I inch a little closer, but I can imagine the operator’s next questions. Where are you? How many of you are there?
“Just the two of us. We’re in the principal’s office. The rest of the students and the teachers are in the auditorium for an assembly. The shots seemed to come from over there. We haven’t been to the back of the school. No, we won’t. We heard footsteps right before the shooting but nothing else.”
Can you get out? That’s what I would ask, but the voice relays more information. It’s almost comforting to listen. The low murmur from the phone line and the occasional gunfire in the distance are the only sounds. We’re safe here. I think.
“Yes, yes. The principal’s office is in the administrative wing. On the east side of the building. First floor. The principal’s parking spot is outside the window. It’s clearly marked.”
I smile without mirth. The principal’s parking spot used to be toward the auditorium, with the rest of the faculty, but my oldest brother once spray-painted Trenton’s car pink after the two of them got into an, uh, educational disagreement. She moved the parking spot so she could keep an eye on her new convertible.
“We’ve locked the door. We haven’t seen or heard anyone else. We don’t know what the situation is like in the rest of the building.”
Gunshots. Threats. Deaths.
“We can get out through the window if we have to.”
It won’t have been the first time we’ve sneaked out but never like this.
I strain to hear the response on the phone. I don’t want to leave this office when I don’t know what’s waiting for me outside.
“Yes, I think it will be safe. If we walk south, we won’t be in range of the auditorium.”
Fareed stares at me while he listens to the instructions. He shakes his head, and I can imagine what they’re saying. Run if you can. Hide if you have to. Don’t be a target. It’s the first thing all the instructors of our lockdown drills taught us: get yourself to safety.
But what they failed to tell us is that running away and saving your own skin is only noble when you don’t leave anyone behind. If I were in the auditorium, I’d want someone to come for me. I’d want there to be hope.
“Yes, we’ll open the window and wait outside. Do you need me to stay on the line?” Fareed’s hand trembles, and he nods at me once more before he says, “Okay, okay. We’ll wait outside. Thank you.”
• • •
SYLV
All sounds—all shouts—fade. My vision blurs, as if the connection between me and the rest of the world has been severed. The air is stale. It hurts to breathe.
Autumn’s whispers tug at me as her hands pull at my arm. I want to reach out to her. Hold me. Keep me safe. I am frozen.
But Tyler’s voice teases me. I cannot—I do not—want to deal with it. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
All my worries rush over me. Mamá’s empty eyes. Abuelo struggling to keep the farm running while caring for her. My older brothers asking me questions I can’t answer: Where will you be next year? What do you want to do? How are you?
When I close my eyes, all I see are the faces of the two people who mean the most to me—the two people I both cling to and push away. My good-for-nothing, perfect-for-me brother, who somehow managed to get sent to the principal’s office during the very first period of the first day of the semester. He’s out there somewhere. I hope. I pray.
And Autumn. Always, always Autumn.
Tyler drove a wedge between all of us, though I could never tell them about it. Tomás would’ve torn him apart for me, and it would’ve destroyed what little family Autumn has left.
The only things that give us purpose are the stories that tie us together. We all have so many secrets to keep. And I hold mine close. Before my junior year and her sophomore year, Autumn led me to an abandoned shed, the only remnant of a farm that once stood there, outside the town border. We’d meet between the cornfields every evening and share the day’s gossip from neighbors, who always seemed to know everything going on in Opportunity.
Last summer, the large shed began to double as her studio. Hidden in a blanket of gold under the thick August air, time was ours. During the day, she was whoever she wanted to be. When we were together, she showed me what dancing felt like.
Until one evening, everything changed for good.
The corn plumes seemed to be ablaze in the setting sun, and the high stalks kept prying eyes at bay. I worked on my college applications and watched tufts of early cotton float on the wind while Autumn danced. I didn’t know what I wanted to major in yet—I didn’t even know for sure I wanted to go to college. Not while Mamá was getting worse every day. But for Autumn’s sake, I filled out the forms. We’d always planned to go together.
“Do you think the two of you sneaking out every night goes unnoticed? I thought I’d made myself clear.”
I startled at the sound of the voice, and when I saw whom it belonged to, my blood ran cold.
I hadn’t seen Tyler since junior prom, when he pinned me against a wall and told me I was corrupting Autumn. He fiercely protected his sister from threats the rest of Opportunity didn’t see or, in the case of their dad, didn’t want to see. He didn’t trust anyone. It made him unpredictable, dangerous, and better left alone.
“Go away, Tyler.”
“You’re trespassing. You can’t tell me to go away.”
“Back off.” I picked up my books from underneath the tree and stuffed them into my backpack. “Or go inside if you want to watch Autumn dance.”
Tyler is the spitting image of his sister—or rather, the other way around. They have the same straw-colored hair: his tucked behind his ears, hers still a little longer back then. With his suede jacket and his polished boots, he looked older than his seventeen years and beautiful, in a classic sort of way.
The corners of his mouth curled into a slow smile. His hungry once-over made me cringe.
I didn’t wait for his answer but slung the bag over my shoulder. “Tell Autumn I’ll see her tomorrow.”
