My favorite part of the week

Ten minutes to gunshots.

“I am the dead end for food,” I said as I shoved another piece of celery into my mouth. “I’ll never be as notorious as her, but I’ve at least I have all the celery I want.” I nodded toward my sort-of rival.

“Feeling gloomy today?” Rachel asked.

Our lunch room wasn’t the raucous kind. Sure, it was a public school, but we weren’t barbarians. Angie was putting down her tray next to the choir kids this week. I am a great observer. She rarely ate three meals in a row with the same group of kids. I wondered if that was what made her so well connected in the school. Beauty and brains probably helped.

“Not gloomy. Just ready for this experiment to end. I’ve done my three months of celery and other green foods. There has been no change at all in the way I feel, the size I see in the mirror, my ability to concentrate, nothing.”

Rachel made a sympathetic noise, and dragged a tater tot through her swamp of ketchup.

The other two showed up. We could count on each other, our little group. The funny ones. The smart ones. The ladies who probably wouldn’t ever have a date in high school. Even Angie stopped by our table for the occasional lunch, so we weren’t absolute misfits. OCD Maya make sure her chair and her tray made perfect 90° angle alignment before sitting down. Shakirra flipped her long hair extensions out of the way as she collapsed in a heap of jangling bracelets and too many bags. I wasn’t the only one who thought it was hilarious these two were besties. Angie had mentioned it to me only last week.

“The class rankings out for the quarter?” Maya asked innocently.

I stared at my floral lunch bag And tried to look unobtrusive. The results were always predictable. Since middle school, anyway.

“I checked this morning,” Rachel said, giving me a casual whack on the arm. “First and second, as always. Angie and this woman.”

Three minutes to gunshots.

Shakirra had to pluck a hair extension from across her tray before eating. It was time to refresh those things. They tended to loosen up over time. I hope she picked teal again soon. She said, “Why does anybody even check anymore?”

My friends knew it would take a long time before I stopped blushing, and my celery wasn’t sliding back down my throat the way I hoped. I hadn’t looked up since the conversation started.

Rachel wanted to know, “Does Mike even make it into the top five anymore?”

That made me blush even harder. I had to stand up for him, though. “This year hasn’t been the best one, since his mother died. He’s always in the top 10, but he takes care of his siblings a lot.“ Mike had been my best friend since preschool. We had a comfortable relationship, although his new-found height, his gentleness, and his increasingly chiselled facial features gave me all kinds of romantic confusion. Being his incredibly lumpy friend, there would never be anything more than easy joking between us — unless joint study counted as romance. It was like a dagger twisting in my side every time I saw the way he looked at Angie.

Maya had her food arranged to her satisfaction, and had cleared her mouth of the first bite. She wiped her mouth with a crisply creased napkin. “Well, we all know the only person who is going to maintain a 4.0 for the entire four years of high school is Tam, here. Mike could still pull out a top five position, though. That’s good for scholarships.”

“The only reason Angie is ever listed before Tam. is that her last name appears earlier in the alphabet,” Rachel observed.

One minute to gunshots.

It was only the end of the junior year, and all of us had time — we could redeem ourselves or totally blow it. I wondered to how much more blood could be shoved into my skin, rather than my brain or other organs. It felt like my face throbbed with the effort of all that blushing.

Rachel must’ve noticed how uncomfortable I was getting. She changed the subject to the new girls’ choice dance. We were all pretty secure in two things. One, our academic records would remain the highest in the school — maybe for years to come. Two, none of us would go to the dance, because nobody would say yes even if we asked. Shakirra might have all those hair extensions, but she was just downright ugly. We all knew it, but we never said it. I was, putting it bluntly, obese. Maya with her OCD would never be able to handle the unpredictability of a dance; and she could only be considered “plain” anyway. Rachel, the most socially astute of us, had no confidence with guys, and her physical averageness wasn’t redeemed by anything except her brain. Talking about a dance was a safe zone for everyone, since there would never be any jealousy.

Ten seconds.

Mike usually studied through the lunch hour, but today he was headed towards us with his tray. My heart lifted.

The small click followed by static meant the announcement system was coming on. I had never experienced it on “turbo mode.” Didn’t even know turbo existed. Apparently, the administration must’ve had it installed only for emergencies. I may have allowed my adoration to show as Mike was approaching, and I’m glad that his was the face I saw as the announcement boomed across the lunchroom conversations. The only word in my brain — and I couldn’t dislodge it — was “beloved.”

WE ARE IN LOCKDOWN. SHELTER IN PLACE. The noise of gunfire, magnified by the new super loud announcement, underscored the words. A small cry, and then silence where the final things we heard from the office. The school communication center was being obliterated. We heard the sound of distant bullets, as that particular room continued under assault.

In the next moment, Mike’s eyes hardened, still connected with mine. He set his tray on the nearest table, and pointed to me and then swept his arm toward the door, instructing me to crouch away from any windows. The lunchroom was oddly silent and still, with kids still in shock. This was obviously not a drill.

Mike’s voice carried authority through the stillness of the room, “We’ve drilled this since elementary school. Crouch near the doors and turn off the lights.”

