Say Something (5 page)

Graduation was in three days. I was still suspended. I’d spent most of my time locked in my bedroom, thinking of ways to kill myself.

How pathetic was that? I could hear Chris Summers now:
Drama Queen, don’t be such a girl. It’s just a joke.

I honestly don’t know how serious I was about it. How close I was to doing it. I felt stupid, like I should have at least had an idea of whether or not I wanted to die, but it wasn’t that easy.

Before the shooting I mostly liked my life. I had good parents. My sister was pretty cool. Even Brandon could be okay when he wanted to be. I liked my friends. I loved an amazing girl; and even if she didn’t love me back, she was still there—patting my knee or tapping my shoulder to get my attention or cracking jokes with me during assemblies.

Chris Summers and Jacob Kinney had made me miserable, and sometimes it was so bad that school felt more like torture, but I’d never wanted to die over it. I knew I wasn’t any of the things they called me—spineless, cowardly, worthless. But sometimes, after the shooting, worthless and cowardly was exactly how I felt. The police were looking for information, and I had it, but I was afraid to give it. Valerie was going through hell and back to clear her name, and I was afraid to bail her out. I was afraid, and I felt so guilty for giving in to my fear. The cops were looking for Jeremy Watson. The whole city was looking for Jeremy Watson. They wanted answers, and he had them, but nobody could find him. But I knew where he was. And I said nothing.

Ultimately, what kept me from killing myself were the headlines. I was afraid they would say something like:
Victim of Gay Bullying Hangs Self in Bathroom.

And all anybody would see was the word
gay
. The headlines wouldn’t say anything about the hate list or Valerie or Jeremy Watson or what happened the day of the shooting or any of the secrets that were tearing me up inside. My mom would cry and tell the media that she never knew, that I could have come out to her. She would beat herself up over it. My dad would wonder why I didn’t just…

Say something.

Nobody would know the truth. Did the truth even matter anymore?

***

Mason came over on prom night, bored.

“You couldn’t make me go to some stupid dance if you paid me,” he said, picking through a bag of stale microwave popcorn that had been lying on my bedroom floor for days. “You should have seen how ridiculous Duce looked in that tux. Stacey’s got him so whipped.”

“Did Valerie go?” I asked, knowing how I must have sounded but no longer caring. Nick was gone; everything had changed; what did it matter now?

“How the hell would I know?” Mason replied. He stuck another piece of popcorn in his mouth. “Duce saw her at the cemetery, though. At Nick’s grave. He was pretty pissed that it took her this long.”

“Why would he even care?” I asked.

“Because she’s guilty. I mean, you know she knew. She had to have known, and she didn’t say anything. Just let Nick take the fall. My opinion, if you know something like that’s about to go down and you don’t say anything, you’re just as guilty. Might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.”

My stomach dropped, and my mouth went dry. I cleared my throat. “Maybe she didn’t know until it was too late.”

“It’s not too late now. She should fess up.” He dropped the bag back to the floor and sat up, making a disgusted face. “Screw this, let’s get some real food.”

But I couldn’t go. My head was spinning and my palms were sweating and I felt sick, like I was going to puke. I told Mason to go on without me, that I was grounded, and spent the rest of the evening sitting in my bedroom, cross-legged on the floor, with an X-ACTO knife in my hand. Trembling, crying, mumbling that I couldn’t fess up, I couldn’t tell, I needed to tell, I needed to help, but I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough, I was as weak as they all said I was.

I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want this life anymore. I didn’t want to be the person who knew and didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to be the person with that…
image
… in my head anymore, that image of Chris Summers’s dying moment. I didn’t want to be the person who knew that Jeremy Watson—the mysterious monster who everyone was looking for—was hiding out in his cousin’s cabin in Warsaw, Missouri. I didn’t want to face Jacob Kinney anymore, or Duce, or even Valerie.

The sun went down and my room went dark and still I sat there, snot running down my chin and onto my chest, my hand gripped so tight on the knife that my fingers had gone numb. Talking to myself, repeating how sorry I was, repeating how angry I was, just repeating and repeating.

And that was how my dad found me.

“What the… David? What’s going on?” He flipped on the light, and we both blinked. My sobbing renewed at the smell of paint thinner that wafted into the room.

“Dad…” I bawled, just like that baby in the car.
Shut the fuck up, Dylan!

