That's Not What Happened

by Kody Keplinger

  Anyway, I did get another take on Kevin Brantley. This time it was from Eden, who responded via email.

  Kevin was my lab partner in chemistry. I did most of the work. But he wasn’t so bad. He saw me drawing in class once and asked if I’d teach him. He said he wanted to design his own T-shirts one day. I said no because … well, you know how I am with people. But he offered to pay for some lessons, and I needed the money for art supplies.

  We met once a week during lunch for about two months. He was kind of loud and a little lazy, but he was nice to me. Actually, he’s the only guy who has ever asked me out. I don’t think he really liked me. He just wanted a girlfriend. It was the last day of our drawing lessons, and I told him I was gay. Which wasn’t something I told a lot of people at the time.

  I kind of assumed he’d be gross about it. Make some jokes or say something homophobic. But instead he just said, “That’s cool. So is my brother,” and dropped it.

  He sat next to me in Ms. Taylor’s class. We didn’t talk a lot, but sometimes he’d slide over a notebook with one of his drawings and ask what I thought. Rosi was the one who was good at things, not me, so having someone want my opinion because they thought I was good at something? It meant a lot.

  I don’t know if you’d call Kevin and me friends. But yeah. I definitely remember him. I wonder if he ever would have made those T-shirts he talked about.

  I sent out a group text message the day after my talk with Miles, and to my surprise, Ashley and Eden responded almost immediately. They had a few questions, but they both agreed to write letters for my project. I didn’t tell them what I’d told Denny and Miles. It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to deliver over text. I just explained that, with the boys and me graduating, it felt like this was our last chance to really tell our stories.

  Denny responded, too, and told me I could use his scholarship letter for whatever I decided on doing. And Miles, of course, didn’t answer my text at all. I’d known he wouldn’t. He was taking time to think about what he wanted to do, and I wasn’t going to push him. Not just yet, at least.

  Now the only thing remaining was to find Kellie Gaynor.

  I’d spent hours searching for her online. She didn’t seem to have any social media presence—at least not under the name Kellie Gaynor—and no phone listings anywhere. I did find her mom on Facebook, but the friend request I’d sent had been ignored. Not that I blamed her. I tried sending a message anyway, explaining that I was one of the other survivors and I wanted to get in touch with Kellie, but as far as I could tell, it hadn’t even been read.

  Most of the things that came up when I searched Kellie’s name online were old Tumblr and forum posts from the usual VCHS true crime spots. A lot of the time, she was just listed among those who had been injured, along with Ashley and Denny, but there was some more disturbing stuff out there, too. Including an old piece of “fan fiction” in which Kellie is the girlfriend of the shooter and helped him plan the whole thing. Only then she betrays him by calling the cops from the bathroom and shooting herself in the shoulder to make herself look like a victim.

  Of course, like in a lot of the weird fandom around the shooting, the mass murderer is glorified, portrayed as misunderstood and sympathetic, and the rest of us were just bullies.

  The story was disturbing, but not even close to the worst I’ve read.

  And diving that deep into the mass shooter fandom side of the internet had brought me no closer to getting in touch with Kellie Gaynor.

  “Why bother looking for her, anyway?” Ashley asked.

  I was at her house about a week after I’d asked her to write the letter. She’d just put her daughter down for a nap, and we were sitting at her kitchen table dyeing Easter eggs. As always, being in her house felt like being wrapped in a favorite quilt, warm and familiar. Before the shooting, I honestly hadn’t liked Ashley very much. She had always come across as self-righteous and judgmental. But now it was hard to imagine a life where I didn’t have her texting me almost daily, either with a cute picture of Miriam or just checking in to make sure I was doing all right.

  When I mentioned Kellie Gaynor, however, her normally sweet expression instantly turned sour.

  I shrugged, then dipped one of my eggs into the pink dye. “She’s one of us, too. I’m sure she has a story to tell.”

  Ashley scoffed. “I’m sure she does. One full of lies.”

