A few minutes later, a dumpy brunette in a too-tight denim skirt and out-of-style boots came plodding toward me. She opened
the door to let me in the inner offices.
“I’m Valerie Leftman,” I said.
“I know who you are,” she answered. Her voice was full, a little masculine. She whisked down the hall and I stumbled behind
her to keep up. She disappeared into a dingy little office with almost no light, save for the gray lighting of the computer
screen. I followed her in.
She sat at her desk. “Boy, have I tried and tried to talk to you,” she said, her attention on her computer screen, her fingers
clicking madly on the mouse. “You’ve got some protective parents.”
“I didn’t know they were screening my calls until a lot later,” I said. “But I probably wouldn’t have talked to you anyway.
I didn’t really talk to anyone back then. Not even my protective parents.”
She glanced briefly, uninterestedly, from her computer screen. “What brings you here now? Finally ready to talk? Because,
if so, I’ve gotta tell you I don’t think we’ll need you after all. This is a pretty overdone story already. Except for the
suicide attempt and the moment of silence, there’s really nothing new here. We’re ready to move on. The shooting’s old news.”
While Angela Dash didn’t look like the person I thought she was going to be, she definitely acted like her, which only emboldened
me. I unzipped my purse and pulled out the article I’d filched from Ginny’s hospital room. I tossed it on her desk.
“I want you to stop writing this stuff,” I said. “Please.”
Her mouse finger stopped clicking. She pulled off her glasses and used the hem of her shirt to clean them. She put them back
on and blinked. “Excuse me?”
I pointed at the paper. “The stuff you write isn’t true. It’s not like what you’re saying in your articles. You’re making
everyone think that we’ve all moved on and it’s one big love fest in that school, but it’s not.”
She rolled her eyes. “I never said love fest…”
“You made Ginny Baker look like some suicidal freak who can’t get over what happened when everyone else has,” I said. “And
it’s a lie. You didn’t even talk to Ginny Baker. You never have. The only person you’ve talked to is Mr. Angerson and you’re
spinning the lies he wants you to spin. He doesn’t want to lose his job, so he has to make it sound like everything’s normal
at Garvin High again.”
She leaned forward on her elbows and gave me this cocky little grin. “Spinning lies, huh? And where are you getting your information?”
she asked.
“From living it,” I said. “I’m in that school every day. I’m there to see what people are still doing to each other. I’m there
to see that Ginny Baker is not the only girl still suffering. I’m there to see that what Mr. Angerson sees and what Mr. Angerson
wants to see are two totally different things. You’ve never been there. Not one day. You’ve never been to my house. You’ve
never been to a football game or a track meet or a dance. You’ve never been to the hospital to check on Ginny.”
She stood. “You don’t know where I’ve been,” she said.
“Stop writing,” I said. “Stop writing about us. About Garvin. Leave us alone.”
“I’ll take your advice under consideration,” she said in this fake pleasant drawl of a voice. “But you’ll forgive me if I
listen to my editor first and you second.”
I noticed for the first time how squat she looked behind her desk—this person who I’d always considered a giant with tons
of power.
“I have a story to get back to,” she said. “If you want to see ‘the truth’ in writing, maybe you should consider writing a
book. I ghostwrite on the side, if you’re interested.”
And suddenly I knew that the story Angerson wanted the world to be told about Garvin High was the story that would be told.
That Angela Dash was lazy and a bad journalist and would say whatever he wanted her to say. That the truth about Garvin would
never be heard. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Except maybe there was.
I walked briskly back outside, where Mom was still waiting for me at the curb.
“Get what you need?” she asked, scanning me with her eyes. “You got the research?”
“Actually, yeah,” I said. “I think I got exactly what I needed.”
I wasn’t sure if it was too late to get back on the StuCo project or not, but I wanted to give it a try anyway. There were
only a couple weeks of school left and I wanted to share with Jessica my plans for the memorial.
I walked hesitantly into the room, bracing myself to face the entire Student Council, but the only one in the room was Jessica,
bent over a pile of papers.
“Hey,” I said from the doorway. She looked up. “Where is everyone? I thought there was a meeting.”