I walked toward the edge of the cotton field, but Tyler followed me. He wasn’t even subtle about it. He whistled some happy tune while his footsteps crossed my shadow and his breath tickled the back of my neck.
“I cared about her dancing once. Before you took her away from me.”
“I didn’t take anyone away from anyone,” I snapped.
He traced my arm with his nail. “Don’t lie to me. You corrupted my sister.” He placed his hands on my shoulders again, his thumbs digging into my neck.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I jerked, attempting to dislodge his grip, but he only squeezed harder. I reached back, scratching at his hands and hoped against hope that Autumn had heard his voice, would come looking for us. Maybe she would not dance all night. Maybe she wouldn’t forget time.
She always did.
I dropped my bag and tried to stomp on his foot. He spun me by my arm. I stumbled, crashing to the plowed earth.
He swept my feet from under me when I tried to get up. “This thing between you and Autumn, it’s a disease. It’s not natural. You think you can come into our lives and steal my family. You need someone to set you right.”
“Your family?” I shot back, despair strengthening my voice. “When is the last time you took an interest in Autumn? You don’t know the first thing about family.”
When I tried to roll over and crawl away from him, his boot found my stomach, and I doubled over. He pinned me, his knees on my arms and his hands on my shirt. When he leaned down, his breath smelled sour. “They abandoned me. They all did.” His grin stole the scream from my lungs. His finger traced my jawline. I couldn’t move.
“Next time your brother tries to get in my way, I will kill him. Remember that.” Tyler hovered above me while the sky turned purple. “And I will make sure you remember me.�
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I couldn’t run then. I couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried. I’ve been running ever since.
“Remember.”
And now he’s found me.
• • •
CLAIRE
“Thank you,” Chris says as soon as we’re out of earshot from the rest of the group.
My breathing is shallow. Running on the hard concrete rattles my knees.
Although I don’t need an explanation for Chris’s hesitation, he gives one anyway. “School was always supposed to be safe.” He grasps for words. “I—”
I nod. “I know.” Nothing ever happens here.
Cars fill up the student parking lot, even though most of us take the bus to school. The route to and from Opportunity High is a single two-lane road. Behind the school’s athletic fields, there is a forest, but in front of the school, the fields stretch out as far as the eye can see. Somewhere in the distance is civilization. Here, there is just flat, open land with a slate-gray sky overhead.
Two cars sit at the entrance to the parking lot, Jonah’s patrol car one of them. The white paint’s so dusty, it’s almost gray, and scratches cross the navy-blue school logo. I spent many hours in its front seat, my knees propped against the dashboard, munching away at one of the chocolate muffins Jonah brought to share.
We met by accident last year when I missed the late bus home after Mom called to tell me Matt had been rushed to the hospital. Jonah got permission to drive me into the city. We talked the whole way, and his outrageous anecdotes were the pick-me-up I needed.
When I thanked him a couple days later, we talked more. He told me he wasn’t supposed to let students in his car because it could be seen as inappropriate. But he smiled before he protested, and it didn’t sound very vehement. Eventually, I wore him down.
After Matt was released from the hospital, he gave me one of his figurines to give to Jonah. It found a place of pride on his dashboard, and I found a place to get away to think—away from Matt’s precarious health and my sister’s deployment, away from Chris, away from all the expectations. Jonah and I simply talked.
It makes me feel safer now, knowing Jonah is close. Most students ignored Jonah. Parents grumbled about the invasion of privacy. But Jonah once told me he never minded being disliked as long as he could do his duty. I wish I felt the same.
I slow to a trot, circling the car. From the outside, I can see it’s empty. A paper cup from the local bakery sits on the dashboard. “J?”
A second car is parked haphazardly across three parking spaces. This car I once knew as well as I know Jonah’s.
“Claire?” Chris calls. “Isn’t this—”
“Yes…” My voice trails off.
It’s been a while since I saw Ty, particularly because he dropped out, but I always expected him to come back. He cares too much about his education. He prides himself on following the rules even when others don’t, no matter how ridiculous those rules might be. It’s not like him to leave his car like this, but the muddy brown hood is popped. “Looks like his car broke down. They must’ve gone to find help or get another set of jumper cables.”
I breathe. Ty’s back. We’re less alone.
Despite everything that happened, Ty’s good people. Breakup or not, he always believed in me. He still smiles when he sees me in his father’s store. He always asks about Matt.
If he’s inside, he’ll protect Matt. And if he arrived after Trenton’s speech, he’ll be able to help us.
He has to help us.
Chris takes the lead once more, and I comfortably fall into step.
“Then why wouldn’t one of them stay here? Why wouldn’t they take Jonah’s car?” Chris asks. He edges to the passenger door, but Ty’s car is locked. “Does Jonah have a mobile radio?”
I open the door to Jonah’s car and peek in. The cold air closes in on me. His transceiver’s missing. The wiring around the base station is cut. My heart slams into my throat. “Chris?”
I turn around, but Chris has his face pressed against the window. He’s as white as the frost on the grass. “Claire, there are ammo boxes in here.”
