What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  “He’s young. Probably embarrassed everything came back on him.”

  What he said didn’t sit right, but it was true. Everyone at school treated Logan like he was the screw-up for getting sick, not Brian and his friends for causing it.

  “You know, I don’t think what happened was an accident,” I said, glancing into the hallway through the narrow window on the door. “I think some of the boys might have targeted Logan.”

  “Targeted? Baby B, what are you talking about?”

  “I know Brian had it out for Logan. He said Logan kept messing with him at practice and stuff.”

  “They’re a team. Any frustrations stay on the court. Other than that, they have each other’s backs.” Lawson shook his head and crossed his arms. “I know it might not make sense to someone who isn’t used to sports.”

  Sure, I was a girl and no expert on athletics, but I was an expert when it came to Brian. I knew what he did had nothing to do with fun and team. He was looking out for himself. He was getting even.

  “I don’t think so, Coach. You don’t know Brian the way I do. This is what he does when he feels threatened. He lashes out at people. I hate that these other boys were punished all because Brian had it out for Logan.”

  Coach Lawson looked at the ceiling and whistled. “Geez, Della. Paranoid much? I know he’s your brother, but I’ve had Brian as a student and a player. He’s a good kid. What happened this weekend was just boys messing around. Hell, you should have seen the stuff I got into with my friends back in the day.” He looked as though he was hoping I’d ask, all too happy to share the details of his misspent youth.

  “Brian doesn’t mess around. He hurt Logan on purpose. I’m telling you—” I stopped talking when I saw the look on Lawson’s face. A mix of annoyance and shock. He didn’t believe me, thought there was something wrong with me that I’d even suggest it.

  “Look, I know it’s not easy growing up in someone’s shadow,” he said in the most professional tone I’d ever heard him use. “That’s no reason to kick your brother when he’s down.”

  I nodded, leaving the room without saying anything else. I looked back to see that disbelieving look still on Lawson’s face. It was the same look he gave me the rest of the semester.

  Eleven

  Now

  On Tuesday, my thoughts revolve around Darcy. How she’s healing. What she’s feeling. I wonder if she’s remembered anything else about the attack but is not willing to come forward. High school is a brutal time. So much shame is brewed between these walls. I think of the pictures passed around at the party. If Darcy already thinks she’s a joke, I understand why she wouldn’t want to throw the label of victim into the mix.

  After school, I have a therapy session with Dr. Walters. I arrive at her office, which happens to be one of the downstairs rooms of her massive house. It’s a beautiful place, and I can’t help but think the surroundings contributed to my liking her more than any of the other therapists I visited.

  Dr. Walters opens the front door. Her auburn curls fall over her shoulders, and she’s always wearing glasses with different colored rims. Today’s are teal.

  “Welcome, Della,” she says, stepping back to let me in.

  “Sorry again about last week,” I say. “It’s not like me to double-book.”

  “Perfectly fine,” she says in her calming voice. “I’m happy to see you again.”

  One hour every two weeks is our standard amount of time together. It’s helpful having a person, other than Danny, I can speak with about whatever’s going on in my life. Keeping my emotions bottled up increases my volatility. In the years following Brian’s arrest, I found it hard to trust people. Neighbors. Classmates. In my fragile, adolescent mind, they were all threats. Committing to ongoing therapy is one way to keep those negative feelings at bay. We don’t always discuss Brian. In fact, we rarely do. I’m not in therapy for him; I’m in it for me.

  We spend the first half hour discussing our normal lineup: always a few introductory comments about the weather, work, my stress levels. Danny. I tell her about the guest room we’re completing, and she breaks role long enough to tell me about a great antiquing spot in the area.

  “Anything else on your mind you’d like to discuss?” she asks, sliding her glasses back to the top of her nose.

  “Not really,” I say, laughing nervously. “I’m sorry you have such a boring patient.”

  “Never boring. I look forward to our time together,” she says, smiling. “You seem more anxious today than you have in previous sessions.”

  I notice my tapping foot. I’ve also bitten my fingernails down to nubs. “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Don’t apologize,” she says, sitting back. She stares at me, inviting me to share what’s going on in my head. She knows I’m holding back. I’m so rarely bothered by anything anymore, that when I am, it shows.

  “There’s this student,” I start, not knowing how much of the story I plan on revealing. “Something happened to her.”

  Dr. Walters locks into her listening position, that’s what I call it anyways. When her legs are crossed, and she’s got one arm propped under her chin. That’s how she sits for long intervals when she wants me to continue speaking.

  “I chaperoned the Spring Fling dance on Saturday,” I say. “After the dance, one of my students hosted a party. And she was attacked. She’s not saying exactly what happened, but it appears her leg was cut.” I look away.

  “My goodness,” Dr. Walters says, covering her heart. I’m certain she’s heard worse stories, but they usually aren’t delivered by me. “That poor girl.”

  “I’ve not seen her yet,” I say. “She hasn’t been at school. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened to her. Victory Hills is such a pampered place, for teachers and students. I’ve never dealt with this before in a professional arena.”

