Fellowshipping

“A Film Crew in Kichener” 

A documentary crew is currently filming in areas around Kichener, revealed to be in connection to events occurring six years ago, involving four former students from Northwood High School: Andrea Abramson, Phoebe Doon, Shaye Brooks, and the victim, Mabel Briggs. City officials wouldn’t confirm but did say the crew had all the required permits. Cameras have been spotted at Northwood High School, Bluebell State Park, and the Kichener Police Station. 

Any inquiries or concerns from residents will be addressed at the next town hall meeting. Superintendent Benjamin Larson wrote a message to the school community Tuesday evening. 

“We look forward to coming together, as parents and caretakers, to discuss internet safety, anti-bullying, and how to protect our children.” 

Directors Miles Goldstein and Jason Fahr responded that they would answer any questions but could not disclose details of their film. They are actively seeking participants who have information surrounding the tragic event.

“Our intention is to capture principal photography, in which we obviously don’t wish to cause disruption to its residents. We’ve been treated with the utmost respect and only desire to reciprocate in kind. Please send inquiries to jasonfahr@yahoo.com.” 

You want to know how it began.

It began as a car ride in the park. (An illegal one, if you must know, but harmless.) It was the summer before our junior year, and I was the first one to get my driver’s license. Shaye was sixteen, but it amused her to let other people drive her- such as myself, probably forever. Annoyed as this made me (since driving still felt like a religious experience), those days were numbered- soon to be replaced by summer jobs and then college and then that steady march into adulthood.

Or so we had assumed. 

What to do, where to go- such was the shape of our days. At night we’d stay up too late and watch old reruns, our internal clocks adjusting to later and later times, so that when we roused ourselves, at, say, the crack of noon, we still felt drowsy. I didn’t enjoy sleeping in so late; it made me feel irritable, devoid of purpose. 

Why, then, on that particular day, was it so bogged down with minutiae? No portents of doom, no sense of foreboding. And me, so attuned to the stirrings of unease, why had I felt nothing? The heavens were silent. Just another sleepover. Staying up too late and sleeping in too long. Followed by what to do and where to go.

This has bothered me for years. Why couldn’t we have gone to McDonald’s first? Why couldn’t we have woken up earlier? Even fifteen minutes? If only if only.

For some reason, Phoebe brought up going to the park, probably motivated by her run with the cross-country team, which never ceased to bore me. Admittedly, some of the details are hazy. With the park in mind, was it me who suggested we practice driving? I don’t know why I would have offered, seeing as how I had my license, having done my due diligence, and they had not. 

But the details are important to me, every second of that morning held up to the light and scrutinized. This only serves to torture me- the great Before and After, as though life can be divided with such precision.

Anyhow, it was hot that day, that day at the park. The air was soupy and dense and we stood under a canopy of trees. Shaye, who was always complaining about the heat, asked Phoebe how she could run in such conditions. 

Phoebe said, “It’s not so bad when it’s early. As long as we get here before nine.” She pointed down Bluebell Loop. “We start there and then turn back at the three mile mark.”

“Doesn’t it circle around?” Shaye asked. 

“Yeah...but it’s like nine miles. Coach says we have to work up to it. By August probably.” She cast a grin toward Shaye. “By then it’ll be really hot.”

It was time for me to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about running; I didn't know why Shaye was indulging her. Feeling a tiny prick, I slapped at the back of my neck. 

Shaye wiped underneath her eyes, smearing her mascara, giving her an edgy look. She looked at the smudges on her hands. “Damn, I’m melting." And then made a face, said plaintively, "Three more weeks.”

“You’ll make it,” Phoebe said soothingly, which only exacerbated my irritation. 

We were all aware of Shaye’s pilgrimage to Irvine every summer. Her constant diatribes against Ohio were grating. While I didn’t romanticize Kichener, it felt like a part of me; it’s where I’d spent my whole life. Irvine, to be honest, felt threatening. The popular kid, the good looking one: sunny skies and beaches and mild weather. And Kichener- the average kid with its blemishes and pimples: icy winters and humidity and the polarity of spring. But a good kid, a good soul. Did Irvine have a soul? 