  I started to tell her the truth right then. I swear I did. Ashley, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I didn’t go ahead and just say it. But my eyes flitted to a photo stuck on the refrigerator door. In the picture, Ashley is wearing her wedding dress, her veil pushed back as she smiles at the camera. Her wheelchair is positioned in front of a church and Logan, wearing his tux, is kneeling beside her. A group of smiling people stand around them, looking proud. Among the crowd are Ruth and Chad McHale. And the church in the background is Virgil County Baptist.

  Ashley has gone to church with Sarah’s family since she was little. She’d known Sarah for most of her life. As much as I’d wanted to just tell her the truth right then, I was scared I’d have a repeat of my night with the McHales. I didn’t want to be kicked out of Ashley’s house. I didn’t want to lose that warm-blanket feeling I had when I was with her.

  Yes, I was being selfish. But I resolved that I’d tell her once all the letters were written. I could use them to explain everything. Until then, though, I’d stay silent. And safe.

  “I’m sorry,” Ashley said as she lifted an egg from the blue dye. “I know I’m being harsh. I just really hate her. I try not to say the h word often, but with Kellie Gaynor … who makes up the kind of lies she did? Who does that?”

  “We don’t have to talk about her,” I said. “In fact, let’s just change the subject.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Oh, but I did write that letter for you.”

  “Already?” I asked, surprised.

  “I felt inspired,” she said. “I was going to email it to you, but our internet’s been acting up. So I put it on a USB drive. Will that work?”

  “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  “Hold on. I’ll go grab it.” She wiped her dye-smudged fingers on a clean paper towel, then wheeled back from the table, carefully maneuvering her chair through the kitchen doorway. She returned a minute later and handed me a small blue thumb drive. “I hope I did it right,” she said.

  “I don’t really think there’s a wrong way to tell your own story.”

  She laughed. “Hopefully you feel that way after you’ve read it.”

  We took all of the eggs out of their dye and laid them on paper towels. “Is this how you’re supposed to let them dry?” Ashley asked me. “I actually have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t think I’ve dyed Easter eggs in fifteen years.”

  “I’m not sure, either, but it seems right?”

  Ashley laughed. “Having a kid makes you realize how very little you know about being an adult.”

  “I think you’re doing a pretty great job.”

  She beamed at me. “Thank you. I know this sounds weird considering our very minor age gap, but I feel like I got a little bit of practice with you and Miles and Denny. Eden a little, too. Not that I’m comparing you to my six-month-old, but … I don’t know. I felt very protective of you guys. I still do sometimes.”

  “You have kind of been our mother hen,” I said. “But I think we all appreciate it. Especially in that first year. We were all such a mess.”

  And I still am, I added mentally. That was part of why I spent so many Saturday afternoons at Ashley’s house. When my world felt like it was spinning too fast, I knew Ashley would be there to hold me still. She didn’t get as emotional as my own mother. Instead, she was just this calm, nurturing presence that never seemed too shaken.

  “Well, speaking of being a mother hen,” she said. “I have to ask. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.” It was the third time she’d asked
me that afternoon.

  “You sure? We have lemonade and chocolate milk and sweet tea.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “And water, of course.”

  “Really. I’m fine.”

  Ashley shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t help it. My mother always told me that if your guests don’t have a cup in their hands, you’re being a bad hostess.”

  “Does this tiny cup of Easter egg dye count?” I asked, pointing at the pink.

  “Hmm. For now? Sure. But if you’re here much longer, I’m forcing some chocolate milk on you.”

  I left before she could make good on that promise. I wanted to get home and read the letter she’d written. I was eager to see if it would hold the kind of revelations Denny’s had. If it would make me see the shooting or our lives afterward in a new light.

  And it definitely did that.

  Dear Friend,

  Almost every day for the past three years, someone has asked me, “Ashley, how do you cope with the things you’ve seen?” or “Ashley, how do you stay so positive after everything that has happened to you?” I always give the same answer, and I am sure there are people who won’t believe me but …

  Forgiveness.

