That's Not What Happened

by Kody Keplinger

  Honestly, even now, I wonder what she’d think of him if she were still here.

  But, anyway, that night was the first time I ever really spent time with him.

  It must’ve been around one in the morning. The tiny subdivision we lived in was completely dark aside from a few streetlamps. I’d already been sitting up there for an hour or two when I heard a voice from the ground.

  “Lee.”

  I jumped and my fingers tightened around the knife. But the voice had been quiet, almost careful. Slowly, I crawled to the edge of the roof and peered down. Miles was standing just on the other side of the fence. I almost didn’t see him. He was wearing a black sweatshirt and a black beanie covered his hair. His face was pale, though, almost ghostly, and it stood in contrast to the darkness around him.

  We stared at each other for a long, quiet moment before he asked, “Can I come up?”

  I nodded and scurried back as he climbed the wooden fence. A second later, he appeared over the edge of the roof, pulling himself up and then crawling over to sit next to me. I saw him glance down at my hands, at the knife, but he didn’t say anything.

  I wasn’t surprised when he’d appeared. In a way, I think I expected it.

  That first night, we didn’t talk at all. Not a word. It was a warm sort of silence, though. A silence that felt safe. Even though I barely knew Miles, I was glad to have him there with me. Because I didn’t want to be alone, but usually, when someone else was nearby, they were staring at me, asking me questions, or trying so hard to make me feel comfortable that I felt like I was being suffocated with a pillow. But those quiet hours on the roof, that was what I’d been longing for.

  I assume Miles needed the same thing. I’m sure that’s why he climbed on my roof that night, but I’ve never actually asked him.

  We spent almost every night that summer on top of my house. Some nights we sat in that same blanket of silence. Miles would bring a flashlight and a book, about the Industrial Revolution or the War of 1812. He’d read quietly, lips moving over the words, while I sat there, clutching my knife and counting streetlights. Other nights, though, we stretched out on our backs, looking up at the sky. But only when the moon was bright and there were plenty of stars. On black, cloudy nights, I couldn’t stand to look up.

  It was on one of those cloudy nights that Miles and I had our first conversation that consisted of more than a few words.

  He was leaning back, arms crossed over his chest as he stared up. I took one glance at the sky and shuddered a little before pulling my knees to my chest and focusing on the streetlights instead. I still had the knife in my hand, and my fingers tightened around the hilt.

  “You okay?” Miles asked in his quiet, almost slurred mumble.

  “Fine.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me. He knew I wasn’t fine. Neither of us had been fine in a while. And I didn’t know why I was lying to him of all people.

  “I don’t like it when the sky is this dark,” I said. “When I lie back, the darkness is all I see and I feel … I feel like I’m falling into nothingness. It’s what I imagine death feels like.”

  Before the shooting, I hadn’t thought much about death. Obviously, I was aware that I’d die one day, but it was an abstract concept. It felt distant and somehow irrelevant. After the shooting, though, after seeing death firsthand, realizing it wasn’t necessarily a far-off threat, it felt like I was seeing the world with new eyes. Like a curtain had been pulled back and I could now see the hideous truth of mortality.

  And now I saw death everywhere.

  Even in the night sky.

  I felt Miles shift beside me. He was sitting up now, his arm lightly grazing mine. “You don’t believe in heaven?”

  I shook my head. “I mean, I want to. Most people around here do, I guess. Sarah did. And I want to believe she’s …” I swallowed. “I want to believe there’s something after, but I just can’t shake this feeling that that’s just this fairy tale, you know? To make humans feel better about the fact that one day we’re all gonna die—that even Earth and our species won’t exist forever—and most likely that just means we stop.” I took a deep breath and tried to blink back the tears burning my eyes. “What about you? Do you believe in heaven? Or anything after we die?”

  Miles shrugged. “Don’t know. I don’t think about it if I can help it.”

  “How do you manage that?” I asked, my voice already going raspy with the effort not to cry. “Feels like I can’t think about anything else.”

  He didn’t answer, because there was no answer. Nothing he could say would erase my terror at the thought—not so much of dying but of ending. My anger that I’d been brought into existence, that I was a conscious being in my body, cursed with the knowledge that one day everything I’d done, every memory I’d made, would just vanish. And that I had no control over when or how that day would come. That I could die in pain, in terror, or in peace, and what difference would it make? I’d still be gone. And one day the whole world would be gone. And nothing, not a damn thing, any human ever did would matter.

  My eyes were squeezed shut and my body was shaking all over. I was spiraling. It always happened when I got on this train of thought, which was almost daily back then. It still happens sometimes, though over the years, between therapy and the right medication, I’ve gotten better at shutting the thoughts down before they get quite that far. But the drum of existential dread is always with me. Always beating a steady rhythm at the back of my mind.

  “Lee,” Miles said. His voice was close, right near my ear, but he didn’t touch me. “You’re still here.”

  “I know but—”

  He shook his head. “For now, you’re here.”

