“What?” Miles asked.
“I have an idea, I think. I don’t know how it would work but … maybe if we all wrote letters, telling the truth about what happened that day and even afterward …”
“Letters to who?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Anyone? If everyone did it, though, I could collect them. Put them together into something cohesive. Something people would have to listen to because it’s all of us. We could set the story straight. Maybe we could, like … release the letters somehow so that there will be something else out there besides the McHales’ book.”
My thoughts were moving like a tornado through my mind, spinning violently, too fast for me to grasp. I’d have to figure out the details later, but somehow this just seemed like the answer. If Denny’s letter had gotten to me like this, maybe letters from all of the survivors could make an impact. I could reach out to Ashley and Eden, and I would try to find Kellie to see if she’d do it.
“You’ll write one, won’t you?” I asked Miles.
“Write a letter? I’m not sure, Lee.”
“What’s there not to be sure about?” I asked. “Surely you wanna point out how messed up it was the way those newspaper articles talked about you, right? Like that one journalist who wrote something about how you were the kind of kid people expected to be a shooter, not a hero? That’s so awful, and you could write about why.”
Miles turned away, and I figured I was making him uncomfortable bringing up comments like that. I couldn’t imagine how hurtful that had been, to see it in print that you were the kind of person no one expected to do something noble. That you seemed more like a villain. But that was exactly why I needed him to do this.
Miles was so much more than the troubled-boy-turned-hero. His story went beyond the fights he’d been in or his suspension record. All the reporting on the shooting had squeezed him into a box, an easily digestible line or two of text. And I wanted the world to see who he was outside of that box. I wanted people to know the intense, thoughtful, surprisingly funny Miles that I adored.
“Please, Miles?” I asked, reaching out to touch his hand. “Please?”
He turned to look back at me, and after a long moment, he sighed. “Lee …”
“Just think about it,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
He nodded, then turned his gaze back to the stars.
We stayed up there until dawn, when I finally snuck back inside and crawled into bed. Even then, though, I couldn’t sleep. Not because of pain or guilt this time, but the opposite. For the first time in a while, I felt hopeful.
If I could make this work, then the truth would finally, finally be out there. And this weight would be off my shoulders at last.
Here’s what I know about Kevin Brantley: When the shooting happened, he was a sophomore; he kept his head shaved and always wore band T-shirts; and in elementary school, he stuck gum in Sarah’s hair on the bus and tried to blame it on someone else.
I reached out to the other survivors to see if anyone else knew him better. The first person to reply was Miles. This was our text exchange.
MILES:I knew him. Hated him.
ME:Yeah? Why?
MILES:He found a picture of my dad’s mug shot on the internet. Not sure how. He printed it and brought it to school. This was in eighth grade. Right after I moved here.
ME:That’s awful.
MILES:I kicked his ass before he could show anyone.
ME:That’s good? I guess?
MILES:We both got suspended. Not proud of it but don’t really regret it either. He was a jerk.
ME:Sounds like it.
MILES:Guessing that’s not the kind of story you were looking for, huh?
ME:LOL. No. Not exactly.
I decided to share it, though. Not because I have any desire to make Kevin seem like a bad guy when he’s not here to defend himself. But because of another issue I’ve seen with how we talk about victims. They’re all treated like angels after they die. Every description talks about how friendly and fun-loving and kind they were, even if that wasn’t always the case.
But most of the people who died that day were kids. And sometimes kids are jerks. That doesn’t make them less worthy of mourning. It just makes them people. Acting like the dead were always perfect and innocent just distances them from us even more. Maybe it’s just me, but knowing these people were flawed makes them more real.
