What word would you use to describe Z?
Kind. He was always thinking of others. He used to leave me gifts in my locker. Stupid, silly little things like stickers and candy. He liked to give the impression he was a bad boy, but down deep, he was a puppy dog. He lived to make people smile.
When was the last time you saw Z?
After the dance, when he drove me to the hotel.
After your fight.
Yes. When he had to “fix” something. But I don’t know if he really could have. He was…
Yes?
Always trying to help, whether he could or not. Shortsighted. That’s another word for him.
As in…
He’d give and give of himself until there was nothing left.
Who do you think wanted to hurt Z?
I can’t believe anyone wanted to hurt him. Maybe they just wanted him. That’s the person he was. But there was only so much of him to go around.
—Interview with Parker Cole, junior at St. Ann’s
It’s been eight days since they found me.
I am walking again. I only had one break, a compound fracture of my thighbone, and though it aches through the pain medication, it’s healing. But parts of me never will. I am whole, but only on the outside. Inside, my thoughts are black, tortured, consumed.
The hospital room where I’ve spent the last week is depressingly void of color. A vent blows hot air onto my face. My throat is dry, my mind awhirl with thoughts of that night in the Kissing Woods with Z. Lips and hands and intense desire. The darkness, the bony tree limbs scratching at us, the desperation.
The death.
“Victoria,” a voice says, luring me back.
I blink. Father Leary is looking at me. He’s been at my bedside presiding over me these past few days, murmuring prayers to the Holy Father while I pretended to doze. My parents hover behind him. We are all good at pretending these days. My mother pretends to read a magazine, and my father seems acutely interested in something on his fingernail, but I know they are both hanging on my next words. “What?” I croak.
“The police need to talk to you about what happened in the woods.”
I close my eyes. At first, my parents said that I was too fragile to relive those moments. At first, they defended me. They said that their daughter wasn’t capable of hurting a fly. They said that yes, Victoria may have had some mental confusion, but she’d never resort to violence. But the police have become more and more persistent, my parents more and more doubtful. Now, my parents don’t look me in the eye.
Leary turns to my parents, then back to me, a troubled look on his face. “I’m sorry, Victoria,” he says, his voice flat. “You can’t put them off any longer. You’re going to have to talk to the police.”
They want me to tell my story, but I get the feeling they already know it. One version, anyway.
The room is crackling with tension. When my mother takes my hand, I expect a jolt of electricity, but her hand is cold. She and my father volley their meaning-fraught glances over the bed before my mother opens her mouth to speak. Then she closes it. She leans over and brings my hand to her cheek. She doesn’t have to say a word, and I don’t want her to. I don’t want to hear those words out loud.
I know she will tell me that you’ve been dead for nearly two years. She will say that you’re just in my head, Andrew.
And of course, you won’t be here to back me up. To share in the responsibility with me. Just like I wasn’t there for you.
What a bitch payback is.
They will say that what happened to Z is all my doing.
They will say that I swung that tree branch at Z, while he raised his hands to shield himself, asking me why I would do such a thing.
They won’t understand when I tell them that I couldn’t stop. That you needed me to protect you.
I will defend you, Andrew. I will always defend you.
Because how many times did I tell myself I’d rather die than disappoint you again?