I never got that necklace back. It was buried with Sarah McHale.
Mynecklace. The one I’d worn every day. Was in another girl’s coffin. And God, at the time, that made me so angry.
When I first heard the Sarah Story, I thought it would be easy to correct. It was a misunderstanding. It wouldn’t be a big deal to just tell people the truth. But we know how that ended. With harassment and vandalism and my mother crying because the women in her office were making her life a living hell. My preacher at my church didn’t believe me. My own grandmother died a year later, still sure I was a liar who just wanted attention.
Meanwhile, there were youth rallies in Sarah’s honor, songs written about her, politicians telling “her” story as they lobbied either for or against whatever was on the agenda for that week. And hey, I get it. Like I told Lee, it’s a great story. The girl who dies for her faith is much more compelling—and useful—than the goth loner who was so scared out of her mind that she would have done or said anything to survive. Plus, I lived. Where was the drama in that?
If you’ve read everything Lee wrote, then you know the rest. By the time VCHS opened up again, my family couldn’t take it anymore. Mom packed up and moved us to another state, and Dad, along with his new wife, followed shortly after.
That’s when I started going by my middle name, Renee, and stopped talking about the shooting altogether. They’d never have said it, but I know my parents were relieved. Sometimes, I still wonder if they even believe me.
I don’t think I want to know.
***
It’s been a few days now since I wrote that last section. It’s the first time I’ve really explored the shooting in years, outside of my own nightmares. It was painful, yeah, but it also felt good to write it all down. To tell my story and not be screamed at or spat on.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with this document. I keep thinking about it. Circling the options over and over in my head, weighing the pros and cons. And then I keep coming back to what Lee said in the café last summer, when she gave me the thumb drive. She didn’t care what I did with the letters. It wasn’t about where they ended up, but about letting me have control of the narrative.
I think I get that now.
I’ve realized that it’s never going to be okay. The pain of what happened to me—the shooting, the abuse after—it’s not going away, no matter what I do with these letters. I’m never going to be able to forgive some of the people in my hometown. Honestly, I am angrier at some of them—Brother Lloyd, Ashley, the preacher at my old church—than I am at the boy who shot me. I don’t know if that’s rational. But nothing about trauma is rational.
There’s going to be hurt no matter what I decide to do with these letters. But at least, for the first time in over four years, I have the power over my story. Over all of our stories. Who and how and when and if anyone reads this—it’s up to me. Not a news crew looking for the best story. Not the heartbroken parents of a girl they need to believe was a martyr. Not even the well-meaning survivor determined to set the story straight and make amends.
It’smychoice.
And I guess, if you’re reading this, you know what choice I made.
Sincerely,
Kellie Renee Gaynor-Marks
and the survivors
WritingThat’s Not What Happenedwas one of the most challenging experiences of my career, and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to do it without a lot of incredible people. Without their expertise and support, this book would not be what it is today.
First, thanks to my agent, Brianne Johnson, and my editor, Jody Corbett. You two are the best team I could have asked for. You’ve been amazing champions of my work, and I will forever be grateful to the both of you.
Thanks to Stephanie Kuehn, S.E. Sinkhorn, Phoebe North, and Michelle Krys for taking the time to read and brainstorm with me. Your fresh eyes brought a valuable, new perspective to this story.
A huge thanks also goes out to the many fantastic people at Scholastic who have worked on and supported this book: Mary-Claire Cruz, Maeve Norton, Melissa Schirmer, Priscilla Eakeley, Rachel Feld, Isa Caban, Julia Eisler, Vaishali Nayak, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Tracy van Straaten, David Levithan, Alan Smaggler, Elizabeth Whiting, Alexis Lunsford, Nikki Mutch, Sue Flynn, Jackie Rubin, Jody Stigliano, Charlie Young, Chris Satterlund, Roz Hilden, Meaghan Hilton, Tracy Bozentka, Jacqueline Bernacki, Barb Holloway, Barbara Synder, Dan Moser, Betsy Politi, and Alexis Lassiter.
Thank you as well to the team at Writers House, especially Alexandra Levick, you have all been so wonderful and helpful. And thank you to my colleagues and students at Gotham Writers, for keeping me inspired and passionate about my work.
Thank you to the friends who have listened patiently to me talk about this book for the past three years and helped me brainstorm or aided me with research. Laurie, Lindsey, Amy, Alexis, Courtney, Debra, Kaitlin, Kara, Kate, Leila, Maurene, Samantha, Somaiya, Kristin, and Veronica, I love you guys.
Special thanks to Shana Hancock, Kate Lawson, and Wendy Xu for being exactly the sort of friends I needed during this venture. Hanging out with, texting, and skyping you all kept my spirits up even when I was diving into some dark territory with my research. I’m a lucky person to have met you all.
And, of course, to my family. There are far too many of you to name, but each and every one of you has supported and encouraged me for the past decade of my career, and I can’t emphasize enough how much it means to me. You’ve been the best sort of cheerleaders a writer can have. Thank you all so, so very much.
And, finally, thankyou.You, my readers, are why I am able to keep doing this, to keep doing the work I love. Whether this is the first book of mine you’ve picked up or you’ve read every one of them since I began publishing in 2010, I appreciate you more than you know. Thank you for your tweets, your emails, your kind words, and your time. I hope I can keep writing books for you for many, many years to come.
Turn the page for a peek atRun!
I’m waiting for the sirens.
I know it don’t make much sense. The police ain’t coming for me—not yet, anyway—but I already feel like a fugitive.
