Once, I’d even overheard him complaining to her that he wished I had more friends so that they could spend lunch alone together, seeing as how they didn’t get to spend much time together outside of school. “Don’t you ever want her to just like … go away sometimes?”
Sarah primly told him, “No,” and refused to speak to him for a week.
Even so, when Valentine’s Day came around, just a month before the shooting, Richie showed up at school with a teddy bear for Sarah (one she’d have to lie to her parents about) and a bag of Skittles for me.
“What’s this for?” I’d asked.
He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to feel left out.”
Richiehatedthat first period computer science class with Ms. Taylor. He complained about it to Sarah constantly. He’d wanted to be in one of the elective Ag classes, but there’d been some sort of schedule issue, so he was stuck. Denny says he was always getting reprimanded by Ms. Taylor for playing games instead of working.
Chances are, that’s what he was doing when the shooter walked into that classroom.
There was so much more to Richie McMullen. Plenty of stories I don’t even know. But I hope this is enough so that, if anyone ever reads this, they won’t remember him as just one of the faceless, nameless victims—one of the nine—of the VCHS massacre.
Instead, maybe you’ll remember him as Carrot.
I think he’d have liked that.
I could’ve listened to Detective Jenner. Could’ve dropped Denny off at his house, gone back home, and never mentioned any of the Sarah issue ever again. For a second, I considered it. It would’ve been so easy.
But there was another article about the McHales’ book when I got home that evening. I didn’t even have to go looking on any of the VCHS message boards to find it this time, either. It was a top story on my browser’s home page as soon as I logged in: “Three Years On, Parents Remember Their Daughter’s Brave Sacrifice.”
The headline made me squirm. Brave? Sacrifice? I hated when these kinds of words got tossed around about Sarah. It always made what had happened in that bathroom sound like something glorious, like the climax of an Oscar-winning movie rather than the blur of terror and confusion that it really was. Which I guess was deliberate, since this article mentioned that a famous actress’s production company was, “according to a reliable source,” seriously considering optioning the not-yet-published biography.
I logged out without reading any further. The buzz around this book was getting bigger already, and I knew what that meant. Soon there would be reporters in Virgil County again, digging up the old stories about Sarah. About all of us. And they were going to get everything wrong.
I wanted the book canceled. Wanted to stamp out the flame before it turned into a wildfire. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated what would happen if I called one of the major news outlets. If I told them what really happened with Sarah McHale—that I was holding her hand when she died. That everything they’d ever reported about her was a lie. That would get attention. That would make the publisher reconsider that book deal.
It would be so easy.
But it would also be cruel. I couldn’t do that to Sarah’s parents. I couldn’t let them find out the truth from a newspaper article. If they had to know the truth, they deserved to hear it from me. I’d avoided telling them for three years, thinking it was better to just let them believe whatever gave them comfort. But if this was the only way to stop the book, then it had to be done.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my keys and hurried back out to my truck.
Mom had just pulled in when I stepped out onto the porch. She waved as she got out of her car. “I bought pizza,” she said.
“Save me a slice,” I said as I hoisted myself into my truck. “I’ll be back later.”
“Where are you going?”
But I’d already started the engine and was backing out of the driveway.
The McHales live about ten minutes away from me, just past Wargin Park and down a gravel road. My hands trembled on the steering wheel, shaking harder the closer I got.
It was unsettlingly familiar, pulling into their driveway and walking up the front steps. I’d seen them around town dozens of times over the years, but this was my first visit to their home since that awkward dinner where I’d first tried to tell Ruth what had happened to Sarah.
And now I was here again. Uninvited. About to tell them something I knew they didn’t want to hear.
I took a deep breath and knocked on the front door. Ruth was there within a minute, and she was, unsurprisingly, completely baffled by my presence.
“Leanne,” she said, immediately replacing her confused expression with a kind smile. “What a surprise! Come in, come in.” She stepped aside and gestured me into the living room.
“Who is it, honey?” I heard Chad call from down the hall.
“Leanne Bauer,” Ruth said, her voice raised just enough to be heard across the house, but sounding nothing like a yell. Ruth McHale never yelled. She turned back to me then. “I just realized I left my cell phone at work. Did you call? I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I didn’t. I just … I’m sorry to barge in.”