  I think most people see me as unlucky. I wasn’t even supposed to be in that hallway when walked out of the computer lab with a gun. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and it changed my life forever. It would be so easy to be angry about that, to spend the rest of my life asking, “Why me?” I think that’s what people expect me to do. Or maybe it’s just what people think they would do.

  But I’m not angry.

  I’m not going to say I’m grateful. That might be taking it a little too far. But I will say that, three years on, I like who I am. I like where my life is and where it’s going. And the truth is, I don’t know what the alternate version of me, the version that wasn’t in that hallway, would look like. She might not need a wheelchair, sure, but she also might not have the beautiful family that I have now. She might not have the faith I do. She might not have found her purpose the way I have.

  So I forgive.

  I wasn’t in a good place during my senior year of high school. Logan and I had broken up over winter break. He was a year older and had moved to the next county over for a job. We’d been together since my freshman year, and not seeing him every day like I was used to had taken a toll. I was selfish and frustrated and whenever we were together, I found myself picking fights for no reason. Eventually we both got tired of it and broke up two days before Christmas.

  On top of that, graduation was approaching, and I had no idea what I wanted to do after. All my friends had plans—college, vocational school, working on their parents’ farm—but I didn’t feel excited about anything. I was leaning toward cosmetology school, but only because nothing else interested me. I felt completely lost, and for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like my faith was guiding me.

  I went to church with my parents and sister each Sunday. I was the president of the Fellowship of Christian Students at VCHS. I went to youth group with my friends on Wednesday nights, and I prayed. I prayed so much, but nothing seemed to be changing. It felt like God wasn’t listening to me. And, I have to admit, my desperation turned me into someone who wasn’t a very good Christian.

  The way I saw it, I was doing everything right, and God still wasn’t guiding me to what I wanted. Meanwhile, I saw my friends and classmates and even my own family not being as “good” as I was, not being the kind of Christians I thought they ought to be, but that didn’t seem to matter. They seemed happy, and I wasn’t. They seemed to have purpose, and I didn’t. And the only way I could make myself feel better about that was to judge them. To remind them—and myself—that they weren’t as “good” as I was. I pointed out every little sin I could find because it made me feel better about myself. I’m not proud of that.

  In fact, the last time I saw Sarah McHale, I was pretty terrible to her.

  I’d gotten a hall pass during Senior English to use the bathroom. Mrs. Keebler, our usual teacher, wasn’t the type to allow students out of class, even to use the bathroom, so normally I never left until the bell rang. But Mrs. Keebler was out that day, and we had a more lenient substitute, Mr. Shockley. He was one of those young guy teachers who told us we could call him Keith and let students cuss in class. He was on the usual rotation of substitute teachers, so we all knew him pretty well, and none of us were surprised when he suggested we pull out our phones and discuss the poetry of our favorite bands.

  That March, my playlist was full of Christian rock and breakup songs, and I really wasn’t in the mood to discuss either with my classmates. So when it was almost my turn to pick a song, I decided it was a good time to go pee, and Mr. Shockley handed over the hall pass.

  The girls’ bathroom was around the corner and down the hall, past the computer lab. I remember the door was open when I walked by. I even remember glancing inside and everything looking completely normal. Ms. Taylor was at her desk, a handful of students were on their computers, talking and laughing with the kids around them. It was just so ordinary that it’s hard to imagine what happened only a few minutes later.

  Anyway, when I got to the bathroom, it was empty. But almost as soon as I entered the stall, I heard Sarah and Lee walk in. I didn’t know Lee very well at the time—just that she was Sarah’s best friend. Sarah and I had gone to the same church since we were kids, though. Our families often shared a pew at Virgil County Baptist. I liked Sarah, she was a sweet girl, but she hadn’t been coming to the Fellowship of Christian Students meetings lately.

  I found out why when she and Lee started talking.

  “How bad is it?” Sarah asked.

  “Not that bad. Your shirt mostly hides it.”