  I don’t know if I would have survived those first few months without Miles. He didn’t try to hold my hand or comfort me or tell me that everything was going to be all right. I had plenty of people doing that. Instead, he just sat next to me through the long, anxious nights, reminding me every so often that, at least for that moment, I was alive. I was real. I was still here.

  And that I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

  Miles pulled himself up over the edge of the roof.

  “Hey,” I said as he crawled over to sit beside me. I wasn’t surprised he’d come. It had been a while since I’d felt the need to climb up there in the middle of the night, but after my evening with Sarah’s parents, it felt like the only place I could go. And Miles was the only person I could be with.

  “Saw you through the window,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Not really.”

  He put an arm around my shoulders and I sighed, leaning against him. Normally I wouldn’t have allowed this. Not because it made me uncomfortable, but because I didn’t want Miles to get the wrong idea. I didn’t want to lead him on. But at the same time, right then, I felt selfish. Greedy for comfort.

  You’re probably wondering about Miles and me. The troublemaker and the girl next door survive a nightmare and grow close. Will they fall madly in love and end up together? Well, it’s more complicated than that. At least it is for me.

  I’ve known for a while that I’m on the asexual spectrum. I figured it out about the time Sarah started sneaking around with Richie McMullen in the eighth grade. The way she talked about him—the way I heard older girls talk about their boyfriends and girlfriends—it never clicked for me. I’ve had crushes. There are boys I’ve had romantic feelings for, but I’ve never had any desire to do more than hold hands or maybe—maybe—kiss. It’s not that I find the idea of sex repulsive. I don’t, actually. In some ways, I find it intriguing. I’ve just never met or seen anyone I had any desire or even fleeting fantasy of doing it with. Not even any of the ridiculously attractive celebrities. I recognize that they’re aesthetically pleasing, but I’m also not daydreaming about ripping their clothes off.

  And that made things with Miles complicated. I knew he had feelings for me, and if I’m being honest, I had feeling
s for him, too. But I’d decided a while ago that I wasn’t going to act on them. Not just because I was asexual, though that was definitely part of it. Sarah was the only person I’d ever come out to, and I didn’t know how Miles would react to the idea of a girlfriend who wasn’t sure when or if she’d ever be comfortable sleeping with him. And I cared enough about him and our friendship that I didn’t want to find out. But I also tried to keep him at a distance because come August, I was leaving Virgil County. I was moving to Los Angeles, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be back in this town.

  Miles didn’t like to talk about life after graduation. His grandma wanted him to go to vocational school, though I could tell he wasn’t excited about this prospect. But he hadn’t applied to any colleges yet, and he never mentioned getting out of Virgil County.

  So I had promised myself that, for both of our sakes, I was going to keep Miles at a secure, friendly distance. That had proven to be very difficult, though.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you wanna go to prom?”

  I sat up, pulling away from him so I could see his face. To my surprise, he didn’t appear to be joking. “Are you serious?”

  He shrugged. “Could be fun.”

  “I just never thought you’d be interested in something like prom.”

  “I would be if we went together.”

  I bit my lip and turned away.

  Miles obviously noticed my discomfort because he quickly added, “And Denny’s going. Dunno. It’s our last year here. I just figured the three of us would hang out.”

  “I didn’t know Denny was going.”

  “Yeah. He got a date with Amber Hieber.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Dang. Nice job, Denny. She’s really cute.”

  “She’s just going with him because of the dog.”

  “Please,” I said, elbowing him. “You wish you had his charm.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “So … do you wanna go?”

  “I don’t know, Miles. Prom is just … it’s expensive. And it’s not really my thing, you know?”

  This was a lie. I had been dreaming about prom since I was little. Sarah and I used to get dressed up in her mom’s old bridesmaid dresses and hold pretend proms in her living room as kids. I used to have dreams about dancing with some sweet boy for hours while slow songs played. About staying up all night gossiping with Sarah afterward.

  Then the shooting happened, and those fantasies just sort of evaporated.

  I hadn’t gone to my junior prom. Instead, Miles, Eden, Denny, and I had spent the evening at Ashley’s house, watching John Hughes movies and playing rummy with a set of Denny’s cards. They looked like any other set of playing cards, only they had Braille, too. It had been a fun night. Not romantic or fancy, but it had mostly kept my mind off of the imaginary prom nights Sarah and I had crafted all those years ago.

  Part of me really wanted to go to prom with Miles. Wanted it too much. Me in a pretty dress. Him cleaned up in a tux. It would be way too easy to fall even harder than I already had.

  He was staring at me now with those sad, sleepy eyes. And I couldn’t stop myself from wishing.

  “I’ll think about it,” I whispered.

  He nodded. “Cool.”

  We fell into a comfortable silence, no longer touching as the clouds above us shifted and the stars became visible. Miles leaned back, folding his arms over his chest and looking up. With the sky now lit, it was safe for me to do the same.