Shaye said, “So let’s do this. You’re not chickening out, Phoebs, are you?”

Phoebe looked nervous. “But you’re doing it too, right?” 

“Ha, no, sweetie. This is all you. I wanted to go to the mall, remember.”

Phoebe and I exchanged glances. 

“We can still go to the mall,” Shaye said hopefully. 

The mall would entail me scrounging around for coins to buy a pretzel, because my principles dictated that I not spend my hard-earned babysitting money buying mall crap. I tossed Phoebe my keys. “There’s no one here. Stop worrying.”

And yet Phoebe continued to waffle, worried that park rangers could somehow sniff out her unlicensed status. “Get in,” I demanded. She relented and got behind the driver’s seat, Shaye and I giggling at how hunched over she was, at how hard she was gripping the steering wheel. 

“You need to push the seat back,” I told her. We giggled even harder as she grappled to find the lever. “It’s directly underneath.”

The seat slid back so quickly it slammed into Shaye’s legs, in which she’d yelped in protest.  I gave Phoebe a cursory lesson on signals and checking her mirrors, while Shaye fake snored. Finally, we were driving down Bluebell Loop, our hilarity settling into a subdued silence. 

After a while Shaye said, “Your AC sucks, Andi. Turn it up.”

“You’ll live,” I replied drolly. 

And then, inexplicably: “What if a deer ran out just now?” She sat forward and pointed her finger, barely missing Phoebe’s face. “Like right there!”

Phoebe slammed on the breaks, a knee jerk reaction to this fraught sighting of a deer. My seat belt tightened uncomfortably against me. “What the hell? Where’s the deer?” This was answered by Shaye’s laughing half-apologies. “You don’t do that to a new driver, Shaye,” I spat, turning around to glare at her.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” 

To diffuse the moment, Phoebe slowly crawled forward, telling us that we were coming upon the infamous slapping tree.

“The slapping tree?” 

“It’s like our turn-back tree. See? The big one there. We have to slap it in order to head back.”

“Do you want me to get out and slap it?” Shaye said. “I can slap it real hard.”

Phoebe said primly, “You can only slap it if you run, not drive.”

“Well, if we were running we’d be going a lot faster,” Shaye said.  

“Har har,” I said. “But, seriously, Phoebe, you can speed up a little.”

We fell into another silence and before long we returned back to the circular drive where we’d started. 

Once parked, Shaye snorted, “That took a million years.”

Phoebe, always amenable, agreed. “Yeah, I should have gone faster.”

“Right? What were you doing? Five miles an hour?”

“I think we should practice parking now,” I said.

Shaye threw up her hands. “Shoot me now!”

“She needs to learn how to parallel park if she’s going to get her license.” 

“Is it okay if we go around again?” Phoebe asked me. “I should practice at a higher speed.”

I sighed. “Fine, whatever.” 

“Come on, Phoebe, just go,” Shaye said.

Phoebe backed out and went marginally faster until Shaye crowed, “Oh, yeah, baby, can you give me thirty-five?”

“Slow down, Phoebe, don’t listen to her,” I said. Yet I was far from alarmed, used to being the grownup of our trio. There was a smile playing at Phoebe’s lips, her eyes bright with excitement. 

Shaye continued to goad her. “Who-hoo! Yes, ladies and gentleman, where we at?”

She leaned over to peer at the speedometer. “Forty miles an hour? What, what?” She did a little dance in her seat. 

“Watch out, there’s a curve here,” I said mildly, only because she was driving too fast; and, while this is a memory, it seemed like one of those contrived horror scenes, because there was a person there, like a ghostly apparition, and I screamed for her to stop. Phoebe put all her weight on the brakes. This time my seat belt tightened against me like a straitjacket.  

