Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

Middle school is not something I’m thrilled to think about. Ruth once called it my most awkward of awkward phases—which, as she pointed out, is saying something. Back then I wore silver eye shadow caked on so thick that by the end of the day my eyelashes were full of gray dust. Middle school was also when I got my hand stuck in the tampon machine in the girls’ bathroom. Dom’s guidance counselor office was right down the hall, so of course he came in and rubbed my back in front of all the firefighters.

“Oh, Pickle, you should have told me you were menstruating,” he said. “I could have gotten you the proper equipment.”

Ugh.

Anyway, middle school was before Batting Practice, back when Colt was still going through his graffiti phase, and one night he swung by our house after bedtime and decorated our garage door with a rattle and the words MA-MA! We might not have known it was him, except he also spray-painted his full name in cursive on the second garage door. The church rushed over and repainted before the cops could make Colt clean it up himself. I guess they wanted to erase it before it sank in—and the strategy worked. I didn’t even understand that it was about my mom until Dom explained it.

“Only a psycho makes fun of someone for not having a mom,” I remember telling Ruth. At the time, part of me was hoping maybe Colt liked me. But based on Dom’s reaction, I’d caught on pretty quickly that I was meant to be upset. “It’s so rude.”

Ruth must have told Davey about it, because a few days later, he cut class to come by the middle school and throw Colt against some lockers. “You better watch out you don’t make too much of a name for yourself,” Davey apparently warned, holding Colt by the collar. “I’ll be waiting for you after practice.”

Davey got suspended for a week for physical intimidation, and everyone was so focused on “what a hooligan that Davey Fried is turning into” that they didn’t even stop to think about what Colt had done to our house or the potential darkness brewing in Colt’s heart. In retrospect he was obviously crazy the whole time—all that pent-up rage—and if all of us had only known then what to look for, this whole thing might not be happening.

I wonder if I’m the only one who sees it that way.

POSSIBLE CHARACTER WITNESSES

Sheriff’s Log Book 10/2—10/9

Colt invited himself over to watch a movie once. I was pretty psyched because, let’s face it, he looks like a god. We made out but I wouldn’t go any further because I had church the next day. Anyway my dad keeps our garage stocked with Premium White Tail Urine from the local Buck Fleet—you know, you put it all over your gear and bucks come out of the foliage thinking you’re a doe and bam . So Colt must have stolen some of our bottles and messed with the vents in my car, because the next day I turned on the heat in my truck and the whole world smelled like pee, and for like weeks bucks were coming around and humping my fenders. When I confronted Colt about it, all he said was “Next time don’t be such a prude.” So no offense but in my opinion it’s been obvious this whole time that he killed her.

—Mara Hale (Age 17, junior at Friendship High)

Colt was cheating on Ruth with me, if that tells you anything. He said I had a better rack. He was going to break up with her for me, too, you know. He probably just lost his nerve and tried to get out of things the easy way, if you want my opinion.

—Libby Quinn (Age 18, junior at Friendship High)

Colt was an okay guy. I played sports with him for two years, four teams. He could be a regular dick now and then, but he wasn’t the violent sort. I’d know.

—David Fried

(Age 21, recently returned from Afghanistan—could we argue PTSD?)

That boy was 100 percent rotten. Do you know he put a dead skunk in our mailbox? Right after our son dropped a pass from him and we almost lost that one game. Boy oh boy, I’ve talked to people around town, and everyone says the exact same thing: Colt Widdacombe always added insult to injury. He’s not right in the head. The boy needs to get what’s coming.

—Ed Storm (Age 53, grocer)

Colt and I dated for like a week, and he was always trying to get me to give him BJ’s at school. Like, by the cars or in the basement, or if we ran into each other by the vending machine he’d try to drag me into the boy’s bathroom. I didn’t want a reputation so one time I didn’t do it and he told everyone I looked like a walrus from the waist down. I don’t, you know.

—Amy Heberle (Age 15, sophomore at Friendship High)

We hooked up freshman year and instead of just breaking up with me like a normal person (like with a text, or whatever) Colt forked my whole lawn the night before a cold frost. Do you know how hard it is to get a plastic fork out of frozen ground? It’s impossible. They break off in your hand.

—Julia Wayne (Age 18, senior at Friendship High)

I always knew that Colt Widdacombe was a bad egg. Did you know that when my husband broke his hip, that boy came round our house and trenched the yard with his car? Drove it in circles all over our grass. Back then, you told me there was nothing you could do about it because the boy had a game the next day. Well, now look what’s happened. You should be ashamed of yourself.

—Rita Alverson

(Age 79, retired)

I mean, the dude is like pretty evil. He hooked up with Sarah McKetta—that paraplegic girl—and then dumped her three days later, saying her legs were too skinny.

—Justin Becker (Age 18, senior at Friendship High)

I hope he gets the electric chair.

—Sarah McKetta (Age 17, junior at Friendship High)

Ruth here. Feeling protective of the big bro, who’s started writing me letters like I can help him or something. It’s like, dude, I’m just trying to make it through each boring day out here, at least you’re doing something real. He’s a big guy now (physically), but when you interact with him it’s like being with a kid—like maybe he’s not growing up right because his job is to kill people. I mean, you can practically see the tear stains on the page. The ‘rents keep getting the same updates as always: everything fine, no one dying, lots of love. And I don’t want to tell them about my letters because I know they’re already freaked out thinking he’s going to die all the time. For now I just keep writing back telling him to shoot everyone, get the whole war over with already, ha ha. If I were being honest I’d tell him to come home, sit on the couch a while, fuck the special ops—I’d say, “Listen, Dave-o, nothing’s worth losing your mind over.” But the words won’t come out because I’m not used to him and me being serious. Basically I’m hoping the tough love will work better. Remind him of himself.

Dom’s modified “autumn display” is still up in our front yard. He gets pretty festive during the holidays. Usually around Halloween he puts two scarecrows on plastic chairs and positions them to look like they’re talking. But he must have stopped home after his “Hugging Your Teenager” meeting and taken them down out of respect for the Frieds (I told him about the scarecrow murderer stuff Davey spewed at the memorial; Dom was all, “I don’t know what to say to go to heck for. Let me hug you.”). So now it’s just an autumn-themed wreath on the ground, with some gourds around it in a circle. It looks pretty creepy, actually. Like a crop circle. I lean my head against the passenger window and tell him everybody’s going to think we’re in a cult.

“Ha!” he says. “Keep your hands off my art.” He thinks I’m joking, because usually we have this thing where he’ll put out his display, and then I’ll heckle him for it, and rearrange it, or straight up hide the decorations. Like when he puts out the big plastic igloo at Christmas I’ll drag it around back or haul it on top of his car. It’s a seasonal game we play. But he’s totally missing the point because I’m not in the mood for pranks. I legitimately think the gourds are creepy. Our whole house seems creepy for some reason.