by Zack Smedley
Mat With One T jumps back in. “This is only what’s required on the school’s end of things. If, on top of this, you wanted to file a report with the state police—”
“The real cops, you mean. Let’s compare apples to apples here.”
Mat With One T goes to correct him, then gives up. “I—sure. I’m able to make arrests as an SRO, but if you wanted law enforcement to lead a criminal investigation alongside the school’s, we could help you meet with them to get everything synced up.”
“Also, Linda,” Mr. Yacenda pipes up.
Dad and I sit there scrawling in our notepads. I run out of paper and flip to a fresh page as Principal Graham clarifies, “Linda is our school liaison—a Student Services employee who communicates directly with law enforcement and DSS on a need-to-know basis for cases of abuse.”
“Is Linda Mrs. Sondergoth?” I ask, still scribbling.
“No, two different people. I doubt this’ll get kicked over to CPS, but let’s loop Linda in too just to be safe.” Principal Graham seems to realize she’s basically talking to herself, because she leans forward to look directly at me again.
“Owen,” she says. “We’ve all been doing a lot of yakking here. Do you have any questions?”
I swallow, setting down my pen.
“Well,” I say. “You don’t have my permission to do any of that. Like, any of it. I don’t want anyone talking to my classmates, or asking around—”
“If you’re worried about retaliation—”
“My girlfriend can’t find out.” I stare at my knees, clamping my arms together. “Lily Caldwell, my girlfriend, can’t find out about any of this. So you’re really screwing that up.”
Mr. Yacenda makes a small noise that sounds like he’s sucking in air through his teeth. Beside me, Dad folds his arms but stays quiet.
“You know what, I hear you,” Principal Graham says. She throws up her hands, glaring down at her desk like it’s covered in parking tickets. “Let’s call it what it is, sure. Absolutely. But as I said, our job here is to keep all of you safe. And as part of that, this allegation isn’t something we can ignore. Whether it was you who sent it in—”
“It wasn’t!”
“—regardless of who it was, we’re required to take action on it. We can’t just pretend we never heard it.”
“Does it count for anything that that’s what I want to happen?” “We just aren’t allowed to do it, I’m sorry.”
(Ugly pause.)
Dad closes his notebook. “What else for now?”
“For now, your job—and Owen’s—is to take a beat and regroup. Take all this in,” Principal Graham says.
“In other words, ‘hurry up and wait,’” he says.
She ignores him. “Owen, I’m going to tell Mrs. Sondergoth to set up a meeting with you once she’s back in next week. We’ll go from there.”
Dad gets up and motions for me to follow him out. Before he closes the door behind us, he stops to survey the office one last time.
“Get this right,” he tells them. But he says it like he already knows they won’t.
FOUR
November 3rd—Freshman Year
Dear Diary,
I survived!!! I made it through all eight weeks of having my wrist in prison, and after school today, a doctor used a small saw to cut that infernal hunk of fiberglass from my arm. And now I have my hand back! I’ve spent this whole evening doing everything I used to do, including tying my shoes, brushing my hair, brushing my teeth, and (TMI alert) the most monumental jerkoff session since the day I discovered porn.
And now here I am, typing with both hands again! Woohoo!
TYPING! IS! SO! FUN!
Cheerfully,
Owen
November 21st—Freshman Year
Dear Diary,
What a terrible month. I’m re-reading my last entry, and I just want to kick myself. I was so excited to have my arm back, I didn’t even consider that it would be the last day I got to spend time with Lily Caldwell.
The worst part is that I think I’m the one who screwed it up. When I told her I wouldn’t need her help anymore, I realize now that I was too blunt about it. (I do that a lot.) I remember she looked a little caught off-guard, and basically said, “See you around.” We haven’t met up or talked since, not even on the bus ride home. She has her own set of friends there.
I love having my hand back, but I feel less excited about life than any of the days when it was in the cast …
Sadly,
Owen
November 27th—Freshman Year
Dear Diary,
You’ll never believe this! Last night after Thanksgiving dinner, I went to my room and decided to send Lily a text:
Hi—I don’t mean to be intrusive, but would you mind if I emailed a few questions about writing?
(Yes, this was my way of getting to talk to her again, but I was also genuinely curious about her thoughts on writing.)
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed with her reply:
Intruder! Intruder!
Then: three siren emojis.
Then:
Kidding!! YES send me the questions, I don’t mind. You can use my school email :)
What followed is too wonderful for words, so I’m just going to paste the exchange below.
To: [email protected]
Date: November 26, 9:36 PM
Dear Lily,
Thank you very much for agreeing to talk to me. Here’s what I’d like to know:
Do you have tips for fiction writing? I ask because I started trying it a few days ago.
Do you have a particular writing routine you’d recommend? Thank you for your time and I hope your break is going well.
Sincerely, Owen
To: [email protected]
Date: November 26, 10:03 PM
Owen,
You don’t need to thank me! I could talk about this for days, and a BUNCH of my family is over for a party, so I’m just hiding in my room. So thank YOU for the distraction :) WHAAAT you tried writing?? Show me!! To answer your question, I think about this a lot too. My tip would be to just use your imagination—don’t be afraid to get weird! You can create people and kill them (always fun!) and make them do whatever you want. Go, go, go!
