The ride from Camp Alpine Lake to town always looks different in the car than it does on the big yellow school bus that shepherds us around on nights off. The roads feel wider, more cavernous under the canopies of massive trees blocking the sun from streaming through. And if you roll the windows down you can smell the lake in the air, no matter where you are.
Mom, Dad, and I drive in silence, Queen floating softly from the speakers. They hold hands in the front seat, their clasped fingers resting on the console between them.
I clear my throat. “Have you heard anything else?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mom turns around and shakes her head. “No, sweetie.”
“So, it’s an open-and-shut case? Heller drowned by accident?” I ask. That truth seems so unimaginable.
“I don’t think you’re going to get any more answers than we already have,” Dad says, his eyes on the road. “At least not yet.”
Mom looks to Dad with worried eyes. “I’m going to tell her, Lou.”
Dad blows a raspberry but doesn’t say anything else.
“There was alcohol in his system,” Mom says softly, spinningaround in the passenger seat. “He was drunk and took a fall into the lake.”
Her words hit me square in the chest and fury takes hold. How could he have been so stupid? So careless? He had so much left to do. So many wrongs to right.
Dad makes a left and the beginning of Main Street comes into view. We drive a little while longer and I can see people I’ve known forever hustling by on the sidewalk. Shoulders hunched. Faces solemn. The independent bookstore owner is pulling the door shut, turning the lock. Café Cloud, the bakery that sells fresh sourdough and triple fudge brownies, has aCLOSEDsign on it. And when we get farther into town, I see the flag at Town Hall is at half-mast. I suck in a breath and close my eyes, tears escaping down my cheeks. This is all for Heller.
Some kids are chosen at birth. Each town has them. Babies who come out all fresh and clean and start their lives with the subconscious understanding that, without a doubt, they will be special. Their lives will be easy. They will have wide smiles and long eyelashes, and they’ll be able to talk to anyone. They will find it easy to make people laugh, to disarm new acquaintances, to charm. They will be magnetic. Electric. Explosive. They will have awayabout them that pulls you close.
Heller was one of those kids. The only one in Roxwood. Chosen.
Back in kindergarten it became obvious he was destined to hold this town—the world—in the palm of his hand. That’s when kids are plucked from obscurity in a place like Roxwood. It was as if everyone else on the playground had decided. Heller McConnell was special, he was the one who could get out of this town—dosomethingwith his life. And the fact that Heller picked me out ofthe cast at the haunted house and saidmine... well, that made me special, too. For a moment.
Dad pulls the car into the high school parking lot, which is almost full. We find a spot at the end of a row and walk in silence toward the football field. I hear hundreds of people finding their places and greeting each other with the devastating sniffles and back claps that only come from mourners.
As we get closer, the sobs from the crowd get louder, and the cramps in my stomach get more intense. Mom must sense my fear, because she grabs my hand.
“We can go back to camp, you know,” she whispers but I shake my head. I want to witness this. I have to.
Dad straightens his shoulders and continues leading us toward the crowd. He grabs an empty row in the bleachers near the back and I sit in between them, behind young kids and parents who look familiar. I let out a big exhale and squeeze my eyes shut.
Blend in. All you have to do is blend in.
From my seat, it looks like the whole town of Roxwood is here. Hordes of people of all ages sit clumped together in their T-shirts and shorts. There are so many Roxwood red baseball hats, turning the bleachers into a bloodstained sea. Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I couldn’t feel like more of an outsider.
I try to remember that I have a right to be here. I’m grieving, too. But no one here knows the truth about the accident. No one but Cal. I scan the crowd and see him sitting with the rest of the hockey team in the front row, down toward the sideline. Dylan is next to the team in his wheelchair, a crimson hat sitting on top of his head. A pang of shame shoots through my stomach.
Cal turns around in his seat and looks out over the crowd. Hiseyes are rimmed with red and his usually pale skin is all splotchy, like he’s been crying. He has the same forlorn look to him that he did right after his mom died and he spent countless nights in a sleeping bag on my bedroom floor. A hitch catches in my throat and I wonder what’s going on inside his head. I wish I could ask him.
Then, though, his eyes find mine and it’s like all the air is gone from my chest.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s... a lot.”
“We don’t have to stay...” Mom says, a whisper.
“I need some space. I’ll be back in a sec.”
I stand up and scootch my way into the aisle, down the steps. I get to the bottom and make a hard turn. No one’s under the bleachers. There’s only darkness and shade and muffled sounds coming from above. I’m safe here and I can finally breathe.
And suddenly I’m overcome with the weight of it all, the significance, the horror. Something churns inside my stomach and before I can stop myself, I vomit onto the ground.
“What the fuck?” A hard male voice rises up behind me.