. . . and that was the last voice we heard speaking in a normal tone for the next hour. It was strange to see student body officers, and athletes, and even adult lunch workers following Mike’s instructions calmly. It wasn’t until the automatic bell system rang the end of lunch hour that I realised Mike wasn’t in our clustered group near the door.

Was there one shooter, or more?

Bombs involved?

Were there chemical weapons involved?

Schools were such easy targets. Lots of underdeveloped, frightened people. Where did my friend Mike go? Would we all live through this?

Maya tried to control her breathing. I helped her sense of order by silently arranging people in neat rows around her. I rubbed her back, listening to the breathing go from a hyperventilating panic to a shallow draw as close to death as anyone would want to get. Shakirrah gripped Maya’s hand tightly. Rachel seemed ready to spring up, like her cat getting ready to escape a bath. I knew I had to do more for that friend, and everybody else here, too.

With a whisper as loud as I dared, I told everyone, “There is a possibility the violence will come closer. No matter what, our best strategy is to stay right where we are. There is nothing more tantalising to a predator than seeing running shapes.“

A shudder seemed to ripple through the room.

I continued, “I will only say two things, then we must all go back to quiet. Soothe the people around you. Keep in your head a calm image that will help you stay silent during gunfire. There will be held at the end of this.”

The shudder from before turned into a great wave of serenity. That was actually three things I told them. I figured only Maya and me would get hung up on that fact.

Where did those words come from? I felt my own heart beating less painfully. I breathed long and deep breaths, and though the sound of my breathing was next to nill, people around me must have heard, and synchronised with my cadence.

After the main office, the library and lunch room — at this time of day — would be that easy targets. Although I knew that intellectually, the deep breathing give me a detached feeling regarding even my own peril. Even when the gunshots came closer, the sense of calm remained throughout the lunch room.

The backpacks, trays, and chairs had been left in disarray, and a door to the exterior of the school was intentionally left open. We all knew that driveway was for food deliveries, and the gate remained locked during school hours. It would be a trap to have gone that way, but we hoped our attackers did not know that.

Sprays of intermittent bullets resounded through the empty hallways.

There was a gentle ramp leading down to the lunchroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows shattered as the bullets hit those glass partitions.

At the corner of the lunchroom, the bullets plunked into low areas of the walls. These shooters must have had the same drills in elementary school that we had. They knew if anybody was sheltering in place they would be on the ground near the front doors. Block construction below the windows saved most of us. The bullets sprayed again and again into the walls. The rattling of the doors somebody try to open them nearly broke our calm, but people were actively soothing each other in whatever way they knew how. Gentle touch, a locked gaze into another’s eyes, even mild humming. It certainly couldn’t be heard over the sound of gunfire, but it could be heard by a person right next to the one humming.

I was positioned too close to the door. I felt a plasma-hot spear of pain in my thigh as a bullet entered and left, it lodged in my opposite ankle. With a sharp intake of breath, I resisted the urge to cry out. My three closest friends reached out for me. I grabbed one of the nearest hands, and clenched my teeth. As I looked around, frightened eyes turned in my direction, wondering if this was the end for all of us.

My eyes met Angie‘s. Too many wisps of blond hair fell across her face. This wasn’t just a beautiful effect any blonde girl knows. She was in pain. I saw the tight face, looking almost like a smile, but realised it was a grimace. Then I saw blood seeping from the place where her hand clenched on her stomach. That wound was more serious than mine. With my free hand I gestured to the two people on either side to help her.

Somebody applied direct pressure to my leg and ankle. It must’ve been more than one person helping me. I often wish I knew who to thank.

Three other students in our cluster with wounded, but superficially.

A huge banging of the outside doors at the end of our hallway announced the arrival of the police.

My eyes never left Angie‘s. But both of us found it harder and harder to keep those eyes open.

Then, there was gunfire in two directions, but no longer into our sheltering group.

As my eyes closed, I prayed that none of the police would be killed.

————-

We are safe. Not well, but safe. Guess who my roommate is in the hospital? Obviously, Angie. We’ll both live.

We’ve both seen so many doctors, we now can’t remember the specialties, their names, or really, even the faces. Grief counsellors, and trauma counsellors, and counsellors who just don’t have any other jobs to do pestered everybody on this floor until we thought about holding a protest against therapy.

I even began a petition, sort of as a joke. “We, the undersigned, want to be able to sleep, not talk about trauma.” We got more signatures than there were beds on the floor. Family members and nurses signed for me. We posted it on the exterior door to the ward.

getting shot wasn’t my favorite part of the week. Being awake for the best visitor of all wasn’t even my favorite part of the week.

Mike hurried into the room with a huge bouquet of flowers, and three helium balloons. He had a teddy bear tucked under his elbow, and a card clutched in the hand holding the balloons. He looked distracted, and a little unkempt.

“I haven’t been sleeping since I heard you were in the hospital, and they haven’t let me come see you.“

I glance over at my roommate, assuming that is who he has come to see.

“Oh, hi, Angie,“ he says. “You’ve also got shot?“

She doesn’t have time to answer, because the idiot turns straight back to me. “These are for you, Tam. But if it’s okay, can I give one of your flowers to Angie, too?”

Maybe I’m not the type of girl anybody wants to date. But at least my friend Mike thinks I’m important. That, right there, is my favorite part of the week.