Hate List Part 16

"Okay," I said. She started to walk toward Meghan.

I had a sudden flash of clarity. What was it Detective Panzella had said about the girl who helped clear me? She was blond. Tall. A junior. Kept repeating, "She didn't shoot anybody..." She was blond. Tall. A junior. Kept repeating, "She didn't shoot anybody..."

"Jessica?" I called. She turned around. "Um, thanks."

"No problem," she said. "Just be there, okay?"

A few minutes later Mom pulled up in front of the school and honked. I hobbled out to the car and slid in. Mom looked grim behind the wheel.

"I can't believe you missed the bus," she said. I recognized the voice-her annoyed and frustrated voice. The one she often used when coming home from work.

"Sorry," I said. "I had to get help with an a.s.signment."

"Why didn't you just get a ride with your dad?"

The question struck me like a finger poke to the chest. I could feel my heart start to speed up. Could feel my stomach roll around, trying on the truth for size. Could hear the rational side of me screaming into my ear, She needs to know!She deserves to know! She needs to know!She deserves to know!

"Dad was busy with a client," I lied. "I would've had to wait just as long for him."

I guess I should have felt guilty for lying to Mom about what I knew. But then again Dad didn't shoot anybody, either.

24.

The following Sat.u.r.day I'd begged Mom to take me over to Bea's studio after our session with Dr. Hieler.

"I don't know, Valerie," Mom said, a crease between her eyebrows. "Art cla.s.ses? I've never even heard of this woman before. I didn't even know an art studio was there. Are you sure it's safe?"

I rolled my eyes. Mom had been in a mood for days. It almost seemed like the more I tried to move on with my life, the less she trusted me. "Yes, of course it's safe. She's just an artist, Mom. C'mon, can't you just let me do this one thing? You can go grocery shopping at Shop 'N' Shop while I'm there."

"I don't know."

"Please? Mom, c'mon, you're always saying you want me to do something normal. Art cla.s.ses are normal."

She sighed. "Okay, but I'm coming in with you. I want to check this place out. Last time I just let you run around and do whatever you wanted, you got involved with Nick Levil, and look where that got us."

"So you remind me every day," I muttered, rolling my eyes. I pushed my thumb into the dent in my thigh to keep myself from blowing up at her. With the mood she'd been in, she'd probably change her mind about taking me to Bea's.

We walked into Bea's together and I could feel Mom hesitate at the door, once the musty and heavy air surrounded us.

"What is this place?" she said in a low voice.

"Shhh," I hissed, although I wasn't exactly sure why I wanted her to be quiet. Maybe because I was afraid that Bea would hear her and tell me I couldn't come to cla.s.ses after all. That Mom's negative energy would ruin the amazing purple morning light.

I walked down the aisle toward the back, where I could hear a tinkling of music-bells tapping out rhythmically-and a soft murmuring of voices. I could see backs of artists perched on the stools in front of canvases. There was an elderly lady working with paper off to one side, folding and creasing it into intricate animals and shapes, and a little boy playing with a pair of Matchbox cars under one of the low tables. Bea was bent over a mirror, around which she was placing and pasting an elaborate design of seash.e.l.ls. I stopped at the end of the aisle, suddenly sure that I'd misunderstood Bea before and that I shouldn't be here. She was being nice. She didn't really want me here She was being nice. She didn't really want me here, I thought. I should go. I should go.

But before I could even complete that last thought, Bea had straightened and was smiling at me, her hair teased into a glittery mound on top of her head, with ribbons and little baubles hanging from it.

"Valerie," she said, spreading her arms out wide. "My purple Valerie!" She clapped her hands twice. "You've come back. I was waiting for you."

I nodded. "I was hoping I could, er... take some art cla.s.ses from you. Painting."

