Wes frowned. “What?” He lifted the tray close to his face and sniffed. “No, I just bought this. Brown-sugar crust. Smoked locally. It smells great.”
Kincaid plucked a piece off the platter, examined it, and then bit. “Mmm, yep. That’s a winner. Pile it on, chef.”
Rebecca shook her head and put her piece onto Kincaid’s plate instead. “Sorry. That just smells off to me.”
Wes looked down at his wife, concern in his eyes. He cupped her cheek, examining her. “You sure you’re okay, Bec? You look a little pale. Maybe you’re getting a stomach bug. Xavier had it earlier this week. I sent him home, but he worked for a few hours in the truck.”
Rebecca shook her head. “No, I’m okay. I’m just… I’ll stick with quiche today.”
Wes didn’t look convinced, but he kissed the top of Rebecca’s head, which made Taryn smile. Seeing her friend so happy and in love gave her a warm and fuzzy feeling. If Rebecca could find that kind of happiness after all she’d been through, maybe there was hope for them all.
Wes dished out bacon to those who wanted it, then disappeared into the big, yellow school bus he and Rebecca had converted into a food truck, leaving them to their girl talk.
“You sure you’re okay, Bec?” Taryn asked after he’d walked away.
“I’m fine. Probably just spring allergies throwing my sense of smell off.” She flicked her hand toward Taryn. “Go on with what you were saying. How are you going to get around the school board?”
Taryn smoothed her napkin, a ripple of anxiety going through her. “I need to take it to the public, to the media.”
Liv’s dark eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs. “Like call out the school board for saying no?”
“No, I considered that, but it would get ugly and political. The message would get lost in the mix,” Taryn explained. “I mean bypass them altogether and go to people directly.”
“I’m listening,” Rebecca said, her business face on.
Taryn took a sip of her mimosa, trying to organize her thoughts. “I’d thought about writing a piece for the newspaper or a website, but then I was watching some videos yesterday, and I was struck by how powerful they were, how much they affected me. I think that’s the better path. We live in a world of visual media and viral videos. That’s what gets my students’ attention. Plus, we live in a time where grassroots stuff can turn into a big deal. Think of how many marches and movements are started on social media now.”
“Right,” Kincaid said, her attention fully on Taryn. “But what exactly are you suggesting?”
Taryn looked to each of her friends. “I’m thinking I should raise money and put together a video campaign about the befores and afters of a school shooting. I love hard data because it’s solid and I can see proof, but statistics are just numbers to most people. My whole presentation is full of facts and figures, but you saw what happened the other night. It didn’t move anybody. It should, but that’s not how humans work. We don’t feel numbers. We feel people’s stories.
“It’s not enough to say, ‘This many people died.’ It’s more effective to show ‘This person died. This person who was going to be a scientist or an actress or who loved her dog and wanted a family.’ Or ‘This life was changed in this way. This person will never be the same because he’s been through this.’ Or even with the killers, showing ‘This is what could’ve been if someone had stepped in to help them.’ I need to stop talking about intervention and instead show exactly what difference it could’ve made.”
Rebecca was leaning forward now, her food abandoned. “Like if Trevor’s depression had been caught early and he’d gotten help.”
Taryn nodded. Rebecca had been secret friends with Trevor in a therapy group before the shooting, but Trevor had been deeply suicidal by then. Rebecca still carried the guilt that she could’ve done more. “Exactly.”
“But how would you do that?” Liv asked. “Get those messages across?”
Taryn pushed her food around with her fork, the plan crystalizing inside her but overwhelming her a little. She’d never relished cameras being turned on her. “First, I’d need to raise money to make high-quality videos. Then, I get victims and their families to volunteer their stories, talk about the befores and afters, the what-ifs, and have them provide photos and home videos. Then we put the testimonials out there, explain how my program could help keep future tragedies like this from happening, and then ask for donations to fund my program independently. If we could get enough traction, I think that would also put pressure on school boards and lawmakers to consider more comprehensive programs. Even if that doesn’t turn their heads, if I can get enough money to try the program in one school district, I could do a trial run to demonstrate the model, show how it helps and how it can be affordable. Go in with tried-and-true results next time.”
Rebecca sat back and shook her head. “Wow, that sounds amazing.”
“It does, but it also sounds like a really, really huge project,” Liv said with a little frown.
“Yeah, sugar,” Kincaid said, her voice gentle. “I love the idea, but the doctor told you to take on less stuff, not more. Planning fund-raisers. Producing and directing high-quality videos. Getting people to participate and arranging all that. Talking with victims and stirring up all that stuff. Then handling the press? That’s…a lot.”
“It’s a full-time job,” Rebecca agreed.
“I know.” Taryn took a long sip of her drink, wishing it was more champagne than orange juice. “There’s no way I can pull all of that off while continuing my research and teaching my classes.”
Her friends all frowned in unison.
“Which is why,” she continued, “I’m going to take a leave of absence from my job.”
Kincaid’s eyes went wide.
Liv sat up straighter. “Can you do that? Like a sabbatical?”