“What?” I walk toward him and kick a shoe. I’ve inadvertently kicked my teammates’ shoes all the time during warm-ups, so I don’t even look down—not immediately.
“Gun cases too,” Chris says, continuing to take inventory.
I look to see what almost tripped me. Time moves in bursts today, cranking up to be impossibly fast, screeching to become painfully slow. And now it stops altogether.
Jonah’s boots—Jonah’s feet—protrude from under the car.
I crouch down, and when my fingers brush his socks, his ankles are cold. I place an arm on the concrete and lean to look under the car. There’s blood on the ground.
In the shadows of the car, Jonah lies at an unnatural angle. Empty eyes stare at me.
I stifle a scream. Chris’s voice trembles when he says, “Claire, I don’t think anything happened to Tyler. I think Tyler is happening to us.”
• • •
AUTUMN
Fear and survival are two sides of the same coin. Dad taught me that. These last two years, he proved it again and again and again. Terror is our strongest force because we’re only afraid when we have something to lose—our lives, our loves…our dignity.
It’s been such a long time since I felt afraid.
But now Ty is here. My brother. My Tyler. His smile belies his gun, and we’re all enthralled by it. Despite being a thousand against one, we are powerless.
What would Dad say about that?
“Come here.” I draw Sylv close and whisper assurances in her ear. Her eyes are wild, and tears stream down her face. She whimpers unintelligible words, but she responds to my touch. Her breathing eases—as if her mind’s slipping someplace safe. Wherever it is, I hope she stays there.
“Follow me. Trust me.” I curl my fingers around her wrist and gently pull. Everyone knows Ty. Knows me. We need to move.
The mood in the auditorium shifts.
Dancing teaches you how to read people from the way they hold themselves, the way their hands clench when they’re scared, the grand motions they make when they’re excited. The threats and yearning in a stolen glance and the brazen gestures of fear and fight and despair.
“Sylv.” I pull her through our section of seats, toward the farthest corner from Ty, not waiting for Asha to make the same trek. Behind the last row of seats, we still cannot hide. The stares of those around us burn.
The fingers of my free hand push the ballet shoe charm deep into my palm.
Ty steps forward, and the door shuts behind him. As if we are in a vacuum, the silence in the auditorium intensifies. The world outside might cease to exist and we wouldn’t notice.
Tyler pulls a lock from his pocket and tosses it to a sandy-haired boy standing nearest to him—a skinny kid who almost drops it. “Be so kind as to lock this door.”
The boy trembles. He takes a step, moving slowly, as if the lock weighs him down. He hesitates, and the next shot drills through his shoulder.
“NOW.” Ty’s voice echoes through the auditorium. “If you please.”
The boy cradles his arm against his body. He stumbles.
Students stare. We stare. We do not help. We do not fight. I don’t speak up. It’s self-preservation.
The boy starts to crumple, and a mousy-haired girl reaches out to steady him. I think her name’s CJ. She’s a junior too.
She glances at Ty and the gun. Everyone else who came too close has been shot. Tyler nods, graciously giving his approval. I guess it doesn’t matter who locks us in as long as someone does.
CJ supports the boy as he weaves the chain with the lock through the door’s handles. Their hands touch as the padlock clicks shut.
We’re trapped.
The key
tumbles onto the crimson carpet. CJ reaches down to grab it, as if by reflex, then freezes.
Ty beckons with the gun. “Bring it to me.”
She eyes the weapon and does not hesitate. We all hold our breaths to see what will happen to her.
Nothing.
He holds out his hand, accepts the key, and allows her to walk back to the boy she helped.
Ty’s voice fills the auditorium once more, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the frosty weather. “I have no issue with most of you, so I’d rather you don’t force me to waste my bullets.”
He’s comfortable with our fear. He’s feeding off of it. This—this is calculation: the gun, the locks, the date, the deaths. He has a carefully structured plan.
My brother has always had a flair for the dramatic.
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
Gun? WTF? #OHS
10:07 AM
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
Some1 tell me whats happening over at #OHS
10:08 AM
Jay (@JEyck32) → Kevin (@KeviiinDR)
Dude, whats going on there? DM me back?!
10:08 AM
Chapter Six
10:10–10:12 A.M.
SYLV
The memories overwhelm me, and I wish I could forget like Mamá. But the present isn’t any better.
The silence from the auditorium is tense and loaded. Except it’s not silence. All around me there are hushed sobs, prayers, and curses—friends trying to calm each other: “Hold on to my hand.” “Trust me.” “We’ll make it through.”
People whisper into cell phones: “Help me.” “I don’t know what to do.” “We’ve got to fight. We’ve got to take him down.”
It’s an endless current of fear, and Tyler revels in the power. He’s the only one who does not feel lost right now.
A cheerleader sits cross-legged on the floor, between two rows of seats. Her bag lies in her lap, and she toys with a keychain attached to it. All the while, tears trickle down her cheeks.
My hand creeps toward the phone in my bag. For the first time in months, I want to hear my brother’s voice. But if he doesn’t pick up—if Tyler found him—it will kill me.
This Is Where It Ends Page 4