N
From:
[email protected]
Subject: RE:RE:RE: Another way to do it
All of those SBRB’s do. I wrote her down. 411, btw. Wouldn’t it be great if all of a sudden the mall blew up and the SBRB
Club was blown to smithereens? Nothing but fake nails and blond hair all over the place. LOL.
Val
The detective stared at me closely as I thumbed through the rest of the papers—all files from my computer that I later learned
the police had confiscated hours after the shooting.
“What are SBRBs?” he asked.
“Huh?” I mumbled.
“SBRBs. You guys both mention SBRBs. You say that Ginny Baker was one of them.”
“Oh,” I said. “I need a drink of water.” He reached forward and pushed the hospital tray closer to me. I grabbed the water
and drank. “SBRBs,” I repeated. I shook my head.
“Don’t remember?” The detective crouched down to eye level. He glared into my eyes and I started to sweat. He spoke in a low,
growling voice and I could see that he could turn into a real force to be reckoned with when he wanted to. “Valerie,” he said.
“People want justice. They want answers. You can bet we’re going to get to the bottom of this. We will find out the truth.
One way or another. You may not remember what exactly happened in the cafeteria three days ago, but I know you remember what
SBRBs are.”
I set the water glass back on the tray. My mouth felt frozen shut.
“I checked with the school. It’s not some sort of school organization. So I know it’s something you and Nick made up.” He
stood full height again and closed his folder. “Fine,” he said, back in normal voice. “I’ll figure it out. In the meantime,
I’m just going to go ahead and assume that SBRB was your nickname for certain kids, at least one of whom died.”
“Skinny…” I started and then I stopped and closed my eyes, tightened my jaw. I felt cold all over and thought I should maybe
ring a nurse or something. But I had a feeling the nurse wouldn’t do anything to help me. I took a breath. “Skinny Barbie
Rich Bitches,” I said. “SBRB. Skinny Barbie Rich Bitches. That’s what it stood for. The SBRB Club. Okay?”
“And you wanted them to all be blown up.”
“No. I never wanted anyone to be blown up.”
“That’s what you said. You are ‘NicksVal,’ aren’t you?”
“We were joking. It was just a stupid joke.”
“George and Helen Baker aren’t laughing. Ginny’s face is a mess. If she lives, she’ll never look the same.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my mouth going dry. “I didn’t know.”
The detective stepped around the chair and shuffled toward the door. He pointed at the sheaf of papers that I was still holding.
“I’m going to leave those with you for tonight. You can look them over and we’ll talk about them again tomorrow.”
I felt panicky. I didn’t want to talk to him in the morning or any other time. “My dad’s a lawyer. He won’t let me talk without
a lawyer. This has nothing to do with me.”
I saw a flash of something cross the detective’s face—anger, maybe, or maybe just impatience.
“This is no game, Valerie,” he said. “I want to work with you, I really do. But you have to work with me. I’ve talked to your
dad. He knows I’m talking to you. Your parents are cooperating, Valerie. So is your friend Stacey. We’ve spent the past two
days going through Nick’s things, and yours. We have the notebook. We’re getting the e-mails right now. Whatever went on,
we’ll find out about it. This is your chance to clear things up. To clear Nick’s name, if you think you can. But you have
to talk. You have to cooperate. For your own sake.”
He stood in the doorway for a few minutes just watching me. “We’ll talk again tomorrow,” he said.
I stared at my lap, trying to take in everything he’d said. The notebook? The e-mails? I wasn’t sure exactly what he’d meant,
but my guess was that it wasn’t looking good for me. I was mentally scanning all the horrible things I’d said in that notebook
or in late-night IMs with Nick. None of it was good. I was so cold now I could barely feel anything below my neck.
“So tell me about this nickname of yours—Sister Death,” Detective Panzella said as soon as he walked in the door the next
morning. No
How’s the leg? Better I hope
today, just
Tell me about this nickname of yours
.
