I Swear

6. KATHERINE

As I stood next to Macie in front of the cameras and watched her taking questions from the reporters, all I could think about was Aunt Liza telling me that I didn’t have to prove I was pretty. Before every pageant I’d ever competed in, Aunt Liza did my hair. Nobody could get a French twist quite as tight as she could, and we always talked while she worked with the brushes and the pins. I always asked if she was coming, and every time I asked, she said the same thing:

“Sweet pea, I know you got more brains and more talent than the rest of them girls combined, and I’ve never even seen ’em. You ain’t got to prove you’re pretty to me.”

Macie had come to prove something this morning. She was dressed for a funeral. Her outfit was perfect and professional—and all black. Her lips were red like blood, and when Principal Jenkins had seen her click click click out onto the front steps of the school, he’d looked relieved. The reporters saw a Merrick and rushed on over to us like Jenkins was yesterday’s tuna fish.

Macie made the local evening news last year when we ran for student council and won. We were the first two females ever to win the president and vice president positions at Westport High, and she’d made the most of it—kept my hand up in the air for so long clutched in hers when the reporters showed up for the vote announcement that my whole arm fell asleep.

I remember standing there and asking through my smile why there were reporters in the gym.

“Because I had my dad’s press secretary tip off her contacts, silly,” she hissed. “Keep smiling. This is gonna get you into Harvard Law.”

So I smiled. Hard. Till it hurt.

Today, I didn’t have to ask Macie how the reporters knew about a suicide at a local high school. I knew. She’d probably sent two or three text messages and an email from her phone at Jillian’s this morning. She’d known exactly what time she and I should walk out onto the front steps.

“Miss Merrick, as student body president, what’s the message you have for your fellow students today?” It was Mary Jackson from Channel 13 News.

“That suicide is not the answer,” said Macie in a clear, concerned voice. She looked stricken. “High school can be hard. The schedule is demanding. The social stress is high. But there is always another answer,” she said. “Our message today at Westport, and at high schools all over our city, should be that there is always hope.”

“Did you know Leslie Gatlin?” asked Hank Arnold from Action News 5.

“I did know her, Hank, though we weren’t close. On behalf of the student body here at Westport, I want to send our deepest sympathies and condolences to her family. I can’t imagine what her parents must be feeling this morning.”

Had to hand it to Macie. She was good at this. It was like watching a pro running back dodging linemen all the way to the end zone.

I glanced over at Brad, who was standing behind the cameras across from Macie, but he was looking down at his phone, and before I could catch his eye, he took several steps backward and answered a call. I heard him whisper, “Hey, Jillian,” but I couldn’t hear anything else.

“Did Leslie seem agitated or sad the last time you spoke?” Hank followed up with Macie.

“I wouldn’t want to speculate on Leslie’s mental health,” said Macie, then she looked directly into the camera. “I hadn’t spoken to her in several weeks. I just . . .” And there was a pause so slight that if you were watchin’ her at home, you might not have caught it unless you were staring right at her. Her lip quivered and for a hot second her eyes got a little glossy, like a pat of butter melting on a pancake. Almost tears—but not quite. “I can’t imagine what must have been going on in her mind.” Macie swallowed hard and blinked several times, obviously shaken. “What kind of anguish does one have to be in to devastate the people you leave behind?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brad take off running toward the senior parking lot, as Mary Jackson jostled for position in front of Macie and asked, “Macie, to your knowledge, was Leslie bullied?”

“Thank you for asking, Mary.” Macie was all business now. “Principal Jenkins has instituted a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. One of our major initiatives this year on the student council has been to institute a campus-wide bully-free zone. I’ve already talked this morning to Katherine Fraisure, my stuco vice president, and my boyfriend, Brad Wyst, the captain of the football team. We’re planning to head up a committee to make counseling services and peer support groups available here at Westport.”

