Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

brAD TURNER, THE gym teacher, has been sitting in the staff room with the other teachers since the entire school was dismissed at lunchtime. He's trying to hold it together, like everybody else. It's like an impromptu mini wake in the staff room; someone has brought in doughnuts, and they're sitting around talking about Diana, remembering her, speculating about what happened to her, checking the online news on their phones. As Diana's running coach, he probably knew her better than a lot of her other teachers did. He listens to everyone sing her praises.

She was such a good math student.

She wanted to be a vet. She would have made a good one too.

Her poor mother – she's a single mother, and Diana was her only child. She'll be all alone now.

Who could have done such a terrible thing?

I hope they catch the bastard that killed her.

Brad says, ‘She was such a talented athlete. The best runner on the cross-country team.'

The others look at him sympathetically and nod.

She was such a nice girl.

So much potential.

He can't listen to any more. He gets up from his chair in the staff lounge and makes his way, for the second time, toward the school office. He wants to talk to Principal Kelly alone, if he can. Last time he checked, there were still some students waiting to talk to the police officers. Now the students are all gone, but the door to the principal's office is closed and the blinds are still pulled down. He wonders if Kelly is in there, and whether he is alone.

Just then, the door opens. Two state police officers emerge, with Kelly trailing behind them. Brad ducks into the corridor to his left before he is seen and makes his way back in the direction of the staff room. On the way he stops at one of the staff bathrooms. He's relieved when he finds it empty. He desperately needs a minute alone, where no one can see him, where he doesn't have to pretend that none of this particularly affects him.

He stands at one of the sinks and stares at himself in the mirror, allows his fear and panic to show for a moment, distorting his usually handsome, confident face. He stares at himself as if mesmerized. Is this really happening? He splashes cold water on his face, over and over. When he straightens up again, he realizes that he is trembling, that he has splashed water on his dark shirt, and it shows. His heart is racing. He must pull himself together.

He dries his face carefully with a paper towel and decides to make his way back to the staff room. But in a minute. He needs a little more time.

Friday, Oct. 21, 2022, 2 p.m.

I'm home again, back in my bedroom, writing on my laptop because I don't know what else to do.

When I left Riley's place earlier, I was really bothered by what she'd told me, that Diana was going to break up with Cameron. That was news to me. I found myself walking to Cameron's house. It's a bit of a hike, to his house on the edge of town, but I wanted some time to think. I certainly didn't think Cameron had murdered Diana, but after what Riley told me, well, it was a lot to take in, and all kind of unsettling. I needed to talk to him, to be reassured.

It disturbs me, what Riley's thinking. It's obviously disturbing her too.

I've known Cameron all my life, from the time we were in grade school. I think I know him pretty well. He's easygoing, most of the time. He's an even-tempered, likeable guy. He's fine until he's pushed too far, and then he explodes. That sounds bad, and it takes a lot to set him off, but if you do, watch out. I tried to imagine him losing his temper with Diana, but I just couldn't see it. He adored her. And she would never provoke him, she wasn't like that.

I remember one time when we were in ninth grade. There was a kid who was always razzing him, one of the farm kids that was bussed in. Cameron hadn't grown tall and filled out yet, and the other kid was a lot bigger. Cameron put up with it for a long time, pretending it didn't bother him. Then one day at school he lost it and managed to push the bigger kid to the ground and started punching him in the head. A teacher had to pull him off. I thought about that as I walked to Cameron's house. The school would probably have a record of it.

Anyway, by the time I arrived at Cameron's house, I was feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn't believe that he would ever hurt Diana, but I was worried about how things might look for him.

Both the car and the truck were in the driveway. Of course his parents would have come home. I knocked on the door and Cameron's dad answered. He looked awful. I burst into tears again right there on the doorstep. It was embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. Everything just seemed to hit me at once.

Mr Farrell hugged me for a minute. Then he let me go and told me how sorry he was, how tragic it was. I could see tears in his eyes too. I asked if I could talk to Cameron, but he shook his head and told me Cameron didn't want to see anyone, that he was in shock, that he loved her. He choked on he loved her and had to fight for composure. I felt less embarrassed then, about crying in front of him.

I asked him if Cameron had spoken to the police, and he said they'd spoken to him that morning, but Mr Farrell clearly didn't want to talk about it. I really wished I could speak to Cameron, but I didn't ask again.

As I turned away and started to walk home, I remembered how Cameron used to touch Diana all the time, constantly holding her hand, draping his big arm over her shoulder, putting his hand around her waist. And last weekend, at a party, I saw her pull away from him to go talk to someone else, and he frowned, put his beer down, and followed her. It was just a group of girls she wanted to talk to, but Cameron stood there with the girls, looking a bit ridiculous. No one else seemed to notice, but I wonder now if Riley had. We hadn't spoken about it.

On the way home, I was at loose ends. I was feeling so messed up. Upset about Diana, imagining what life would be like now, without her. Our little group would probably fall apart.

So now I'm back in my bedroom, just me and my computer, trying to make sense of something that will never, ever, make sense.