We all grab plates, loading up on sandwiches and fresh veggies. I even sneak one of Mom’s fancy sodas from the fridge. She raises a brow as I set it down on the table and promptly steals it back, sticking her tongue out at me in the process. I swear, my parents are the biggest little kids ever sometimes.
“Where’s Brett?” Fish asks.
“Mall,” Erik tells him, his voice full of disdain.
“You don’t like the mall?”
“No,” he tells me, his nose crinkled up. “It’s boring. And there are too many girls there. It’s gross and girls are—”
“Hey, whoa. What’s the family motto?”
Erik sighs. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, say it to Fish.”
“Why is that still the family motto?” Fish complains.
Dad chuckles. “Because it’s still funny.”
When I was six and Fish was eight, Finding Nemo was released. While that doesn’t sound like a big deal—other than the fact that it’s one of the greatest movies ever, of course—it was for Fish.
See, his given name is Nemo. It’s a unique name on its own, but add in a huge blockbuster film targeted to children and you have a recipe that calls for torture from his peers. Fish caught so much hell for it. After coming home crying every night for a week straight, he declared we needed to legally change his name. We didn’t, but we did start calling him Fish. At first, he hated it as much as Nemo, saying we were the “meanest family ever” and that we “never say anything nice” to him, but eventually it stuck, and so did the “family moto”.
“Erik,” Mom says, “care to explain why you’re covered in mud?”
He shrugs like this is normal for him. “I was making a mud pit with Brett.”
“I thought you and Brett weren’t talking this week.”
“Mom, it’s Saturday. It’s a new week.”
Mom smiles deviously. “Does that mean your weekly chores start over today as well?”
“Not until the real new week starts on Monday.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Just trust me here. I know things.”
“Fair enough,” she concedes.
Dad slides his fist over Erik’s way for a bump. He’s handled that exactly as Dad handles most things, proving you don’t have to be bound by blood to be alike.
“What’s everyone’s plans for the day?” Mom asks.
“No idea. I’m tired though.” Dad rolls his eyes at Fish’s answer.
“We have a hair appointment at three to get Erik’s ’fro trimmed down. It’s getting big, dude.”
“Can’t I keep it?”
“Are you going to take care of it?” He looks sheepish as he doesn’t answer, knowing full well he’ll only keep it for a week before wanting it trimmed down. “That’s what I thought,” Mom says.
“Can I get something else then?”
“Something like what?”
“Like this.” He motions like he’s making a mohawk. “Brett has one now.”
Mom and Dad share a glance before Mom shrugs, saying, “I don’t see why not, but you have to keep the long part in check. Promise?” He nods. “Good. Fish, you interested in tagging along? You could use a trim too.”
Since Fish scarcely leaves the house nowadays, his hair has now grown out to where it’s nearly touching his shoulders. While he’s always kept his hair on the longer side, this is by far the longest it’s ever been—another result of the accident, more evidence of how much it has changed his life.
“Uh…can I think on it?”
“Sure,” Mom says with the patience of a saint. “Nigel?”
“We’re watching the baseball game down at Sid’s later. Meeting there about four.”
“The game doesn’t start until six thirty. That means you fools have too much time to get into trouble.”
“Oh, please, Kaye. We’re all well-behaved gentlemen.”
“That’s the biggest lie I have ever heard.”
“Is it, Kaye? Is it really?” he teases. She throws a carrot stick at him and he dodges it. “I’m not picking that up.”
“Trust me, dear, I didn’t expect you to.”
I may be biased here because they’re the only parents I’ve known my entire life, but their love is the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed. I’m not saying they don’t have their faults—everyone does—but they always appear as a united front. They’re strong together and seem to be able to withstand anything. If I ever enter into a long-term relationship with someone, I want it to be exactly like my parents’—something strong and lasting with someone who communicates with me, even if it’s only through a stare.
“And you, Elliott?”
Pushing my clean plate away from me, I slide down into my seat more. “I like Fish’s plan to sleep.”
“Not going to talk with Jase?”
“What’s going on with Jase?” Fish interjects.
“Nothing. Everything. He’s on my nerves.”
“What happened?”
“I flipped off a guy and he flipped out.”
“He who? The guy?”
“No, Jase. Carsen scowled, but he was already doing that.”
“Carsen?” Fish’s brows shoot up. “Carsen who?”
I peek at my parents, who are back to communicating via eye contact only. Their lips are pulled tight, their shoulders rigid. Holding Fish’s stare, I tell him, “Carsen Wheatley.”
“WHAT! You cannot flip him off. Are you insane, Elliott? He’s dangerous!”
“Nemo Ryan Mathers! You will bite your tongue this instant!” A good thing to know is that my mother hardly raises her voice, especially not to Fish lately. This means he crossed a hard line.
“What? I’m not wrong and you know it. The case against him is stacked as high as can be. If his dad would ever contest it, there’s no way the courts wouldn’t overturn their ruling and convict Carsen. Rightly so, seeing as he murdered his own mother.”
