Life Is Short and Then You Die

by Kelley Armstrong

  “So, the first thing I want to say, for those of you who haven’t been part of The Beat before, is that what we do in here is real journalism,” he says.

  I glance at Ms. Compton, who’s obsessively rubbing her calves through her long skirt. If we do real journalism, as he says, the story we should be talking about is Mr. Kendall’s death.

  Ethan, oblivious, keeps talking. “We hold ourselves to the same standards as professionals, and we have the same protections under state law. The work we do can make a real difference. Like the kids in Kansas a couple of years ago who discovered their new principal lied about her qualifications for the job. Their reporting forced the woman to resign. It made the district look bad, but they did what journalists are supposed to do—seek the truth, report the facts.”

  That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Ethan make. He sounds so sincere, so convincing. So completely, one hundred percent opposite of how he reacted when I pitched the story about Mr. Kendall and the booze in the prop room to him and Ms. Compton in a private meeting after the senior breakfast. Before I went for that awful run.

  “We can’t print that, Olivia.” His face turned a shade of red I’ve never seen on him before. Then he adopted the same condescension he’d used since we were six to put people—me—in their place. “Mr. Kendall’s an award-winning teacher. Loved by all. No one is going to believe he lets students get wasted at school.”

  “I have proof.” We’re not six anymore, and what I’ve discovered about Mr. Kendall is far too egregious to let Ethan intimidate me into covering it up. Once I would have caved to peer pressure, but in the last year, I’ve learned a few things about idealism without action. Ethan’s willing to look the other way, but we have to stand up for what’s right and expose what’s wrong if we have any hope of changing the world. Celeste taught me that.

  I showed Ethan and Ms. Compton the photos I’d taken over the last three weeks. I found the bottle of bourbon in the theater’s props department, hidden in plain sight among legit props from last spring’s production of The Drowsy Chaperone. I pulled out the cork to be sure, and the sweet sting of the real deal knocked me back. Definitely not fake. The bourbon level dropped to nothing over a couple of days, the bottle replaced by a couple of six packs, the beer replaced a day later by a fifth of cherry vodka. And most damning of all, video clips of my classmates stumbling out of the performance arts center after “play practice” as Mr. Kendall waved from behind the PAC’s big glass doors. My more frivolous classmates compare his sapphire blue eyes and wavy black hair to an unkempt Henry Cavill, but I don’t see it.

  “This is a big deal. I mean, how do you think they got the booze? The only person in these photos old enough to buy it is Mr. Kendall.” I turned to Ms. Compton, expecting to find an ally, but her platinum ponytail swung side to side as she shook her head.

  “Ethan’s right. We can’t print this story,” she said. “A few photos are not proof. You having nothing to connect Mr. Kendall to the bottles, and for all you know, he had no idea what the students were up to. Teenagers are very good at sneaking around, as I’m sure you know. Unless you have a source willing to confirm what you suspect, we’re not touching this story. Even then, if it’s true, it’s a matter for the administration.”

  I queued up one last video, my final appeal. Celeste. Late. Her car the only one in the student lot. A slight breeze lifts her long chestnut hair from her shoulders in a scene so perfect it would make a cinematographer weep. The brilliant purple streaks that frame her face, a minor revolt against her mother’s stringent ideals of decorum and style, gleam in the moonlight. She stumbles, then giggles and wags her fingers at Mr. Kendall. The expression on Mr. Kendall’s face alone, while not exactly proof, should set off anyone’s journalistic alarm bells. She’s drunk, and he knows it.

  But Ethan was all stubborn resistance (“Lots of kids drink, Livvie. Give it a rest.”), and Ms. Compton’s delicate face faded to an even paler shade of white. Teacher training must not have prepared her for this. The most popular teacher in school involved in a student drinking scandal? Say it ain’t so.

  “Celeste’s not that stupid.” Ethan’s near whisper as he caught me alone after the meeting revealed another truth. He always chooses Celeste over me. Always has, always will. “Why do you want to hurt her? What happened between you two while I was in Europe?”

