I’m sitting on a park bench, surveying the environment around me. I can smell the freshly cut grass, I can see the children playing on the playset, see them swinging a jump rope, I can feel the setting sun on my face, I can taste the coffee I finished before coming here, and I can hear the children chanting.
“Catie Lee went to school
Bit the teacher and broke the rules
They kicked her out on her butt
And later she was found dead in a rut.”
The rhyme grates on my nerves every time I hear it, mostly because of how inherently wrong it is. Catie didn’t bite the teacher - she was too nice, too sweet, too perfect. And she didn’t get kicked out of school. What really happened was I kicked him. I still don’t regret it. He was a jerk. Even after.
And it wasn’t a rut she was found in, it was a warehouse. A warehouse on fire. I can still smell the smoke, and can feel my lungs rebelling even as I fought to get past the first responders. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I bid them away. Crying isn’t going to accomplish anything, crying isn’t going to bring her back. Now is not the time for tears.
Catie was my best friend, and one of the most important people in my life. Everyone loved her. Everyone wanted to be her friend. Some wanted to be her. There were times I did, before I realized that I could never be Catie Lee.
These children sing this inane rhyme with the naivete of youth hanging around their shoulders as they skip in and around the swinging rope. She had been tied to a pole with a jump rope. When they found her, the fire hadn’t reached her yet. But she was dead, and had been dead for two hours, according to the coroner’s report. The cause of death was strangulation, apparently. The police claim they never found the murderer. They thought it was me at first. That jerk teacher I kicked the day Catie died told them I was “deranged, suspiciously reserved, weirdly obsessed with Catie, and a bad influence.” Which is ridiculous, because just because I looked like I was dressed for a funeral and was in possession of a ridiculously intense glare, doesn’t mean I was deranged. They questioned me for as long as they could, but they couldn’t prove I killed her. Because I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t - I mean, I wasn’t even anywhere near the warehouse. My alibi was corroborated by three other witnesses, two of which still hate me for no reason.
I waited for three hours. She told me to meet her at the place we went to after homecoming; this old abandoned lot with broken glass littering the ground like fallen stars and a chain link fence that we pretended was a wall of vines shielding our perfect paradise from the world. Well, she pretended that. I didn’t tell her that it was a perfect paradise already, just because she was there. We had waltzed in tandem over the shards with our fancy shoes, glittery clothes, bright smiles, and full hearts. The wrappers strewn about the floor were a carpet, just for us, the pit in the background a moonlight pond, the weeds carefully cultivated rosebushes. That moment was beautiful. The time I was waiting for her was less so. The lot just looked dangerous and messy. Like me, now that I think back on it. The broken glass jutted out of the ground at dangerous angles, the chainlink fence snagged on my clothes, the wrappers were just plain disgusting, the pit looked like eight broken bones waiting to happen, and the weeds were scraggly and sparse.
She never showed that night she’d asked to meet me. I was mildly perturbed, but I figured she had a good reason. She never ditched me before, not ever. I didn’t find out why she did that time until I went home. I still remember the ice that filled my veins, the tears that clouded my vision, the tightness in my chest, the bile in my mouth, and the intense need to find her, to disprove what I was being told by my foster parents.
A child stumbles into me, nearly falling over. I snap out of the memory of deadened limbs and buckling knees, to scoop her up and deposit her cleanly back on her feet. She thanks me and runs back to her friends. I watch her go, an infinitesimal smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Catie would’ve elbowed me, saying, “Look. You’re perfectly lovely when put to the test. I told you I was right. I know these things; you need to trust me.” She was always quick to compliment me. She said it was because she felt I didn’t get enough compliments after my parents died (she said died, not passed, never passed, she knew how “passed” made me want to shatter a vase) and that she had to make up for that.
She was always so kind and observant and selfless. I miss her so much. It took three years of therapy to admit that out loud. It took four years of research to prepare for what I’m about to do.
I watch the man cross the playground, his eyes fixed on the little girl I’d helped only moments ago. A creepy smile spreads across his face like blood seeping from a hidden wound. I’d like to think that I’m doing what’s right. But really, I’m doing this for me.
Me and Catie.
“Catie Lee had a friend
Someone who would follow her until the end
That friend lost Catie one cold night
But soon they’re gonna make it right.”
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