by Dawn Klehr
“Excuse me, guys.” Tori moves between us and cuts the connection. “I need to put these up.” She gestures to the stack of flyers in her arms before handing one to each of us. Mayor Devlin has donated a memorial plaque for Ms. Dunn, and they’re holding the dedication in the school garden next week.
That’s guilt for ya. Sure, the Devlins may have played nice with Ms. Dunn after the investigation, but it was no secret they hated her guts.
“Yeah, nice PR stunt,” Riley says as she reads the flyer.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“It’s called being a good Christian, Riley.”
“Whatever.” Riley snorts. She says goodbye to me with her eyes and turns into the room.
“Hope to see you there,” Tori yells to Riley’s back. Then she winks at me and clicks off.
I stay in the doorway just long enough to catch Riley as she turns around, her silky hair swinging across her shoulders as she walks to her desk. Then her shirt rises up and for a second I see a sliver of her back—the part that curves right above her ass—before she pulls the shirt down.
I can’t get the image out of my head as I make my way to Trig.
“Dez!” a girl’s voice echoes in the hallway, forcing the picture of Riley to dissolve.
Emma moves toward me, and though my first thought is to keep walking, I wait for her to catch up. She’s in my next class so there’s no escaping her. When she gets up close, I can’t make eye contact. She looks terrible. Her eyes are bloodshot and her skin is covered in red blotches. It makes me itchy.
“How’s Riley holding up?” she whispers.
Here we go.
“Why are you asking me? I haven’t been in gym with you guys while Tori’s been chewing her a new one every day.”
Emma winces. “You know I never wanted this to happen.”
“Right,” I spit, wanting to blame someone, anyone, other than myself.
“Don’t you dare blame me for this.” Emma’s lips quiver.
Can’t you see that I have no choice?
“It doesn’t really matter,” I tell her, not wanting to engage any more than I have to. “What do you want, Emma?” I ask. My voice softens; I’m worried that she might break.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a note from the inside of a book. “Could you give her this?”
“What is it?” I meet her eyes.
“A note,” she stutters. “To explain a little. Don’t worry, it’s not the whole story. But I want … I need … Riley to understand that I really do care about her.”
I say nothing.
“You can read it if you don’t trust me.”
More silence.
“Dez, please.”
I hold out my hand and nod.
It couldn’t hurt to give it to Rye. It might even make things easier for her, stop her from second-guessing herself all the time. Make her realize this wasn’t her fault.
My hand clenches the paper and I shove it in my pocket. I’ll give it to her after rehearsal. Emma gives me a sad smile, and I return it.
It was the right thing to do.
Done.
But in class, I feel the note burning a hole inside my pocket. I stare out the window at the empty football field behind the school, with its chipped goalposts and faded hash marks on the turf.
My mind drifts.
In my daydreams, I see myself giving the note to Riley. She reads it, sighs, and falls in my arms. Closure.
The next second, I’m dropped into another scene. In this one, Rye falls back into Emma’s arms. Reconciliation.
Fast-forward. Rewind. Fast-forward. Rewind.
The scenes play in my head all through class.
After the bell rings and I’m out of Emma’s watchful gaze, a different scene plays out in front of me. This time, I find a quiet space, shred the piece of paper, and throw it in the trash.
This scene is real. I blink into the present and feel the paper in my hands as I destroy the evidence in Ms. Dunn’s empty classroom. Like Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, “You wanna make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs.” I feel sick just thinking about all eggs I’m going to have to break before all of this is done.
I slide into a desk and rest my head. I can’t undo it now.
In the room, a poster of Shakespeare hangs on the wall, and statues and art rest on a shelf filled with books and CDs. Ms. Dunn has been gone a month but her room sits untouched. She didn’t have family so nobody came for her stuff. It all sits here now, forgotten.
I can’t help wonder if she’s still here. Watching. What would she think about what happened? What would she think about me?
You’re better than this, she’d always tell us when we messed up. Then she’d forgive and forget. Just as easy as that. She always saw the best in people. Rich, poor, jock, burner, Bible beater, goth. None of that mattered to her. Even with Devlin. After the investigation, he was relentless; but no matter how many times he came after her, petitioned her curriculum, or argued about policy, she never said a bad word about him.
This time, with everything that’s happened, I’m not so sure she’d hold her tongue.
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
INT. OLD HIGH SCHOOL SUPPLY ROOM FILLED WITH JUNK—EVENING
The camera moves in on MS.
DUNN’s face. RACHEL DUNN, high school humanities teacher, is a tall,
thin woman in her early twenties. She
has a pretty face and long auburn hair.
MS. DUNN rummages through boxes
and crates. She gathers supplies for the school year, to supplement what she’s already bought with her own money. She senses something behind her and turns around. Nobody’s there.
MS. DUNN
(looks around the room and calls out)Can I help you? Is anyone there?
A dark figure appears from the shadows. It could be a man or woman; we don’t see the figure’s face.
MS. DUNN CONT.
