That's Not What Happened

by Kody Keplinger

  And you know what I did?

  I ran.

  I was gonna run into the bathroom. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. I thought maybe I could hide in a stall or something. But I’d only taken two steps when I tripped over Ashley and landed on top of her. He was still shooting, and I whispered to Ashley to shut up. I knew if I stood up, he’d probably shoot me, too. So I played dead on top of her.

  I played dead while Coach Nolan bled out a few feet away.

  I played dead while walked into the bathroom and started shooting.

  While he shot at you, Lee.

  Ashley told everyone I’d been trying to protect her. That’s not true, though. I was just trying to run. The whole time I was lying there, my heart was pounding so hard I thought my ribs would break. I kept thinking about how I’d get away, even if it meant leaving Ashley, how I could move without him seeing me. I didn’t hear what was going on in the bathroom. I didn’t hear anything but the voice in my head screaming at me that I needed to get out.

  I wasn’t a hero. I was a coward.

  And the worst part is, Coach Nolan would still be alive if I hadn’t been such a screwup. If I’d just listened to him. If I’d just ignored that kid behind me and not thrown a punch. If I’d tried a little harder to stay out of trouble, he’d be alive.

  He wanted to help me when no one else thought I was worth saving. And if I’d just let him, he would never have been in that hallway.

  I got him killed.

  But no one knew that. All they knew was what Ashley said. She thought I was a hero. And for the first time, no one was pissed at me. No one was disappointed. My grandmother told me how proud she was of me. She’d never said that before. She’d never had a good reason to. People started looking at me like I was worth a damn.

  You looked at me like I was worth a damn.

  I didn’t want to be seen as a hero, but it was nice to not be seen as a lost cause for once.

  I know I haven’t really told you much about my parents or why I moved in with my grandmother. But there’s a reason that kid in US History pissed me off so bad. When I was five, my mom overdosed. Heroin, not meth. She died and left me with my dad. You’d think after what happened to my mom, he’d want to stay away from drugs. And he did for about a year. Then we moved to Tennessee for a while and meth happened.

  Dad was a dick whether he was sober or not. I got left alone a lot while he went out to get high or drunk or find some other way to spend the money we didn’t have. The therapist I saw after the shooting thinks that’s why I started fighting with other kids. Because I wanted him to pay attention, and getting in trouble was the way to get him to notice or something. I think I was just angry. At him. At Mom for dying. At all the other kids at school for being happier than I was.

  Then Dad got arrested. He beat the hell out of some guy at a bar, and when the cops came, Dad had drugs on him. So he got jail time and I got shipped off to live with a grandmother I hadn’t seen in years. And the first time I got in trouble at school, I remember her looking at me and saying, “You look just like your father.” And the way she said it, I knew that wasn’t a good thing. He’d disappointed her, and now I had, too.

  It didn’t take long for everyone in Virgil County to know I was bad news. Sometimes just by looking at me. I know you thought so, too.

  Don’t be creeped out, but I remember the first time I saw you. I’d been living next door for a couple of weeks, but we’d never really crossed paths, I guess. Anyway, I was walking home. I’d been kicked off the school bus for cussing at the driver. You were sitting on your front porch with Sarah. Your hair was long back then, almost to your waist, and the wind kept blowing it in your face. You were spitting it out of your mouth while Sarah laughed. She reached up and tried to help you tie it back, and that’s when I saw your face.

  I don’t think I thought anything that interesting. I don’t remember thinking that you were beautiful. You are, but I don’t think I saw it then. Pretty sure I just thought you were a girl. And you looked like a nice girl. The kind of girl who’d never look my way.

  But then you did. You looked at me while I was walking up my driveway. And I stopped to look back at you. I was about to say something. Hi, probably. But then Sarah looked over your shoulder to see what you were staring at. And then she grimaced and whispered something in your ear as she finished tying the ponytail into your hair.

  And then you frowned and shook your head and turned away.

  I’m not saying I blame you. Either of you. I’m just saying that there was a time when you saw me differently. When you thought I was someone to avoid.

  But that’s not how you looked at me after the shooting. The first night I asked to come up on the roof, I thought you’d say no. I thought you’d want to stay away from me. But you didn’t. Because you’d changed your mind about me. Just like everyone in Virgil County. Because you thought I was a hero. And I let you think that, because I like the way you look at me.

  God, Lee, I’ve almost told you the truth so many times. Because I feel so guilty all the time. I’m a fraud. I’m the reason a good man is dead, and everyone thinks I’m a hero and I don’t want them to think that, but I also don’t want them to go back to being disappointed in me. I don’t want to be my dad. I’ve tried to do better since the shooting. I’ve stayed out of trouble. I’ve tried to keep my anger in check. Mostly because I can’t stop thinking about Coach Nolan. If I become a dirtbag like my dad, his death will be pointless.

  It already is pointless.

  But it feels like I owe it to him to do better. So a few weeks after the shooting, I got online and watched a documentary about the American Civil War, and a few days after that, I picked up a biography of Abraham Lincoln, because … I don’t know. Because it was the kind of thing that would have made Coach Nolan proud when he was alive. The kind of thing he never would have expected from me.