“What about it? It was a stupid nickname,” I said, pushing the button to raise the head of my bed to a sitting position. I
had been looking at the computer printouts he’d left the day before—again—and was in a foul mood. All of those things
we talked about—why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see that Nick was serious?
The detective flipped a few pages in his little notebook and nodded. “Where did it come from?”
“What? You mean why did they call me that? Because of my eyeliner. Because I wear black jeans and dye my hair black. Because,
I don’t know. Why don’t you ask them? It’s not like I asked to be called names.”
No, I hadn’t asked for it. That I was sure of, even though some people on TV made it sound like I did. Christy Bruter was
just
that one person
, as my mom had said all these years. That one person who saw someone looking weak and vulnerable and pounced on it. That
one person who had enough people in her back pocket that any nickname she created was going to catch on. That one person who
could make my life miserable if she wanted to. Christy liked to call me names. So did Jessica Campbell and Meghan Norris.
Chris Summers liked to pick on Nick any chance he got. Why? How should I know?
“So it wasn’t because you were planning to kill people with your boyfriend.”
“No! I told you that already. I never planned anything with Nick. I never even knew Nick was planning anything. It was a stupid
nickname. It’s not like I created it. I hated it.”
He flipped another page. “A stupid nickname started by Christy Bruter.”
I nodded.
“The girl Nick supposedly shot first. The one we can’t really see on the security video so well. All we see is you and Nick
confronting her and then Christy hitting the floor and everyone scattering.”
“I didn’t shoot her if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I didn’t.”
He sank into a chair and leaned toward me. “Tell us what to think, Valerie. Tell us how it really went down. We only know
what we see. And what we see is you pointing out Christy Bruter to your boyfriend. At least three other kids confirm that.”
I nodded and rubbed my forehead with my fingers. I was getting sleepy, and I was pretty sure the wrapping on my leg needed
changing.
“Want to tell me why you did that?”
“I wanted Nick to confront her,” I nearly whispered. “She broke my MP3 player.”
The detective stood and moved over to the window and slanted the blinds so that the sun was no longer driving into the room.
I blinked. The room looked sullen now. Like Mom would never come back. Like I would forever be in this bed listening to this
cop’s questions, even if I were to be writhing in pain, the gunshot wound in my leg turning gangrenous and caving in on itself.
He pulled up another chair on the opposite side of the bed than he’d been sitting on. He sat and scratched his chin.
“So,” he said. “You went into that cafeteria and pointed out Christy to your boyfriend. Next thing you know, she’s got a big
hole in her gut. What are we missing, Valerie?”
I felt a tear spill over. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened, I swear. One minute we were walking into the Commons
like every other day, and the next minute people were screaming and running.”
The detective pooched his lips and closed his notebook, then leaned back against the chair, training his eyes to the ceiling
like he was reading something off of it. “Eyewitness accounts say that you knelt by Christy right after she was shot and then
got up and ran off. They say it was like you were making sure she was shot and then you moved on. Left her to die. Is that
accurate?”
I squinched my eyes tight, trying not to see the image of Christy Bruter’s bleeding gut, my hands pressed against it. Trying
not to feel the panic that I’d felt that day welling up inside my throat. Trying not to smell gun powder in the air and hear
screaming. More tears rolled down my cheeks. “No, it’s not accurate.”
“You didn’t run off? Because we see you run off on the tapes.”
“No. I mean, yes, I left her, but I didn’t run off. Not because I was leaving her to die. I swear. I was leaving because I
had to find Nick. I had to tell him to stop.”
He nodded, flipped pages again. “And what was it again that you said to your friend Stacey Brinks when you got off the bus
that day?”
My leg was throbbing, and so was my head. My throat was dry from talking for so long. And I was getting scared. Really scared.
I couldn’t remember what I’d said to Stacey. I was getting to the point where I couldn’t remember much of anything, and those
things I did remember I no longer trusted to be the truth.
“Hmm?” he said. “Did you say something to Stacey Brinks after you got off the bus?”
I shook my head.