As the questions continued, Macie deferred a couple to Principal Jenkins, who joined us on the front steps, and I slowly lowered my eyes and glanced at my watch. Ten minutes until the assembly. I barely had enough time to sneak over to Starbucks for some tea and a Perfect Oatmeal. The idea of sitting through an assembly on an empty stomach was enough to kill me. Deep down, though, beneath the hunger, there was a knot growing in my stomach that had been there since I’d woken up and heard Beth crying this morning. It was fear, plain and simple, and the more Macie talked, the worse it felt.

I had a bad feeling about all this. Leslie had been bullied. I knew. Macie knew it. We knew, because we’d done the bullying. Macie could spin it all she wanted, but at the end of the day, now there was tape of her lying about what went on.

I stepped back as Macie crowded forward toward the rush of mics. If you think I’m going down with this ship, you don’t know me very well.

As I slowly stepped to the side of Principal Jenkins and down the stairs toward my car in the senior lot, I saw Beth standing in the doorway of the lobby, in front of the trophy cases, her mouth flung so far open, I was afraid she might swallow a fly. Her wispy blond pixie cut was freshly parted, and the freckles on her nose stood out against her fair skin. She was even paler than usual.

I stepped out of the shot and around the bank of cameras, then slipped in the door.

“Beth?”

“Katherine, what is she saying?”

I glanced back out at the mob scene on the front steps. “Oh, you know Macie. She’s makin’ it up as she goes along.”

Beth’s eyes didn’t move an inch from the back of Macie’s head.

“No, Katherine. What is she saying about me?”

When I put my hand on her shoulder, I could feel her shaking through her hoodie.

“Beth, honey, she’s not sayin’ a damn thing about you. She’s just talking about safe zones and antibullying intiatives.”

Beth turned and looked at me. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had moisturizer under her nose that wasn’t rubbed in, and her eyeliner was a crooked mess. That girl can nail a double layout dismount with a half twist, but it’s a good day when her socks match.

“Katherine,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “You have to help me.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Beth pulled me through the hall, toward the doors that led to the back parking lot. The benches outside were deserted. Everyone was around front for the media feeding frenzy. She pulled me down onto a bench by the door and started to sob.

“This is all my fault, Katherine. I was the meanest one to Leslie. Macie’s gonna tell everyone that I’m the one to blame.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re the only one who can help me. You’re the only one who has ever shown even a spark of standing up to Macie.”

“Help you with what, Beth?”

She was crying so hard she couldn’t say.

I held her for a while until her tears subsided, then I sat her up and wiped my finger under her nose to smooth in her face cream.

“I’m going to get some tea at Starbucks. You comin’? Macie can handle this.”

Beth shook her head. “No, I can’t leave. I have to hear what she says.”

I nodded. “I’ll meet you in the assembly with a chamomile. Sound good?”

She smiled, and I picked up my purse.

• • •

When I pulled up to the Starbucks across the street, I saw Jillian holding her phone up to Brad at a table inside. And I don’t know if it was the way she looked at him, or the way he brushed that speck of foam off her lip, or the way he grabbed her hand as they stood up to leave, but something in me got real quiet and I had a feeling something was up.

Brad held the door for Jillian, and I watched them turn away from my car as they walked down the side of the building to Jillian’s car and got in it. Then Brad talked while Jillian sipped coffee and rubbed her temples with her hands. And just when I thought Jills was gonna turn the key in the ignition, Brad reached over and took her hand off the steering wheel and kissed it, real soft.

It felt like time stood still—like I was watching something I shouldn’t be, like in sixth grade when I found the Christmas presents too early and kept sneaking down to Mama’s room to look at the boxes under the bed when Aunt Liza took a nap. It felt all wrong, but I couldn’t stop looking.

As I sat there watching, slouched down in my seat like a bandit, Brad took Jillian’s face in his hands and leaned in and kissed her. Not a peck; a long, slow, strong kiss that made me gasp out loud like a damn fool. And they sat there kissing for a good long time, at least a minute or two.

Long enough for me to gather my senses, grab my phone, and take three pictures.

I wasn’t sure why I took them.

But all at once, I had a plan.