Free You Know Me Better Than That (A Short Story) by Jennifer Blackman Page A

didn’t go to her first. Although society women don’t talk to the press, do they?
    I will tell you the story because I have a kind soul, Jessica Beckler. You know, you look like a reporter—sensible pantsuit and sensible loafers. But the pearl earrings age you. Why not take them off?
    Jessie: I don’t ever take them off.
    [Silence.]
    Shall we get started? Basically, half this town has already heard the story about Luke Wilson’s accident at The Springs, many from a friend of a friend, some from an actual eyewitness. Three elements always remain the same: Luke Wilson, the pool, and hero Miranda Davis. Still, no one can seem to agree on any of the facts leading up to the incident, nothing but the ending. Today, we’re here to get your story. The true story.
    Miranda: The true story or my story? Don’t answer that.
    You asked earlier if we still keep in touch. We do not. I think you’ll find that by the end of my story, there will be little wonder why.
    I’d be delighted to hear your ending, the one everyone agrees on.
    Jessie: Of course. But first, you knew actor Luke Wilson years before he rose to fame. Tell us, what was he like back then?
    Shoot, do you mind if I record this conversation?
    Miranda: By all means.
    Jessie: Great. So, how did you and Luke Wilson meet?
    Miranda: Aren’t you going to start recording?
    Jessie: I’ve been recording the whole time. On my phone, see?
    Miranda: That is terrifying. If I may, I think the move, next time, is this: You ask to record a conversation, you visibly begin recording. And if you’ve begun recording earlier, the least you could do is feign beginning.
    I knew him first, way before my sister, if that’s what you’re asking.
    He was Wil then, not Luke. We went to Lav Middle together and shared fourth-period geography. I remember I sat in the second row and he sat behind me, passing penis notes back and forth with friends until they got caught. Really careful anatomical sketches. Normal kid stuff. He was the first seventh-grade boy to get head from an A-squad cheerleader—it was a rumor, but that’s all it took to start a fire at our school. And he was a great swimmer, miles better than I ever was. Everyone thought he was headed for the Olympics before Lisbeth ruined things. But you already knew that. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.
    I remember I used to make a point of asking him if I could borrow a pencil before tests. The fact that I remember that, it’s kind of—
    Do you mind if I smoke? I removed the batteries from that smoke detector years ago.
    Jessie: Not at all, go ahead. So then what? How did your little sister ruin things?
    Miranda: So he usually gave me a pencil. What did I do with all those pencils?
    Wil had a job cleaning pools when we were freshmen. My parents had been talked into this saltwater setup in the backyard, one of the first of its kind, and it was slowly sinking and needed constant maintenance. Lisbeth and I were real friends that summer, for the last time. She was one grade below, with white-blonde hair down to her waist and boys’ legs. Everything about her was very straight and clean. We looked like twins except for that. I’ve always been fuller looking, messier, but I’m a natural blonde, not like you’d know it to look at me now. I started going gray—truly, silver—the day I turned thirty. I’m sure Lisbeth still dyes hers blonde.
    I remember the air conditioner kept breaking down that summer. I wore my hair in one long rope braid, because I’d sweat through my shirt if I didn’t. If Lisbeth and I weren’t in the pool or going to the pool, we’d spread out on the kitchen tile in our bikinis.
    One afternoon, Wil came by to scrub the pool and we threw ourselves a viewing party.
    Jessie: What girl wouldn’t? So it sounds like he was pretty crushworthy even back then.
    Miranda: Crushworthy. Does he sound crushworthy? I’m not saying you’re wrong, but what about “he drew penis pictures” led you there?
    Anyway, we