  After we’d been lying there for a while, Miles asked, “Gonna tell me what’s going on? Why you’re out here tonight?”

  “I went and saw Sarah’s parents.”

  He turned his head to look at me, two thick auburn eyebrows raised.

  “You heard they’re writing a book, right? About Sarah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well.” I took a deep breath. “The story about Sarah—with the necklace and the things she said to him … it’s not true.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “Not really. I’ve kinda wondered. Especially with the whole Kellie thing. Dunno. The story just sounded too much like a movie to be real.”

  “Sarah’s parents definitely disagree,” I said. “They didn’t take it well.”

  “You’re just now telling them?”

  I flinched, even though his voice hadn’t been harsh or even judgmental. “I’ve tried before,” I said. “Sort of. When people first started talking about it, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know where it had started. And every time I tried to tell anyone, I’d panic. And then Kellie left town and I figured it didn’t matter anymore. But now, with the book …” I shook my head. “I should’ve told them sooner, but I didn’t, and now they think I’m a liar trying to take away from their daughter’s memory.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Is that what you and Denny were talking about the other day? When you drove him home?”

  “Yeah. His scholarship letter made me realize Sarah’s story isn’t the only myth, you know? It made me wish we could all speak up. If we could all write letters like that …” I paused, then sat up. “Oh.”

  “What?” Miles asked.

  “I have an idea, I think. I don’t know how it would work but … maybe if we all wrote letters, telling the truth about what happened that day and even afterward …”

  “Letters to who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Anyone? If everyone did it, though, I could collect them. Put them together into something cohesive. Something people would have to listen to because it’s all of us. We could set the story straight. Maybe we could, like … release the letters somehow so that there will be something else out there besides the McHales’ book.”

  My thoughts were moving like a tornado through my mind, spinning violently, too fast for me to grasp. I’d have to figure out the details later, but somehow this just seemed like the answer. If Denny’s letter had gotten to me like this, maybe letters from all of the survivors could make an impact. I could reach out to Ashley and Eden, and I would try to find Kellie to see if she’d do it.

  “You’ll write one, won’t you?” I asked Miles.

  “Write a letter? I’m not sure, Lee.”

  “What’s there not to be sure about?” I asked. “Surely you wanna point out how messed up it was the way those newspaper articles talked about you, right? Like that one journalist who wrote something about how you were the kind of kid people expected to be a shooter, not a hero? That’s so awful, and you could write about why.”

  Miles turned away, and I figured I was making him uncomfortable bringing up comments like that. I couldn’t imagine how hurtful that had been, to see it in print that you were the kind of person no one expected to do something noble. That you seemed more like a villain. But that was exactly why I needed him to do this.

  Miles was so much more than the troubled-boy-turned-hero. His story went beyond the fights he’d been in or his suspension record. All the reporting on the shooting had squeezed him into a box, an easily digestible line or two of text. And I wanted the world to see who he was outside of that box. I wanted people to know the intense, thoughtful, surprisingly funny Miles that I adored.

  “Please, Miles?” I asked, reaching out to touch his hand. “Please?”

  He turned to look back at me, and after a long moment, he sighed. “Lee …”

  “Just think about it,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  He nodded, then turned his gaze back to the stars.

  We stayed up there until dawn, when I finally snuck back inside and crawled into bed. Even then, though, I couldn’t sleep. Not because of pain or guilt this time, but the opposite. For the first time in a while, I felt hopeful.

  If I could make this work, then the truth would finally, finally be out there. And this weight would be off my shoulders at last.

  Here’s what I know about Kevin Brantley: When the shooting happened,
he was a sophomore; he kept his head shaved and always wore band T-shirts; and in elementary school, he stuck gum in Sarah’s hair on the bus and tried to blame it on someone else.

  I reached out to the other survivors to see if anyone else knew him better. The first person to reply was Miles. This was our text exchange.

  MILES: I knew him. Hated him.

  ME: Yeah? Why?

  MILES: He found a picture of my dad’s mug shot on the internet. Not sure how. He printed it and brought it to school. This was in eighth grade. Right after I moved here.

  ME: That’s awful.

  MILES: I kicked his ass before he could show anyone.

  ME: That’s good? I guess?

  MILES: We both got suspended. Not proud of it but don’t really regret it either. He was a jerk.

  ME: Sounds like it.

  MILES: Guessing that’s not the kind of story you were looking for, huh?

  ME: LOL. No. Not exactly.

  I decided to share it, though. Not because I have any desire to make Kevin seem like a bad guy when he’s not here to defend himself. But because of another issue I’ve seen with how we talk about victims. They’re all treated like angels after they die. Every description talks about how friendly and fun-loving and kind they were, even if that wasn’t always the case.

  But most of the people who died that day were kids. And sometimes kids are jerks. That doesn’t make them less worthy of mourning. It just makes them people. Acting like the dead were always perfect and innocent just distances them from us even more. Maybe it’s just me, but knowing these people were flawed makes them more real.