She was moving toward us, then, but was completely ignoring me. Her grin had turned to a toothy smile as she enveloped my mother. I could see Mom's body go stiff under the embrace of Bea, and then, as Bea whispered for a long time in Mom's ear, her body relaxed. When Bea pulled away again, Mom's scowl was gone, replaced by a look of curiosity. Bea was strange, no doubt about it. She was just the kind of person Mom would normally consider a kook, but Bea's eccentricity fit her so well that, even in a mood, Mom seemed to be disarmed by it.

"It's so nice to meet you," Bea said to Mom. Mom nodded, swallowed, but said nothing back. "Of course you'll paint with us, Valerie. I've got an easel right over there for you."

"How much will it cost?" Mom asked, opening her purse and digging around inside.

Bea waved her hands in the air. "Costs patience and creativity, mostly. Also time and practice. And self-acceptance. But you won't find any of those things in your purse."

Mom froze, looked up at Bea curiously, then snapped her purse shut. "I'll be at Shop 'N' Shop. You have one hour," she said to me. "Just one."

"One's my favorite number," Bea giggled. "The word won won being the past tense of being the past tense of win win, and we can all say at the end of the day that we've won once again, can't we? Some days making it to the end of the day is quite the victory."

Mom said nothing in response, just slowly and deliberately picked her way back down the aisle. I could feel the swoosh of parking lot air waft into the studio as Mom left the building.

One. Won. One hour. Just one. Won. I tossed the words around in my head. I tossed the words around in my head.

I turned to Bea. "I'd like to paint," I said. "I need to paint."

"Then you, of course, will paint. You've been painting since this morning when you first got up." She tapped her temple with her finger. "Up here. You've been painting and painting. Using lots of purple right here. You have the painting complete. All you need to do is put it on canvas."

She led me to a stool and I sat, mesmerized by the paintings of the artists sitting, silently working, in front of me. A lady painting a snowy landscape, another weaving rusty red colors over a barn she'd painstakingly drawn with pencil. A man painting a military airplane, using a photograph taped to the upper-left-hand corner of the easel for reference. Bea bustled over to a nearby cart and came back with a palette and brush for me.

"Now," she said, "You'll want to paint your grays first, for shadowing. You'll probably get no further than that today. You'll need to give it some time to dry before you splash on your glorious colors." She opened a jar and poured some brown jelly-like stuff onto the palette next to the colors. "And don't forget to mix your paints with this. It'll help them dry faster."

I nodded, picked up the brush, and began painting. No sketching, no reference pictures. Just the picture in my mind-Dr. Hieler as I really saw him. There would be few shadows in this picture. No darkness.

"Hmmm," said Bea over my shoulder. "Oh my, yes." And then she moved to another part of the studio. I could hear her whispering gentle instruction to the other artists, giving tender support. At one point she burst into loud laughter when an artist told her he'd stuffed his cell phone in the blender that morning and turned it on the puree setting. But I couldn't look at her. I couldn't look up at all, not until the outside air brushed the back of my neck again and I heard Mom's voice, so staccato it didn't belong in the studio at all, float up the aisle at me: "Time's up, Valerie."

When I looked up, I was surprised to see that Bea was standing next to me with her hand on my shoulder. "Time's never up," she whispered, not looking at me, but at my canvas. "Just like there's always time for pain, there's always time for healing. Of course there is."

25.

I had just turned the corner of the science hall when Meghan shouted out my name and jogged up behind me. I slowed, glanced worriedly in the direction of Mrs. Stone's room, where the StuCo meeting would be starting in just a few minutes, and reluctantly stopped.

"Hey, Valerie, wait up," Meghan yelled, her hair bouncing as she rushed toward me. "I want to talk to you."

Normally I would have definitely kept walking. Meghan had made it excruciatingly clear that she thought I was responsible for what happened, and I could guess that anything she'd have to say to me wouldn't be good.

But I didn't have anywhere else to turn. The hallways were empty at this time of day at this end of the building. All the athletes were down in the field house. Everyone else had already caught their rides home.

"Hey," she breathed again when she caught up to me. "Going to the StuCo meeting?"

"Yeah," I answered uncertainly, crossing my arms over my chest defensively. "Jessica asked me to."