(exhales, relieved that she
recognizes the person)
Oh, it’s just you. You scared me for a minute. Why are you here? I thought I made myself perfectly clear in the classroom. I’m not changing my mind. It’s over. Done.
There is a long period of silence. MS. DUNN fidgets but holds her ground.
We see her clench her hands when
they start to shake.
The dark figure storms off.
MS. DUNN turns around to face the table behind her. She braces her arms on the table and takes a few deep breaths before going back to her supplies. She laughs to herself and shakes her head.
CUT TO:
DARK FIGURE
The camera moves in on the dark figure’s black shoes. The person walks through an empty hallway and slowly returns to the supply room. We see the figure stop at a shelf full of supplies. The person grabs something from the shelf with a gloved hand. We don’t see what it is. The camera moves back to the black shoes. They keep walking.
RILEY
She follows me to my locker. I feel her on my heels. I put my hand to the combination and turn the knob: 20–4–32. My hand is sweaty, all the way down to my fingertips: 20–4–32. The numbers replay over and over in my head but I can’t get to them fast enough.
She closes in.
The locker clicks and I push it open.
“Riley,” she whispers on my neck. “I know what you saw. Now give me the DVD.”
I reach into my locker and pull out the only weapon I can find. I turn to face her.
It’s Libby, covered in blood.
“Riley.” She rubs my shoulder. “Honey, wake up. You’ll be late for school.”
Light floods my room. I open my eyes. My lids are heavy and my vision is blurred, but I know I’m in my room. There’s no locker, no Libby, no blood.
“Mom?”
My voice is rough and my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest.
“Another bad dream?”
I nod.
“Do you need a personal day? I could stay with you and we could lie around in our PJs all day and watch movies.”
It sounds perfect, but we both know she can’t afford to take a day off.
“No, it’s okay. It’s just a stupid dream.” Or my subconscious telling me my best friend might be involved in a murder.
Last night, I watched the video over and over again, trying to piece together what happened. The fact that Libby and this mystery guy were in Ms. Dunn’s classroom the same day she was murdered is more than suspicious. I can’t get it out of my head. Maybe this guy had it out for Ms. Dunn … maybe Libby knows what happened.
I never believed the police story—that it was a random act of violence—in the first place. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve watched too many films, but I think Ms. Dunn had to know the killer. I’ve always has this eerie feeling that I can’t explain. And now I feel like I owe it to her to follow this lead.
“Well, this might cheer you up,” Mom says, holding out an opened envelope. “Sorry. I just had to look.”
Once I see the Tisch logo on the envelope, I wake right up. Inside is an invitation. Mom hugs me. We knew it was coming, but now it’s official—I’m going to New York in a few months for my artistic review.
Since I hardly slept last night, I’m running on fumes the rest of the day. At least the news of the Tisch invite creates a welcome distraction. I wave the invitation at Libby when she gets to my locker. I’m still reeling from what I saw in the editing suite yesterday, but I have to give her the benefit of the doubt—there has to be a perfectly logical reason for why she was in Ms. Dunn’s classroom that day. I just need to find out what it was. I can’t let my overactive imagination take over.
“Congratulations.” Libby hugs me and I stiffen.
Just play it cool. Libby is your friend.
“It’s nothing yet, just an invite to audition,” I say.
“It’s the beginning of good things, Rye. Plus, I hear New York girls are really hot.”
Girls, right. “Well, I don’t think that’s even an option for me anymore. I’m done with all that.”
“Done with all what?” she asks.
“Done with girls.”
I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Even before Emma. I’ve been thinking about it since last year, back when I was crushing on Ms. Dunn and Dez busted me for it.
You’re only going to get hurt, Rye, he said, after a few other choice words.
I didn’t have to wait for that heartbreak, but then Emma came along and everything changed. I was exactly where I belonged and I thought everything would be okay. At least I was willing to take that chance.
Yeah, we saw how that worked out.
I guess Emma leaving me was the sign I needed to finally make the decision. I’m officially taking girls off the menu. It’s a brilliant thought and makes perfect sense. I wonder why it took me so long.
Maybe Dez was right. Maybe “the gay thing” was all a phase.
Or maybe it’s like that Kinsey scale. That tool to measure how gay or straight you are. Homer—what we call our film teacher because he eats a lot of donuts and looks like Homer Simpson—brought it up one day last year when we were giving our reviews of Brokeback Mountain. We spent the entire class arguing about whether or not the characters were straight, bi, or gay. This, of course, was before the Tori Rollers were running the school. When teachers like Ms. Dunn and Homer still had some power. Needless to say, Brokeback Mountain is no longer in the curriculum.
As we were all arguing, Homer tried to explain that most people are not totally gay or totally straight or even totally bi. And that your place on the Kinsey scale can change. It’s super complicated, but I think that’s what’s happening to me. Maybe I’m moving closer to the straight end of the scale. Or … maybe I just want to.
“What, you’re going for older women now?” Libby asks, completely clueless.