  “Maybe I can cover it with foundation?” I could hear her purse unzipping. “It’s a good thing you noticed. If my parents saw this, they’d lose it.”

  “It’s ridiculous that you can’t have a boyfriend until you’re sixteen.”

  “I know. I’m trying to get them to change the rule, but if they find out I got a hickey behind the shop building when I was supposed to be at an FCS meeting … I’d probably be locked in my room until I’m thirty.”

  Sarah was in the middle of rubbing foundation over a tiny bruise, just above the collar of her shirt, when she saw me. Her dark eyes went wide. Lee glanced at me, too, and she moved protectively in front of Sarah, as if she could hide what her friend was doing. It was too late, though.

  “I was going to ask you where you’ve been the last few Tuesdays,” I said, “but I guess I have my answer.”

  “Oh my gosh, Ash. I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Hey, I get it. Who needs Jesus when you have boys that’ll suck on your neck?”

  I knew I was being mean, but I couldn’t stop myself. She was breaking her parents’ rules and lying and skipping out on FCS meetings—things I never did—but she didn’t seem to feel lost at all. On top of that, this little freshman had a boyfriend, someone she liked enough to sneak around with, and I’d just been through a breakup. I was lonely and she wasn’t. I was struggling and she wasn’t. And it was so easy to tear her down a little.

  Sarah’s round face turned tomato red. “You aren’t going to …”

  “Tell your parents? No,” I said. “If you feel comfortable telling lies, why should I stop you? Just remember, though. They might not know what you’re doing, but God does.”

  Both Sarah and Lee watched me as I walked to the sink and washed my hands. When I looked up into the mirror, I realized there was one other person in the bathroom with us. Kellie Gaynor, in all of her black-clad glory, was standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette while she glared at me. I rolled my eyes at her.

  I feel no regret about how I judged Kellie Gaynor back then. If anything, she ended up being worse than I thought.

  When I finished, I grabbed a paper towel and dried my hands. “You’d better get back to class,” I told Sarah and Lee. “O
r else you’ll have another lie to tell.”

  Neither of them said a word to me as I walked out of the bathroom. I knew the bell would be ringing in a few minutes, and I hoped that if I walked back slowly enough, Mr. Shockley wouldn’t have time to make me pick a song from my phone to analyze.

  At first I didn’t think twice about the silhouette of the boy standing in the computer lab doorway. Until I heard the popping.

  I froze, right in the middle of the hallway. I’d been hunting with my dad enough times to know what that sound was.

  Gunshots.

  Gunshots a few feet from me.

  Gunshots in my high school.

  It didn’t make sense at first, which is why I just stood there, watching as , his back to me, fired into the computer lab. I couldn’t stop staring at his back, blankly wondering why he would shoot at computers of all things. Because the idea of him shooting people didn’t quite register.

  Not until I looked down, at the sliver of classroom visible between his feet, and saw blood spreading across the carpet.

  That’s when I ran. But it was like the way you run in a dream, when you feel like you are running as hard and fast as you can but you aren’t getting anywhere. The bathroom wasn’t actually that far from the computer lab, but it felt like it took forever to get there. Up ahead, coming from the other end of the hall, I saw two more people, Coach Nolan and Miles Mason, and I opened my mouth to shout to them.

  But before the words left my mouth, I felt something hit me—hard—in the middle of my lower back. I tumbled forward in what felt like slow motion. I don’t remember if I tried to stand up after I hit the ground. I just know that I closed my eyes and started to pray as more gunshots fired in the hallway. There was shouting and running and then something heavy fell on top of me and I gasped.

  “Shh,” a harsh voice hissed in my ear. “Don’t. Move.”

  It was Miles Mason. A kid I’d never given the time of day. He was a couple years younger than me and, by all accounts, a bad seed. He was one of VCHS’s most notorious troublemakers—certain to be held back a year because he’d missed so much school while being suspended. He spent more time in detention than in class. Miles Mason was the kind of kid I warned younger students to stay clear of.