"Cool, I'll walk with," Meghan said. I looked at her for a second longer and then slowly began walking toward Mrs. Stone's room. After a few steps she said, "I like your idea about the time capsule. It's gonna be pretty cool."

"Thanks," I said and we walked some more. I bit my lip, considered, then said, "No offense or anything, but why are you walking with me?"

Meghan tilted her head to the side, seeming to consider this. "Truth? Jessica told me I had to be nice to you. Well, not really told me, but, you know... she got kind of mad at me for shutting you out and we had this fight about it. We made up and everything, but I decided she's right. I can at least try." She shrugged. "You don't act mean or anything. Mostly you're just quiet."

"I don't usually know what to say," I said. "I've always been quiet. It's just not been very noticeable before, I guess."

She glanced at me. "Yeah, you're probably right," she said.

We could see Mrs. Stone's room up ahead. A light was on inside and we could hear voices spilling out the doorway. Mrs. Stone's voice hovering above them; a few laughs puncturing the air. We stopped.

"I wanted to ask you something," Meghan said. "Um... somebody told me my name was on the Hate List. And I was just wondering, you know... why? I mean, a lot of people are talking about how the victims deserved what they got and stuff because they like, bullied Nick, but I didn't even really know you guys. I never even talked to him."

I pressed my lips together and wished more than anything that I was already in Mrs. Stone's room, with Jessica as my buffer. Meghan was right about one thing-we didn't really know her all that well before the shooting. We'd never really talked to her or had a gripe about her personally. But we felt like we knew her well enough, given who she hung out with.

I remembered the day Meghan's name was added to the list.

Nick and I had been eating lunch when Chris Summer and his stooge friends walked past our table, practically owning the Commons, just like always.

"Hey, freak," Chris said. "Hold this for me." He pulled a wad of gum out of his mouth and dropped it in Nick's mashed potatoes. His buddies burst out laughing, hands on their chests, stumbling around like they were drunk.

"Oh man, that's disgusting..."

"Good one, man..."

"Enjoy those potatoes, freak..."

They ambled over to their table, taking their laughter with them. I could see the anger boil up in Nick, his eyes darkening and dulling to black holes, his jaw clenched. It was different than he'd been that day at the movies. Then he'd looked sad, defeated. Now he looked p.i.s.sed. He started to push himself away from the table.

"Don't," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. Nick had been busted for fighting twice already that month and Angerson was threatening suspension. "They aren't worth the time. Here, just eat mine." I pushed my lunch tray toward him. "I don't like potatoes anyway."

He froze, his nostrils flaring, his palms pressed flat against the table. He took a few deep breaths and lowered himself back into his seat. "No," he said softly, pus.h.i.+ng my tray back toward me. "I'm not hungry."

We ate the rest of our lunch in silence, me flicking glances at Chris Summer's table behind us. I memorized the kids sitting there-Meghan Norris among them-all practically bowing to Chris like he was some kind of G.o.d. And when I got home that night, I opened my book and wrote each of their names down one by one.

Seemed really justified at the time. I hated them all so much for what they were doing to Nick, to me, to us. But now, standing in the hallway outside Mrs. Stone's cla.s.sroom, everything felt different. Standing in the hallway outside Mrs. Stone's room, Meghan wasn't so horrible. She was just another confused person trying to get it right. Just like me.

"It wasn't about you," I told Meghan honestly. "It was Chris. You were sitting with him at lunch one time..." I trailed off, realizing that no matter how mad Nick and I had been that day, no matter how mean Chris had been to Nick, given everything that had happened, it just wouldn't make sense to her. It barely made sense to me anymore. "It was stupid. No, it was wrong."

Fortunately, Jessica stuck her head around the doorjamb of Mrs. Stone's room and peered out at us.

"Oh, hey," she said. "I thought I heard voices. C'mon, we're about to start."

She disappeared back into the room. Meghan and I stood out in the hallway awkwardly for a few minutes.