  Nothing. That’s the problem.

  “She’s self-destructing, Eth. She quit everything that mattered to her, including her volunteer work at the animal shelter she was so excited about, and instead spent the entire summer hanging out with the so-called cool crowd. The drinking’s only part of it. We can’t let her do this to herself.”

  “So your solution is to expose her in the most humiliating way possible, instead of just talking to her? She could be expelled. And her mother will kill all of us.”

  I hated to admit Ethan had a point. Deep down, did I want to write this story to save Celeste? Or did I want revenge for the hurt I felt? I hadn’t thought beyond the headline to the consequences for Celeste, or for myself.

  * * *

  The bell rings and as we file out, Ethan grabs my arm and pulls me toward the end of the hall. “We need to talk. About … you know.”

  I’ve thought of nothing but for the past forty-four hours. I wrench my arm free. “Did you mean everything you said in there?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Because you didn’t seem on board when I told you about the—”

  “Shhh.” His head shifts side to side in quick, jerky motions, and he pulls me farther into the corner. “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “Why?”

  “Listen, Mr. Kendall’s dead now. The alcohol doesn’t matter. It’s not like that’s what killed him, right? There is no story.”

  The police haven’t released the cause of death yet, but I don’t point that out. “His death doesn’t erase what I discovered over the summer.”

  “You have to drop it, Livvie. You’re obsessed.”

  He’s questioning my credibility, my objectivity, as a journalist now. He’s gone too far. I glare in stony silence until he drops his eyes and clears his throat.

  “Have you seen Celeste?”

  Celeste, my one-time best friend?

  I shake my head.

  “You should talk to her. She’s taking Mr. Kendall’s death really hard.”

  I literally bite my tongue. Did he forget that I’m the one who found the body? That I might be traumatized, too?

  For two days, I haven’t been able to close my eyes without seeing a pair of feet poking out of the weeds, drag marks on the trail, a yellow sunburst on black rubber. And now, as Ethan pleads with me to be a better friend to Celeste than she’s been to me, I remember where I’d seen the flip-flop before.

  * * *

  My next class is Calculus, near the main office, but I detour through the silent and shadowy PAC. When I’m sure I’m alone, I slip into the props room behind the stage as I did a dozen times this summer to gather evidence of illicit student drinking.

  The booze is gone now, but nothing else seems out of place. I search the corner table with its jumble of props from the summer theater one-act plays. There in the center, just as I remembered, is a pastel-striped mesh bag full of beachy things—oversized towels, floppy hat, sunscreen, water bottle. And one flip-flop, with its lime green thong and sunburst pattern against black sole. I pull the bag toward me and confirm the name stenciled on its handle. My heart skips a beat, and I don’t even think about it. I snatch the flip-flop from the bag, stuff it in my backpack, and get out before someone who understands its significance stumbles across this secret.

  Out in the deserted hallway, the enormity of what I’ve done—and why—strikes like a blow. I’ve stolen evidence from a death investigation. That’s a crime, right? Tampering with evidence or obstruction of justice or some other charge that will derail my life before I even graduate high school. And for a girl who may or may not still be my f
riend. This is not who I am, not who I’m meant to be. I’ve never felt so disconnected from reality, and I wonder if I’m having an attack of nerves like some lame heroine in an old novel. I duck into the girls’ bathroom and lean hard against the sink.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been like this when I hear a noise, a hiccup or cough, come from the farthest stall. I’m not alone, and somehow knowing that does more to restore my self-control than anything. I can’t let a classmate see me like this.

  I dash cold water against my face and unroll a length of paper towel from the dispenser. I move fast, but not fast enough. The stall door swings open, and for the first time in two months, I stand face-to-face with my—former?—best friend.

  “Hey,” I say. This is awkward. Celeste’s eyes are red and puffy, her skin sallow, and the way her deep red lipstick has worn away except at the outermost edges makes her lips look like crudely drawn outlines.

