Zap sits a few rows in front of me, wedged between his parents. He watches the photo of Lucinda on the altar like he hopes it will start moving, like if he stares long enough, she will jump out of her glossy frame and into the pew next to him.
His glasses are folded in his lap. Hair flat in the back. It’s not that I wish he wanted me again, as a best friend or anything else. That’s not it at all. I guess I hate that he looks like a wilted, airless version of himself—all for someone that isn’t me.
The blatant narcissism of this thought nearly makes me laugh out loud. How self-indulgent. I stop myself, only to realize that the funeral is over.
People stand. They mill around, hugging one another, gossiping in hushed voices about the possibility of a town curfew if the police don’t catch the killer. Amy beelines for her friends from school. She pointedly ignores Lex: Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe all Amy’s fuss about Lucinda is just a sign of her melodrama. Her own liar grief.
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I uncoil my headphones and place them over my ears. The sound of the memorial chapel is muffled, filtered through pieces of plastic and foam. I don’t turn on any music. I’m thankful for the barrier between my ears and the scene around me, so I sit while everyone chats, trickles out.
That’s when I see her: Querida. She clings to the arm of a man who is not Madly. A black veil covers her face, but I recognize the sway of her hair, the slight bulge of hip beneath her form-fitting black dress. Part of me wants to walk over, say hello. But how do you categorize your knowledge of someone like that? Someone you’ve only watched, who you’ve asked a dumb question once, someone you wish you could magic yourself into? The answer: you don’t. So when Ma sends Amy over to collect me, I put on my jacket and follow them out, headphones still on.
A few paces ahead: Cameron and his mother. He hasn’t looked away from his own feet.
When we get outside, the wind is brutal. Two police officers are getting out of a squad car. They’re both burly, just how you’d imagine cops would look, with broad shoulders and beer bellies. One has a moustache—the kind of moustache you grow as a joke—and the other twirls a toothpick between his jaws. They walk toward us. No—toward Cameron.
They arrested Cameron’s dad on Labor Day. Fifth grade. I was at Zap’s house, watching a SpongeBob marathon and eating butter mixed with brown sugar, when Terry rang the doorbell.
Ma had sent him to bring me home. You could have just called, Mrs. Arnaud said. Terry was small and twitchy on the front porch, wringing doughy hands. You haven’t heard? he asked. Our cop neighbor was just arrested. Jade, it’s time to come home.
Ma sat on the couch in the living room, drinking cold tea from earlier that morning. With the phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, she picked through a container of leftover Chinese food.
“Lee Whitley,” she said into the phone. “You know, the police officer who lives around the corner? Next to the Hansens?”
Faint babbling from the other end.
“The police department just released a statement. It’s awful, just so awful. He pulled her over on the highway, claimed she was speeding. Poor girl was only twenty-three. Dragged her into a ditch on the side of the road and beat her nearly to death. She’s alive, but still in the hospital.”
A string of lo mein slipped from between her chopsticks.
“Yeah, they’re sure it was him. I know, I know. He was always so nice, wasn’t he? And his wife. Sweet woman, very timid. They have that boy, too; he’s two years below Jay in school. Skinny little thing. Never looks you in the eye.”
That was just the start of it.
The town talked for weeks. No one tried to hide it from the kids. Me and Amy weren’t allowed to walk past the Whitleys’ house, not while Cameron’s dad was awaiting trial. We had to take the long way around the backyard to get to school. I broke this rule whenever possible, dragging my feet across the sidewalk by their house, trying to get a peek into the Whitleys’ living room, to see where the bad man ate dinner and brushed his teeth. The Whitleys kept their curtains shut.
I’d steal glances at the headlines before Terry whisked them away every morning.
“WHITLEY TO STAND TRIAL; VICTIM WON’T TESTIFY”
“BROOMSVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT DENIES ALLEGED ASSAULT”
Lee Whitley never looked particularly threatening. He was slight, like Cameron, with duck feet and a scraggly beard that never looked full. He had pale skin and light eyes, somewhere between green and brown. Perpetually sweaty. Not intimidating. I’d see him in his cop car some days after work, just sitting in the Whitleys’ driveway, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup with his feet on the dashboard.
The headlines escalated as the trial progressed.
“EVIDENCE FOR ASSAULT CASE DISAPPEARS FROM POLICE HOLDING”
“BROOMSVILLE POLICE LIEUTENANT TESTIFIES FOR DEFENSE”
“WHITLEY PRONOUNCED NOT GUILTY”
“His friends got him off,” Ma said, swirling white wine at the kitchen table with the windows open. “Sick. It’s just sick.”
“RELEASED POLICE OFFICER FLEES, LEAVING WIFE AND YOUNG SON BEHIND”
The victim was a skinny brunette with a trail of hearts tattooed down the side of her neck. Hilary Jameson. She moved away after Cameron’s dad disappeared. Once they were both gone, everyone stopped talking about it. A few weeks later, I walked past the Whitleys’ house—the curtains were still closed, but someone had planted a single tulip in a pot on the front porch. It was a violent shade of purple, the color of a bruise.
WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY BUT CAN’T WITHOUT BEING A DICK
A Screenplay by Jade Dixon-Burns
INT. CHURCH—DAY
Celly and Friend sit in a church, surrounded by construction. Above them: a lopsided crucifix. Friend eyes Celly as she fidgets with an earring, impressed by her no-bullshit demeanor.
CELLY
Do you ever wonder why some people have beautiful faces and others don’t?
FRIEND
Genetics?
His words echo through the cavernous space. Celly looks up. Leans in.
CELLY
(whispered)
I have this idea. Maybe ugly people exist so we can understand the human brain a little better. If everyone was pretty, no one would need to talk.
(beat)
I’ve seen your drawings, stashed away in the art room.
Friend averts his eyes.
CELLY (CONT’D)
You make people prettier than they actually are. The way you smudge the pencil. The way you shape their faces.
FRIEND
I draw people exactly how I see them.
CELLY
But isn’t that a lie, if it’s not actually how they look?
FRIEND
Art can’t be a lie.
CELLY
That sounds pretty pretentious.
FRIEND
It’s all about perception. What I see is automatically my truth, simply because I’ve seen it. I’ve interpreted it that way.
CELLY
(in spite of herself)
Fair.
Celly picks at her black nail polish.
CELLY (CONT’D)
What do you see when you look at me?
He watches her.
FRIEND
A knife. An idealist. A rock. Soft flesh.
Russ