But it’s Mr. Jameson who makes this school even more special. Mr. Jameson, who knows the name of every single student in the school, who talks with us all about our dreams and futures, who is a better college counselor than our actual college counselor.
Every year at the start of the spring semester, he builds a bonfire for the seniors in the field on the side of the school. It’s tradition, and everyone gathers at midnight for him to read to us. A legend. A short story. A myth. After everyone’s eaten themselves sick on marshmallows, he asks students to write their wishes on sky lanterns. And the wishes will be sent up to the stars—and whatever greater power we might believe in. Together, each class dreams about something bigger than this world we live in.
It sounds corny as hell, but every year, all the seniors love it. Even Mr. Jameson’s daughter, Mei—who demonstratively avoided her father’s classes until graduation—raved about it last year. Because no matter who we are, we all dream. The ritual made Mr. Jameson a legend and Opportunity High our home.
“Mr. Browne, surely that’s not…” Mr. Jameson starts.
A ripple of murmurs goes through the auditorium.
Please be silent.
• • •
TOMÁS
Far skids past me toward the double doors and tries to open them. The locks jingle against the fortified glass, and the sound echoes off the walls. A shiver of claustrophobia creeps up my spine, which is entirely unhelpful.
“C’mon,” I say a little too loudly. “We don’t know if there are other people outside the auditorium.”
Probably not. Most likely not. But we shouldn’t risk it.
With the toe of my shoe, I open the janitor’s door and peer in. Neil is the only one fortunate enough to be exempt from Trenton’s speeches. He wouldn’t have been in the auditorium. But there’s no sign of him. Did he go to the auditorium or to get help?
I flick on the light switch. The fluorescent lamp bathes the room in an unnatural glow.
And I falter.
Neil is here. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe Neil tied to his chair, a rag stuffed in his mouth like you’d see in the movies, his eyes wild and his forehead sweaty from struggling against his bonds. He’d be furious but grateful when we cut through his restraints.
Instead, he sits, leaning against one of his closets. His hands are bound together with a cable tie pulled so tight his fingers have gone black. Cable ties circle his neck, and he is gagged. His eyes are empty; his face is as discolored as his hands. Bloody scratches mark his neck, as if he tried to rip through the plastic with his bare hands.
My ears ring and my stomach revolts. I reach for the garbage can, where I puke until there’s not a scrap of food left in my body.
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Oh my God.” Fareed backs away against the wall. He mutters something, but I can’t make out the words. It sounds like a prayer of sorts in the language of his parents.
I should probably pray too. Granddad would expect me to. But the sight of Neil’s body has made me numb all over.
I have to get to Sylvia. I have to get to the auditorium. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “Get me the flag on that shelf,” I tell Fareed in a voice I barely recognize as my own. It seems we’re both alternate versions of ourselves. I push Neil’s eyelids down so he isn’t staring anymore. His skin feels like wax, and part of me refuses to believe it’s really him, refuses to believe this is really happening. The rest of me demands action—right now.
Fareed hands me the flag—Opportunity’s blue-and-crimson school logo, with the school motto in cursive underneath it. Together we drape it over Neil’s body so “Future” covers his face.
“The shooter will either be just outside the auditorium or inside. We need whatever tools we can find for the locks,” I manage. “Cutters, crowbars, screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches—whatever Neil’s got. Hell, hammers too. If nothing else, we can use them to smash the windows to signal the police or to get out.”
Without waiting for me to finish speaking, Fareed climbs on top of the janitor’s desk to take down the toolboxes and the first aid kit from the one of the shelves.
I pull open a drawer and start looking for other materials. I somehow doubt Neil will have a set of lock picks or a skeleton key, but paper clips will do just as nicely.
Or a gun.
This isn’t about returning fire or self-defense. This is about revenge. If this guy hurt my sister or anyone else, I’ll kill him. Slowly.
Except we have school policies against having guns—for students and for staff. Even if Neil had one—in case of emergency—it would’ve been locked away in a secure location, and finding it, let alone accessing it, would take time we don’t have.
I stuff a handful of paper clips into my pocket and accept a bolt cutter and a collection of other tools from Fareed. We’ll have to do what we can and pray the police get here fast.
• • •
CLAIRE
Today is a nightmare. Any moment now I’ll wake up.
If it weren’t for Jonah, I could convince myself we imagined this. I could convince myself we didn’t hear gunshots but a microphone falling or a speaker short-circuiting. Tomorrow, we’d laugh at how we called the police and the National Guard over a technical malfunction. Trace would think it the world’s best joke.
Except I know what a gunshot sounds like. I know the difference between a microphone and a starting gun and a semiautomatic. I’ve seen death.
I know this is real.
“I’ll show the world. And they’ll never forget me.”
The air burns in my lungs. The road stretches out in front of Chris and me, but it feels like we aren’t getting any closer to where we want to be.
One, two, forward.
Three, four, still to go.
“C’mon, Sarge, keep up.”
My eyes sear with tears of anger. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that again.”