Phoebe put the car into park, breathing heavily, putting an unsteady hand to her heart.

“I’m so sorry, you guys, I was being stupid.”

“Yeah, you were,” I agreed. 

Shaye said impishly from the back seat, “Well, aside from almost hitting that girl, that was pretty awesome.”

“What?” Phoebe turned her body to look out the back window. “Did I seriously just hit someone?”

At first, we couldn’t see her. 

“Are you sure, Shaye?” Phoebe asked shakily. “Should I drive back a little ways?”

“There she is!” I said, pointing to a small figure sitting there, back against the treeline, not crumpled in a broken heap on the road.  

“She looks fine to me,” Shaye said. 

Phoebe shook her head. “I need to apologize to her."

“She’s fine. Let’s just go,” Shaye insisted. 

Oh Shaye- what pearls of wisdom! But, I, stupid and headstrong, had to resist.

“Of course Phoebe needs to apologize,” I said, so utterly sanctimonious. “That poor girl.”

Poor girl indeed! 

At first I thought she was a child; she was short, smaller even than Shaye; but as she stood up, she looked closer to our age, definitely in her teens. 

“She looks like a druggie,” Shaye remarked. 

Phoebe frowned. “We need to talk to her. See if she needs any help.”

And yet no one moved. The car idled, and it felt as though we were caught in a trance; we watched as the girl walked towards us, her expression wary. Her face shone in the heat, round and shiny. It was understandable why she looked so nervous. There we were, staring at her, in a car in the woods on a deserted road. 

I made the first move. “We’re clearly freaking her out.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car. The spell broke and Phoebe scrambled to join me. 

“Hey, are you okay?” I called out to her. She looked like she was ready to bolt.

Phoebe put out a hand as though to detain her. “I am so sorry.” Her words fell heavily, as though saying them slowly might carry more weight. While the girl regarded us, Phoebe soldiered on: “I’m learning how to drive. My friend, Andi, is teaching me-” She gestured toward me, and then took a breath, like she needed to confess. In which she did. “I’m technically not supposed to be driving. Like, only a parent can teach you if you have a valid permit.” She let out a strident laugh. “So, anyway, I’m really sorry if I scared you.”

There was a pause; the insects buzzed around us, the sun sluicing through the trees, ribbons of light. 

“You practically ran me over,” the girl said tonelessly, like she was delivering a fact. I took umbrage at this, and Phoebe, as truth. 

Phoebe’s face fell. “Oh no, did I really?”

While Phoebe stood there, helpless and flailing, I’d had enough. “You weren’t close to hitting her, Phoebe,” I said. I did sound rather peevish, but I trusted my memory, and perhaps my intuition.

“Actually, she was,” the girl responded. “My fingers felt the hood. At the speed you were going, I’d probably be dead if I hadn't jumped backwards.”

Okay then: a bald-faced lie. A fluttering, one to grab at and crush before it swarmed. And yet I brushed it away. 

Yes, she’d been walking on the side of the road, and yes I’d concede that Phoebe had been driving too fast- but she’d been driving practically on the other side, taking a wide turn; I’d been more worried about an oncoming car. We’d missed her by a large margin- feet, not inches. I saw her expression as we passed. She looked startled, scared perhaps, but she had not jumped backward; there was no hand pressed against the car.  

And yet Phoebe was inconsolable. Somehow I’d have to assuage her guilt or she wouldn’t be able to function. In her mind, she’d narrowly missed becoming a murderer. As I floundered at how to diffuse the situation, my car door slammed shut, the girl flinching in response. I turned to see Shaye saunter toward us. 

“What’s up?” she asked casually. 

I adopted a similar tone. “Apparently Phoebe almost hit her.”

Shaye cast a smile towards the girl. “But you’re okay, right?”

The girl volleyed back, just as coolly, “If you mean I’m not dead…”

“And yet you’re not,” Shaye said, still smiling. “So it’s all good, right?”

“Shaye, stop,” Phoebe said. “I feel terrible.”