  Ethan was right, dammit. Mr. Kendall’s death has hit Celeste hard. Then she looks at me as if I’m the one who broke our friendship, and the tiny shoot of sympathy I feel dies.

  Before I can say anything else, she gets right in my face, chest to chest, her breath hot and her fury palpable. “Ethan told me,” she hisses. “About your so-called story? About how you spied on us. Took pictures.”

  “That’s”—true—“not what happened.”

  “Don’t even. You’re jealous because we didn’t hang out as much this summer as we used to”—true, again—“but that wasn’t all on me, you know.”

  I don’t take her bait. The three of us—me, her, and Ethan—always made time for each other before, no matter what. Nothing changed for me this summer. Nothing. But after Ethan left for Europe, Celeste dropped out of my life, too. That is on her, not me.

  “Why do it, Celeste? Drinking on school property? Do you really want to sabotage your senior year?”

  “I’m not going to get in trouble.” She reapplies lipstick, but her hands tremble so much she can’t stay within the lines.

  “Because your mom’s the mayor, or because Mr. Kendall’s dead?”

  She flinches and smears lipstick on her bottom lip. Now she looks like the Joker.

  “That doesn’t change what happened this summer,” I say. “I still have a story. I only have to convince Ms. Compton that the truth is far too important to cover up.”

  Celeste places her lipstick into a leopard-print pouch and drops the pouch into her red leather tote. She won’t look me in the eye.

  “Ms. Compton has her own secrets to protect,” she says “She’s not covering for Mr. Kendall or anyone else. She can’t afford to lose another job.”

  It is so Celeste-like to lash out when she feels cornered. “What does that mean?”

  “God. You’re so naïve, Livvie.” She whirls away from the sink, but the strap of her tote catches on my outstretched hand and everything inside spills onto the floor between us. Makeup. Tampons. Money.

  A pregnancy test lands at my feet.

  I stare at the unopened box, hoping it’s not what I know it to be, then slowly I raise my gaze to meet hers. I see tears in her eyes, but a snarl on her lips.

  “You can’t tell, Livvie. If we were ever friends, you will not say a word to anyone.”

  * * *

  The flip-flop in my backpack. The pregnancy test in Celeste’s tote. Both are rocks dragging at my heart.

  I can’t stay here, where the orange-and-beige cinder-block walls suffocate. I can’t go home, where Mom is sleeping before her next overnight shift. I can’t go anywhere people might ask questions I don’t have answers for.

  So I flee out the nearest door and down a path that leads to the creek at the edge of school property. Its banks are deep and steep, carved through layers of limestone and shale. Trees throw dark shadows into the ravine but do little to block the August heat. I reach an abandoned concrete culvert and lie faceup on its sloping side. Water trips over rocks and tree roots. I can’t seem to wrestle my unruly thoughts into submission.

  I feel another presence, and without turning I know it’s Ethan. His cologne precedes him.

  “This isn’t how senior year was supposed to go,” I say. Air thick with humidity wraps around us, separates us. “Why did you tell me to talk to Celeste?”

  “She’s our friend, and she’s in pain.”

  I turn my head toward him so I can judge his response. “Not because she’s pregnant?”

  He goes still, a total absence of movement in a boy who’s never once been able to stop fidgeting. I think he’s even forgotten to breathe. “She’s … what?”

  I feel an evil satisfaction that I’ve been able to shock him. But it’s a satisfaction tinged with despair. Celeste needs us, despite how she’s treated me. She needs us both. Ethan because he’ll support her no matter what, and me because I’ll always tell her the truth whether she wants to hear it or not. “What’s happened, Eth? The three of us used to be so…” I can’t think of a word that’s not trite.

  He shakes his head. “Everything will be fine. It always is.”

  He’s wrong, but then he doesn’t know everything I know. I pick a twig off the concrete. It branches into three thinner pieces, each with a single leaf quivering at its tip. I peel one piece back and break it at the joint, like a wishbone, then repeat with the two remaining pieces. Everything is not going to be fine. I let the broken twigs fall from my fingers and drift away on the slow current of the creek.