Chris is temporarily dumbstruck. I take advantage of that, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “If this is Ty’s doing, how did I not know? How did I not see him for who he really is? I thought we were always honest with each other.”
Chris shakes his head. “How could you have known? Tyler is clever. He would’ve been careful. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Ty told me he would make sure the world remembered him. He told me, Chris. I could’ve done something about it. This never should’ve happened. I could have protected everyone. I should have protected Matt. I. Did. Nothing.”
Chris’s jaw tenses and his shoulders strain. He takes several deep, hard breaths and slows his pace.
I match his steps.
“Did Tyler ever tell you he planned to bring a gun to school?” Chris asks finally.
I shake my head.
“When he told you he wanted to get back at the world, was he angry?”
“After his mom died, Ty was always angry.” I add, “But he was never angry at me. He was always good to me. He listened, comforted, planned for our future.” Ty always tried to find solutions. When I’d had a bad day and just wanted to break something, Ty would hold me and tell me things would get better. I trusted him, even if he never trusted his own reassurances. “But yeah, he’d been in another pointless fight with Tomás and Fareed. Don’t make my excuses for me, Chris.”
“I’m not.” For a step or two, he’s silent, his breathing labored. “You know, I always imagined we’d run our last race together. Like our first race. Do you remember that? I’d forgotten my running shoes, but instead of borrowing a pair for tryouts, I figured winning all my races in middle school entitled me to a place on the team. We were both convinced we were amazing runners. I still don’t know what Coach saw in us.”
“At least I brought the right shoes,” I protest flatly.
The corner of Chris’s mouth quirks up. “You were ten minutes late.”
That was the day Trace enlisted. She called to tell me, and I locked myself in a bathroom stall to talk her through her nerves.
“That was the first time I lost a race. Every other time, I lost on purpose. Not because you weren’t good enough to beat me but because you are. You are so much better than me, and some days, running is all I have. If I lose, I want it to be on my terms. But knowing you were near me kept me going.” He hesitates. “You can live up to anyone.”
I turn to stare at Chris, but he’s focused on the road ahead. The stammer of my heart has nothing to do with fear now.
“I always thought you were generous, that you let me win to make me feel better.” That was what made us the best of friends from the start, ever since that very first day. If Ty hadn’t paired up with me in English, if he hadn’t asked me out first, perhaps I would’ve figured out if Chris meant something more. But I never thought he wanted to be more than just friends.
Chris’s fingers brush mine. “I never thought you needed to win to be perfect.”
• • •
AUTUMN
The entire auditorium is fixated on the two people onstage. The rows of seats at the front of the auditorium are empty, except for a handful of teachers. Everyone has found a way to move away from Tyler. He stands in the spotlight at the center of our universe.
And I—I should be more afraid.
But I refuse.
“Mr. Browne…” Mr. Jameson tries again. He takes a hesitant step forward.
“LISTEN.” Ty swings the gun to the side. A loud shot reclaims the silence. From here, I can’t see if he’s hit anyone. I don’t even know if he knows, let alone cares. “The time for talking has passed. Move.” He waits for Mr. Jameson to comply and then continues firmly, “Now.”
Mr. Jameson looks gray, and there are dark patches of sweat on his shirt. He nods but lingers on the steps.
Ty’s finger eases off the trigger, and his shoulders relax. “Now then. Good. This shouldn’t be too complicated.” Tyler stands with his back to the far wall so no one can sneak up on him. “To survive, you must know who your friends are. You must know who you can trust. And you must know how to stop caring.”
The auditorium is still, everyone too scared to speak. People huddle together, arms wrapped around shoulders, fingers entangled.
Ty flashes a comfortable smile—a smile I’d seen only a couple nights ago when he dangled my ballet shoes in front of Dad, let it slip I was still dancing. His smile was just like Dad’s—cold. And Ty stood by while Dad showed me that the love he once had for dance, for me, died along with Mom.
I rub the back of my neck and try to ease the tension. Yesterday, Ty swore it was an accident. He laughed through his tears. We need each other, he said, because we had no one else. When he tended my bruises, he told me he’d take care of me, told me he’d forge a doctor’s note because it’d be better for me to stay home. He promised there was nothing that made him happier than to see me dance. It reminded him of when Mom was alive and we’d go see her performances. He said that even though he’d never felt the extremes of Dad’s anger, he’d already lost so much. We both had.
I believed him. I wanted to believe him. He’s my brother.
“Where are my former classmates? Raise your hands.” Ty’s voice drops, and it makes the hair on my neck stand up straight. A few people tentatively raise their hands. Most stay crouched down. It feels like inviting death to speak up, but Ty is all seriousness. His eyes narrow, and his next shot makes me jump.
Bang.
“You cowards. HANDS.”
More seniors raise their hands. I squeeze Sylv’s tighter to make sure she doesn’t.
“Much better.” It’s like this is some messed-up game of Simon Says, and perhaps it is to Ty. After all, with one simple question, he’s located most of the senior class.
Everyone he despises.
Letting the gun dangle by his side, he takes a few casual steps toward the edge of the stage.
“Did you miss me? I always wondered what made you decide I wasn’t good enough. No matter.”
