The Real Rachel (Landon)

I scrolled through yet another Havencraft shooting website and found a familiar name: Rachel Joy Anderson. Intrigued, I clicked. After all these years, her smile was a refreshing sight, even if it was only in pixels. I read, finding that Anderson was considered to be "the joy of our lives" by her friends and her family. She was described as "compassionate" and as someone who "had a real heart for the disadvantaged and downtrodden." Well, where was that compassion and supposed heart when I needed it?

Back in my sophomore year, it seemed that it was Rachel's mission to make my life more difficult. She liked talking to her friends about "that poor kid and his special needs little sister." Um, hello? Lisette has a name! She told guys to beat me up and, even when I was left unconscious on the outskirts of the campus, it was my word against hers. No one believed me when I tried to tell my side of the story. She was practically venerated among teachers and students. People treated Rachel like she was perfect even though the truth hid in plain sight. She spread rumors about me downing potions in the quad when, most of the time, I wasn't even there. Still, people believed her because they were afraid of what they would become if they confronted her about the truth.

Even worse, my parents signed me up for a peer tutoring program and I got placed with Rachel so she could tutor me in English. I don't even know how Rachel got qualified to be a peer tutor other than her ability to pull the strings to get her way. I spent two hours after school with Rachel four days out of the week working on things with her. She didn't even really try to help me; she just wanted me under that saccharine little thumb of hers. Unfortunately, I had to go through with it or risk her ruining my reputation. She would have told everyone that I wet myself in the seventh grade because I was too shy to ask for a bathroom pass. I didn't exactly have a good reputation after that.
          "You know that Landon kid? He's probably going to shoot up this place." I heard this while walking down the hall and struggling to keep my books under control. For once, she wasn't wrong. I've planned it since the end of my freshman year. I hated Havencraft High School. I hated the fact that my parents thought their rigorous academic program would be "good for me", but, most of all, I hated being poked and prodded like the school's plaything.

Even so, the guilt that came with taking her life tore me to shreds each day. I remembered her screaming and begging for mercy as I aimed. They didn't matter to me at the time; it was just additional noise in the lunch room as the other students ran for cover. At that point, I just didn't care who the arrows hit. Flames engulfed the building quickly and I saw nothing but red.

After the fact, my parents forced me to attend Rachel's funeral. I protested that no one would want to see me there. You should have thought of that before shooting up your school, my father said as he selected a . At the time, I didn't feel any remorse whatsoever. No one would mourn the real Rachel anyway. The lot of them saw what they wanted to see and that's what they would cry over at the funeral.

When the day came, I dressed my best and made an effort to tame my hair, which, like me, does not take well to being held down. I put a dandelion in my pocket, which was Rachel's favorite flower. I could play the part as well as she could, if not better. That's what all of us "fine arts fags," as she called us, did after all.

Instead of being mostly ceremony like most funerals were, this one was mostly gossip...and it was about me. My MO for the day was to lay low. I didn't speak to anyone or make eye contact. Tempted as I was to correct people when they called me a sick, vile monster, I didn't. Instead, I made myself appear vaguely interested in what little ceremony there was. Lisette sat with my parents and other sister, Lauren. I sat alone. I knew who the real Rachel was, but I didn't let it show.

The reception came more quickly than I had expected. I wanted to avoid the areas where people were mingling, which were the food areas, but I was starving and I smelled food. Naturally, I loaded up my plate with whatever I could find. If I could keep my mouth full, I didn't have to speak. That and I had a raging appetite most of the time. To keep satisfied, I had to eat constantly. I found an empty table and ate. I don't know if it was due the fact that I was a teenager and, thus, would eat anything that resembled a food item, but, somehow, I remembered that everything was delicious. The pile of food vanished and, as soon as I got up to throw away the plate, another girl approached me. She wore a gossamer sundress that was incongruous with the environment and looked to be around my age.
          "Emma Brady." She extended her hand.
          "Landon LaCoste." I extended my hand. Disgusted, she retracted her hand.
          "I should've known." Flipping her hair in my face, Emma Brady stalked off. The same thing happened with about four other people until one of them had the nerve to say "That's him." Immediately, people started confronting me. Some had questions that they weren't interested in me answering. Some just went straight for the insults until some mysterious black-haired girl rose from her seat and said "Enough." The crowd went silent.
          "He knows what he's done wrong." After that, the guests looked at each other deciding that the Rachel they knew would never do things like that.

Looking back, I knew that I deserved it. I deserved every single word they hurled at me. The fact that I had committed such an atrocity haunts me to this day. I looked down at the countless presentation notes I had written. That black-haired girl was right. I knew what I had done wrong. Now, it was a matter of what I'd make from it.