“No, I’m done with females.” It feels good to say it, like I’m taking charge instead of handing over my heart to get stomped on over and over again.
“Come on. You’re going to let a little breakup destroy you?”
“No, not destroy. I’m finally going to take control.”
“So we’re back to boys again, really?” she asks. “You’re giving me whiplash, Rye. You said you’d finally figured all this out.”
I thought I had. I thought I’d finally realized where I belonged. Things felt so easy with Emma. Natural. And now I’m back to square one again. But after what I saw in the editing suite, none of this seems that important. A woman is dead. And her killer might be—in fact, probably is—still here.
I pray it has nothing to do with Libby.
Still, I can’t help but think about Libby’s rocky relationship with Ms. Dunn over the past year. I also can’t help comparing every guy’s voice I hear today to the voice on the video.
“Forget I said anything,” I tell Libby. I had no idea she would get in such a huff. “Let’s just keep this new development between us, ’kay?”
“Well, that’s rich.” She shakes her head.
“What?”
“You were so close to coming out, really coming out. But now that you’re going back in the closet, you want to keep it a secret?”
“Why are you being so judgy?” I snap. “You’re not perfect, ya know? I’m sure you have some secrets of your own.”
That’s an understatement—but now is not the time to ask.
“I’m not trying to be judgy, Riley, but … ”
Libby stops because we smell her. You always smell her first, that sickly sweet and expensive designer perfume that fills the air wherever she goes.
Tori.
She swings around the corner, her usual peppy self. She’s obviously heard everything.
“Telling secrets?” she asks.
“Like you haven’t been eavesdropping,” Libby says.
“I only heard the part about Riley’s sex life.” Tori laughs. “It must be really convenient to go back and forth, Riley. Dumped by a boy, no big deal, try a girl. Dumped by a girl, and now it’s back to boys. Just face it—everyone thinks you’re repulsive.”
Libby tenses and I grab her arm to calm her.
Tori pats my back, turns on her heel, and bounces away down the hall.
The air suddenly warms at least twenty degrees. I exhale, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“I wish you wouldn’t take her shit,” Libby says.
“What would you have me do?” Though I’d love to get in Tori’s face and dish it right back, the truth is I’m scared. Anytime anyone messes with the Devlin family, something bad happens. Look at Ms. Dunn.
“I have an idea.” Libby rubs her hands together. “I think it’s time for some payback. How does Friday look for you?”
DEZ
INT. THE HALLWAY LEADING TO
THE FILM CLASSROOM—AFTERNOON
Two guys, WILL THOMAS, short and slick high school drug dealer, and MARCUS FLYNN, handsome and built with ice blue eyes, huddle together a few doors from the film room. They talk in whispers but nothing is clear.
ZOOM IN:
CLOSE UP:
The boys’ hands. They each conceal something as they make an exchange.
I hate the fact that I had no choice about Marcus joining the film crew. He’s a total pig, but with his access to all of his dad’s equipment and props, I couldn’t say no. And today, here he is with the school’s biggest freak. Like you can’t tell he’s buying shit. It’s so obvious.
He must be getting his weekend stash.
It’s finally Friday, and my patience is running thin. It’s been a hellish week watching Rye suffer—especially wi
th Tori on her case. I’m hoping today’s filming will help take her mind off everything.
I walk up to Marcus and glare. “Dude, you know that shit is not allowed during production.”
Marcus laughs. “Is the old man at home wearing off on you, Desmond?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” Will holds up his hands and slithers away.
“Look, I don’t care what you do on your own time,” I say. “But if you want to be on the crew, it stays out.”
“Relax. It’s not for me anyway.”
“I don’t care who it’s for, just keep it out while we’re working on my film.”
Marcus nods and stares at me with his wicked eyes. Then, under his breath, he says, “You should be thanking me.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about his dad’s donations or his business with Will or what. I don’t want to know. The dude is creepy and I just want to keep my distance.
Inside the film classroom, I take a seat. Riley plops in the chair next to mine and we wait for the others to join us. We used to make movies and work on projects during Film Studies. But now that the school is broke, the class has become a glorified movie-watching session. We have to save the real filmmaking for our club after school—the club without any funding. In addition to Marcus’ donations, we resort to using my Sony video camera. Lucas, another senior and film diehard, uses the school leftovers and some of his own equipment for a pieced-together editing system, and Homer joins us when he can, but it’s all on a volunteer basis.
Our skinny team of ragtag filmmakers consists of:
Director/Writer/Producer: Yours Truly
Editor: Lucas
Actors: Riley and Jonah
Key Grip: Caleb
Grips: Stella and Marcus
Thankfully, we also have a handful of production assistants and extras to jump in when we need them. In last year’s film, we needed a ton of actors, so I stepped in. Riley and I played a couple who were totally into each other. It was the best three months of my life.
This year, our story is badass—a seven-minute short about an outcast girl’s journey to popularity. She wins the boy by getting revenge on everyone who stands in her way. It’s gritty, raw, and a bit twisted, with alternate dimensions of reality.