He turns on his heel and raises the gun in one fluid motion. Without a second glance, without so much as a blink, he pulls the trigger and shoots Mr. Jameson. The first bullet buries itself in the teacher’s arm. The second bullet drills a hole through his chest. “Lesson one: don’t get attached and you won’t get hurt.”
No one moves. We’re all in shock. My hands are shaking, though I desperately try to keep calm.
“Be smart. Don’t get in the way of the guy with the gun.”
The barrel of the gun arcs toward the audience again, pointing at a student crouching between the rows of seats. I can see it’s Jordan, one of Sylv’s friends and her lab partner in AP Chemistry. Jordan, who always wears the geekiest T-shirts but is secretly a baseball fan.
Jordan, who helped take care of Sylv’s mother after she fell ill, who wants to become a doctor, who’s going to be premed next year.
Jordan, who didn’t raise his hand.
“Lesson two: follow the instructions.” Tyler crouches and aims carefully. Then he pulls the trigger.
“Bang, bang, you’re dead.”
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
OMG #OHS
10:13 AM
74 retweets
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
Nonononoo. This cant be real. Anyone at #OHS?!
10:14 AM
Anonymous
@BoredOpportunist
@JEyck32 Hahaha dude keep up. Are you still drunk?
10:14 AM
Jay (@JEyck32) → Kevin (@KeviiinDR)
Pls answer me. Pls tell me you’re okay.
10:15 AM
Chapter Eight
10:15–10:18 A.M.
TOMÁS
More shots mar the silence, and all I want to do is barge into the auditorium. If screwdrivers and paper clips are all I have, screwdrivers and paper clips are what I’ll use. It’s better than not doing anything.
“Do we need to open these doors first?” Fareed hesitates outside the janitor’s office, staring at the main entrance, our gateway to freedom. His question stops me in my tracks. We need an emergency exit. But getting these doors open means precious time away from the auditorium.
“We can smash the windows?” he thinks out loud. “Then people could crawl out. Or we can try to cut through the chains.”
I glance at the bolt cutter in my hands, then toss it to him. He barely manages to catch it.
“Cut the chains if you can,” I say. “Once you’re done, get to the main entrance. Open as many doors as you can and then come find me.”
Fareed nods.
“If the police get here before you’re through, make sure they don’t mistake the cutter for a weapon,” I say. “Just in case.”
He grimaces. “Run like the wind. You have damsels in distress to rescue and people to save.”
For a second, we both stand motionless and stare at each other. We want our words to sound like jokes, but with the broken look Fareed gives me, they’re anything but.
I salute him with one of the screwdrivers before I take off running through the empty halls. At every corner, I expect to turn and find students streaming through the halls, to hear the slams of opening and closing lockers. I close my eyes, and I can see and hear my peers all around me. Just another day of class.
My feet go so fast. I fly through the halls. But the closer I get to the auditorium, the louder my heart beats. I listen to the silence and wait for the inevitable sound of gunshots.
I slow and inch toward the corner, staring down the next hall.
No one.
Three empty hallways converge in front of the auditorium doors. It’s the v
ery core of Opportunity High. Lockers line the walls, the blue doors repainted over winter break. It looks as though they’re unused, as if everything about this school is new and surreal.
Stairwells lead up to the study rooms and science classrooms and, beyond those, the roof.
Five sets of doors lead to the auditorium. Four of the double doors are chained and secured with padlocks. The one to the far right isn’t. It makes me realize how vulnerable the auditorium is. With these doors locked, only the emergency exits and the entryway to the wings remain, and none of those lead directly outside. If the shooter was prepared for these doors, they were probably prepared for any other options as well. It means the auditorium is virtually inaccessible, the perfect place to trap all students.
I move slowly, but my sneakers squeak on the freshly waxed linoleum. I pass the unchained door in favor of the one on the far left. It may be locked from the inside, and unless whoever’s got the gun has moved, it seems safer to start at the far end. It seems better not to make any assumptions. Better to focus on the locks in front of me.
Focus and not listen.
Impossible.
I push the screwdrivers into my belt so none will fall out, and I edge toward the door. There’s no sound on the other side. The auditorium was built for music performances as well as drum band practice and is practically soundproof.
When someone on the other side of the door speaks, it sounds like faint mumbling. Distant. Unintelligible.
I dig out two paper clips and bend them into straight paper clips, then kneel down next to the door. With one hand, I hold the lock steady, and with the other, I slowly insert the paper clips. If Principal Trenton could see me now, she’d have a thing or two to say. No breaking into student files; no breaking into school property.
I shiver. I would promise her to never break any rules, ever again, if only it would mean my sister is safe.
• • •
SYLV
My brothers may think I’m the strong one, but here—next to Autumn, whose watchful eyes scan the room—I know it’s not true. I know how to care for others. I know how to talk to Mamá when she forgets the world around her, but I’m not strong. For the first time in months, I want someone to hold me. If only Tomás were here. Or Abuelo. Anyone who could make sense of this madness.
This Is Where It Ends Page 6