare. The pure and total eradication of us.

  You’re done with me. I know that. Despite your face saying nothing, the message was all too clear. Your complete and total silence has been screaming it at me all along. I didn’t want to listen. But I get it now. I do.

  If you’d given me just the slightest sign, I don’t think I could have gone through with it. So thank you, I guess. In a way, you’ve made this easier, despite it being so far from what I wanted.

  None of this is what I wanted.

  Your lawyer is doing a shit job. I wanted to shake him. He’s been sowing seeds of doubt, but he hasn’t planted a new story. There’s nothing for those seeds to grow into. It’s a huge mistake.

  People need stories. They crave narratives to follow, characters to believe in. Tales to help them understand. They want to be told something beautiful, horrible, strange, or exhilarating—to imagine and feel part of it. Stories get us invested. They make us care. A good story can get a listener so attached, she’ll believe it regardless of truth. You taught me that. Give people a few convincing threads and they’ll spin the rest themselves.

  This story has been woven for us, more tightly than I could have done. I couldn’t untangle the knots now if I tried—everyone’s too invested in what they want to believe. It’s too late to suggest all the things they got wrong.

  But this part’s right: That night, you snuck out to meet Jackson, alone. You didn’t even glance in my direction as you slipped out the screen door, shoes in hand, hoodie on. The next morning, Jackson was dead. That’s a nice, clean arc for those who want to see it.

  It’s the part before that that’s murkier, that I’m still reluctant to believe: The part where I told you what Nitin had told me, and everything got thrown off-kilter.

  I expected pain when I told you the truth about Jackson. Pain and fury, and some disbelief. Maybe some of your anger would be directed at me—after all, no one thanks the messenger. It’s an ugly job, delivering news that hurts. I’d rather have avoided it and spared us both.

  That whole afternoon, I tried to talk myself into a way I wouldn’t have to tell you. What did it matter if he deceived you for two more days, then broke your heart with the truth in the end? Either way, you’d get crushed. But if I waited, I wouldn’t be there to help pick up the pieces—I’d be home and so would you. I couldn’t abandon you to go through it alone. Besides, the longer this went on before you learned the full truth, the more humiliated you would be that you hadn’t seen it coming. You wouldn’t want me to let him keep playing you like that.

  Maybe Jackson could lie to your face, but I couldn’t. Best friends tell each other hard truths. We say the things no one else will, and we stay close to help break the fall. That’s friendship. That’s trust.

  So I told you. I pulled you aside at campfire that night and repeated what Nitin had said. Light and shadows from the flames danced across your face, and I waited for the shock to register.

  Instead, you looked only exhausted.

  I was tired by then too—tired of watching you run on this hamster wheel; tired of sharing my best friend with a dirtbag; tired of how different you were around him; and tired, most of all, of him. But that wasn’t what you were tired of. You seemed tired of me.

  That sent me reeling.

  I touched your arm, almost to steady myself. To ground us in something real. You blinked, and your expression changed. Exhaustion and annoyance morphed into resignation. You sighed and shook your head, and I wondered if I had misread things.

  “Nitin’s wrong. He and Jackson don’t really hang anymore. I get why he’d assume that, but he doesn’t have the full story,” you said.

  Maybe I should have dropped it, but I couldn’t. “I don’t think so. He’s not the type to just go around saying things. He seemed certain. Maybe you should, um, ask.”

  “Okay.” Your voice was calm and steady.

  “Okay, you’ll ask him? Ask Jackson?”

  You shrugged. “Sure.”

  His arms snaked around you from behind, and I jumped. “Ask me what?” he said. Over your shoulder, he gave me his signature smirk.

  You turned so your lips could meet his. “Nothing,” you said, and kissed him again. There were counselors and campers all around, but you didn’t care that PDA was prohibited. Two days left—the rules were getting lax.

  “Not nothing,” I said. I was annoyed, I admit it. My tone was a violation of our truce from the past few days. But Jackson had broken the truce first through his deception.

  You shot me a glare. I’m on it, your look said. Butt out. Maybe you planned to catch him off guard with questions later. Maybe you wanted to ask him in private, even though you would tell me everything when it was done. I wanted to be there for it, though. I wanted to be there to keep him honest. He’d already lied and convinced you once. You might fall for more of what you wanted to hear. I wouldn’t.

  But you were right. This was not my battle to fight, and you had told me you would ask him. I needed to let you do it on your own time, in your own way. I backed off. “You want s
’mores?” I asked. “I can get us sticks.”