“Jesus,” he muttered, lunging forward and taking the knife from my hand, which he had to wrench away because I’d been holding it so tightly for so long, my fingers didn’t want to open. “Are you…? Did you…?” he was saying, turning my face with his hands, looking me over frantically. “What’s going on?” He squatted in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, and gave me a shake. “Say something!”

So I did.

I finally did.

As soon as I heard Nick tell Valerie that it was time to take care of things, I felt my gut drop. They disappeared through the double doors, and I whipped back to find Mr. Angerson, who was always, always, always standing by the bus loop stopping everyone from having any fun.

Always.

But not May 2nd.

I raced down the entire bus loop looking for him, peering through the open bus doors and peeking in between parked buses. He had
just
been standing there. But now he was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Tate, our guidance counselor, was way down by the main entrance, and for a second I stood rooted in my spot, hearing the ticking of an invisible clock. I needed to make a decision, quick, before time ran out.

I was halfway between Tate and the double doors. I could either flag her down, say something, or just go in and try to find Nick, stop him myself.

I chose wrong.

Tate had a walkie-talkie. So did Mr. Angerson and Officer Belkin, our student-resource officer. Tate could have radioed Belkin. He could have gotten to Nick before anything happened. Or maybe he couldn’t have. I would never know, because I didn’t choose going to Tate.

I chose the double doors. I chose to find Nick.

The hallways were clogged, as usual, with people reluctantly going to class. Nobody in a big hurry, because nobody ever was in a big hurry to start the day. It was May; who cared about tardies anymore?

I shoved and pushed and shimmied my way through the throng, hearing shouts and protests behind me but not caring.

The first shot rang out just as I entered the Commons. There were a few startled squeals, but nobody really reacted, like they thought it was a joke or something, and even though I knew what I knew, a part of me wanted to believe right along with them. Over the crowd I could see a little scuffle, some chaos, going on by the wall. I thought I saw Nick’s black coat move quickly and steadily into the middle of the room, and then I heard a scream.

“Oh my God! Somebody! Help!” I would know that voice anywhere. Valerie’s voice.

“Valerie!” I yelled, springing forward.

I tried to get to her, but just as I started to move, there was another bang, and finally it began to dawn on people that it was real gunfire. There were shouts and screams and the sound of tables being knocked over. People started pushing toward me in droves. I still tried to shove through, but I couldn’t get anywhere. The farther I got into the Commons, the harder the crowd pushed back. My feet were getting stepped on, my sides were getting elbowed, and then someone thumped me hard on the head, and I went down.

The second I hit the floor, even as I clawed and scrambled to get to my feet, people raced right over me, their shoes smashing my hands, my arms. Someone’s knee hit me in the nose, and I saw a flash of light and felt blood trickle over my lips. Everyone was pressing so hard against one another, it was impossible to move, impossible to get up.

For a moment I was terrified. More bangs, more shouts, and with every shot there was a new surge, people tripping over my legs, stepping on my ankles. I doubled over on the floor, crying out in pain every time someone stepped on me, thinking I was going to be the kid in the news story who got trampled to death.

And then there was a hand. Right in front of my face, reaching toward me in the darkness.

“Come on!” I heard, and I looked up to see Chris Summers standing over me, reaching down between people to get to me. “Come on, we need to get out of here!” He gave his hand an insistent shake.

Even though it made no sense to me, rationally, that Chris Summers was going to help me, I grabbed his hand, and he pulled, yanking me up to my feet. He looked a little manic, a little petrified, running on adrenaline alone.

“He’s shooting! Go!” he yelled. He gave my shoulder a shove toward the exit, but still I stood. I watched him turn to go back into the Commons. Watched him kneel and pull a bleeding girl under an overturned table, where she’d be safe. Watched him steer another girl toward the door, pushing her farther into the crowd.

And then I saw him crumple to the floor. I saw him bleed. And I saw Nick standing several feet behind him, holding the gun out at arm’s length.

Nick looked up, and our eyes locked. His mouth twitched on one side in the tiniest of smirks. He looked scared. But also proud. And in that moment when we stared at each other, I felt it. I felt him thinking,
This is ours
. Because he wasn’t the only one who put Chris’s name on the hate list. I was guilty, too.

I turned and ran. Shoved right over the tops of people who’d been shoving over me. Didn’t care if I knocked someone down or hurt them or left them behind. All I could think was that I needed to get out of there, that I needed to get away. Not from Nick. Nick wouldn’t have hurt me.

I needed to get away from Chris and all that blood.

I needed to get away from my guilt.