“Oh, hey,” she said. “Canceled. Stone has the flu. I’m just studying for my Calc final.” She rubbed her elbows and squinted
at me. “You wanting to come to a meeting? I thought you quit.”
“I have an idea for presenting the memorial,” I said. I moved across the room and sat in the desk next to her. I pulled out
the piece of paper I’d been working on all night long—an outline of my plan—and handed it to her. She took it and started
reading.
“Yeah,” she said, a smile growing slowly across her face. “Yeah. This is good. This is great, Val.” She glanced up at me sideways.
“Need a ride?”
I grinned at her. “Okay.”
Our first stop was Mr. Kline’s house. It was a small, cozy brown house with untended flower gardens in the front and a skinny
orange cat sitting on the porch steps.
Jessica pulled into the driveway and shut off the motor.
“You ready for this?” she asked. I nodded. Truth was, I’d probably never be ready for this, but it was something I had to
do.
See things for what they really are,
I reminded myself.
See what’s really there.
We got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front door. The cat meowed at us plaintively and scurried under a bush.
I rang the bell.
I could hear a small dog yapping ferociously just inside the door and some shushing noises that were doing nothing to quell
the noise. Finally the door was pulled open and a mousy woman with mussed hair and giant glasses peered out at us. She was
flanked by a squinty-eyed kid sucking on a popsicle.
She pushed open the storm door a crack.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said nervously. “Um, Mrs. Kline? I’m Val—”
“I know who you are,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”
Her voice was like shards of ice and I felt my bravado melting off of me. Jessica glanced at me and must’ve seen me looking
scared because she piped up.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” she said. “But we were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes. It’s for a project
that will involve your husband.”
“A memorial,” I added without thinking. My face immediately burned afterward. I felt embarrassed for mentioning her husband’s
death in front of her. As if mentioning it would somehow make it more real to this sturdy little woman having to mother her
children alone.
She looked at us silently for a long time. She seemed to be considering things very carefully. Maybe worried that I was carrying
a gun and might blow her away and make her children orphans.
“Okay,” she said, pushing the door open a little further. At the same time she backed to the side, giving Jessica and me enough
room to squeeze into the cluttered living room behind her. “But I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Jessica breathed and we went in.
Forty minutes later we were at Abby Dempsey’s house—an emotional journey for Jessica, who was Abby’s friend and who hadn’t
seen Abby’s parents since the funeral—and an hour after that we were talking to Max Hill’s older sister, Hannah, on lawn
chairs in their garage.
As evening pressed in on us we sat in Ginny Baker’s hospital room, watching her cry into a mountain of crumpled used tissues.
Ginny was having a bad day. She wanted to go home. But the night before she’d broken a compact mirror and used a shard to
try to slit her wrists. She’d be there for a while, and she wasn’t happy about it. We talked to her mom in the hospital waiting
room.
By eight o’clock, we were starving and we had one stop left to make. Jessica pulled into a gas station and we filled up on
Slim Jims and bags of chips. I called my mom and told her I’d be home a little late and almost cried with happiness when she
told me it was no problem, to just check in and be careful. Something she’d have said before the shooting. We sat in the gas
station parking lot, stalling.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I said, feeling nauseated after all that grease.
“Are you kidding me?” Jessica said, popping a Cheez Doodle into her mouth. “It’s a great idea! And we’re almost done! Don’t
doubt yourself now.”
“I’m just thinking maybe it will be more hurtful than helpful. I’m just thinking—”
“You’re just thinking you’re scared of going to Christy Bruter’s house. I don’t blame you, Val, but we’re going.”
“But she’s the reason it all happened. My MP3 player…”
“She is not the reason it all happened. Nick was the reason it all happened. Or fate. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. We’re
going.”
“I’m not sure.”
She crumpled up her empty Cheez Doodle bag into a ball and tossed it into the back seat. She turned the key in the ignition
and the car fired into life. “I’m sure. We’re going,” she said. She pulled out of the parking lot. I had no choice. We were
going.
“It only hurts sometimes,” Christy said, sitting between her mom and dad on the couch. She would only look at Jessica when
she talked. I didn’t blame her. I had a hard time looking at her, too. “And I wouldn’t really even say ‘hurts’ anymore. Just
feels weird. Like my body’s weird.
