I didtryto tell Sarah’s parents the truth after the shooting.
It was late July, about two weeks before the school reopened, and the McHales had invited me for dinner at their house.
I hadn’t wanted to go, honestly. Not because I didn’t like the McHales—they’d been a second family to me since I was seven and first slept over at their house. Chad, Sarah’s dad, had played board games with us for hours while Ruth, her mom, baked cookies and made us laugh with silly jokes. Then they’d invited me to church with them the next morning. I’d said no. I hadn’t packed church clothes in my overnight bag, and I was embarrassed. They dropped me off at my house on their way to Virgil County Baptist, but Ruth told me that their house was mine now, too. It was the first of dozens—maybe even hundreds—of sleepovers. I was in their home nearly as much as my own. Sometimes it felt like I saw Ruth and Chad more than I saw my mother, who was working two jobs at the time. And almost every week, that offer to attend church with them was made. They never tried to pressure me or make me feel guilty when I said no (and I always said no), but the door stayed open.
I loved the McHales. I still do. Though I doubt they feel the same now.
But that night—the night they invited me for dinner—would have been my first time seeing them since Sarah’s funeral. My first time in their house since the shooting. And the idea of walking through their front door without Sarah waiting on the other side, of sitting on their couch without her flopping down next to me while she apologized for accidentally spoiling an episode of our favorite TV show that I hadn’t gotten to yet, of walking past her bedroom and knowing no one had slept there for months …
I didn’t want to go.
But I also didn’t want to hurt their feelings, and in the end, my need to be polite overruled all my other instincts.
“We’re so glad you were able to come see us, Leanne,” Ruth said, spooning mashed potatoes on a plate before passing it to me. “We wanted to see how you were doing before you head back to school. To catch up. I’m not sure we’ve ever gone this long without seeing you. The house doesn’t feel quite the same without you and …” She trailed off. Her eyes, the same wide, round shape as Sarah’s, dropped to the table, as if she were suddenly interested in the pale yellow tablecloth.
“It’s been a quiet summer,” Chad agreed.
“The, um … the mashed potatoes are delicious,” I said, chewing on my bottom lip. I hadn’t actually tried them yet. I’d been sliding them around on my plate with the tip of my fork, willing myself to develop some sort of appetite.
Ruth probably saw right through me, but still she said, “Thank you, sweetie.”
I’m not sure any of us lifted a bite to our lips as the silent minutes crept passed. Forks scraped against plates, and Chad sawed away at his pork chop for so long that, by the time anyone actually spoke, it had been cut into pieces no bigger than my thumbnail.
“I hear Ashley Chambers is out of the hospital,” Ruth said. “Have you seen her, Leanne?”
“Um, no. I mean, not recently. I saw her in the hospital a few weeks ago but not since she came home.”
“She’s a sweet girl,” Chad said. “I heard she got engaged to that Osborne boy. Oh, what’s his name? Help me out, Ruth. Jennifer and Don’s son. The one with the freckles.”
“Logan,” Ruth said.
“That’s it. Logan Osborne. Good kid. Do you know him, Leanne?”
I shook my head. “No. I think he graduated before I got to VCHS. I didn’t even really know Ashley until … recently.”
“She’s a good girl, that Ashley,” Ruth said. “So is her sister, Tara. She’s a little younger than you and Sarah, I think. Their family has gone to our church for years. Those girls were always so sweet to Sarah. I’m so glad they’ll both be there this Sunday when we announce the billboard.”
“Billboard?”
Ruth glanced at Chad. “Well, it was supposed to be kept quiet until Sunday but … You know that highway you take out of town if you’re headed toward Evansville?”
I nodded, dread already bubbling in my stomach.
“Several churches around Indiana worked together to raise money so we could put up a billboard for Sarah,” Ruth said. “Right on the highway. It’ll have her picture and her favorite Bible verse. To remind everyone who sees it what she stood for.”
“What we should all stand for,” Chad said.
“Isn’t that wonderful, Leanne? Sarah did always want to be famous … Leanne, sweetie, are you okay?”
I was standing, without even realizing what I was doing. “I need the bathroom.” And before she or Chad could say another word, I was running through the living room and down the hall, speeding through the house I knew as well as my own, until I reached the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
I leaned back against the door, pressing my hands to my eyes and breathing in and out slowly. I felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. Like my body had suddenly turned on me and was actively trying to destroy me from the inside.
Panic attack, I told myself.You’re okay. It’s just a panic attack. Not even a bad one. Just breathe.
When it had passed, I moved to the sink, running cold water over my hands, then splashing it onto my face. When I looked up into the mirror, there was a split second where I swear I was looking into the past.
Sarah was standing behind me in a dark green dress—the one she’d worn to our eighth-grade end-of-year dance. Her long red hair fell around her shoulders in loose, beachy waves. She’d learned how to style it that way from a YouTube tutorial. And now she was wielding a curling iron like a weapon as she tried to turn my limp, dark brown hair into something stylish. That was back when my hair fell nearly to my waist. I’d chopped it all off a few days after the shooting because I couldn’t get it clean enough. No matter how many times I washed it, I was sure I smelled the blood.