My mother’s eyes turn to steel. “Were you there? Did you witness what happened? No? Then shut your trap, Fish. It’s not only none of your business, but not your place to decide if he’s guilty or not.” She snaps her attention to the rest of us at the table. “Do we all understand?” Everyone nods, including Dad. “Good. Now let’s get a move on with this afternoon, shall we?”
We all scurry to clear our plates from the table. The room fills with the scraping of chairs against the floor, the rush of water rinsing the crumbs from our plates, and the clinking of the dishwasher as it grows full. Fish is the first out of the room, aggravation evident in his hard stare. Erik tries to rush off to finish his mud pit without Brett but is stopped short when Mom threatens to physically force him into the shower. Dad whistles the entire time like nothing is wrong.
I’m almost clear of the room when Mom’s voice stops me. “Elliott, a moment?”
Swinging back around, I casually return to my chair, waiting to hear what it is they’re going to lecture me about this time, because they are definitely in lecture mode.
“We want you to know that we trust you, but do be careful.”
“Careful? I was just going to my room to read, maybe take a nap.”
Mom sighs. “You know we’re talking about Carsen here.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course I know they’re talking about Carsen, but what I don’t understand is why. I don’t know him. I don’t even think I want to know him. I was in a mood earlier and I let it get the better of me when I flipped him off. After Jase’s reaction to him, I’ll admit my curiosity grew. And fine, after Jase told me Carsen murdered his own mother, I was alarmed and intrigued, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to track him down and befriend him to get him to tell me his story.
If I want to know, I’ll Google it. I’m certain it’s all on the internet somewhere.
“You two do realize I don’t know the kid, right? I didn’t even have a real conversation with him other than ordering my lunch. I have no intention
s of getting to know him because he sort of seems like an ass.”
Dad grins. “All right, kid. We wanted you to know that’s where we stand.”
To anyone else, the way he says this appears cool, almost uncaring, but he’s my dad. I know him, and I can hear the worry embedded in his voice. He doesn’t believe me. Neither does Mom.
“Noted. May I be excused now? My bed just called my name and it sounded sexual.”
“Sure, but clean your mess up first.”
“My mess? I put my plate in the washer.”
“The salt,” Mom answers.
Dad reaches over and brushes the salt off the table. “Boom! Done.”
“Nigel! Who’s going to clean that up now?”
“The dog will get it,” he tells her, inching closer and closer to the exit.
“We don’t have a dog!”
He presses his hand to his chest, his mouth falling open in false shock. “We don’t? Since when?”
“Since always, you ass!”
Dad smirks. “Then who’s the one always cleaning the floors in here?”
I burst into laughter as Mom’s jaw drops. She’s quick about flinging her arm back and lobbing a metal spatula at him. Dad ducks in time to miss the assault, hooting with playful laughter the entire way to the garage.
“SEXIST!” she yells. She catches my eye, saying, “I’m going to maim him.”
The smile on her face tells me I won’t be visiting my mom behind bars any time soon.
***
My laptop is an asshole.
I’ve been rereading the same three paragraphs in this romance novel for the last thirty minutes. I’ve been laid up on my bed, doing fine for hours…until now. Mom took the boys out for haircuts—yes, Fish got in the car—and Dad left for the baseball game, which means I have the house to myself. As such, I’ve cranked my stereo up with sounds set to soothe and am trying to loosen up from the hectic morning I had.
Only I can’t.
I can’t because Scowly McScowlerson’s stupid scowl is stuck in my head. Every time the author describes the male lead, I see him. Any time he has a facial expression, he scowls, even when he doesn’t. Frustration bubbles inside me because no matter how hard I try to not see him, I do. All it does is make me more curious about him, more curious to know what everyone else is talking about.
Because of that, my computer has started whispering vile things to me.
Google him, Elliott.
I can help you research him, Elliott.
I hold the answers, Elliott.
Pick me up and play with me, Elliott.
I want to take a sledgehammer to it at this point, and that’s sad because I love my laptop. It’s my prized possession, my keeper of homework assignments, my savior for when I want to nap in class. I’d be lost without it, and probably failing college—or at least philosophy.
The intrigue surrounding Carsen grows. There is a massive part of me that wants to know all the gritty details of what Fish, my parents, and Jase know. Then, there’s this smaller part of me that says it’s not going to change anything because my mother is right; it’s not my place to pass judgment, and I’m a firm believer in that.
Before I know it, I’m scooting off my bed and scooping up my laptop from the small desk in the corner. I bounce back to my twin mattress and flop down, sitting cross-legged with the computer resting in my lap. I take a couple deep, encouraging breaths before I’m able to open it. Once I do, I quickly navigate to the web browser and pull up Google. My fingers dither over the keyboard, hovering there and not pressing any of the keys I so desperately want to press.
Google him, Elliott. Find out what it is everyone is talking about and move on. You can do it.
I inhale another deep breath as I place my fingers on home row and begin to type.
