September 3
Channel 5 News
“Tragic accident or deadly revenge?
“Sources from within the state prosecutor’s office say the DA is close to filing charges against a teenage suspect in the sensational case that has shocked and gripped viewers across the region since the fateful night three weeks ago that left one sixteen-year-old summer camper dead and another under suspicion of murder.
“Michael Desir, an attorney for the teen who is at the center of the ongoing police investigation, maintains his client’s innocence, even as prosecutor Marsha Davis is expected to bring charges within the week. Despite few official facts having been released in the case, rumors and speculation run rampant online, fueled by social media posts from other campers and their parents and counselors. Some have suggested that the delays in pressing charges could indicate major weaknesses in the state’s attempt to build a case proving the camper’s untimely death was a passion-fueled crime, not a tragic accident.
“The prosecutor’s office would not comment on whether the teenage suspect will be charged as a minor or—given the severity of the alleged crime—as an adult.”
August 22, 10:58 p.m.
hey
I miss you
you don’t even know how much
I wish I could tell you everything
I wish I could tell you I’m sorry
for all of it
all of it except you and me
Sorry but I think you have the wrong number
fuck you for not being her
August 23
Dear Lainie,
I swore to you we would always keep in touch, that I’d call and text and visit and write, so here goes, though neither of us could have imagined it would be quite like this. I’ll delete this as soon as it’s written, of course. Destroying the evidence, just like you taught me, haha.
Remember that? The first night we snuck out. You set your alarm on vibrate and promised to wake me at 12:13 a.m., but I didn’t sleep while I waited. I lay frozen after lights-out, barely breathing, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it would wake our whole cabin, if not the entire camp. Each second took minutes, millennia, to squeak past, and my brain was freaking out the whole time, spinning cartwheels around the trouble we’d be in when we got caught.
I rehearsed a billion excuses, but soon my stomach ached for real as I imagined the shrug you might give before slipping out the screen door into the night, leaving me behind and forgotten—my shot at being your friend, partner in crime, or anything else, blown completely. I still didn’t know why you’d invited me along in the first place. It was only the third day of camp and we’d barely spoken four words. (I’d barely said that much to anyone.) The invitation felt random, but also—don’t laugh—it felt a lot like fate. Like a chance to change my fate.
But I couldn’t do it. I’m a rule-follower at heart, not a rebel like you. I was going to chicken out.
Just when time had slowed so much it was basically standing still, it skipped forward, too fast, and before I knew it, you were climbing down from the top bunk, swift and silent, like a cat. Without moving a hand, you pulled me with you. I forgot my excuses and the fear dropped away as you walked out the door and I followed close behind, barely believing the person who, in that moment, at your invitation, I’d become.
It was freaking exhilarating.
You led the way past the cabins, down the hill toward the lake. A twig beneath my feet cracked like thunder, but it didn’t wake the counselors or the dead. (Okay, I winced when I just wrote that, the word dead. It made my stomach twist so hard, I thought I might vom, but then I heard your laugh in my head—you always laughed in terrible moments like this—and now I want to puke and cry and laugh too, all at once. Picturing that makes the you in my head crack up harder, which is all I want: to be laughing at something completely inappropriate with you again. So now I’m sitting here grinning through tears like a snotty mess, and I miss you so fucking much, can I just say that?)
How weird is it to think that before this summer, I never used to curse? You, my friend, were a terrible influence.
(Now the you in my head is rolling her eyes and nudging me. “Ahem. You were telling a story?”)
Right. I’ll continue.
I followed you to the lake, out onto the dock, and we sat cross-legged on the cool wooden planks while the waves lapped softly below us. You leaned back on your hands, tilted your face up to the stars, and the look of total peace that came across it made me wonder what troubles had come before. You smiled at the universe like you owned it, then you turned that smile toward me. “Isn’t this the best thing you’ve ever done?” you asked, already sure of the answer.
“I was so nervous,” I admitted. “I’ve never straight-up broken the rules before. I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of crime.”
You shook your head. “You were born for this. You’re a ninja. A fox. A motherfucking stealth pro.” I couldn’t tell if you were teasing or serious or both, but a giddiness spread through my chest. A giggle escaped, and you were laughing too, silently, your shoulders shaking and your lips pressed tight to hold it in.
The dock rocked beneath our butts and the smell of lake water filled my head, and I asked, “Do fishes sleep?” and you released an epic snort and laughed so hard you almost fell over.
“You’re so random,” you said when you’d caught your breath. It felt like the best compliment ever.
Your face got serious and you reached into your pocket, pulled something out, and announced, “I brought contraband.”
I’d been preparing for this moment since the day in fourth grade when Officer Dunkel warned us about the dangers of peer pressure, but no one had ever offered me cigarettes or drugs before. (I told you I lived a sheltered existence.) I was polite but firm. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“What?” You blinked, then choked on another laugh. “Oh my god. Raaaaaaaandommmmm,” you sang, and as you opened your hand further I saw what lay inside: two sticks of gum. The white wrappers shone in the moonlight. So did your grin.
“I thought it was cigarettes. Or, like, pot,” I explained. “It looked like a joint in the dark.”
You shook your head. “Okay, Randy.” I wasn’t even embarrassed, just thrilled you’d given me a nickname. I accepted the gum and folded it into my mouth, and you produced a lighter from your hoodie. You flicked it on and your eyes danced with fire. “The first rule of crime is: Always Destroy the Evidence,” you said solemnly. You held your wrapper to the flame and we watched it burn. The ashes blew over the water and disappeared, and you handed the lighter to me.
If I could turn back time, give us a chance to start over—figure out how to change what happened to you in the end—which moment would I send us back to? I think about this a lot. I know it’s a pointless question. I’m not going to stumble across a time machine or wake up to a second-chance summer. But the answer still seems important, like I need to figure it out. Like if I can pinpoint the moment where things went so wrong, I might rewrite the terrible ending.
Dr. Rita, the shrink my parents are pushing me off on so they won’t have to help me through this themselves, says I can’t blame myself for what happened, and I don’t. I blame Jackson. Duh.