It’s funny how some parts of that March 15 come back to me so clearly, like a movie on a high-definition screen playing behind my eyes, but others are a blur or missing altogether.

Like, I don’t remember which of us noticed the hickey on Sarah’s neck, or how we convinced our biology teacher to let us both go to the bathroom at the same time. But the image starts to sharpen once we’re standing in front of the mirror. I remember so vividly the look on Sarah’s face as she peered at her reflection, tilting her head slightly so she could see the mark. It was an expression of mingled worry and annoyance, but I couldn’t help noticing just a touch of pride.

Kellie was already there. I could see her in the mirror, standing off in the corner behind us, a shadow with a cigarette. She didn’t say anything to us, and we ignored her. I always kind of thought of Kellie as the school’s phantom, there if you looked closely, but easy to miss if you didn’t look in the darker nooks and crannies.

The memory is silent at first. I know Sarah must have been saying something, talking about the mark on her neck as she pulled out some foundation and rubbed it into her skin, but the words are missing. It’s like the movie is on mute, until the stall door opened behind us and Ashley stepped out.

“I was wondering where you’ve been the last few weeks,” Ashley said. Her eyes were focused on Sarah, her mouth twisted into a sneer. It’s funny, in some ways, remembering it now. Despite our current issues, the Ashley I know is kind and caring. Protective to a fault. This was a different Ashley. “I guess I have my answer.”

“Oh God, Ash.” Sarah turned away from the mirror to face her. The hint of pride I’d seen in her eyes a second ago vanished. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Hey, I get it. Who needs Jesus when you have boys that’ll suck on your neck?”

My hands balled into fists, but next to me, Sarah didn’t even flinch. Things didn’t hurt Sarah very often. Even at fourteen, she radiated this confidence I could never imagine possessing. When people insulted her—which, honestly, wasn’t often—the words just seemed to roll off her. Like she knew she was better than any label they could have given her.

This was no different. She and Ashley had been friends—or, at least friendly—for a long time, but even when this girl she’d known all of her life tried to shame her, Sarah was unaffected.

I know in Ashley’s letter she said Sarah’s face went red, but I don’t remember that. I do remember Sarah watching her as Ashley stepped forward to wash her hands in the sink next to mine. “You aren’t going to … ?”

“Tell your parents?” Ashley asked. “No. If you’re this comfortable with lying, why should I stop you? But remember, Sarah: Your parents don’t know what you’re doing, but God sees everything.”

I glanced at Sarah again, and she rolled her eyes. A minute later, when Ashley had gone, she said, “I don’t know if anyone ever told her, but as far as I know, Jesus likes nice people.”

From the corner, I heard Kellie give a snort of laughter, and Sarah grinned wide, her braces on full display. Neither of us had ever seen Kellie Gaynor smile, let alone laugh. But if anyone could have done it, of course it was Sarah.

She picked up her foundation again and went back to work trying to cover the small hickey on her neck. “We should hurry, though. The bell is going to ring soon.”

“You really think she won’t tell your parents?” I asked.

“She won’t. She’s self-righteous, but she’s not a narc. And honestly? I think she’s just having a rough time lately. She hasn’t always been that bad.”

She capped the foundation and shoved it back into her purse. I had no idea how she managed to buy so much makeup and smuggle it to school without her parents noticing, but her collection just kept growing. Some mornings, after she did her own makeup at a cafeteria table using her phone’s camera as a mirror, she’d turn to whatever girl was sitting closest and offer to do hers, too. Lots of freshman girls got mini makeovers courtesy of Sarah McHale’s secret cosmetics stash.

Behind us, Kellie stepped into a stall and tossed the remainder of her cigarette in the toilet before flushing. Then she turned and started toward the bathroom door.

The next section of the memory feels like slow motion. Kellie walked out, Sarah zipped her purse, and then we heard the gunshots.

We didn’t know what it was at first. My initial thought was firecrackers. I assumed some senior was pulling a prank. Sarah and I glanced at each other, then moved, together, to the door to see what was going on. By then, there was screaming.

We hadn’t even taken a step out into the hallway when Kellie came rushing back in. She shoved us back into the bathroom with both hands. “Hide,” she said.

“What?” Sarah asked.

But Kellie was already moving toward a stall. She was in such a panic that she hadn’t even noticed one of her boots had come untied. She tripped on the string, landing hard on the floor. Both Sarah and I hurried to her, but she shook her head and pushed herself up. “Hide,” she said again. “Now.”

The gunshots had gotten closer. And the combination of the popping and the screams and the terrified look in Kellie’s eyes finally registered with me. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Sarah figured it out first. She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me into a stall, locking the door behind us.

I don’t know how long it was before he came into the bathroom. Realistically I know it was likely just a minute or two after we hid. But it felt like an eternity. Sarah and I stood facing each other, trying not to breathe. My heart started pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Sarah’s fingers wrapped around mine and squeezed.

I heard him walk into the bathroom. Heard his heavy step on the tiles. Heard the creak of another stall door, a single gunshot, a yell.

And that’s where the sound shifts again. Everything outside of the stall is muffled in my memory. I heard the shooter say something, heard someone—Kellie, obviously—respond, but their words were slurred and garbled. Instead, all I can remember hearing is Sarah. She was barely making a sound, her whisper so silent I probably wouldn’t have heard it normally. Her eyes were squeezed shut as her lips mouthed a prayer.

I knew what was happening by that point, but it didn’t feel real. It felt like a dream. Or like I was trapped in a video game. The most real part, the scariest thing of all, was the way Sarah’s hands shook. She didn’t get scared often. And when she did, she was the type to screech and run in the opposite direction, laughing at herself along the way. I’d never seen her face this white. Never heard her pray this desperately.

I don’t want to go into the details of what happened next. You know them already. The short version is that he found us and shot twice over the edge of the stall. One bullet hit the wall, near my head, and the other hit Sarah, who was killed instantly, her limp body collapsing into my arms. He left the bathroom, leaving me unscathed. Physically, at least.

A minute later, the police arrived, and I heard more gunshots as he took his own life.

Things speed up again after that. The movie goes on fast-forward. An officer came into the bathroom and pulled me away from Sarah’s body. Another officer was assisting Kellie, who was gasping. She’d been shot in the shoulder. In the hallway, EMTs were tending to people, but I couldn’t see who. I remember asking about Sarah, asking over and over where she was and who was taking care of her, even though I think I knew she was gone.

Somehow, I ended up at the police station. Walking out of the school, riding in a cop car—those moments are gone. Because, in the next, I’m being questioned, still drenched in my friend’s blood, and Mom bursts into the room and rushes to me. I’ll never forget the way she hugged me. Like I was her life raft. Like holding me was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

And in her arms, I finally started crying. Because I knew for sure that Sarah—my best friend, my sister—wasn’t going home. She’d never be held like this by her mother again.

I loved Sarah. I love her more than I’ll probably ever love anyone else. And I hate that some of you reading this will think I’m just trying to tarnish her memory somehow by telling the truth. That is the last thing I want to do. I want Sarah to be remembered, but I want her to be remembered for the person she truly was, not the person the world wants her to be.

So, just in case I haven’t made it clear enough: Sarah was not wearing a cross necklace that day; her last moments were not brave or heroic, we were scared little girls in a bathroom stall, and that does not change how much her life mattered; Kellie Gaynor was the one who spoke to the shooter, the cross the police found on the bathroom floor belonged to her.