  Jackson kissed your neck and you leaned against him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Anyone else at all to hang out with?” you said to me.

  The words stole my breath. They wrapped around my heart and squeezed, while your acid tone finished the job. If you wanted me to feel worthless and pathetic in that moment, you succeeded. I stumbled backward, as thrown as if you’d shoved me.

  You never talked to me that way when Jackson wasn’t around. You weren’t cruel or dismissive toward anyone, before him. But Jackson made you mean. His “jokes” were designed to cut people down. He was a guy—he could get away with it. He was “being funny” and “just kidding” and “didn’t realize” anyone “could be so sensitive” if they showed they were hurt or didn’t always laugh along. Boys will be boys, hahaha. And the fact that you were his sort-of girlfriend protected him as much as the double standards did. He was a jerk, but you liked him, and people put up with it because of how much they liked you.

  But when his behavior put you on edge, the poison he kept injecting in your veins seeped out and damaged others. I don’t think you meant to be that way. You were trying to impress him, not trying to hurt anyone. But the barbs still sliced and stung.

  You got away with it, to a point, because people already admired you. You were so fun and magnetic the rest of the time. But it added up. It affected how people saw you by the end, and put them on guard. They didn’t trust you. And why should they? You’d hurt them for the sake of a laugh.

  That wasn’t you. It was a wounded, worn-down version of you with too much to prove.

  Knowing that didn’t stop the hit from landing when you lashed out at me in that moment. I backed away, apologizing, and tried to catch my breath. I left you alone the rest of the evening.

  You were normal toward me that night in the cabin as everyone hung out and got ready for bed. But we didn’t get any moments alone together, and when I tried to check in quietly while we were brushing our teeth, you gestured to say, Not now.

  “Tonight?” I asked, and you shook your head and bent to spit out the toothpaste. So we wouldn’t be sneaking out. It was decided.

  I swallowed my disappointment with a few handfuls of tap water, and rationalized it was probably so we wouldn’t be tired on the last full day. We’d want to sneak out the final night, of course. Maybe we would stay out until dawn, watch the sunrise over the lake, spend every hour we had left together together, like how we’d started. Tonight we would sleep, to enable us to end strong. I was okay with that.

  We went to bed. I sort of slept, but my brain was too jumpy to rest for long. I kept waking up, checking the time, and getting annoyed that only ten, thirteen, eighteen minutes had passed. As this rate, the night would be endless.

  I got more frustrated by my insomnia with every second. The more frustrated I got, the more impossible it was to sleep. Since we weren’t sneaking out, being awake was a total waste, and I’d be even more annoyed with myself when I spent our last day completely exhausted. I wanted to scream.

  When you climbed down from your bunk, I felt a rush of hope. I thought maybe you’d been lying there sleepless too and decided fuck it, we might as well go out. I held still and waited for you to come over and nudge me awake. You didn’t even look in my direction.

  In one smooth motion, you picked up your shoes, opened the screen door without a sound, and crept outside, into the night. Without me.

  Okay, I thought. Okay. You were going to meet Jackson. That made sense. You hadn’t had the right moment to confront him with the truth, so you’d asked him to meet you at the dock, alone. You would ask him for answers and he’d tell you. It would be done soon. Finally over.

  You could have asked me to go with you, to wait for you nearby, but you’d had hours to steel yourself up for this. You knew what was coming. You’d had time to get angry, to get ready for the end. You were going into this breakup with the upper hand this time. You felt strong. You had resolve. You didn’t need me there, waiting to help you. You could handle that asshole on your own.

  But . . . what if he lost his temper? What if he got cruel? What if he lied again and convinced you, or you lost the nerve to go through with it?

  I sat up. You hadn’t asked me to go, but you didn’t have to. I was your best friend. I should be there. I got up, grabbed the closest sneakers (yours, but my only footwear in sight was flip-flops, and your feet are only a half size bigger), went out the door, slipped on the shoes, and started down the hill toward the water.

  The quarter moon slid out from behind the clouds and by the time I passed the last cabin on the girls’ side, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. It was strange being out in the still of night without you. Creepier. The campgrounds seemed empty and huge. Less familiar than when I was with you.

  I neared the path to dock and slowed to listen. The leaves rustled and a loon cried, but you and Jackson kept your voices quiet. If I hadn’t known you were out there, I would have missed any signs of you entirely. There was only the softest murmur, or was that a moan? I froze, still out of sight, and listened. Nothing.