“It’s fine,” the girl said. “As you can see, I’m fine. You can be on your way.” She gestured towards the car, an invitation Phoebe was loath to accept. 

“Can we at least drive you home?”

“Obviously I’m not comfortable getting in a car with you.” 

“No, not me!” Phoebe said laughing. “Andi can drive you. She has her license, swear on my life. And she’s a good driver.”

“I live close to here. I don’t need a ride.”

“What’s your name? I’m Phoebe.”

“Mabel,” she said, somewhat reluctantly.

I could feel Phoebe brightening at this. She’d gotten a name; she was getting somewhere. Shaye and I murmured our hellos, indoctrinated as we were, even after an alleged hit-and-run.

“It’s no big deal. We can drive you home,” Shaye offered. “We aren’t doing anything anyway.” 

Mabel looked like she was considering this, but then Phoebe had to go there; had to go all in. She said in a rush, “I’d love to invite you to our church youth group. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“No way!” Phoebe exclaimed. “So am I! Well, almost. But this is perfect!” And then she added, “Maybe this was meant to be!”

Too much. If I could give this girl the side-eye, I would. Like, just indulge her for a minute, Mabel, I hear this all the time. 

Instead, Mabel cracked open the door, the missionary door Phoebe was always tapping behind, hoping someone would open.

“What church group?” Mabel asked. Crack.

“Oh, it’s super fun,” Phoebe said, pushing the door wide open, her zeal taking over.

“We meet every Wednesday night, and we do lots of stuff on the weekends. Our church is on Red Rook until you get to Main, about a mile to the left.” She looked to me for an affirmation, but I just offered a half shrug. “And I could totally drive you. I mean, not me, but my mom could. And Jeff, he’s the funniest guy. He’s our youth pastor, and he’s the best. You’d love him.” She ended this with an indulgent smile; there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “And you know what else? Wednesday is tomorrow night! So come!” As though realizing she needed to tone it down, she added, “No pressure or anything. But...did I mention I’m bringing cupcakes?” She even raised her brows in a suggestive manner, and I couldn’t help but look at Shaye, who only widened her eyes, like she too was being seduced by cupcakes. 

Oh, Phoebe. She couldn’t help herself. Her mom had the same problem- the repair man, the ice cream man, the teacher’s aide. Anyone was fair game. 

Phoebe proposed tentatively, “I could write it down for you? Like my number? Or the address of the church?”

“No, I’ve got it,” Mabel said.

“Are you sure?” 

“I have a good memory. Maybe I can come. I’ll have to see.”

“Well...again, no pressure,” Phoebe said. There was an awkward lull.

“You should come!” Shaye said warmly, and I could hear the falseness behind the words. At best, Shaye only came to youth night periodically, and only when she fully vetted who was going to be there. 

In finale: the goodbye. Phoebe leaned in to hug her, but with the slightly panicked look on Mabel’s face, she managed to catch herself. And so with more gushing apologies, we managed to extricate ourselves. 

I couldn’t wait to call Shaye later that night and laugh about it all. The aborted hug.

The cupcake bribery. Of course, we loved Phoebe- she was the best person we knew- but this was too rich to ignore.

When we finally drove off, Mabel a speck in the rearview mirror, I firmly believed we’d never see her again. 

Shaye, in her peculiar way, sang, “Ting tang walla bing bang!” And then: “Liar! You were not planning on making cupcakes.” 

Phoebe looked a bit peaked. “Well,” she said mildly, “I was thinking about it.”

“Liar!” Shaye repeated. “Get thee behind me, Satan!” And then we laughed, if for no other reason than we always laughed at Shaye. 

And yet, as for what happened to us, I can’t blithely blame it all on Phoebe. It was fueled by her good intentions; but good intentions slowly pave the way to hell, as the saying goes, suggesting, of course, that intentions are different from actions. Phoebe’s intentions, however, were followed by actions, followed by good works. And it led her to hell anyway. It led us all there.