Chapter 41
VARDA HIGH
How exactly do you reenter your own life? How do you show up as if nothing has happened, wearing your favorite yellow-rose-inlay cowboy boots and the bright red matte lip you are known for—and then slide back into place like the universe has kept your spot for you right where you left it?
I spent Friday at the sheriff’s station, accompanied by a lawyer my parents called in.
At first, the lawyer, with her sharp pleats and predator smile, scared me almost as much as the cops did.
But then I heard the way she talked to Ramos.
The way she brushed aside every question he had for me.
She frightened him, and that was powerful.
“Okay, Iris, we have to start at the beginning one more time.” Ramos had sighed, opening up a file that bristled with paperwork. “The night Rocky and Lynette died. Where exactly…”
“Don’t say a word.” The lawyer, whose name was Wanda Crenshaw, put her hand in front of me, palm flat on the table. “Sheriff, we are here to discuss one thing and one thing only: the actions of Max Fisher. Which have nothing to do with the painful events of this past April.”
Sheriff Ramos let his eyes linger on Wanda for a few seconds too long. I looked at her too, reassessing; I’d seen her as another reflection of my mom, someone who was going to tell me how to present myself, how to sit, how to talk. But this was different.
This was someone here to protect me. And no one had protected me in a very long time.
“I understand your point, Mrs. Crenshaw, but the fact is these kids are all tangled up in things you wouldn’t believe.
I have reason to believe that your, uh, client, was more involved in the events of last spring than she’s told us.
That has a direct relationship to how we have to proceed with what the Fisher boy told us this morning. ”
“If you have reason to believe it,” said Wanda, “you’ll need to present that evidence to me before we go any further.
We will not be discussing those traumatic and violent events at this time.
We are here to provide a victim’s statement about the events of the last three weeks, during which time my client was harassed, stalked, and threatened.
During which time, by the way, she received no help from you or your office, in spite of the fact that she was in fact the victim of a crime. ”
“A crime? Come on now, ma’am, it was more like a prank. A prank that got a little out of control, sure, but—”
“A prank?” Wanda leaned across the table. Her hair was dark and cut short, and it made her features protrude sharply, like a toothy fish peeking from inside a coral reef. “Is that how you plan to treat this? Just a bunch of kids having fun, spreading rumors that one of their peers is a psychopath?”
Ramos gave a little shrug. “I don’t think there’s much I can charge the Fisher kid with, Mrs. Crenshaw. He got online and told a few lies. That’s not exactly a crime.”
“Yes, I can see how hard you’re working to gather and process evidence,” Wanda said.
Her voice was striking—she wasn’t sneering or sarcastic, but crisp, matter-of-fact.
There wasn’t anything friendly or eager to please, nothing flamboyant, in her tone.
Just clean, sharp lines being drawn. “And it’s Ms. Crenshaw, thanks, Sheriff. ”
By the end of the day I wanted to follow her into battle.
I wanted to know everything about her: how she’d become a lawyer, how she’d honed her craft.
How she’d learned not to worry that she was inconveniencing someone or putting them out.
How she made a safe space for me in her wake.
I didn’t tell her that, of course—she was all business, even with me—but that fact that she was there with me made me feel braver than I had in a long, long time.
Too bad she couldn’t come to school with me. I could use some of that protection.
Now, I stand at one end of the antiseptic-smelling senior hallway. To my left my locker is draped with yellow caution tape, the door still caved in.
Word, of course, has already gotten out. It was technically out at 4:43 AM Thursday morning—a few hours after our confrontation. Whatever else Max has done to hurt me, he at least followed through on this one thing.
U/ROCKYTRUTHER2001
Iris Is Innocent
This is Max Fisher, owner of the Rockytruther account, hereby confessing that I used the account to start the untrue rumor that Iris Henley murdered Rocky and Lynette.
I am the only one that has ever used the account and will hand over any information the police want tomorrow morning.
Iris didn’t do anything to deserve what she’s been through.
Over the last few days I spent a little time watching the comments blow up.
There were a bunch of shocked replies, people just replying WTF?
? But there were others—people claiming they’d believed me all along, others claiming they still didn’t believe me, that Max was lying now, or that it wasn’t even Max behind the username.
One thread claimed the whole lie was an FBI sting operation of some kind, and I couldn’t really tell if they were joking or not.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from everyone in real life.
Turns out they don’t seem to know what to do either.
Most of them pretend not to notice me, their faces darting away toward their lockers or down toward their phones.
It’s better than the gawking of the last week or so, but it’s unnerving all the same.
There are some furtive glances, some strained smiles.
But some people seem to be desperately willing me to vanish.
Others are nicer.
“Hey, Iris,” says a girl with shiny silver hoops in her ears—I recognize her but can’t remember her name.
I give her a little nod, say “hi” back, and that gives me enough courage to move.
As I walk down the hall, there are a few more quiet hellos.
Javier Rodriguez gives me a little nod. Megan Gates meets my eyes briefly and then looks away, her skin going pink.
The first bell rings and I duck into a bathroom, trying to buy myself a minute to re-center.
In the mirror my reflection has a sweaty, nervous look.
I dab at a corner of my lipstick, run my fingers through my hair.
I summon the power of Wanda Crenshaw, experimenting with ways to hold my shoulders to channel her un-fuckwithable aura.
The door flaps open and then drifts slowly shut on its hydraulic hinge. A second passes, and there she is, just behind me in the mirror: Kendra Koenig. Her face as sharp as a crescent moon under her now-purple hair.
She goes to the sink next to mine and examines her makeup in the mirror. It’s caked on, flaky and smudged, but she pulls out a stick of black eyeliner anyway and starts to smear more along her bottom lash. Her thumbs jut through the holes of her hoodie, nails bitten to the quick.
“Hey, Kendra,” I say. “How’re you doing?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” She forces a wide wolfish grin into the mirror. “I saw you cleared your name.”
She doesn’t say anything else, so after a moment, I just shrug. “I guess so.”
“Must be nice.” She pops the cap back on the eyeliner and shoves it into her bag.
“But you know it’s not really over. Shit’s on the internet forever.
Every time someone googles your name, every time a college or a job looks into who you are?
Your name’s connected to Rocky’s forever.
Rocky’s and Lynette’s, and now Max’s too. ”
The bell rings, echoing off the bathroom tile.
She turns and looks at me directly then, without the intercession of the mirror.
“We’re all going to be trapped here, one way or another, for the rest of our lives.”
A moment later, she is gone.