Cole wasn’t dealing—I mean, he saw what drugs did to his mom—so Meeka suspected he was scamming old people out of their money. You know, like those con artists from Russia or Nigeria? Only Cole was smoother. He was fluent in both English and lies. Plus, he was from Vermont, and people naturally trust people from Vermont.
Whenever I was in Cole’s trailer, there was this constant humming in the background and lights flickering on the switches of power strips, which were hung from hooks like flowers left to dry. The windows were covered in newspapers to keep the light out and there were always at least three screens glowing. Cole had mountains of tech. I don’t know if he knew anything about coding. What he knew was how to find stuff.
He was always keyed into the latest viral video before it went viral. “Check this out,” he’d say to me, and thrust a laptop in my face, and there would be some weird person yelling, or dancing, or, more often than not, getting hurt. His favorite was this video of a kid singing, “Walk like a man, talk like a man, walk like a man, my son,” in the shrillest, most tone-deaf voice imaginable.
“Gets me every fucking time,” he’d say, wiping tears from his eyes. It was a bit funny, I guess, but only the first time. After that, it seemed sad.
But it was infinitely better than most of the other things he’d watch. Disturbing stuff. With a few keystrokes, Cole could cue up a video with some shrouded guy chopping off another guy’s head in the desert. Or worse, if you can imagine worse, and I hope you can’t.
“Look at it, Logan,” he’d squeal, chasing me around the trailer with a laptop. “You know you wanna see this shit. You know you want it to haunt your dreams.”
I’d close my eyes and try to block out the images of death. My mind couldn’t handle stuff like that. So it’s fitting, in a way, that it’s the image of Cole’s dead body that I’ll never have the luxury of blocking out. I’ll be haunted, like he always wanted me to be. But trust me, I’d be more haunted if he had lived.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 31
TWO DAYS AFTER
HOLLY
DO THEY KNOW I’M A MURDERER? See it in my spine when I hunch over my desk? Feel the flutters from my chest vibrating through the halls? God. God. God. When I look at the door, do they sense that I want to escape, to run and to never stop running? When I duck into the bathroom, do they think it’s because I’m sick? Or do they know exactly why I need to hold my head and catch my breath? Will they whisper, “Don’t worry, we understand, it’s okay.” Are they happy about what I’ve done?
I did it. I did it. There were three other people involved, but I made a choice to be involved, so I am to blame. It only happened because of my actions. The pills came from me. The idea came from me. I wasn’t coerced and I shouldn’t convince myself otherwise. Even though I want to. Need to.
All day, I walk from class to class and somehow I don’t cry. People smile, I smile back, and it seems to trick them. Happy Holly, Happy Holly, perpetually Happy Holly. That’s my Halloween costume this year: my old self. I answer a few questions in all my classes because that’s what I’d normally do. I make it through Monday, the second day since we did it. I wonder how long it will take me to stop counting the days.
After school, I go to soccer. Obviously. If I ever missed soccer, they’d call 911.
“Do you think you’ll break it?” Tanya asks me during stretches.
Tanya’s always talking, and this time she’s talking about the single-season state scoring record. That’s regular season only; counting playoffs is unfair to girls on terrible teams. For twenty-five years, the record has stayed put at forty-seven goals. Well done, Harwood striker Kim Friggett. She’s probably a mom now, with kids of her own who play soccer. But I bet it’s my stats she’s paying the most attention to. I’ve got forty-five goals with two games left to go. I really only need one game. A hat trick will break the record for me, and I’ve had my share. Kim Friggett must know that. She probably also knows that the competition is tougher now than it’s ever been. And even if my total stayed at forty-five, I’m still way better than she was. Sounds conceited, but it’s the truth. Not that I’d ever say it out loud.
“I’m not thinking about breaking anything,” I tell Tanya as I lean forward to stretch my hip flexor. “Finishing the season strong. Only thing on my mind.”
God, I wish that were the case. Throughout practice, even as I cut and pass and scream for the ball, my mind keeps going over every detail of Saturday night. Every awful moment.
* * *
• • •
The drive up to the trailer. The knock on the door. The smug look on Cole’s face when Logan told him that Meeka wanted to see him at the barn. The wink to assure him we were on his side. (Of course, we weren’t. We would never be on his side.) The drive to the parking lot where it was supposed to end. The calculation of it all.
Who were we that night? How could we do those things?
We did those things.
We crushed the pills and dissolved them in a bottle of Wild Turkey. Then we placed the bottle under the passenger seat so that when Logan sped up on the hilly section of the Malvern Loop, it rolled to the back and hit Cole’s boots.
We did those things and those things worked.
“Hello there, stranger,” Cole said when he picked up the bottle.
“That’s for later,” Logan called back, counting on the fact that Cole was going to drink it anyway. A given. I turned the music up because I didn’t need to hear the actual drinking. That would be like hearing a knife going into someone.
“It’s later now,” Cole said after a few seconds, and even though I couldn’t hear it, I know he did more than drink. He chugged. Then he thrust the bottle forward to offer me some.
Rather than touch it, I put my hands in my lap and told Logan, “Should be about five minutes, tops.”
“Good,” Logan said as he slowed the car and guided it into the rail trail access lot.
“Five minutes for what?” Cole asked, and he took another swig.
Logan didn’t say a thing. He stopped and put the car in park as I struggled to breathe.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 29
THE DAY OF
GRAYSON
COLE WAS HEAVING HIS GUTS OUT in the lot for the rail trail when I pulled up in my Jeep. Saturday, October 29, eight o’clock sharp. Right on time, I’ll have you know. Logan was sitting on the hood of his Elantra, all bug-eyed like he was watching a snake eat a rat. Holly was in the car with her hands over her face and music thumping loud.
Cole saw me and groaned, “What’s this fucker doing here?”