I never thought about a ‘routine’ until you asked, but I sort of have one … this is weird, but it’s all about coffee for me. If I get a rush of inspiration, I need to be like, “we’re making lots of coffee tonight!” Haha. Here’s a picture of the brands I like.
I hope these answers help? I’m sorry if they don’t!
-LC
P.S. My break is going okay … how’s yours been? :)
November 26, 10:47 PM
Dear Lily,
Thank you for your fast response. As for showing you my writing, I’ll consider it sometime.
Thank you for the coffee suggestions. Your answers are very helpful! Sincerely, Owen
P.S. I’m sorry to hear about tonight … that doesn’t sound fun. I’ve spent most of break hiding from my family too. Lots of staying in my room and enjoying the ability to use my arm again;)
November 26, 10:56 PM
Dear Lily,
I don’t know if you’re asleep by now, but I just re-read my last email and wanted to clarify that the last sentence was NOT meant to be a sexual innuendo. I was referring to WRITING, which I’d assumed was clear, but I now realize the winky face can sometimes be suggestive. I’m going to keep an eye on my inbox in the next hour in case you’re awake, in which case I’d REALLY appreciate a response because I’m a bit worried now. But if you’re already asleep, that’s fine. I feel like I made it weird and I’m sorry about that :(
Sincerely, Owen
November 26, 11:08 PM
Owen,
“… I’m mostly hiding from my family and enjoying the ability to make use of my arm again;)”
So in other words, what you meant to say was …
FURIOUSLY MASTURBATING
Oh my gosh, dude—CALM DOWN! You’re fine :) I’m not mad at all …
… under the condition that you now have to send me that piece of writing you did. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.
-LC
November 26, 11:21 PM
Dear Lily,
My laughable attempt at describing an erratic game show host is attached.
Also, your email made me laugh so loudly that my dad knocked on my door.
Sincerely, Owen
November 27, 12:13 AM
Owen,
This is pretty good! I added a few comments :)
Are you close to going to sleep?
-LC
November 27, 12:19 AM
Dear Lily,
Thank you so much. I prefer bluntness, so this is great. I kind of want to keep working on this.
And no. Are you?
Sincerely, Owen
November 27, 12:32 AM
Owen,
Let’s do it!! Did you mean now? If so, I kind of want to make myself some coffee.
And no;)
-LC
November 27, 12:41 AM
Owen,
It would appear that I owe you an apology. Upon re-reading my previous correspondence with you, it has come to my attention that my use of what today’s youth call “winky faces” may not have been entirely appropriate for our discourse. I would like to offer my assurances that I in ABSOLUTELY NO WAY meant the use of this emoji to imply anything SEXUAL in nature.
-LC
November 27, 1:03 AM
Dear Lily,
Okay, I’ll admit I fell out of my chair laughing at that one. Well played.
I’ll try to make coffee too.
Sincerely, Owen;)
November 27, 1:42 AM
Owen,
I’m glad!! :) Here’s picture proof of me drinking my coffee … ignore my hair, the bags under my eyes, and my dirty T-shirt. I started on the doc … sit tight! Don’t fall asleep!
-LC
November 27, 3:02 AM
Dear Lily,
Here’s my latest addition … our main character is Caesar, a man who hosts screwed up game shows.
Also, is my heart supposed to be beating faster? Coffee is weird.
Sincerely, Owen
November 27, 3:34 AM
Owen,
Okay so you’re like REALLY good at dialogue?? You should try screenwriting.
And to answer your question: It’s coffee, silly :)
-LC
November 27, 4:01 AM
Dear Lily,
I LOVE the screenplay idea. I researched the format really fast and turned this into that. See attached.
Sincerely, Oven Turner
November 27, 4:03 AM
Owen,
Not going to lie … I think I’m crashing, and I think you may be too. Are you still alert?
Follow-up question: Are you aware you signed your last email “Oven Turner”?
-LC
November 27, 4:06 AM
Dear Lily,
Whoops. I think I’m crashing too. We should probably go to bed, but I would love to continue this later. This is the most fun I’ve had probably ever, and I’ll admit I’ve been dancing around in my room on-and-off for most of this evening. Thank you. Seriously.
Sincerely, Owen
November 27, 4:07 AM
Owen,
Sounds like a plan. And that dancing is just the coffee at work :)
You’re so welcome!!
-LC
P.S. Before you go. The “Oven” thing made me think … do people call you “O” for short? Can I?
November 27, 4:07 AM
People don’t, but you can. Goodnight, Lily.
-O
November 27, 4:08 AM
Night, O :)
-LC
FIVE
DAD TAKES ME STRAIGHT HOME FROM PRINCIPAL Graham’s office. The front desk administrator tells us we need to sign out in order to leave. We don’t.
The minute we’re inside his SUV, I squeeze my arms against my chest and keep them there.