  “But you have dealt with this in your personal life,” she says. “Do you think that’s why it’s bothering you so much?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, honestly. It’s impossible not to think about how things unfolded with Brian, and how I made everything worse. “Maybe. I know I’ve never been victimized like that. I can’t really understand what she’s experienced. But obviously I see the connections to my past.”

  “What does Danny think?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  “Huh.” The sound comes out like a question. She transitions into thinking position, which is a lot like listening position, except she tilts her head a little more to the side.

  “It’s not come up,” I say, picking at my fingers. “Besides, I usually leave work stuff at school.”

  “But you’ve not been able to leave this event at school, have you?”

  I had trouble sleeping last night. I kept thinking about Darcy, how happy and carefree she looked in the hallway at Spring Fling. A little mischievous, sure. But being a mischievous teenager shouldn’t be a punishable offense. I imagined her in the gymnasium, flitting about with confidence, controlling the room. All attributes which had been taken from her that same night.

  “It’s bothered me, yes,” I say.

  “Do you think it’s because her attack is so similar to the crimes Brian committed?”

  I see Brian’s face. Not the dominant, controlling one I witnessed throughout my childhood. I revisit the happy smirk he showed the world. The smirk that likely got him in contact with those girls. How many of them had been like Darcy? Were they beautiful and full of promise before Brian got his hands on them?

  “I don’t think I want to connect the two,” I say, grinding my teeth. “But yes, there are similarities.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about this incident at the beginning of our session,” Dr. Walters says. “And I think it’s odd you’ve not discussed the matter with Danny. This must have been a huge trigger for you. Usually you’re good at identifying such situations and dealing with them.”

  “I am dealing with this,” I say
, trying not to sound as offended as I am. “I’m just dealing with it myself. I don’t want Danny to think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “I understand no one at your school knows about your past.”

  “They don’t,” I say, firmly. Even though I am friends with Marge and Pam, I want them to interact with the woman I am today, not be influenced by my history.

  “I understand why you don’t want to disclose certain details, but I hope you will use your personal experience to help this student moving forward. You have a very different understanding of her situation compared to your other colleagues. You could provide some great insight. Be an excellent sounding board. When she’s ready, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling silly for not having mentioned my feelings about Darcy earlier. I’m not sure how I thought Dr. Walters would react. Part of me worries I’ll somehow turn people against me, even Dr. Walters and Danny. I don’t want anyone to look at me like I’m pitiful again. The exact stigma Darcy wants to avoid.

  “Does anyone know who might have attacked this girl?” Dr. Walters asks, returning to listening position.

  “No,” I say. “She’s very hesitant about admitting what happened.”

  “Makes sense,” she says, looking down, no doubt thinking about past patients and their stories. “You would be useful in that area, too.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You could help her come to terms with her attacker. Realize she did nothing wrong, that the person who did this was likely wired that way.”

  “I see,” I say, looking away. I’m not really sure how to take this. Being Brian’s sister doesn’t make it easier to empathize with people like him. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand them.

  “Not to overload you with tasks,” she says, then laughs. “I just think it’s beneficial whenever you can take your past and use it to bring positivity to the world.”

  Dr. Walters’ words dance in my mind, even after I leave her office. What she says is uplifting. But the reason I don’t buy into the notion that my experience could “serve a purpose” is because that means surrendering to another idea. The idea that what those girls went through happened for a reason. I don’t want to think that way, that somehow their pain and suffering contributed to a greater good. A better world—in which they no longer existed. I don’t want to think Darcy, who’d been found alone and bleeding, was forced into that state simply to spare another girl the experience.

  At night, as I struggle to find sleep with Danny’s arm slumped over my hips, I look at Dr. Walters’ suggestion from a different perspective. Perhaps my purpose wasn’t to inject positivity in the world. Even my story, with whatever helpful nuggets it may hold, can only be shared after another person’s tragedy takes place. I can’t help victims make sense of their pain when I can’t understand it myself. I can’t relate to victims, but I can relate to attackers because I grew up alongside one. And I saw Brian before anyone else did.

  In all the discussions I’d had about Darcy’s predicament, with Principal Bowles and Pam and Dr. Walters, their primary concern had been the victim. As it should be. But their ignorance over whom to blame helps mask the culprit. I know what happens when people fail to interpret warning signs. Lives are lost, and I’m already haunted by the reminder I didn’t act fast enough last time. Someone hurt Darcy Moore, and as unbelievable as it seems, someone at our school was likely involved. As I sink into sleep, I picture all their faces. Darcy in the purple dress and Adam with his arms around her. Melanie with her curly updo. I think of Principal Bowles, clenching his fists behind his desk. And I think of Zoey and her smug smile.

  Twelve

  Now

  On Wednesday, Adam returns to class. He takes his familiar seat in the back. The seat next to him—Darcy’s seat—remains ominously empty. I’m dreading her return to school, but Adam’s presence gives me and the rest of the class an idea of what to expect. No one openly stares at him, but every so often a head turns in his direction.

  I redirect their curious minds to our work. “We’re going to continue reading The Crucible today,” I say. “Would you rather read independently again, or work in small groups?”

  “Groups,” a zoo of voices echoes back.

