You released me and kept walking. “Maybe not. But I was kidding. I don’t need townies. I’ve got you.”
“Thanks?”
“It’s a compliment,” you confirmed. “I choose your company above all others. You’re welcome, dah-ling.” I glowed. You tipped your head at me. “I just wanted to go for a stroll. I get restless stuck in one place. Is that cool?”
“It’s cool.”
We walked to the end of the road and back, sometimes talking, sometimes not, and went back to the cabin and slept. That was it.
The next morning, Maddie interrogated us at breakfast. “I saw you guys sneak back in last night. Where’d you go?”
I made my eyes round with innocence, but you didn’t try to deny it. Instead, straight-faced, you said, “We hitchhiked into town.”
Maddie’s face was pure shock. A few other people turned to listen. You hadn’t kept your voice down. “Are you serious?” she asked.
You lifted your eyebrows with mild surprise. “Of course,” you said.
Maddie looked to me for confirmation. I shrugged. I was curious to hear where you might take this.
“You went along with that?” Maddie pushed.
You answered for me. “Actually, it was Kayla’s idea.”
I shoved a forkful of egg in my mouth to stop my face from reacting.
“Wow,” Maddie said. She looked at me with new respect.
Another camper leaned across the table. (Is it possible that was Emma? She wasn’t relevant yet, so there’s no reason for me to have noticed her. This was long before we met Jackson. But when I replay this memory, I picture her strongly—already lurking around, just waiting for you to acknowledge her, or whatever the fuck her deal was.)
“Weren’t you scared? Especially out so late?” Emma or Not-Emma asked. (Do I only remember her there and at other weird moments because of the shit that came later? I don’t know. I’m clearly biased, so perhaps my memory can’t be trusted. But I’d bet you anything it’s right.)
“Yeah. What if you got picked up by an ax murderer?” Maddie said.
You shook your head. “I had Kayla there to protect me. The odds of two ax murderers on one country road have got to be very slim.”
Everyone laughed and you told them about the night we’d had. The bar’s old-fashioned jukebox with no songs from after 1992. The sawdust on the floor. The college guys we ignored to dance only with each other. The pixieish bartender with a unicorn tattoo who gave us a ride at the end of her shift. We told her we lived on Landon Lane, so she dropped us off there and we walked the rest of the way.
I was sure they would know it was bullshit, but they ate it up, staring at us with awe.
“Did they serve you?” someone asked.
“Just a Sprite,” you said. “And Kayla had a virgin daiquiri.” You winked, but no one else caught it.
It’s funny: As you told that story, I almost believed it. I started feeling kind of jealous of this adventure you’d had without me. But that wink was a reminder we were in on this together.
“I still wish I’d kept the paper umbrella,” I said with a sigh. I’ve always been a terrible liar, but it came out smooth. People believed my embellishment. I felt a thrill of power.
I get why you told those stories. It was fun. You enjoyed the rush. You liked being the center of attention, and pulling one over on everyone else. The power trip of making people laugh—making them believe you—was addictive. You were interested in seeing how much you could get away with, how far you could push the truth. It was a way of protecting yourself too. A version of the Teflon.
Your stories were a shield. They kept anyone else from knowing you in ways you didn’t want them to.
I didn’t mind. I played along. And I loved being the only one who knew the truth. It made our nighttime escapes all the more ours. It made the secrets you confided seem all the more intimate.
Once, when I reacted with “I can’t believe you told them that. I can’t believe they believed it,” I remember what you said.
“Look. They want to believe I’m outrageous. They want life to be as interesting as I make it sound. They don’t want a girl like me to be just like everyone else. They want excitement. So I let them have it. I’m giving the people what they want! And I’m less bored this way. Everyone’s happier in the end.”
That seemed true. The one or two times your embellishments got called out, you didn’t dig in or get embarrassed. You gave the kind of smile that invited others in on the joke, and said, “But it makes a better story that way, doesn’t it?” And it only made people like you more.
I wasn’t there when you lied to the cops the morning after Jackson died, but I know why you did that too. You were scared. No one really knew what had happened yet—only that Jackson was dead and everyone was freaking out and the police had questions, especially for those who knew him best. You. Me. Nitin. His counselors. The other guys in his cabin. Anyone who might be able to shed light on what appeared to be a tragic accident.
There was a rumor he’d dived off the dock into a rock, though there were “No Diving” signs all over and everyone knew it was shallow in places. Jackson was a decent swimmer, but not with a head wound.
It was all so shocking and impossible to comprehend, and you especially were in a daze. Only alone with me did you let yourself get hysterical. I couldn’t do anything to ground you. You just weren’t thinking straight.
It was the first time I’d seen you truly panic.
No one had said the word murder yet. People weren’t thinking of his death as suspicious. Not even the police. So it makes perfect sense to me: Of course you lied. The third rule of crime is Don’t Get Caught, and we’d been covering our tracks expertly all summer. We had been in that mode for eight weeks by that point. It wasn’t easy to just switch out of it.
You probably told those lies on autopilot, out of habit and fear of getting caught. Not caught for killing him—caught sneaking out of our cabin after lights-out. There wasn’t any use confessing that and stirring up more trouble.
You told the cops you’d kissed him goodnight outside our cabin before curfew. And you had. (The best lies are built on truth, even if those aren’t the most entertaining ones.) You just didn’t mention kissing him again—and more—when you met up again later as planned.
That omission, when they discovered it, turned the cops’ full suspicions on you. They had a lot more questions after that, and a lot more trouble believing you.
When they asked around, they learned you’d been stretching the truth all summer. Things really snowballed from there.
It was shit luck. Telling stories isn’t a crime—or it shouldn’t be. And even if you’re a liar, that doesn’t make you a murderer. Though from the way some people are talking, it’s practically hard, admissible evidence. (I can see you rolling your eyes and saying, “Of course they are.” The perfect dismissal.)
For some reason that morning I asked you, “Was he alive the last time you saw him?” You looked stunned and said, “Are you kidding? Yes.” I believed you.
I still do.
Love,
Kayla
Camper and Counselor Interviews, Statements, and Posts