  Turns out, I really like history. There’s something about putting the puzzle together, figuring out how we got here, who and what led us to this point in time—maybe that sounds stupid. But you know how acting is an escape for you? I think history is that for me. I can get lost in the research for hours on end. Hours where I’m not thinking about the shooting at all.

  Maybe if I was interested in other school stuff, college wouldn’t seem like such a fantasy.

  Maybe Grandma’s right and I should go to vocational school. That’s probably the most realistic option for me. But sometimes I think about what would happen if I could get into college, if I studied history. Maybe—and yeah, I know this sounds crazy—but maybe I could become a teacher.

  Maybe I could do for other kids what Coach Nolan tried to do for me.

  I don’t know. All of that seems like such a long shot, and I’m just rambling. I hate writing.

  But you keep asking for the truth, Lee, and the truth is that I’m scared you’ll read this and hate me. That knowing I’m not a hero will change how you look at me. Because I’m pretty sure I can deal with the rest of this town hating me. Maybe I even deserve it because of Coach Nolan. But I can’t deal with you hating me. I just can’t.

  Last night after prom, I called Ashley. I had her pick me up and we drove around town in her van for a while. She’s the first person I’ve ever told any of this to. I didn’t know what to do about you—about us—and I figured if anyone had a right to know the truth, it was Ashley. She’s spent years thinking I tried to save her life when, really, I was just trying to hide. I thought she’d be pissed at me, but I knew she’d be the best person to ask for advice. She’s always been good with advice.

  Well, except when it comes to Kellie, I guess.

  “You should tell her,” Ashley said. She’d been surprised but not mad. If anything, she just seemed tired. “Look, I’m not too happy with Lee right now. With this whole letter thing. But … you love her.”

  I turned my head to look out the window. We were on our way back to my grandma’s house. “I … uh …”

  “
That wasn’t a question,” Ashley said. “It’s obvious. It’s been obvious for a while. And if you’re telling me this, it’s because you want to tell her. You’re just scared. You don’t have to write one of her stupid letters if you don’t want to. But tell her. I think you’ll feel better once you do.”

  “She’ll hate me.”

  “She won’t. She’ll be surprised, but she won’t hate you.” She paused. “Look, you don’t have to tell her if you don’t want to. It’s no one’s business but yours. Maybe a little bit mine. I mean, it’s just one more thing I got wrong.” She sighed and shook her head. “If anything, it’s my fault you’ve felt like you had to lie about this. But I think you’ll feel relieved once she knows.”

  “It’s not just about you,” I said. “Coach Nolan …”

  “You can’t blame yourself for that,” she said. “You weren’t the one with the gun.”

  “Yeah. But I …”

  “Was a stupid kid,” Ashley said. “We were all stupid kids. None of us handled that situation perfectly. Don’t know if anyone could, really. But … we were kids who ended up in an awful situation. None of us asked for this.” She glanced over at me before looking to the road again. “For what it’s worth, I knew Coach Nolan. He wouldn’t blame you. He’d just be happy you survived.”

  We pulled into my driveway a few minutes later, and I started to unbuckle my seat belt.

  “Tell her,” Ashley said. “Not because you think you have to. You don’t. But … because it’ll be a relief not to carry this around on your own.”

  I leaned across the seat and hugged her before climbing out of the car.

  Then I stayed up all night trying to write this. Because I’m being a coward, again, and I can’t tell you the truth to your face. I don’t want to watch you turn away from me the way you did that first time I saw you.

  Because Ashley’s right. I love you, Lee.

  I know that things are complicated with that. With romantic stuff. I know you’re asexual, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means. I don’t know what’s going to happen when you move to California. I don’t know what a future for us would look like. But I know that I love you. That I will do anything to keep you in my life. I’ll respect whatever boundaries you set. Even if that’s just us staying friends. I’d follow you wherever you’d let me, as corny as that sounds. I just want to be with you.

  And I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.

  So there you go. That’s the truth you’ve been asking for. I really hope writing this wasn’t a huge mistake.

  Love,

  Miles

  I dropped Miles’s letter onto my bed and sprang up. It was past midnight by now, but I didn’t care. I had to see him. I slid on some sandals and didn’t worry about the fact that I was only wearing pajama shorts and a tank top. Then I hurried out of my room and down the hall.

  “Lee baby?” Mom’s voice, croaky with sleep, called from her dark bedroom. I’d heard her come in about thirty minutes earlier, before she’d headed straight for bed. “You okay? Nightmares?”

  “Not this time,” I replied. “I’m okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I jerked open the front door and sprinted down the front porch steps. All the lights were out next door, and as I crossed the yard, I hesitated. Miles had brought me home only an hour ago, but there was a chance he’d already gone to bed. And his grandmother was most certainly asleep by now. If I knocked, I might wake them both up. But this couldn’t wait until morning. It couldn’t even wait for me to go back inside and grab my phone so I could text him.

  I swallowed my anxiety and stepped onto Mrs. Mason’s front porch. I tapped on the door lightly at first. Then again a little louder. I was about to raise my hand to tap for a third time when the door swung open.