  “All right.” I open my book and tell them where to turn. They move to their seats, and I take their willingness to work together as a sign we’re moving forward. We’ll have to, especially when Darcy returns to class.

  The only one who doesn’t move is Adam. He remains seated, the textbook in front of him closed. Without attracting the attention of the other students, I walk back to his desk.

  “Would you rather read alone?” I ask him, my voice low. Truthfully, I don’t care if he reads today; I know he has more serious topics on his mind. But Adam also must realize he can’t dwell on what’s happened. Sometimes the most insignificant events can take a person back to a neutral place, even completing his or her first block reading assignment.

  “Yes, I would.” He clears his throat and opens his book. It’s almost like he was in some type of trance and my comment ended it. Adam’s phone buzzes against the desk, grabbing both of our attentions. Without reading the message, he takes the phone and places it in his pocket. He looks across the room at Zoey, and I do the same.

  Zoey has her phone out, her fingers tapping quickly across the screen. Is she messaging Adam? All of his other classmates are actively avoiding him. Zoey barely knows Adam. She turns, her eyes beady, and catches us both staring at her.

  “Phones away,” I say. I address the entire class, although the announcement has a clear target. By the time I walk by her desk, her phone is out of sight.

  The next day, Adam is more angry than unengaged. He sits in the back of the room, resembling a volcano on the verge of erupting. He’s got all the characteristics: tight mouth, clenched fists, tremoring leg. Every few seconds, he takes a deep breath and stares at the floor. I’m not sure who is setting him off, but I notice his eyes consistently flit toward Zoey. Was she messaging him yesterday, after all?

  “Is everything all right?” I hiss when I pass Adam’s desk. Half of my other students are plugged into their earbuds, silently reading Act Four while their music blares. Adam’s ears are bare. When I speak, his head turns, although he doesn’t look at me.

  “I’m fine,” he responds through gritted teeth.

  As he says the words, his eyes dart, again, in Zoey’s direction. Like the others, Zoey now has two strings hanging from her ears, her fingers tapping on the book as she reads. I wonder whether she’s listening to music at all. Maybe she hears me checking on Adam. I’m not sure why I think that, but I do.

  Adam opens his book and starts flipping pages. I can tell something is bothering him, something more than just Darcy. Something specific. Perhaps, someone.

  When the lunch bell rings, I open my miniature refrigerator and find it’s empty. My mind has been so scattered lately, I forgot to pack lunch. I open my wallet, which thankfully has cash in it. I suppose I’ll be scoring a tray from the cafeteria today. I’m usually good about packing lunch, and I always try to cook double of whatever Danny and I eat for dinner so that I can have leftovers. However, I haven’t been cooking as often as I did before break. I’ve been so exhausted by the time I return home.

  I enter the crowded cafeteria and bypass the student line. I’m about to drop a slimy mound of green beans on my tray when I hear a shout. Toward the doors, I see Adam, Zoey and a posse of other students. They’re standing in that territorial circle which only forms when something bad is about to happen. I rush to the doors, throwing my tray in the trash as I go. As I approach the group, I see Adam take a step closer to Zoey. His clamped jaw and narrowed eyes worry me.

  “That’s enough,” I say, standing in between Zoey and Adam. “Everyone, sit down.”

  “Yeah, take a seat, Adam,” Zoey says, but she’s not reinforcing my commands. She’s taunting him. Ever since Darcy’s attack, Zoey seems to be at the center o
f drama. Devon, standing beside her, laughs.

  “Adam.” I pull him out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. I see the huddle of students standing by the door and turn my attention toward them. “Go eat lunch,” I shout. “Now.”

  When the cafeteria door shuts, the lunchroom noise instantly eases. Now I’m staring at this six-foot-two athlete leaning defeatedly against a row of lockers, caving into himself.

  “Adam,” I begin again. “What is going on?”

  He huffs for a few seconds, regaining the composure he’d lost. As earlier, I suspect he is going to respond with Nothing. But that would be pointless, and we both know it. Starting the conversation with a student is usually the hardest part. Once they start talking, they want to say more and more. Completely get their feelings off their chests. A catharsis.

  “You know about what happened to Darcy,” he says. When he looks up at me, I see tears in his eyes. The volcano from earlier has finally erupted: anger, followed by tears. This tall, agile boy shows emotion shamelessly. “Well, some people at school think I’m the one who hurt her. That new girl keeps making comments about it.”

  That new girl. Zoey. I know I must tread lightly for multiple reasons. Not only am I dealing with a highly sensitive student, he’s just admitted that, at least in the minds of some people, he could have been involved with Darcy’s attack.

  “Why would people say that?” I ask. Specifically, why would Zoey, a girl no one here really knows, say that?

  “Zoey is always trying to stir up problems. She even talks about her teachers. She said she researched a bunch of them before she moved here. Ms. Helton. Principal Bowles. Coach Gabe. She thinks it makes her look cool to know stuff about people. I think it’s not right.”

  Students don’t typically take such an interest in their teachers. They don’t collect their secrets. Zoey likely wants to learn about people so she can use the information against them. Not right, indeed.