  Then . . . a slight laugh. Was that a slap? No, just the motion of the dock. More nothing. My head buzzed and spun from the strain of my efforts. There weren’t any sounds of fighting or distress. There weren’t many sounds of anything. This wasn’t the scene I’d been expecting.

  I stepped away, moved left along the water, on the path toward the boys’ cabins. Near the steps of the boathouse, I stopped. A soft lump on the ground that at first I mistook for a cat or raccoon held still, watching, and I watched it back for several seconds, wondering who would move first, before I realized it wasn’t an animal—it was your sweatshirt. I picked it up.

  The scene flashed before my eyes: you, meeting Jackson here, waiting for him on this step. Standing when he approached. Letting him kiss you. Kissing him back, and running your hands under his T-shirt to feel his warm skin. Letting him unzip your hoodie and push it off your arms. Leaving it where it fell. Lacing your fingers through his and leading him down the path toward the dock, where you could continue what you’d started, and more.

  His fingernails running down your back. The arch of your spine. Your lips on his skin. I saw it all.

  My stomach turned. You’d been so calm when I told you what Nitin had said. You weren’t clinging to disbelief. You believed it completely because you already knew.

  I was shaking. Suddenly freezing. I put on your sweatshirt, lifted the hood, and crossed my arms tight against myself. I needed to sit before the realization knocked me over.

  You had lied. You lied to me. You lied for Jackson, lied about Jackson. Lied to get me off your case. Lied to push me away. Lied because you had chosen him—lying, cheating, lousy, lazy him—over me. Even though you knew he didn’t love you. Even though you knew how much I did.

  I felt sick. This had to stop.

  I tucked my head between my knees and took deep breaths through my nose, trying to keep the world from spinning, trying to slow my racing heart. With each inhale, I smelled the scent of your hoodie, a mix of campfire and cotton, coconut body wash, the lake, a hint of sweat, and cinnamon gum. I breathed deeper.

  I had to save you from him. You would never save yourself. I saw it clearly now: You would go back to him again and again. The cycle would never end. We were too imbalanced, you were too desperate, and as long as Jackson was in the equation, the numbers would never add up right. You had let him come between us once, and you would let it happen again. You were obsessed. You’d lost all sense of yourself with him.

  We were past the point where I could reason you out of this. You wouldn’t listen. I had to act. I had to figure out a way to shock you out of it and bring you back to yourself. Back to us.

  I got up from the steps of the boathouse, went inside. Without turning on the lights or even knowing what I was looking for, my hands found it: the industrial flashlight. The same one kept in every cabin near the first aid
kit and fire extinguisher. In case of emergency. I gripped it and went outside.

  The flashlight was heavy and sturdy, and I felt calmer just holding it. Something solid. Something useful. Even though I still had no idea what to do with it. I thought maybe I’d go to the dock, shine the flashlight in your faces. Let it blind you and scare you; make you think I was a counselor and you’d been caught.

  But that wouldn’t go well. You’d made it clear you didn’t want me inserting myself in any of this. You’d drawn a line in the sand, with you and Jackson on one side, and me stuck on the other. If I shone the light in your faces, it would only make the dividing line wider. It would only turn you further against me.

  It was the next-to-last night of camp and you were choosing him over me, knowing full well he’d only betray you, knowing for sure he was dicking you around. How the fuck had this happened? How the hell was I supposed to stop it?

  I shouldn’t stand there. If you came back for your sweatshirt, you would see me and think I had followed you. Which I had, but I didn’t want it to seem like stalking. That wouldn’t end well, either. I had no plan. I moved away from the boathouse and stepped off the path. Leaned my back against a tree trunk. Felt it hold me. Listened to the water. Waited for you to say goodnight.

  The lies you had told me weren’t you. You only told them because of Jackson. He’d made you need him, made you desperate, through withholding and manipulation. But once you were free of him, the obsession would stop. You would need me again, just like I needed you. There would be no more of anyone misleading anyone. Only friendship. Only trust. You would be yourself again, and we’d both be grateful for it.

  There was only one way to save us. I didn’t want to. But I would do anything for you.

  Anything.

  In your right mind, I knew you would do anything for me too.

  The seventh rule of crime is: Dance Like You Mean It, a.k.a. Go Hard or Go Home.

  If I was going to do it, I had to go all the way.