“Prosecutor Marsha Davis called the sentiment ‘a pretty tale’ and indicated she is confident the state’s case against Baxter will prove otherwise.
“Much has been made in the press of the initial statement Elaine Baxter gave to police on the morning Jackson Winter’s body was found, claiming not to have seen him since they’d said goodnight at curfew the evening before. Baxter later retracted that statement and admitted to having snuck out of her cabin to meet Jackson by the lake after midnight—a rendezvous she claims ended with a last kiss around two o’clock in the morning, which is close to the time the coroner’s report estimates as the time of his death.
“Prosecutor Davis has stated on record in the past that Elaine Baxter, quote, ‘is a known liar who, by her own admission, lied to police in her initial statement about the circumstances surrounding Jackson Winter’s death, and, the state will prove, has been lying about it ever since,’ end quote.”
October 31
Dear Lainie,
Here’s something I don’t know about you, that I suddenly wish I could ask: What’s your favorite Halloween candy? Don’t say candy corn, please, or it will change everything I think I know about you. I’m picturing you loving something weird, like Dots or Smarties (which, I learned tonight, are called Rockets in Canada. Not that I was in Canada. Just collecting random facts as usual).
Mine is Mounds, followed by peanut-butter cups, followed by little boxes of Junior Mints. I’m also down with Nerds, lollipops, and malted milk balls—but no Tootsie Rolls, candy corn, or other sugary wax masquerading as edible. I won’t stand for it.
Adele and Peter gave out KitKats this year. If you were here, I would split this one with you, but instead I’ll have to eat both halves myself. Nom nom. Adele wore her witch hat and a fake nose (long, warty) to answer the door to trick-or-treaters, and Peter sported Harry Potter glasses that might as well have been regular glasses, since he wasn’t wearing the rest of the costume. They made an enormous bowl of buttered popcorn and seemed stunned, then delighted, to learn I wouldn’t be joining them for a movie marathon after dinner. (No slashers or murder mysteries in the queue this year. My parents are nothing if not tasteful.) Instead, I went to a party.
I’m invited to parties now, apparently, although I never go. But I accidentally mentioned this one to Dr. Rita when telling her about Dina Who I Usually Have Lunch With (which is exactly how I think of them, I guess to avoid having to use the word friend. I don’t know if they’re my friend, exactly, though I think they probably want to be, and we maybe act like we’re friends, in that we sit together regularly and talk about our lives and don’t dislike each other or anything, so maybe they think that’s what we are already. I don’t know. It’s not like it was with you. And I’m not sure I’m really ready to have another friend—definitely not a best friend—though I haven’t straight-up told them that. We’ve only been eating together a few weeks). They invite me to stuff outside of school sometimes, and usually I say no, but sometimes I’ll agree to hang out for a while and do homework together or whatever. When they mentioned this party, I said I probably wouldn’t go, but for some reason I told Dr. Rita about it. She thought it would be good for me to get out, be social, make friends. Distract myself from the impending trial.
Replace you, she meant, but of course you can’t be replaced.
I told Dina Who I Usually Have Lunch With I might go with them after all, and they said “cool” and that it was fine if I didn’t want to wear a costume, but they would bring me some wings or something just in case. Which turned out to be great because otherwise I would have been the only one not dressed up, and not wearing wings and the glitter I let Dina dab on my cheeks would have made me stick out and seem awkward.
High school is strange.
The party wasn’t bad. I felt self-conscious at first, especially when Dina started talking to some kids I don’t know and didn’t feel like being introduced to because I hate standing around on the edge of a group I don’t belong in. I’d rather just stand by myself. I wandered into the kitchen and kept my chin up and my shoulders back, trying to look confident and at ease—the way you used to stand—and poured myself some punch. I imagined I was you while I sipped it, looking around to see who was there, and pretty soon I started to relax. I remembered that all summer, I’d fit in.
I poured more punch and walked into the living room, where Dina waved from across the room. They were dressed as a cereal comma, with a punctuation mark cut from a Honey Nut Cheerios box taped to their button-down shirt. In between us people were dancing and as I watched, I found myself moving my head and hips to the music, and realized I felt kind of fuzzy-warm and happy, like my brain was a furry little animal—like silly, funny Ollie had moved in to live in my skull—and everything at the party looked softer and happier too. A little blurry if I moved too fast, but that was fun.
I put my cup down and danced for real. This guy Ian from my math class grabbed my hand and twirled me around, and I twirled him back, and the music got faster. We dipped and the world spun, and I borrowed his hat and touched my own cheek, then his, to loan him some of Dina’s glitter. Now I was a pirate fairy and he was a boy who sparkled.
We went outside to get some air, and I flirted the way I’d seen you flirting: a tip of the head, a quirk of the lips. A gaze held and released. An inviting laugh. A touch on the arm. Why not? It was Halloween. You’re not supposed to go as yourself.
When people asked what I was dressed as, I changed the answer each time—Tinker Bell, the Tooth Fairy, a dragonfly, a mosquito—but in truth my costume was you. I was the Summer Camp Slayer, but before. Before things turned bloody. Before it went bad. When it was still all glitter and charm and the magic of make-believe.
Your trial starts in two days (or tomorrow, technically, since it’s currently 2 a.m.) but you’re already being tried in the court of public opinion. It’s not unanimous—I’m still voting not guilty—but All the World’s a Jury and they’re pretty convinced by the evidence.
It’s hearsay, mostly. The stories. The lies. Speculation on the part of those who knew you, or sort of did. (Emma, in particular, will not shut up. She still wants a slice of your spotlight. Nitin, like me, hasn’t made a single public comment. Jackson, of course, isn’t talking.) But your DNA was all over him—your skin cells under his fingernails—too much to wash away in the lake. Some say that’s the sign of a struggle, that the DNA got there when he was fighting you off. That the cops should have checked you for scratches.
I know you had scratches.
I can picture it so clearly: the two of you in the midnight dark, his hands running up and down your arms and back, all over your tingling skin. His nails raking gently, then digging in, as his kisses, too, varied in intensity. Some scratches were featherlight, and others harder, like the ones I gave Ian as we kissed outside the party tonight, experimenting. How far was too far?
My nails sank in and Ian pulled away. “Whoa there, tiger.”
“Meow,” I said, though cats don’t have wings or glitter cheekbones. He came back for another kiss and my fingers roamed more lightly. Teasing. It was cold out, but his mouth was warm.