The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(35)

The Whitewood School will be accepting students from Bleak Creek as well as surrounding areas. Mr. Whitewood promises that if he is able to get unruly young ones in his program before they become full-fledged troublemakers, there is hope that they will grow up to be responsible, normal adults. “Bleak Creek is such a wonderful place,” said Mr. Whitewood. “I would hate to see it ruined by a few headstrong kids.”



There were several articles that followed in the next month, mainly repeating the same information and celebrating the school. After doing some quick math, Janine realized Donna was probably one of the school’s first students.

When she made it to the end of 1979, Janine was nursing a headache from the stagnant basement air, but she knew she had to keep looking. If someone told the loud librarian the truth about Janine’s documentary, she might not give her access to the microfilm archives so easily. She had to dig further now.

She dumped more rolls on the table and began flying through the headlines. The school wasn’t mentioned at all in 1980 or 1981. When she was nearing the end of 1982, she was convinced that the Whitewood School had become so inconsequential to the people of Bleak Creek that it didn’t even warrant a mention in the homespun newspaper.

But then she saw it.

An article entitled “Teen Dies in Freak Accident at Whitewood School,” dated December 18, 1982. Richard Stanley, a fourteen-year-old boy, had died after locking himself in the school’s industrial oven during an unauthorized game of hide-and-seek.

Janine felt queasy.

The article wasn’t clear as to how the oven had then been accidentally turned on, leaving the boy to be found by staff the next morning. Wayne Whitewood was quoted as saying, “The entire staff is devastated. We are deeply saddened that we lost this troubled young man. He was showing so much progress, but still had a wild streak. We honestly don’t know what else we could have done.”

It was tragic—and in this case, gruesome—for a student to die at a reform school. But it wasn’t exactly scandalous. Even so, Janine noticed she was trembling as she read the article.

She kept going, grabbing the 1983 and 1984 microfilm rolls.

No mentions of the school.

Then, 1985.

A mention of Wayne Whitewood in May. Not about the school. He’d won a barbecue cook-off.

Then, June 12.

Oh my god.

“Girl Killed in Gas Explosion at Whitewood School.”

The accident was similar to the first: a sixteen-year-old girl had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing (sneaking around to smoke a cigarette). The article included another heartfelt but blame-shifting quote from a grieving Wayne Whitewood.

Janine’s mind was reeling faster than the knobs on the microfilm machine. Two students dead in a few years? Weren’t the people of Bleak Creek curious? Did no one consider launching an investigation?

As she reached down to continue scrolling through the rest of 1985, she felt someone’s presence.

“All those funerals were closed casket,” a gravelly voice said.

Janine recoiled and turned to see the sunken-eyed man standing right behind her.

She thought of running for the exit.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the man said with a voice reminiscent of an old car trying to start up. His dull gaze was locked on the microfilm display. He rocked back and forth slowly, his thumbs looped under his suspenders like he expected them to come undone at any moment.

“Wha…what are you talking about?” Janine asked, trying to catch her breath.

“The parents couldn’t even identify the bodies. Sheriff had to use dental records.”

“Wait a second…Did you say…all the funerals?”

“Yeah, I’ll save you the trouble. There was another accident in ’eighty-nine.”

“What…what happened?”

“Boy got struck by lightning out there on the property. Heard it was a pretty ugly scene.”

Janine reached for the 1989 roll, already stacked next to the machine. She hurriedly exchanged the spools, then began whirling through the articles.

“What date?” she asked.

There was no response.

Janine turned around.

The man was gone.





10


REX AND LEIF walked into the cafeteria on their first day at Bleak Creek High School, feeling Alicia’s absence more than ever. This moment had been building in Rex’s mind for years, ever since his older sister, Misty, told him that whoever you sat with at lunch that first day could determine your future. “Brad Stewart was the smartest guy in eighth grade,” she’d said, “but he sat with the Gardner twins his freshman year, and now he drives an ice cream truck.”

He, Leif, and Alicia had developed a plan: Instead of buying lunch, they would bring their own to avoid the hiccup of having to go through the line. Then they’d take their brown bags—lunch boxes were strictly off-limits, a sacrifice particularly challenging for Leif—directly to the spot of their choice, sit down, and wait to see who naturally joined them. The only rule they’d agreed on was that Mark Hornhat wasn’t allowed. “If he comes over, I’ll handle it,” Alicia had promised. “I’ll let him down easy. Don’t worry.”

Both Rex and Leif had serious doubts about doing all this without her.