The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 by James Patterson, Otto Penzler
Authors: James Patterson, Otto Penzler
Tags: United States, Literature & Fiction, Mystery, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Anthologies, Anthologies & Literature Collections, Collections & Anthologies, Short Stories & Anthologies
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fiancé, Matthew Parker, on Match.com. Within a year, they’d determined the location and the guest list for their wedding. It would be in June.
Three weeks ago, Ms. McCreary, with much happiness, told her fiancé that she was pregnant. She rigged a game of Scrabble by hiding tiles under the table, and played words like
baby, father
, and
family
until he caught on. He was elated.
II
Ms. McCreary hears the shot from out in the gym, but it doesn’t register with her what it is. This is only a middle school, and she has never heard a real gunshot before. She moves unhurriedly toward the locker room, annoyed with the four girls she left there: What have they done now? As she turns into the locker room, she sees Rosalee from behind. She can see the girls on the ground beyond Rosalee and wonders what they’re playing at.
Strange
, she thinks.
Danielle Dewitt is on her knees.
It is then that she sees the gun. She thinks
Scheisse
, because she always curses in German. Ms. McCreary doesn’t know what to do. Her instinct is to talk to the girl, but she hesitates—maybe she should try to subdue her, or go call for help. Her eyes flicker to Rosalee’s right, where she’s certain she left a softball bat leaning against the wall. She takes a step closer, and she can hear Charlotte on the ground mumbling something over and over, but she can’t make out what it is. She takes another step, but stops, and raises her hand silently to her stomach. Charlotte moves her hand from Tabatha’s head to her own and touches her temple, leaving a bright smudge like a child’s red finger paint. She is saying,
She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.
III
Tomorrow, Ms. McCreary will spend much of the day in the police station, giving statements. She will be tired, but more than that she will be afraid she’s going to lose her job because she is never supposed to leave kids in the locker room alone. There was death on her watch.
Despite the fact that there were more students in the gym who required supervision than there were in the locker room, Ms. McCreary will be the scapegoat for Ella County School District, and she will lose her job.
In two weeks, she will have an abortion, and she will tell her fiancé that it was a miscarriage. She will tell herself she finds unbearable the thought of bringing a child into a world where things like this happened, where her children would have to play and learn and live—with children
like this.
In one year, her fiancé will leave her, and she will let him.
In six years, Ms. McCreary will relocate to Germany, where she will teach English and begin writing. She will publish an article titled “Social Violence and Accountability in American Literature” in a modest academic journal.
I
When Rosalee Carrasco is born to a French mother and Chilean father, she is crying.
Rosalee is always doing and going and performing. She is always trying, and learning.
When she is six, she is feeding her two younger brothers mashed bananas with a tiny rubber-coated spoon because her parents work overtime to pay for her private school.
When she is eight, she is buying trendy pink bracelets and standing nervously in line next to Ashlee at lunch. She is viciously ignored.
At nine, her mother is scolding,
Enfant ingrat! You have nothing to cry about.
When she is seven and eight and ten and twelve, she is asking
Can I play?
At thirteen, she is falling in love with Scotty Marlowe. At thirteen, she is understanding.
At fourteen, she is watching herself become a woman in the mirror, and then she is watching herself become a woman on Facebook, and then she is watching the custodian pull dark, bloody tampons from her locker with gloved hands. She is cowering as boys call her “Rosa-leaky.”
II
Rosalee, honey.
Ms. McCreary says, her voice hardly above a whisper. Rosalee whips around, the gun pointed at chest level, both hands wrapped around the grip. She’s been holding it up for
Three weeks ago, Ms. McCreary, with much happiness, told her fiancé that she was pregnant. She rigged a game of Scrabble by hiding tiles under the table, and played words like
baby, father
, and
family
until he caught on. He was elated.
II
Ms. McCreary hears the shot from out in the gym, but it doesn’t register with her what it is. This is only a middle school, and she has never heard a real gunshot before. She moves unhurriedly toward the locker room, annoyed with the four girls she left there: What have they done now? As she turns into the locker room, she sees Rosalee from behind. She can see the girls on the ground beyond Rosalee and wonders what they’re playing at.
Strange
, she thinks.
Danielle Dewitt is on her knees.
It is then that she sees the gun. She thinks
Scheisse
, because she always curses in German. Ms. McCreary doesn’t know what to do. Her instinct is to talk to the girl, but she hesitates—maybe she should try to subdue her, or go call for help. Her eyes flicker to Rosalee’s right, where she’s certain she left a softball bat leaning against the wall. She takes a step closer, and she can hear Charlotte on the ground mumbling something over and over, but she can’t make out what it is. She takes another step, but stops, and raises her hand silently to her stomach. Charlotte moves her hand from Tabatha’s head to her own and touches her temple, leaving a bright smudge like a child’s red finger paint. She is saying,
She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.
III
Tomorrow, Ms. McCreary will spend much of the day in the police station, giving statements. She will be tired, but more than that she will be afraid she’s going to lose her job because she is never supposed to leave kids in the locker room alone. There was death on her watch.
Despite the fact that there were more students in the gym who required supervision than there were in the locker room, Ms. McCreary will be the scapegoat for Ella County School District, and she will lose her job.
In two weeks, she will have an abortion, and she will tell her fiancé that it was a miscarriage. She will tell herself she finds unbearable the thought of bringing a child into a world where things like this happened, where her children would have to play and learn and live—with children
like this.
In one year, her fiancé will leave her, and she will let him.
In six years, Ms. McCreary will relocate to Germany, where she will teach English and begin writing. She will publish an article titled “Social Violence and Accountability in American Literature” in a modest academic journal.
I
When Rosalee Carrasco is born to a French mother and Chilean father, she is crying.
Rosalee is always doing and going and performing. She is always trying, and learning.
When she is six, she is feeding her two younger brothers mashed bananas with a tiny rubber-coated spoon because her parents work overtime to pay for her private school.
When she is eight, she is buying trendy pink bracelets and standing nervously in line next to Ashlee at lunch. She is viciously ignored.
At nine, her mother is scolding,
Enfant ingrat! You have nothing to cry about.
When she is seven and eight and ten and twelve, she is asking
Can I play?
At thirteen, she is falling in love with Scotty Marlowe. At thirteen, she is understanding.
At fourteen, she is watching herself become a woman in the mirror, and then she is watching herself become a woman on Facebook, and then she is watching the custodian pull dark, bloody tampons from her locker with gloved hands. She is cowering as boys call her “Rosa-leaky.”
II
Rosalee, honey.
Ms. McCreary says, her voice hardly above a whisper. Rosalee whips around, the gun pointed at chest level, both hands wrapped around the grip. She’s been holding it up for
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