“They can’t do that,” I say. “What the hell is wrong with them?”
“Just stop for a second,” Dad says. “Let’s put together a preemptive plan here.”
I rub my eyes, groaning. Dad and his military precision. Steve Turner couldn’t spread butter on a bagel without a Preemptive Plan to extract the knife from the goddamn drawer.
“First order of business is to get home, okay,” he says. “I’ve already texted Mom; she’s going to meet us at the house. We’re going to fix this.”
“How?”
“Give me a second, please! Christ.”
When I was twelve, Dad and I established our secret rule: We’re both allowed to curse in front of each other as long as Mom doesn’t find out. This has proven to be a long and fruitful arrangement for the both of us.
Rain hammers on the windshield.
Dad looks at me, grunting in his gravelly voice, “You good?” I nod.
“Okay. I’m sorry I yelled back there.” But he says that loudly, too.
We nearly ram through the neighborhood gate on our way to the house. The minute I step into the front hall, Mom hustles toward me like the building’s on fire. Normally she works as an HR rep for an engineering contractor on the other side of town, but apparently work let her take leave for the morning. A petite redhead, her two most defining traits—her perky smile and the electric glow in her eyes—are both missing for the moment.
She wraps me in her arms. I can tell it’s taking all her resolve to not crush me (she knows I hate that). Dad plants himself on the couch without saying anything.
Mom steps back, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “Hey, kiddo. I hear you got to see what Principal Graham’s office looks like. Is that place stuffy or what?”
Out of the thousand things I love about Mom, my favorite is her ability to seamlessly switch gears. At home she’s reserved, gentle: reading by the window or teaching herself the violin. But outside these walls, her go-to spot is the front line of the nearest protest. Whether it’s an annual march in D.C. for gun control or a local demonstration about funding for special ed, she shows up and makes her voice heard. Dad and I can’t go because of our shared crowd aversion, so Mom is loud enough for all three of us. She’s made of steel but doesn’t drown out the room when she doesn’t need to. And right now, she’s doing the same thing she does anytime there’s an issue: Instead of falling to pieces or getting emotional like Dad, she’s playing it cool.
“Her desk is way too big,” I say.
“Right? I thought the same thing.” Mom lets go of me and beckons toward the living room. “So, how about you take off that backpack and sit down with us for a second. Want me to get you some tea?”
I slip off my bag, shaking my head. I’m supposed to be embarrassed by her coddling, but she’s such a pro at sneaking it in.
She brings out two cups of coffee, handing one to Dad as she tucks herself next to him on the couch. I collapse into my armchair on the side wall. (Technically it’s Dad’s, but this is the place I always sit in the living room, so we call it my armchair.)
Dad shakes his head like he’s already disappointed in me. “So. Is the report true?”
“Ut-dut-dut-dut,” Mom shushes him, holding up a finger. “Let’s back up.”
“We need to know, Jen.”
“But we—”
“Yes.” I say it clearly and without reserve, staring at my knees as I bounce them both. “It happened. It’s true.”
“Okay,” Mom says, measured. “Just out of curiosity, when did this happen? Ballpark.”
I tell her the truth, which is that it was at the senior trip last month. Every spring break, our school takes the seniors on a trip to Lanham—the only university within a hundred miles of our tiny town—so they can get a taste of their upcoming college life.
Dad’s notebook is back out. He squints at it. “You mentioned a name in t
here. You asked if the person who reported you was someone named Lucas, or you said maybe Luke.”
I picture myself putting Luke’s head through a wall.
“Is that a friend of yours from school?” Mom tries. “Have we met him before?”
“No.” I bite back the first fifty answers that try to jump out. “No to both.”
Dad cuts to the point. “What’s his role in this?”
(Silence.)
“Owen.” Dad closes his notebook. “You have two people on your side in this thing, and you’re looking at them both. Your friends, or Lily … they’re nice and all, but they can’t help you.”
“You’re not helping me.”
“We’re trying to, bud,” says Mom. I can tell she’s fighting to keep her voice level. “That’s all we’re trying to do.”
“Then let this go. Please.”
“How about we take a break?” she offers.
“Okay, listen. Both of you.” Dad climbs to his feet, sucking up all the light from the window. He stops, swivels, and points his line of sight at the corner directly between the two couches. “No one is taking a break until we figure out how to get the school handled. What we need to do—”
“Handled?” Mom cuts him off, shaking her head. “If we try to bully our way in there, it’s just going to piss them off—”
“Let’s assume I’ll find a way to live with that.”
“Steve—”
“HEY!” He shuts his eyes, and his palm snaps up in a be quiet gesture. Three full seconds pass—silent except for him sucking in air—and he restarts. “What we need to do—if you’ll let me talk here—is all get on the same page about what’s going to happen next. If I have to be the guy who warns you about how ugly all this is about to get, fine. I don’t mind being Mister Gloom-and-Doom if I need to. Because here’s what this is going to look like.” Now he turns to face me directly. “First of all, since everyone and their brother is glued to their phones these days, I’d be amazed if rumors didn’t start circulating among the students soon.”