  Miles stood there, dressed in a black T-shirt and boxer shorts. His hair was messy, but he didn’t look like he’d been sleeping.

  “Lee,” he breathed, and I noticed the subtle shake of his hand as it rested on the door. The nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  Before he could say anything else—before he could move another muscle—I leapt forward and wrapped my arms around his neck. He stiffened at first, like I’d startled him. I almost stepped back, almost apologized. I knew better than to make those kind of sudden movements. But then his arms moved around my waist. He held me to him. Firm, but not too tight.

  I pressed my face into his neck for a long moment. He was warm and smelled like a mix of mint and freshly washed clothes. I could have stood like that forever, just breathing him in.

  But after a moment I pulled back. His arms loosened and I slid my hands to his shoulders, holding him still as I stared, long and hard, into his face.

  “I read it,” I whispered. “I read your letter.”

  His gaze lowered, but I squeezed his shoulders, urging him to look back up, into my face.

  “Look at me,” I said. “Please, Miles.”

  Slowly, he raised his eyes. And I tried to put everything in my expression. Every feeling I’d ever had for him. Every wish, every hope, every moment of calm that he gave me. I wanted him to see that I wasn’t disappointed in him. I didn’t see him as a hero. But I didn’t see him as a monster, either. I just saw him as Miles. My best friend.

  The boy I loved.

  I think he understood. I watched relief cross his face, tempered with a new sort of nervousness. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So …” he said.

  “So.”

  Then I did something I’d never done before. Something I’d never wanted before. I stepped closer to him again, and then slowly, gently, pressed a kiss to his lips.

  He didn’t tighten his hold on me. He didn’t try to hold me to him or push the kiss any further. Instead, he just smiled. A broad, goofy smile that made a giggle rise in my own throat. A smile that assured me that that kiss, quick and chaste as it had been, was enough.

  I eased away, squeezing his hand as I backed slowly off the porch. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Miles?” I was off the porch now, standing in the grass. But I hadn’t been able to turn away from him just yet.

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you, too.”

  I don’t know what the future holds for Miles and me. Since that night, we’ve exchanged a handful of short, light kisses. I’m not comfortable with anything more. Maybe that’ll change one day. Maybe it won’t. Maybe there will come a time when he needs more than I’m willing to give. And maybe there won’t. I don’t know. Neither of us does. And I’m starting to think that’s okay.

  I’ve spent so long keeping him at a distance, scared of ruining the bond we have. And there’s a good chance that once I leave this town, once I’m thousands of miles away, we’ll have to go back to just being friends. But I’m starting to think that no matter what happens, we’re going to be connected forever.

  Not just Miles and me, but all of us. All of the survivors. No matter how angry Ashley is at me, no matter how much Kellie—or Renee or whoever she decides to be—wishes to be rid of us, we’re tied together now. They are bonds of pain, sure, of a shared trauma. But they are also bonds of hope and comfort and an understanding that only the six of us will ever have.

  No matter what happens with Miles, I’m comforted to realize that we’ll always be connected. That he’ll always be the one I can call when I’m at my most nihilistic. When the starless sky feels like falling into nothingness. Whether it’s the fifth or tenth or thirtieth anniversary of the shooting, we’ll be in touch. Even if this … whatever it is, between us right now doesn’t last.

  But for now, this feels right.

  I’m writing this a few days before I leave for California. He’s going to drive with me across the country with all of my things, then fly back to Indiana once I’m settled in. I’m dreading that part. The part where I won’t live next door to him anymore. I won’t be able to climb onto my roof and
know he’ll be there shortly.

  But I think it’ll be okay. We’ll both be okay.

  We’ve survived worse, after all.

  If you look up Coach Nolan’s obituary you’ll find out that he was forty-two, single (divorced almost a decade earlier), and had no kids. He’d coached both football and track, and a good chunk of the trophies in the glass cabinet near the front office of the school were thanks to him. When people in town talk about him, they mostly refer to his coaching, all the victories he led VCHS to. But they never mention him as a teacher.

  Which, really, is pretty strange, since literally every student had to take at least one of his classes. We all knew Coach. We all cracked jokes about how formal he was, referring to all of his students by their last names, always wearing a jacket and tie in class. Pretty much everyone had done a Coach Nolan impression to amuse their friends at some point.

  At the same time, though, almost everyone respected him. He was tough, but fair. I remember the first time I got back an essay I’d written for his class. There was a giant C at the top in red ink. I’d been mortified. I was no straight-A student, but I’d never gotten below a B before.

  I went to his desk after class, nervously clutching the graded paper while Sarah waited for me by the door.

  “Can I help you with something, Ms. Bauer?” he asked.

  “It’s, um, about my grade,” I said, laying the essay on his desk. “Why did I get a C?”

  “Because that’s the grade you deserved,” he said simply. He could have dismissed me then and there, but instead he pulled the paper toward him and plucked a red-ink pen from the desk drawer. “Come here.”

  I hovered at the edge of the desk and watched as he marked up my paper, showing all of the places where I’d gotten dates or names wrong or where I’d repeated myself in order to meet the assigned word count. In the margins, he wrote out things I could have included, facts I’d missed. Then he handed the paper back to me.