"Well," she said at last, "I guess it doesn't matter anymore anyway, right?" She smiled. It was forced, but not fake. I appreciated that much, at least.

"I guess not," I said.

"C'mon. If we don't get in there, Jess'll start throwing a fit."

We walked into Mrs. Stone's room and for the first time I did it without feeling like running away.

26.

[FROM THE G GARVIN C COUNTY S SUN-TRIBUNE,.

MAY 3, 2008, R 3, 2008, REPORTER A ANGELA D DASH]Nick Levil, 17-Although witnesses and police investigation have positively identified Nick Levil, a junior, as the shooter, what remains unclear is his motivation for the crime. "He was kind of out there, but I wouldn't call him a loner or anything," junior Stacey Brinks told reporters. "He had a girlfriend and lots of other friends, too. He talked about suicide sometimes-a lot, actually-but he never said anything about killing anyone else. At least not to us he didn't. Maybe Valerie knew, but we didn't."Police have been able, with the aid of security videos, to track the movements of Levil on the morning of May 2nd, and have pieced together a clear picture of what took place in the cafeteria that day. After opening fire on a lunchroom packed with students, mostly uppercla.s.smen, Levil shot his girlfriend, Valerie Leftman, in the leg and then turned the gun on himself. Portions of the videos, which show the grisly ending to his rampage, have been aired online and on some news channels, causing an uproar among Levil's family."My son may have been the shooter, but he's still a victim," Levil's mother told reporters. "d.a.m.n those media sharks who think that something like this isn't already tearing my family apart. Do they think this won't rip our hearts out to see our son put a bullet through his brain time and time again?"Levil's stepfather added tearfully, "Our son is dead, too. Please don't forget that."

I don't know how it happened, but somehow I must have gotten used to being friends with Jessica Campbell. The end of the semester came and went and had Dr. Hieler not done this big gloating thing at one of our sessions, I might have never even noticed.

"I told you you'd make it through the semester," he'd said. "d.a.m.n, I'm good at this!"

"Don't get too full of yourself," I'd teased. "n.o.body said I'm going back after winter break. How do you know I'm not still going to transfer?"

But I did go back after winter break and the nerves that had accompanied me the first day of school were much less debilitating when I plowed through the doors in January.

People seemed to be generally getting used to the idea that I was going to be around, which seemed to be helped by the fact that Jessica and I sat together at lunch every day.

And I still had the Student Council meetings. I was beginning to partic.i.p.ate more, even helping decorate the room for Mrs. Stone's birthday. We were going to have a special meeting-about five minutes of working on the memorial project and the rest of the time dedicated to eating cake and giving Mrs. Stone grief about being old. It was going to be a surprise, and we were working fast to get the decorating finished before Mrs. Stone came back in from bus duty.

"I'm so going to the JT concert," Jessica said. She leaned forward in her chair and it tilted under her. She wobbled for a minute, steadied herself, and hiked herself further up on her tiptoes. She tore a piece of masking tape off the roll and stuck the blue streamer in her hand on the brick of the school wall. "You going?"

"No, my mom won't let me," Meghan said. She was holding the other end of the piece of streamer. Jessica tossed her the roll of tape. Meghan reached to catch it and dropped her end of the streamer. "Dang it!"

"I've got it," I said. I hobbled over and grabbed the streamer, twisted it the way Meghan had it before, and handed it up to her.

"Thanks," she said. She stood up on her toes and secured it to the wall. While she was doing that, Jessica was busy blowing up a balloon to tape in the center of the streamer.

I plucked a balloon out of the bag on the desk behind me and started blowing it up, too. Behind me, some of the others were laying out a tablecloth and the cake. Josh had hurried down to the cafeteria to get the drinks Jessica's mom had brought in earlier that day.

"Wish I I could go," Meghan said. "I love Justin Timberlake." could go," Meghan said. "I love Justin Timberlake."

"G.o.d, he's so hot, isn't he?" Jessica added.