I called Eden as soon as I finished reading her letter. She was sniffling when she answered, and I could tell she’d been crying.
“I just got off the phone with my parents,” she told me. “I … told them how I’ve been feeling. And that something has to change.”
“How did they react?”
“Confused. Which is fair, I guess. And now they’re really worried.”
“So what are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’m thinking of taking a semester off,” she said. “Maybe more. I don’t know. But I’m taking a break from school, from public speaking. I think I need to spend some time with my family to figure things out. Maybe Alcoholics Anonymous. Probably therapy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Because what else was there to say?
“Don’t be. If I hadn’t made myself write the letter, I … I don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to call Jenny. I’ll talk to you soon, Lee.”
I hung up the phone and started composing a new email. I now had three letters, and I only needed two more. And, thanks to Eden, I knew how to get in touch with Kellie.
I decided to start with an email. I sent along links about the McHales’ book and explained that I knew the truth, and that I wanted to create some sort of counternarrative.
It was a short, to-the-point message, but I ended it with this:
I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I was scared. But now is our chance to set the record straight.
I hit the “send” button before I could second-guess myself. For some reason, I was sure she’d want to help with this project. She must’ve wanted the truth out there more than any of us. In my head, it wasn’t complicated at all.
Though I was aware that not everyone thought my efforts to bring out the truth were a good idea. It became pretty clear within a couple days of returning home that Brother Lloyd and Sarah’s parents hadn’t kept quiet about the “lies” I’d been telling.
At first it was just a few dirty looks in the hallway and a quiet mutter of the word bitch under someone’s breath as I walked by. But no one actually approached me or said anything about Sarah, so while I suspected the hostility toward me was related, I couldn’t be sure. Not until lunch on Wednesday, at least.
I was sitting with Denny and Miles at our usual table when Amber Hieber, Denny’s soon-to-be prom date, came over to join us.
“Mind if I sit?” she asked, putting down her tray and smiling at us with full, painted pink lips.
Miles lifted his gaze from the book he was reading, something about the Cuban missile crisis, and we exchanged a wary look. It’s not that we’re unfriendly. We smiled and casually chatted with our classmates like anyone else. (Well, I did. Miles, maybe not so much.) But at lunch, we tended to keep to ourselves. There was an invisible barrier around our table that no one had tried to cross in years. And while Amber seemed nice enough, I don’t think either Miles or I knew what to do with a new person in this space.
The same could not be said for Denny.
“Of course we don’t mind,” he said. “Glitter might, though. She’s used to being the prettiest girl at the table.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Are you going to argue that you’re prettier than Glitter?” he asked.
“I might be,” I said. “How would you know?”
“Touché.”
Amber’s eyes darted back and forth between us, clearly not sure if I was making fun of Denny’s disability or if this was just friendly banter. After a minute, she tossed her white-blond hair over her shoulder and said, “So, Denny, I was thinking we could make prom plans? I’ve been talking to some of my friends, and Jordan Mabry’s dad works for a car company and says we could get a pretty good discount on a limo.”
“A limo, huh?” Denny said, a big grin spreading across his round face. “Is it one of those hot-tub limos?”
“I don’t think so.” Amber giggled, and I couldn’t tell if she actually thought Denny was funny or if she was flirting with him. “Just a regular limo.”
“Too bad,” he said. “But I’m in.”
“Oh, and obviously you guys are invited, too,” Amber said, looking over at Miles and me. “If you’re going to prom, I mean. Are you?”
Miles peered at me over the top of his book, a bushy eyebrow raised. “Are we?” he asked.
“I … uh …”
I was still trying to formulate the words for some sort of answer when I felt something hit me in the back of the head. It didn’t hurt. Just a light tap. I reached up and touched my hair, but I felt nothing there. When I turned around, I noticed a group of juniors at another table. They had their heads together, conversing in low voices, and occasionally one would look up and glare at me.
Ashley’s younger sister, Tara Chambers, was one of them.
I shook it off and turned back to Miles. “About prom. I still don’t—”
It happened again. Another small, but annoying, tap on the back of my head. This time, when I turned around, I noticed one of the juniors, a boy with red hair and glasses, was holding a tiny object in his hand, his arm pulled back like he was about to pitch a baseball in my direction. He dropped his arm when he saw me looking, and I noticed the small tray of Tater Tots on the table in front of him.
“Is that kid … throwing Tater Tots at me?” I asked Miles, feeling kind of baffled.
It’s not that bullying isn’t a problem at VCHS. It definitely is. Most people even seem to think that was the motive behind the massacre, though I always hate that narrative. In part because, even if the shooter was bullied, it certainly wasn’t by me or Sarah or several of the other victims. And I’d argue that the minute he opened fire, he became the ultimate school bully, so hearing people assume that he was tormented as some sort of excuse for what he did just infuriates me.
My point is that VCHS has the same sort of bullying issues any other high school does, but Tater Tot throwing still seemed so bizarrely juvenile.
Miles slammed his book shut and turned to look at the table behind me. “What the hell?” he asked, raising his voice a bit above his usual mumble so they could hear him.
“Hell is exactly where she’s going,” the redheaded kid said, tossing another Tater Tot at me. This one bounced off my shoulder. Next to him, I saw Tara nod.
There was a flicker of a shadow in Miles’s eyes, and he started to stand up. I grabbed his arm and held it tight. “Leave it,” I whispered, my words almost pleading. “It’s not worth your getting in trouble.”
VCHS had a zero-tolerance policy for violence since the shooting. And as much as part of me wanted to see Miles punch Tater Tot kid in the face, a much larger part of me couldn’t stand the idea of my friend being expelled so close to graduation.
Miles stayed tense, like a cat ready to pounce, but he didn’t leave his seat. Instead, he just glared at the kid behind me. Which, I guess, was enough to scare the redhead off from throwing any more food in my direction.
“What’s their problem?” Denny asked.
“They go to my church,” Amber said, her voice low as she gestured to Tara and the redheaded boy. “And, um … our preacher may have mentioned Lee this past Sunday.”
“Virgil County Baptist?” I guessed.
She nodded. “Yeah. He … he said you’ve been telling stories about Sarah McHale. Said something about how it’s the devil working through you, and how we need to remember Sarah’s devotion to her faith.”
“Did he instruct you all to throw food at me?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “He did say we should pray for you, though.”
“How nice of him,” Miles muttered.
“You don’t sound like you believed him,” Denny noted.
“Well.” Amber tugged on a lock of her shiny hair and turned big hazel eyes on me. “Honestly? I always believed the Sarah story. I didn’t really know Sarah, but … she was so nice. And always at church. And it seemed more likely than what that Kellie girl said. But you were Sarah’s best friend and you were there with her when it happened. And, I don’t know, you just don’t seem like a liar to me.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised by just how much I appreciated Amber in that moment. “But I’m guessing you’re in the minority if Brother Lloyd is telling everyone his side of things.”
Amber shrugged. “I think my parents are in the same place as me, if it helps. I’m not sure they ever actually believed the Sarah story to begin with. But even if most people do think you’re lying, I’d like to think the rest of my congregation is mature enough not to throw things.”
I would’ve liked to believe that, too. But I remembered what the Gaynor family had gone through. The vandalism, the threats, the way grown adults attacked a teenage girl still recovering from a gunshot wound. If people were half as mad at me as they were at Kellie Gaynor three years ago, then Tater Tots were the least of my worries.
I didn’t want anyone to think I could be shaken, but honestly, I was scared.