Page 51 of We Already Dug the Grave

When I blinked, I saw them together in his classroom, his grown hands cupping the back of her head beneath the fluorescent high school lights. When I thought of the things they’d have done out here alone, bile erupted in my throat. Oh Frances. How did this happen?

But I knew. I was barely thirteen the first time I got hit on by a grown man. It’s like creeps can smell innocence, especially on girls often ignored, hungry for validation. That combination draws them like a feline to catnip. I’d told the man to go fuck himself, but Frances wasn’t me.

As a teacher, Mr. Fortenberry would’ve seen it. He’d have also known how people talked about us and treated us. How desperate she’d have been for acceptance. For understanding.

It was one thing to know this and another to see it play out. Rage consumed me.

This man was taking advantage of my sister. He was hurting her and coming between us, ruining us.

I’d promised Frances that if she ended it, I wouldn’t tell. That had been a mistake. I should’ve gotten someone the moment I witnessed what was happening, but I hadn’t wanted to hurt my sister. Maybe I was too afraid of confronting it head on, of making this all more real.

But this wasn’t going to end unless I did something.

I crouched down to stop myself from being observed before I figured out my move.

Now, telling on him wouldn’t be enough. No one would listen to me, not over him. Especially not if Frances saw me as the bad guy. Oh God. She’ll back up his story. The realization that she’d choose him over me hurt more than anything. Maybe the accusation would fluster him enough to make him stop.

But maybe not. I wouldn’t risk it.

I needed proof. A way to make Mr. Fortenberry listen, to make him stop. I squeezed the shovel handle in one hand. With the other, I pulled the bottom of my hoodie down over my knees to try and cover my bare legs from the gnats that appeared with the setting sun. That’s when I felt it against my stomach, in the pocket of my hoodie. Casey’s disposable camera. Yes. Okay. For the first time, I was hopeful. This could offer indisputable proof, a bargaining chip.

If I could’ve peered into my leaves for longer before Ruth had taken the cup from me, would I have known this moment was coming? Would I have seen the flash of a camera, four shocked eyes? There was no way of knowing, but one thing was becoming clear. That death I saw? That was me, putting this situation to rest.

With photographic evidence, Mr. Fortenberry couldn’t continue with my sister. Hell, I’d run him out of Puddle Creek for good.

I stayed low in the tall grass, approaching slowly, camera out and flash on. I didn’t want them to see me too soon, to spook and dart apart. As I crept, I considered what I should say. “Get away from my sister?” “Go fuck yourself, pedo?” I had just settled on “Say cheese, motherfucker” when Mr. Fortenberry pulled Frances closer, his arms twisted around her as she giggled, chin tilted up.

My anger flared. That place in me behind the internal door gnawing. Emotions swirled, and it was like my vision tunneled. Suddenly, the door flung open for the second time unbidden.

Dark eyes, wide in shock. Frances. I was inundated with fear, the feeling coming from myself or from my future, I couldn’t say. And then a sly satisfied something crept in, and it surprised me just enough to wrench the door closed again, breaths heaving.

I stood frozen. What was happening to me? After a childhood of methodical practice, how did I keep losing control? But a deep voice pulled me from my questions, as Mr. Fortenberry panted my sister’s name.

“Frances.”

That. Fuck.

I was close enough now, the shot framed perfectly. I rose to my feet. Neither noticed me only feet away, the both of them so absorbed in each other. My words frozen in my throat. I held the camera up and snapped.

The flash was bright, and Mr. Fortenberry jerked away from my sister so fast he almost knocked her to the ground.

I stared as they blinked at me, recognition slowly dawning in the evening dark.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Fortenberry demanded, having the nerve to look hurt as his gaze darted from me to my sister. “Frances? What is this?”

My mind roared with, “Don’t look at her, look at me you creep!” and “This is me keeping you away from my sister!” But in reality, no words came. My heart pounded. My hands trembled. I pressed the camera button again, out of panic that I needed more proof, but nothing happened.

“Milly?” Frances pleaded. “What are you doing?”

I pressed the button harder.

Shit. I hadn’t used a disposable camera since elementary school and forgot you had to wind the film.

As I moved my thumb over the wheel to advance the film for another photo, Mr. Fortenberry turned to Frances.

He shook his head, panic rolling off him. Frances scrambled near him, but he shoved her away. “Did you know about this? Frances, what are y’all up to? Is this about leaving Allison? I told you. She can’t know about us yet. Goddammit, what did you do?”

“What?” Frances asked, her voice sounding so small, her eyes watching as his hands raked through his hair and his own eyes turned wild.