Ben Wiley Burns in Hell
When we were freshmen you told me all the cool kids take flowers out to Carrie White’s grave on the night of prom. (The grave belonged to some poor woman named Carolyn White, but it was close enough.) Senior year I ordered a bouquet just like Sue’s from the movie: red carnations, yellow daisies, baby’s breath, and ferns. You showed up carrying an old bowling bag dripping with blood.
I’d sent my date to get the car because my stilettos were killing me. You had no escort and wore black. You swung the bloody bag at my dress and asked me if I wanted to know what was inside. At first I thought you were trying to humiliate me––you were always mean––but you told me it was a gift for Mr. Wiley.
I knew what it meant when you came out of his classroom at strange times. Sure, you were in there talking about history or government, and then later, asking for letters of recommendation. I was certain you could handle whatever trouble you were getting into, Pamela. I expected you to take command of Mr. Wiley the same way you took command of every classroom, then the whole student government, then your scholarship-winning art portfolio. I could never be like you.
When you unzipped the bag to show me a bloody pig’s head, the smell made my insides twist. “You better text Jordan. Tell him you’ll meet him at the dance.” Your words were my command. You were the only person in our school who could make me feel weak, and I wished you could be my date.
You drove to Mr. Wiley’s house instead of the school gym. “Nice touch, don’t you think?” you said, patting the bowling bag. “They used pig’s blood in Carrie. This one is small, but you should see how big they get!”
“Great. Now what are we going to do?”
“What are you going to do, you mean? You’re going to leave the head on the porch and plant the cross on the lawn.” You pointed to the backseat. “Easy-peasy.”
I turned around and saw you’d painted BEN WILEY BURNS IN HELL on a makeshift wooden cross. Not your best work. “This is really creative, but I’m not going to jail for you.”
“Jail? Nobody ever has to know. Come on, girl. It makes perfect sense. I’m the one driving the getaway car. It’s not like I’m asking you to trash their house, though I wouldn’t mind if you hurled the head through the kitchen window for Mrs. Wiley to find.”
“What did she ever do to you?”
I shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t speak for so long I thought you’d given up on your plan. Maybe you hated me for not being loyal enough. Or for loving you the wrong way.
“He said we would live together when I started college. In our own little apartment. I would be a legal adult, and nobody could touch us.”
“Oh, Pam.”
“What? He was my first. I believed him.”
Your sadness trapped me in the scheme, and I resolved to give you what you wanted. How hard could it be? Ditch the head, plant the cross. Next stop: the prom. I imagined dancing with you, showing off in front of the boys.
When you pulled up in front of the dark Wiley house there was a Prius in the driveway. I was ready to act, but for some reason you threw me a little warning: “You need to be quick.”
“Of course I’ll be quick. What the hell?”
Later I wondered if you knew she was waiting for us. Were you still texting him, leaving clues like a criminal who wants to be caught?
I tried not to get blood on my long satin skirt as I gripped the bowling bag. You handed me the cross, and I crept up the driveway like a thief. “Put the head on the welcome mat,” you hissed, but I refused. The stilettos were already slowing me down.
My knees gave out when the door of the Prius opened, and I wish I could say that’s all I remember. I haven’t slept right for months. I know Mrs. Wiley killed you before she killed herself. That’s the only possible way it could have gone down. One beauty queen lost, then another. A pig’s head in the bag. Your pretty updo obliterated. Blood all over your car.
We weren’t lovers despite the rumors. We weren’t even best friends.
The one who was your lover opened the front door of the house.
I was on the lawn, ears ringing, jaw clenched, everything slow and hollow around me. No screaming possible. Lights came on all over the neighborhood, but it was a few minutes before we heard the sirens. Mr. Wiley ran outside looking like a scared child, saying something I couldn’t make out, over and over. He approached me like I had the answer, and the only thing left was to hand him the cross with his name on it.
- Ben Wiley Burns in Hell - March 18, 2025
* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are producs of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
