This kid Jared, who I’ve never talked to, came up to me in the cafeteria today and said, “Hey, my cousin was at that camp with you.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “She said you were cool.” It came out kind of accusatory, like I’ve been denying him and everyone else by holding back on my coolness all these years. I didn’t know what to tell him. (“Uh . . . sorry?”) I didn’t ask who his cousin was. I just shrugged and walked away.
There’s a new bulletin board outside the guidance office labeled “Wall of Shameless Brags.” Ms. Heaton, the head counselor, put a little desk in front of it with sticky notes and pens (the pens disappeared in a day, so now there’s only one of them, attached to the desk with string) and when there’s something we’re feeling proud of or glad about, we’re supposed to write it on a Post-it and stick it on the wall, and feel all affirmed or whatever.
Ms. Heaton is way into it. The second morning, I walked by and saw she’d rearranged all the Post-its in the shape of a heart, and today they made a cresting wave. I think maybe Ms. Heaton should have been an elementary school art teacher instead of a guidance counselor. If she keeps this up, she won’t have time to help anyone get into college.
The idea of it is cool, I guess. Positivity and self-esteem. It’s true we’re all socialized to sort of put ourselves down, or at least downplay our accomplishments. And there shouldn’t be stigma around shouting about the stuff we’re proud of, or being proud of who we are. But since no one signs their names to the Post-its and the brags are all anonymous, doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose? I feel like you would have a lot to say about that.
You’d think a school bulletin board with such an earnest mission would get abused pretty quickly, but people seem to be respecting it and keeping it positive so far. Either that or Ms. Heaton is monitoring it like a hawk.
Anyway, I made my first contribution to the brag board today. On my way back from chem lab, I wrote I’ve held on to my best friend’s secrets. I stuck it in the wave, right at the crest, and wondered how long it could last.
Everyone thinks they know about you. They have no idea.
There are so many things I won’t tell them.
Love,
Kayla
September 4
Channel 13 News
“This just in. Prosecutor Marsha Davis today filed charges of second-degree murder against sixteen-year-old Elaine Baxter, known as ‘Lainie’ or, more recently, as the alleged ‘Summer Camp Slayer.’ Maplewash County police arrested Baxter on August twenty-second in connection with the apparent murder of her summer-camp sweetheart, Jackson Winter, who was reported missing and found dead near Camp Cavanick grounds on August fourteenth. Although Baxter, at age sixteen, could still technically be considered a juvenile, the DA chose to file charges in adult court, due to the severity of the alleged crime and the defendant’s history of low-level infractions, such as two previously undisclosed shoplifting charges.
“Baxter’s court-appointed attorney, Michael Desir, said in a statement, ‘Lainie is innocent of these terrible charges and welcomes the chance to clear her name in the upcoming trial. We have no further statement at this time.’ At the arraignment, Baxter entered a plea of not guilty.
“The defendant remains in custody at the local juvenile detention facility where she has been held since her arrest. The judge set bail at two hundred thousand dollars, but the defendant’s family has been unable to pay it.
“A spokesperson for the family of the deceased, Jackson Winter, asked for privacy and declined to offer comment at this time, other than to note they are still in mourning for a promising life cut tragically short.”
September 5, 2:15 p.m.
Hey
It’s Nitin
I don’t know if we’re allowed to talk or if you even want to hear from me but
I wanted to check if you’re okay
Kayla?
hey
Hey
Sorry I didn’t reach out sooner
this whole thing has been just
awful
I haven’t known how to talk about it
words seem insufficient
I figured you’re the one person who’d understand
You still there?
yeah
it’s probably not a great idea for us to talk
sorry
Oh
okay
Take care of yourself then
you too
yeah
September 6
Dear Lainie,
I knew this was coming, so it shouldn’t be a shock, but it’s still jarring to hear they’ve pressed charges. Your name out there in the media now. Charged as an adult. Branded a murderer.
It’s all so official and real, but surreal, unreal, too. Four weeks ago, we were swearing to make the most of our last week at camp. To not even think about saying goodbye until the moment we had to—but even then, to be sad but not too sad, since the end of the summer wasn’t the end of our friendship, just the beginning of its next chapter.
Now you’re stuck in jail and Jackson is gone, and I’m forbidden by my parents’ lawyer from contacting you.
I should do it anyway. I should get in the car and drive straight to your side. I should bang down the door and bribe all the guards, or whatever it takes to make them let me see you. I should stage a sit-in, a hunger strike, and insist they can’t keep us apart.
I daydream about it. I imagine it’s what you would do if our roles were reversed. But I’m scared.
I’m scared of what you might say if you saw me. I’m scared of what you might not.
I texted your number two weeks ago. It was already someone else’s. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but you can add that to the list of things I somehow didn’t see coming.
Maybe it’s safer that we’re only talking like this, in my head, for now. But I hate that I can’t reach you.
It’s a ridiculous thing to focus on, but it makes me cringe, the fact that now everyone knows your real name. Maybe I’m stuck on it because the rest is too much to process, but I know you’ve always hated being called that. It’s not a bad name; it’s just not a you name. I remember how you described it: as the ultimate proof that your parents never understood you.
All summer, no matter who asked, you insisted that Lainie was your given name. Even Jackson and Nitin weren’t let in on the truth, but to me you confessed it out of nowhere. You’d brought tea candles out to the dock that night, and we tried to shelter them with our limbs, but the wind kept gusting them out, so you kept relighting them. You were sparking the flame with your thumb when you said, “Can you believe my mother named me Elaine?” The wick caught and you glowed, then it blew out again.
Weirdly, of all the secrets you entrusted me with, that’s the only one you made me swear to keep. And I did. But now everyone knows, and I hate that, possibly even more than you do.
You should get to be you. Though, granted, this whole thing isn’t you—you’re not a murderer. I know that. I hope you know I believe you, even if no one else does.
I didn’t know about the shoplifting, though. Is that real or another stupid rumor?
I hate that I can’t ask you. I hate that we can’t talk about it. I hate that there’s anything about you I don’t know, and with each day that passes, there’s more of it. We’re both moving further and further from who we were over the summer. We’re becoming who we are in the After.