At least, now I understand why he died.” When her father still didn’t respond, she added, “Hal’s in close touch with the police.”
Michael lowered his mug. “That’s good. He’ll keep on top of them. The more answers we get, the better. Half of the patients I saw yesterday asked about the accident, and the
Ledger
hasn’t even come out yet.”
By noon, the
paper was on every driveway in town. Deborah saw it at lunchtime, face up on the white Formica counter in the office kitchenette.
The article wasn’t as bad as it might have been. It was on the front page, but under the fold, which meant that it wasn’t the first thing people saw. Unfortunately, in a town as small as Leyland, most people read the
Ledger
cover to cover.
The article focused on Calvin McKenna—when and why he had come to Leyland, where he lived with his wife, what he taught. Teachers attested to his intellect, citing him as someone who spent his lunchtime reading history in the cafeteria. Students talked about how smart he was. Everyone expressed respect for his ability, though no one used the word
beloved
.
The reporter gave a rundown of the events of Monday night, a timeline, very cut-and-dried. Deborah might have liked mention of the fact that her car was going well under the speed limit and was in its proper lane, but the text stated simply that speed was not a factor, and that no citation had been issued. Funeral plans were much as Karen had said.
The wife wasn’t quoted. Nor, thanks to Hal’s advice, was Deborah.
The best part of the article, in her opinion, was that there was no mention of Grace. The worst was that with Deborah’s name front and center for all the world to see, the lie grew.
Grace thought she
would die. Her friends
never
read the
Ledger,
at least, not in the middle of school. But, naturally, since it was Mr. McKenna who had died, today was different. She didn’t even know where they got the papers, but wherever she turned, someone had a copy.
“This is not bad,” Megan remarked with the rustle of newsprint when she finished reading the piece. “They don’t even say you were in the car.”
That was beside the point, as far as Grace was concerned. Now the whole town knew it was her car that had hit Mr. McKenna. Half of the school was stopping her in the halls, saying stupid things like,
Wow, your mom hit him? Like, did she know it was him? So when did you find out? Do you feel guilty or anything?
The only person she might have wanted to talk with was Danielle. She respected Danielle so much. But that was the problem—how could she lie to Danielle? But how could she tell the truth when doing it would get her mother in trouble?
So she held Danielle off with the same hand she held off the rest of her friends, and went to her next class with her head down, not that it kept people away for long. She spent the start of her lunch period fending off so many questions that she ended up picking up her tray, dumping most of her lunch in the trash, and hiding in the girls’ bathroom until the bell rang. But then they started
texting.
No one was supposed to be doing that in class, but people always did. They broke the rules, and no one cared.
They
broke the rules, and no one cared.
She turned off her phone.
Track was more of the same—so many questions that the coach brilliantly decided to have her make a short statement—and what could she say?
It was an awful night—there was no visibility—we feel so bad.
Just words. They didn’t come close to saying what she was really feeling, which was like a total liar. But there was no way she could tell the truth now without making liars of her mother, Uncle Hal, the police, the newspaper reporter, and whoever else was spreading word about what happened that night.
She ran poorly. Her first interval was bad, her second was worse, and she did the 800—
her
event—so pitifully that the coach let her leave before she
Michael lowered his mug. “That’s good. He’ll keep on top of them. The more answers we get, the better. Half of the patients I saw yesterday asked about the accident, and the
Ledger
hasn’t even come out yet.”
By noon, the
paper was on every driveway in town. Deborah saw it at lunchtime, face up on the white Formica counter in the office kitchenette.
The article wasn’t as bad as it might have been. It was on the front page, but under the fold, which meant that it wasn’t the first thing people saw. Unfortunately, in a town as small as Leyland, most people read the
Ledger
cover to cover.
The article focused on Calvin McKenna—when and why he had come to Leyland, where he lived with his wife, what he taught. Teachers attested to his intellect, citing him as someone who spent his lunchtime reading history in the cafeteria. Students talked about how smart he was. Everyone expressed respect for his ability, though no one used the word
beloved
.
The reporter gave a rundown of the events of Monday night, a timeline, very cut-and-dried. Deborah might have liked mention of the fact that her car was going well under the speed limit and was in its proper lane, but the text stated simply that speed was not a factor, and that no citation had been issued. Funeral plans were much as Karen had said.
The wife wasn’t quoted. Nor, thanks to Hal’s advice, was Deborah.
The best part of the article, in her opinion, was that there was no mention of Grace. The worst was that with Deborah’s name front and center for all the world to see, the lie grew.
Grace thought she
would die. Her friends
never
read the
Ledger,
at least, not in the middle of school. But, naturally, since it was Mr. McKenna who had died, today was different. She didn’t even know where they got the papers, but wherever she turned, someone had a copy.
“This is not bad,” Megan remarked with the rustle of newsprint when she finished reading the piece. “They don’t even say you were in the car.”
That was beside the point, as far as Grace was concerned. Now the whole town knew it was her car that had hit Mr. McKenna. Half of the school was stopping her in the halls, saying stupid things like,
Wow, your mom hit him? Like, did she know it was him? So when did you find out? Do you feel guilty or anything?
The only person she might have wanted to talk with was Danielle. She respected Danielle so much. But that was the problem—how could she lie to Danielle? But how could she tell the truth when doing it would get her mother in trouble?
So she held Danielle off with the same hand she held off the rest of her friends, and went to her next class with her head down, not that it kept people away for long. She spent the start of her lunch period fending off so many questions that she ended up picking up her tray, dumping most of her lunch in the trash, and hiding in the girls’ bathroom until the bell rang. But then they started
texting.
No one was supposed to be doing that in class, but people always did. They broke the rules, and no one cared.
They
broke the rules, and no one cared.
She turned off her phone.
Track was more of the same—so many questions that the coach brilliantly decided to have her make a short statement—and what could she say?
It was an awful night—there was no visibility—we feel so bad.
Just words. They didn’t come close to saying what she was really feeling, which was like a total liar. But there was no way she could tell the truth now without making liars of her mother, Uncle Hal, the police, the newspaper reporter, and whoever else was spreading word about what happened that night.
She ran poorly. Her first interval was bad, her second was worse, and she did the 800—
her
event—so pitifully that the coach let her leave before she
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