“According to Stacey, your words were something along the lines of, ‘I want to kill her. She’s going to regret this.’ Is that
what you said?”
Just then a nurse popped into the room. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’ve got to change her bandages before my shift is over,”
she said.
“Certainly,” Detective Panzella answered. He stood and navigated through the various machines and wires. “We’ll talk more
later,” he said to me.
I hoped by
later
he meant
never
. That somehow some miracle would occur between now and
later
and he’d decide I didn’t have any answers.
I was sitting in a wheelchair next to my bed, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for the first time since the shooting.
Mom had brought them to me from home. They were old, from maybe ninth grade or something, and way out of style. But it felt
good to get into real clothes again, even if it meant I couldn’t move much without the denim rubbing against the wound in
my thigh and making me grunt and grind my teeth. It felt good to sit upright, too. Sort of. Not like there was much else I
could do other than sit and watch TV.
During the day, when Mom and Detective Panzella and the nurses were around, I’d keep the TV tuned to Food Network or some
other channel that wasn’t showing coverage of the shooting. But at night, my intense curiosity won over and I would watch
the news, my heart sometimes pounding in my chest as I tried to piece together who had lived, who had died, and how the school
was going on about its business.
During the commercials my mind would sort of wander. I’d wonder about my friends, about whether or not they had made it out.
About how they were doing. Were they crying? Were they celebrating? Did life just go on for them? And then my mind would wander
to the victims and I’d have to dig my fist into my thigh and flip to another channel to try to think about something else
again.
I’d spent the morning answering questions for Detective Panzella, which was totally not fun. I tried not to think about what
he was doing, ever, because I was pretty sure that, no matter what it was, it didn’t look good for me.
He was sure I was a shooter that day. Or at least somehow behind it all. No matter what I told him he was sure of it. No matter
how much I cried, he wouldn’t change his mind. And given the evidence he’d shown me over the past couple days I guess I couldn’t
blame him. I looked guilty as hell, even to me, and I knew I didn’t do it.
He’d left snippets and tidbits of evidence with me. He’d been through my house. My room. My computer. He’d pored over my cell
phone records. Recovered e-mails. Read through the notebook… the notebook.
From the sound of things, pretty much everybody had seen the notebook. Even the media knew all about the notebook. I’d seen
pieces of it highlighted on one of those late-night TV news magazines. I’d heard it quoted on one of those morning talk shows,
and I tried not to think about how ironic it was that the coiffed newspeople who found the notebook so fascinating were just
the kind of people who would’ve ended up in it. Matter of fact, I think a couple of them actually were in it. I wondered if
they knew that. Which sent me into a spiral of wondering and what-ifs and that was never a good place to be, especially with
Detective Panzella sniffing around my room all the time.
I had lost count of the days, but figured I’d been there for about a week by the number of visits I’d had from the detective.
He had already been in, just after I’d gotten dressed and settled into the wheelchair. As always, he smelled like leather
and he smacked his lips a lot when he talked. His suit was brown and blank like a grocery sack. And he had this sarcastic
cock to his head that made me feel like I was lying, even when I knew I wasn’t. He’d kept our chat short, leaving me alone
with my wheelchair and cooking shows, and I was glad of it.
After the detective left, Mom came back with the clothes, a couple of magazines, and a candy bar. She seemed to be a little
bit happier, too. Weird, I thought, given that she knew the detective had been in my room quizzing me. She didn’t look as
much like she’d been crying, either. Her red nose and swollen eyes had become almost permanent fixtures on her face and I
was shocked to see her breeze in with a face full of makeup and, if not a smile, a look of complacency on her face.
She handed me the clothes and helped me get into them. Then she let me lean against her while I hopped on my good leg over
to the wheelchair and she plunked me into it. She unwound the remote from where I’d had it wrapped around the bedrail and
handed it to me. Then she sat on the edge of my bed and stared at me.
“Your leg is getting better,” she said.
I nodded.
“You talked to the detective.”
I nodded again, looking at my bare feet and wishing I’d asked her to bring socks.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about it?”