“The worst part, honestly, is not getting to play softball anymore. I had already been offered a scholarship. Plus, my dad
used to coach me and now…”
Her dad interrupted, clamping down on her knee with his palm. “Now he’s glad he got to coach for all those years,” he said.
“Now he’s glad to have a daughter who’s alive to go to college.”
Christy’s mom made a small noise that sounded like “Amen” and dabbed at the corner of her eye with her fingertip. Mrs. Bruter
hadn’t said much since Jessica and I got there. She sat by Christy’s side, alternately patting Christy’s knee and nodding
her head in agreement to things Christy said, a trembling and not very convincing smile holding up her mouth the whole time.
She nodded again when Christy’s dad mentioned that he had only prayed for a daughter who would be happy and have a long life,
not one who could play softball.
“Do you…” I blurted, but faltered, unsure of what I wanted to ask her.
Do you blame me?
I wanted to ask.
Do you hate me even more now? Do you wish Nick had killed me? Do you have nightmares with me in them?
My mouth opened and closed. I swallowed.
Mr. Bruter must have sensed my discomfort because he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked me straight in
the eye. His hands dangled between his legs.
“We’ve learned a lot about forgiveness since this happened,” he said. “We have no interest in seeing anyone else suffer over
this tragedy. Not anyone.”
Christy stared at her hands in her lap. Jessica shifted toward me slightly.
“There are heroes who died for their school,” Mr. Bruter said softly. “And there are heroes who almost died for their school.
And there are heroes who stopped the shooting. Who called nine-one-one when Christy went down. Who held her stomach to stop
the bleeding. Heroes who… who lost people they loved. We appreciate all of the heroes of Garvin High.”
Jessica reached over and touched the back of my arm. I felt surrounded. I—God, how did this happen?—felt proud.
When I got home, totally exhausted, Mom and Mel were sitting on the couch watching TV.
“It’s getting late,” Mom said, wrapped in her cocoon of Mel. Her feet were pulled up to the side. She looked comfy in a way
I’d never seen before, not even when Dad was her cocoon. “I was getting worried about you.”
“Sorry,” I said. “This project has to be done before graduation.”
“Did you get it finished?” Mel asked and I found, to my surprise, that I didn’t mind him asking. All in all, Mel was a pretty
good guy. And he made Mom smile more, which, in my opinion, made him a pretty great guy.
“Well, I got the research finished,” I said. “I got all the interviews done, anyway.”
He nodded in approval.
“I saved dinner,” Mom said. “It’s in the oven.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Jess and I ate something already.” I walked over and stood behind the couch. “I think I’m just going
to go to bed.” I gave Mom a kiss on the cheek—a gesture I hadn’t given her in years. She looked surprised. “’Night, Mom,”
I said, walking toward the stairs. “’Night, Mel.”
“’Night,” Mel called back loudly, drowning out Mom’s voice.
I burst into my last session with Dr. Hieler practically buzzing.
“I think I’m starting to figure out who I am,” I said, smiling wide as I dropped back onto the couch and popped open my Coke.
“Who you are?” Dr. Hieler asked, grinning widely. He flopped into his chair and draped one leg over the arm of the chair like
always.
“Yeah, I mean, I know this sounds stupid, but I think talking to all those people reminded me of who I really am.”
“And who are you? Who did you remember yourself to be?”
“Well,” I said. I stood and paced the room. “For starters, I liked school. I really did. I liked being with my friends and
hanging out and going to basketball games and stuff. I was smart and driven, you know? I wanted to go to college.”
Dr. Hieler nodded, pressing his forefinger to his lips. “Good,” he said. “I would agree with all those things.”
I stopped pacing and sat back on the couch, a knot of excited energy. “And the Hate List was real. I really was angry. It
wasn’t a show for Nick. I mean, I wasn’t as angry as he was, you know. I didn’t even realize how angry he was. But I was angry,
too. The bullying, the teasing, the name-calling… my parents, my life… seemed so messed up and pointless and I really was
pissed about it. Maybe back then a part of me was suicidal and I just didn’t know it.”