Cars
Backspace, backspace, backspace.
Carsen Whea
Delete, delete, delete.
Bawk, bawk, bawk.
Don’t be a chicken. Do it.
Finally, I type his name into the search bar, and a mess of results pop up, all from a little over two years ago.
Local Boy Murders Mother
Wheatley Whacks His Mom
Carsen is Free to Go — Dad Takes the Blame
Cover-Up: Golden Boy Kills His Mom, Dad Takes the Fall
Those are the headlines on various news sites. In a moment I’m certain I’ll regret, I click on the first article. The page loads fast, and I wish it hadn’t.
A gruesome photo fills the screen. Police are scattered around an off-white bedroom, three of them standing over a sheet-covered body, a hand sticking out. Their eyes are sad and surprised. A paramedic is squatted down next to her bare feet with his head hanging low, and a pair of high-heels is broken and sitting at an odd angle next to her lifeless body.
In the very back of the photo is an officer talking with an older man. At first glance, he looks upset, but if you look closer, he looks…angry. Not at himself or someone else, not with the way his eyes are pointed toward the woman’s body. He’s angry at her.
Farther back in the picture is a younger guy. His face is twisted with pain. His eyes are staring over at the woman, empty in the saddest of ways. You can see that he’s broken.
I scroll past the image, unable to bear the hurt any longer, and scan the article. It summarizes what happened in Carsen’s words, but the commentary on them is what’s so troubling. Whoever wrote the article paints Carsen in a negative light, their uncertainty of his innocence clear.
He says his father killed her after he came home. The reporters disagree, claim he was already there, waiting like a predator. He says his father locked him out of the room as he killed his mother. They say there’s no way.
At the end, there’s an update that says Carsen was released with no charges pending. He’s free and clear. Even so, the words don’t read that way. It makes me sad, because even the blindest of people can see that Carsen is hurting, and the other man, his father, is not. That should be a sign right there.
I continue to scroll until I see the comments section: 13,978. Holy hell! Close to fourteen thousand comments, and I’m stupid enough to start reading them.
My money is on the boy. Anyone want to take that bet?
I guarantee you the son did it. He wanted the cash. William and Faith are loaded!
Faith was such a sweet woman. A shame her son is such a horrible boy.
He looks like a psychotic killer to me.
MURDERER!!!!
What a disgusting little prick!! He probably sexually assaulted her too. He looks like a sick fuck like that!! Someone ought to teach that kid some respect!!
KILL THE SON!
I hurriedly return to the initial search and click on several other articles, skimming them and heading straight for the comments section. It all reads the same. Per the reporters and the internet commenters, Carsen is guilty. They say he was the one who squeezed the life from his mother. The one who was found standing over her in rage. The one who the police slapped the cuffs on first.
My stomach churns, and I fight the urge to vomit. There’s a soreness in my chest so persistent that I rub at the ache. I can’t fathom how these people don’t see what I see. Did they not look at the photos? Did they not see the turmoil on his face and the ire in his father’s? There’s not a single part of me that believes Carsen is culpable, yet there are so many others out there who believe he’s capable of such vile things.
Slamming my laptop shut, I hastily return it to my desk, the need to be rid of it pressing. Just by looking at the articles, I feel like I’ve contributed to the revolting words being slung his way.
I can’t imagine how he must feel.
3
Elliott
Sleep slipped through my fingers last night; I couldn’t get those images of Carsen’s mother out of my head. I ended up opening my laptop again, spending hours upon hours trying to find a trace of Carsen online so I could reach out to him, tell him
I’m on his side. Unless they’re under a super-secret name, he doesn’t have any social media accounts. I couldn’t find a single defunct one to creep through either.
However, I did find plenty more articles surrounding the murder and its case. I even happened upon one blog who believes Carsen is as innocent as I do—but it was the only one. Every single other editorial is filled with vitriol toward Carsen. And the comments sections?
Absolute.
Hell.
The things people have said about him are despicable and horrid. What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Clearly that doesn’t exist anymore. Nowadays it’s more along the lines of innocent until the internet gets ahold of you.
I learned that his father, William Wheatley, is a big business man in Boston—or was. People seem to praise him, but there’s this underlying fear in all the interviews I watched with him. His photos look normal, until you stare into his eyes. Then, they become something else. Scary, frightful, something you don’t want to look at any longer than you must. Simply put: he’s chilling. I can see he’s capable of something bad. Right now, he’s sitting behind bars in one of Massachusetts’ prisons (it doesn’t say which one online) for first-degree murder.
Carsen is walking free, as I personally believe he should be, but he’s not free, is he? Not when so many people still believe he’s guilty. Not when my own asshole best friend is contributing to the gossip surrounding him. Not when he’s treated as a pariah.
“Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”
I glance up at the waitress. “The check, please.”
“Okay.” She nods toward my drink. “Want me to get you one for the road?”
“Sure.”
“Two cherries, right?”
“Please.”
We Are the Stars Page 3