  Then I dig the flip-flop out of my backpack and place it on the culvert between us. “This was in Celeste’s bag of props for the one-act play festival. It’s the mate to one the cops found next to Mr. Kendall’s body on Suicide Hill.”

  Ethan stares at the sandal as if I’ve pulled a gun out of my bag. “What are you going to do with it?”

  For the second time today, I act without considering the repercussions. I slide off the culvert and shove the sandal as far into the mud of the creek bank as I can. Ethan jumps down beside me and grabs my arm. “It’s evidence, Livvie. You have to take it to the police.”

  “They’ll want to know where I got it, and they’ll want to question Celeste, and she’ll hate me more than she already does.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment, then drops his hand from my arm. Together, we drag a blown-out tire to cover the spot. We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other, and when we’re done, we climb out of the creek, wet and muddy, and walk away in different directions.

  * * *

  It’s near midnight when I find it.

  I couldn’t sleep, not with my brain constantly replaying Celeste’s cryptic comments about Ms. Compton. I could dismiss them as Celeste being Celeste, but her accusations were oddly specific. She can’t afford to lose another job.

  I’d left our meeting with the impression that Ms. Compton—only a few years older than the seniors in her classes—was a first-year teacher. But when I think back, no one actually said that. I made an assumption based on her appearance and my outrage at her response to my discovery. Journalism 101: never assume.

  And now, after an hour of online sleuthing, I’ve discovered a cyber trail that ties Ms. Compton to a hushed-up scandal in a high school across the state last year.

  I send a Snap to Ethan. Can you come over?

  A minute—almost an eternity—passes between when I hit SEND and his reply. On my way.

  I drop a pod of his favorite coffee in the machine and wait. He arrives breathless, as if he’s run the entire six blocks between our houses, and maybe he has. His hair sticks out in all directions, and he still has a red imprint of a crumpled sheet on his cheek.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “I think I found Ms. Compton’s secret.”

  This is not what he expected, and anger gathers in his eyes. I put my hand on his arm before he erupts. “Just listen.”

  I show him Tweets I found from students at Pineville High School. The snarky comments about a new teacher’s looks and clothing, uncomfortably similar to my own f
irst take on Ms. Compton, take a darker turn near the end of first semester. Most are innuendo, but one stands out and I want Ethan to see it.

  Everyone in our wing heard Ms. C scream EFF YOU. She’s done here for sure.

  Ethan gives me a “get to the point or I’m out of here” eye roll.

  “I checked the Pineville Press around that date. A twenty-two-year-old woman was arrested at Pineville High School on suspicion of assault and battery. The victim was a man, aged thirty-six. Minor injuries, and he refused treatment. No charges filed, but get this—Ms. Compton turned in her resignation at the next school board meeting, effective immediately. Think about it, Ethan. It can’t be coincidence. She resigns quietly. The victim doesn’t press charges. And now she gets a fresh start here, but only if her past remains a secret.”

  He still doesn’t bite.

  “I DM’d the girl who wrote that Tweet.”

  “So?”

  “So she says everyone knew Ms. Compton was involved with the teacher she assaulted. He told her he didn’t want to see her anymore, and she flipped out. Serious anger issues, is how the girl described it.”

  “Why do you care? Why get me out of bed? You couldn’t tell me this tomorrow?”

  I don’t have an answer for him, but my instinct tells me it’s important to understand Ms. Compton’s past, if only because Celeste mentioned her secrets in the same breath as Mr. Kendall.

  “How would Celeste know about this?” I sound more defensive than I intended.

  “We could ask her?” He rubs his eyes.

  “She won’t talk to me, especially after today.”

  He’s already tapping on his phone. “Maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  He sends the message and we wait. He finishes his coffee. I chew my thumbnail.

  “Maybe she’s asleep,” I say.

  Another moment stretches into minutes. Finally, he turns the phone screen-side down on the table. “She’s not going to answer.”