Dedicated to Michigan State University, the most recent location of the hundreds of mass shootings that have paralyzed the classroom.
There’s snow on the ground on my way to school. It’s Thursday, and my cheeks are pink, the color they get when Nani has just pinched my cheeks and said something about me looking just like my mother. My mother, oftentimes crazy and paranoid, calls me on the way to school because she wants to make sure I haven’t been hit by a car in the five minutes it takes me to cross the bridge. You’re okay, right? Yes mom. I’ve done this a hundred times. Okay beta. Have a good day at school. I love you.
The glass doors fog as I yank them open and let one, two, three other students in before going inside myself. I wave to the office clerk at the front desk: he’s the father of my sister’s best friend. My sister is not even awake right now and a pang of jealousy reverberates through my body as I shrug off my coat in the corner of my first class of the day. My teacher greets me and tells me it’s okay if I leave my coat here the whole day. You can grab it at the end of the day, if you’d like.
The day passes without much fanfare, a grammar quiz rocking my shit and my best friends complimenting my cashmere sweater that I stole from my father’s closet and my boyfriend holding my hand under the table at lunchtime, his brown hair dusting his eyes as he tells a joke that I’ve heard six times before. I want to tell him I love him but I fear it’s too early. I also don’t quite know what romantic love feels like, and worry that I’d be mislabelling. Maybe I just like him a whole fucking lot.
Towards the end of the day I am sitting in my journalism class when the intercom crackles with feedback, our assistant principal droning about the swim team’s latest victory in Mariemont and how some of us aren’t abiding by the dress code and how we’re going to be having an active shooter drill next period and how this week is the last week to purchase prom tickets and and to wish our lunch lady Mara happy birthday if we see her because she’s 60 today and has never looked better. I’m writing a piece about sustainable fashion trends and student-run upcycling businesses that are a great alternative to TJ Maxx finds and I tap away at my keyboard, tuning it all out.
Next period I take a particularly difficult physics test, which is interrupted by the drill. We huddle in the corner and Mrs. Smail huffs about how we can finish up tomorrow. The intercom buzzes about 20 minutes later saying that we all did a great job and reminding us once again, this is our last week to purchase prom tickets and if we don’t do it literally this week we cannot go to prom no exceptions.
When I’m walking home the snow has melted and my shoes are stained brown with the slush. I leave them in the foyer and ruffle my dog’s backside before texting my mother.
Home.
A few minutes pass.
Ok.
***
My younger sister peruses the aisles of the town Target with her tongue between her teeth and a funny way of walking. She’s doing some kind of jaunt, a jig, dancing because “mommy said I kin get new shoes” and “I’m so escyted.” It’s a Thursday evening in Cincinnati, Ohio and there’s sunshine and a light breeze outside. We’re going to the park after this.
My sister is four years old and my mother is holding her hand and reminding her that she can have any pair on clearance as long as they don’t light up.
***
I take a physics test during 7th period. There isn’t a single problem on the test that I feel confident about upon first glance, but the minutes pass and my pencil races across the page, drawing models and regurgitating equations. Pencil lead clicks. Erasers rub. The clock ticks. When the intercom buzzes, Mrs. Smail tells us we can have an extra five minutes but that’s all before we have to huddle in the corner for the rest of the period. I don’t know what to make of problem seven but three minutes later I have conveniently figured it out with only 120 seconds left to go.
Racing, I scribble and cross out and punch numbers into my calculator with a speed I’ve never once possessed. My teacher stands at my desk and drums her fingers on the surface, asking me if I’m just about finished which really means I’m about to yank this from you and you can’t do anything about it. I nod and push it towards her, the cashmere of my sweater itching just below my collarbone. We are instructed to move towards the corner of the classroom and my seat partner asks me if I have any plans for the weekend as we crouch down on the floor, fighting for a place against the wall so we can have a backrest. I tell her that I’m going to go prom dress shopping with my friends. She gasps and pulls out her phone, reminded of the various dresses she has to choose from and swipes through her camera roll, asking me which I prefer. The teacher tells us to quiet down but doesn’t really care. I tell her she looks amazing in all of them, but the green one is particularly flattering. After a while, the speaker crackles. The drill is over. Oh, but make sure to buy your tickets to prom.
We go home, Mrs. Smail telling us we can finish the rest of the test tomorrow. I smile because that means I can figure out problem seven on my own time and get it right.
***
The floor of my college dorm is the host of “rug time” because I have a blue fuzzy rug and my room is at the corner of the hall and it’s the biggest on the floor. Allison and Laura and Elizabeth and Anya are stretched out on the ground, computers and iPads and notebooks and pencils decorating the space like they do every Thursday. Light jazz comes from the speaker. Anya hums as she scribbles a differential equation on her iPad. Laura is doing a Spanish reading. Elizabeth is building a cyclohexane with her chemistry model kit. I look at them and smile to myself because how did I get so damn lucky?
I am writing a piece for my fiction class on my computer. I am deep in focus. Allison says something and I miss it. Sorry? She repeats can you turn the music down?
Sure.
Allison is trying to call her sister Violet because she just received a notification that a student was shot outside of her high school and has been rushed to the hospital. He was walking across the esplanade, heading to the school parking lot. Her sister isn’t picking up the phone, and we don’t realize what’s happening until she starts to panic.
Violet isn’t picking up the phone. Why isn’t Violet picking up the fucking phone?
The room is silent and Allison’s eyes are glued to her computer, eyes racing across the page. He’s in critical condition. They don’t know if he’s going to live. Is he going to live?
Look, she says, eyes crazed. There’s an image on her computer screen and I recognize it as a school, the grass lucious with spring, sun rays showering the building. She points to a patch of green in front of the main entrance.
He was standing right there.
We hold our breath.
A few minutes later, Allison gets a call. She almost cries from relief.
Get in the car and drive home. Text me when you’re there.
Allison makes 10, 15, 20 more calls. Everyone else is safe but she tells all of them the same thing. It doesn’t take long for her phone to blow up with notifications.
Home.
She texts back immediately.
Ok.
***
An announcement comes over the loudspeaker. Good afternoon students and staff. It’s time for our active shooter drill. Please follow the instructions of your teachers. This shouldn’t take long.
I finish up my physics test and hand it to my teacher, scratching at my collarbone as my seat partner and I get up and head towards the back of the classroom, the chairs askew in the middle of the room. Normally we would barricade the door but don’t worry about it for now, Mrs. Smail says. She flips off the lights and tells us while it’s okay to use our phones, to please lower the brightness. My seat partner, Pearl, asks me if I have any plans for the weekend, to which I whisper I’m going prom dress shopping.
Oh my gosh! So fun. Has Andrew asked you to prom yet? I tell her no, but that I’m sure he will soon. Maybe I’ll tell him then.
Pearl pulls out her phone and asks me to help her decide which prom dress she should go for. Around us, people are chatting softly, and I rest my back against the back of the wall. Someone makes a joke about how funny it would be to see Mrs. Smail with a gun. Could you imagine if they armed teachers? I can’t even trust that woman with teaching me kinematics.
Someone jiggles the door knob of our classroom, making sure it’s locked tight. The room falls silent. After a moment, we hear footsteps recede and are back to chatting. It’s not real.
Well done, students. Thank you for your cooperation during our drill. Have a great rest of your day, and remember that prom is approaching and this is your last week…
Sole Magazine