For a moment she feared he would invite her in. But he simply took the dishes, mumbled his thanks, and closed the door, leaving her standing empty-handed and alone on the porch. “It was the least I could do,” she said to no one, then turned and went back to clamber up into the car that was too big for her and head home to the life that was too small.
Violet
She and Casey fell into step with ease, as if they’d walked together many times. Casey’s ponytail swung back and forth in time with their footfalls, and Violet found herself watching it, her eyes drawn to it like one being hypnotized by the rhythmic movement. When the ponytail stopped swinging, Violet realized that Casey had stopped moving and came a breath away from running right into her. She started to apologize, to make an excuse for why she hadn’t been looking where she was going, when she noticed Casey pointing to something in front of them.
Violet had been so absorbed in the bouncing ponytail, in this walk with the older, cooler girl, that she’d not thought about where they were going. And now they were mere feet away from what could only be called a media circus that had formed on Violet’s front lawn. She felt Casey tug on her arm. “We can’t let them see you,” she said. “I bet they’ll figure out who you are.”
Casey pulled her into the edge of the front yard of the house across the street. Micah Berg’s house. “Ice Berg” they called him, on account of his talent at hockey. But Violet always thought of the nickname as meaning something else—how cold he was. He had, after all, lived across the street from her for most of their lives yet had never bothered to learn her name. She knew almost all there was to know about him. Things he didn’t know that anyone knew. Though she’d never said that aloud to anyone, not even Nicole. Now she was glad of that. She suspected her secrets were not safe with her former best friend.
As Casey sought coverage for them in a small natural area closer to Micah’s house, Violet thought about Nicole’s ugly words about her mother. She would need to keep in mind that Casey was Nicole’s sister, so Violet probably couldn’t trust her, either. Casey crouched down behind a bush and gestured for Violet to do the same. Together, from their hidden vantage point in the neighbor’s yard, they watched the circus. “Man,” Casey whispered as if she might be overheard. “There sure are a lot of them.”
“Yeah,” Violet breathed. The trucks and people made it hard to see her house. She scanned the exterior, hoping to see something familiar, something that felt like she was looking at her home. A man moved just enough for her to glimpse a swath of orange. She willed him to move so she could see if the pumpkin was still safe and sound on the porch, waiting for her mother to come back and explain why she’d bought it early, waiting for the two of them to carve it together. She closed her eyes and tried to envision what they would create: the triangle eyes, the gap-toothed, open-mouthed permanent grin, the light glowing from within.
“Do you know the guy who lives here?” Casey asked.
Violet opened her eyes at the mention of Micah. “Not really,” she lied.
Casey glanced over her shoulder at the Berg house. It had once been a busy place, with Micah and his friends coming and going, playing football in the front yard or basketball in the driveway. But since last spring it had been fairly quiet, except for Micah’s nightly sojourns to shoot basket after basket alone, the sound of his dribbling a kind of lullaby in recent months.
“I don’t like being here,” Casey said.
“Were you here?” Violet asked in a low voice. “That night?” she added, even though she didn’t need to. Casey no doubt knew what she was referring to. Before today, what had happened at the Berg house had been the talk of the neighborhood. Now it seemed that the drama had packed up and moved across the street, right into Violet’s own house.
“Yeah,” Casey said. She was silent for a moment. “We were friends.”
“You and Micah? Or you and . . .” Violet didn’t say her name. She didn’t like to.
“Me and Olivia,” Casey said. It felt to Violet like Casey said Olivia’s name louder, as if in defiance, hoping Micah would hear her name carried on the wind like the accusation it had become since her death. So many people held him responsible, and it seemed no one could, or would, say differently.
There was still talk of prosecution. Violet had resolved to decide what to do about the part she’d secretly witnessed if it ever came to that. She wasn’t sure if what was happening with her mom now would change her mind. She looked back at her house, the street that ran between the two houses jammed with vans and people.
“It’s his fault,” Casey said.
“You don’t know that,” Violet said, too quickly and too forcefully. She clamped her mouth shut. A few moments of silence passed by before she added, as if it were merely an afterthought, “I mean I’ve heard he says differently. Maybe it’s true.”
Casey regarded her for a moment, as if considering engaging in a full-on debate about whether Micah Berg did or did not aid and abet his girlfriend’s death. Violet could see Casey decide not here, not now. Instead she simply said, “Well, I hate him.”
“You shouldn’t hate anyone,” Violet replied, her mother’s words coming out of her mouth reflexively.
Casey gave a small, bitter laugh in response. “Yeah?” she asked. “We’ll see if you still feel that way after all this is over.” She gestured at Violet’s house with an angry jab, and Violet could tell there were things she was not saying. Not about Micah or Violet’s mom. Things about Casey. But Violet didn’t ask, and Casey didn’t offer. The two of them shifted at the same moment, their muscles cramping from crouching so long, then looked at each other and smiled.
“What should we do?” Violet asked.
Casey shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I honestly didn’t think much past hiding when I saw all the people. I was just afraid they’d bombard you like you see on TV.”
Violet shuddered at the thought of reporters asking questions she couldn’t answer, with cameras recording it all. “Thanks,” she said.
Casey shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”
Behind them came the sounds of footsteps, and they both turned to see who was approaching. But instead of finding a person, Casey was met with a wet nose and a big tongue licking her face. Her pensive mood forgotten, she laughed, her hands sinking into the dog’s coat as she reached out to pet him.
“Chipper,” Violet said. Chipper was the Bergs’ Irish setter, most often at Micah’s side, especially lately. Violet often wondered if Micah felt like Chipper was the only friend he had left.
Instinctively, she looked up to find the boy she’d loved from afar for as long as she could remember standing just an arm’s length away. She stood, suddenly not caring if the reporters found her. She would not crouch on her haunches as Micah Berg stood over her.
It took her a second to find her voice. “Sorry,” she said. “For being in your yard.” She hitched her thumb backward, indicating the crowd of people in her yard as explanation. She wasn’t sure whether he would recognize her, whether he would realize she was the girl who belonged in that house. She wondered if he was just glad a crisis was occurring somewhere else. Maybe take the heat off him.