Never
, I promised myself.
I will never talk about it. I will never say anything.

I caught up with Valerie on graduation day, just after the ceremony. She was sitting on the bleachers, all alone in her cap and gown, her tassel fluttering like a flag in the breeze. She was staring off across the soccer field, hands buried in the folds of her robe. She looked softer in this light somehow. Glowy. Pink.

I didn’t really know Valerie anymore, which was sad, because a part of me still felt connected to her. A part of me understood how hard she’d had to work this year, how much she’d fought for herself, for Nick. Being at graduation took guts for Valerie, and I felt a twinge of my old love for her, for the way she’d stood in front of the people who still blamed her for the shooting, chin up defiantly, owning her place in our class.

I’d made Dad promise not to tell anyone anything until after I’d confided to Valerie myself. I’d let her take the blame for an entire year. I’d let everyone act like she was the monster who knew and never told. She wasn’t.
I was.
I at least owed her the truth.

I sat next to her. “Hey,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said, not turning her eyes away from the field. “Congratulations to you, too.”

“It doesn’t really feel like a celebration, does it?”

The wind caught the tassel again and pulled it across her cheek. “Not really. You think anything ever will again?”

I scrubbed the toe of my shoe in the gravel, feeling silly in my robe, as if I were wearing a dress. Like if Chris Summers had graduated with us, he’d probably have called it a dress just to fuck with me. “I don’t know.”

“You know what’s funny?” she said, finally turning her gaze down at her hands. “I always thought he wanted to graduate. But now that I think about it, he never really talked about the future. Maybe I should have seen that as a sign.”

“Val, don’t do this to yourself,” I said, placing my hand on her back.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’ll never stop wondering and thinking about what I missed. I was so blind. I swear I didn’t know, David. You believe me, don’t you?”

I let my hand fall back to the seat and took a deep breath. “I knew,” I said.

She squinted up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I knew,” I repeated. “I saw all the signs. I saw the names all crossed out on the hate list, and I saw him and Jeremy with a gun at Blue Lake the day before. He said things that didn’t make sense, and I saw the gun under his jacket before the shooting. I saw everything, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to get him in trouble or… or I don’t know. All I know is I saw it coming, and I tried to catch up with him, but it was too late. I should have told somebody days before, but I didn’t. All the things they’re saying you’re guilty of? It was me. Not you. Me.”

Valerie shook her head slowly, as if what I was telling her just couldn’t compute. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.

“Because I…” I paused, feeling fear tingle throughout my body. “Because I’m a coward and a shit friend.” My voice got thick with tears. I willed a few deep breaths into my lungs and pushed my tongue up against the roof of my mouth to keep from crying. “I’m sorry,” I said.

Valerie stood and then just sort of hovered there, as if she was unsure what to do with herself. “You’re sorry,” she said, and I nodded, afraid to look at her. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you waited all this time to say anything.”

“I know,” I said.

She stayed there for a few more minutes, until we could hear voices, other people coming around the side of the school, taking a graduation-day walk around campus. I quickly wiped my cheeks and stood next to her.

“I think I know where Jeremy is,” I said. “Or at least where he went after the shooting. I’m going to tell the police. I just wanted you to know first.”

“Oh my God!” she shouted, wheeling on me, her hands flung up toward the sky. “You knew all this time where Jeremy is? You let me be grilled by the cops, and you let everyone think I… God, David! I thought we were friends.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, standing and facing her, not even bothering to wipe away my tears now. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”

She held her breath and closed her eyes, then sighed and let her shoulders sag. “I don’t hate you,” she said quietly. “I am so over all the hate.”

She sat back down on the bench, and I sat next to her. Our shoulders were touching, but we might as well have been a million miles away from each other. Any connection we might have once had was lost.

“He was wrong,” I said. “About them being mistakes.”

“What?”

“Nick. He told me once he thought people like Chris Summers were genetically bad, just mistakes that could be wiped out. But he was wrong, because even after the shooting, there are still cliques and still people hating on each other and…” Chris Summers’s hand reached out to me in my mind. “They were sometimes good, too. They were
people
, that’s all. Just like us. Nick was wrong. And retaliating against them was pointless. It didn’t change anything.”

“No. It changed everything,” she said. “Just not the way he expected it to.”

We looked over the soccer field until the sun had moved and the hair under our caps was damp with sweat. We never spoke another word. And eventually Valerie got up and left, walking back toward the school and leaving me alone on the bleachers.

It was the last time I saw her.