#NotReadyToDie

by Cate Carlyle

  Switching into autopilot, I followed Miss Jones’s commands, clambered off my chair and curled up under my desk. A calm comes over me in a crisis, almost as if a robotic alien takes over my body and does what needs to be done. When my dad died, people worried I wasn’t crying enough, or sleeping enough, or sad enough. I became this cool, numb automaton.

  I noticed that not all of my classmates were following my lead or Miss Jones’s pleas. The Jocks were still standing huddled around Jace Goodwin their witless leader, captain of the football team, swim team, and hockey team. I was convinced that if Jace ever suffered a head injury, confetti would come flying out of his ears. Piñata Jace. The Jocks were completely ignoring Miss Jones and acting like alpha males showing the rest of us cowards who was really in charge. When Boot, their favorite punching bag, suddenly raced out of the class washroom and slid under the desk beside them at lightning speed two Jocks reached under, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and effortlessly hauled him back out.

  “Where you going so fast, Boot Snack?”

  “What you scared of?”

  “Why don’t you run out into the hall and see what’s going on, BS?”

  Poor Boot Snack would never live down the fact that on our third-grade camping trip he had stored teddy grahams in his shoes during morning hike. He would have been fine had he not let others see him pull out the sweaty snacks and savor them. To seal his fate, he then offered to share a few with the sporty boys/ baby Jocks when they took notice. He had been branded “Boot Snack,” BS for short —I wasn’t sure which was worse —from that day on. One burden of small town life is attending elementary and high school with the same kids who knew your history and all of your secrets. No escape. I don’t think anyone even remembered Boot’s real name anymore. Arturo? Othello? Something weird like that, if I recall. Maybe he preferred BS? I doubt it.

  I was watching Miss Jones’s face as she noticed that the huddle of Jocks was ignoring her, all still standing and talking and not even thinking of getting under their desks. I saw her slowly transform from meek teacher to rabid she-wolf.

  “Get under your desks, NOW students! Please, you MUST! For all our sakes. You know what to do in lockdown. We’ve practiced this. I know you can do this! Unfortunately, this is not a drill, it is a matter of life and death,” she whispered as loudly as she could. The veins in her neck were bulging out and her face had turned bright red as sweat droplets dripped down from her forehead. Those arrogant Jocks must have seen something in Miss Jones’s face, a brewing combination of frustration, desperation, terror and anger, as they each finally attempted to curl their brawny man-child selves under the three by three foot desks.

  With everyone on the floor, Miss Jones remained standing and scanned the room, double-checking with a silent headcount. Count complete, I watched her walk over to the door, lean back against it, close her eyes, and slide down to the floor like a snowman melting. I could hear her ragged breaths as they rattled slowly out of her chest. The young substitute looked as though she had aged twenty years in the last five minutes, her face ashen and her mouth pinched, both arms wrapped around her torso.

  “We can do this,” she whispered, her voice getting weaker and weaker. “We can do this. We can do this together. Just stay under your desks and stay super quiet. I am so proud of all of you. I know you got this.” Was she trying to convince herself or us?

  Watching her fade, I finally clued in and realized that Miss Jones had been shot all while saving my Owen.

  After those initial few pops outside our classroom door, the school had gone eerily quiet. The fire alarm was a far-off droning backbeat now that the door was sealed, and the room was dim with the lights off and blinds closed. Whoever had been shooting in the hallway outside our door had moved on to another area, or was reloading, or was holed up somewhere biding their time for another attack. Some students had chosen to huddle in pairs under the desks, comforting each other, whimpering. Some pairs were simply friends drawn together in terror, and others were dating couples. The glow of phone screens flitted off and on like fireflies in the room as kids texted their parents or searched for news online of what was happening outside. When Gregg with two Gs’ “Hotline Bling” ringtone suddenly sounded, jarring everyone as it broke the stillness, Miss Jones swiftly instructed that all phones must be on silent or turned off.

  “Please guys, cells on silent. No one is going to die on my watch. I’ll never get a full-time position if that happens.”

  She was obviously in pain, her voice barely above a whisper, scratchy and raw, yet Miss Jones was still trying to crack a joke. Kudos, Miss Jones. I didn’t know you had it in ya.

  The class seemed to finally be getting the message. Even the sound of my stomach growling seemed like a shout in the silence as I remembered I had not eaten or had my cup of tea that morning. I pushed my sleeve up and traced the scars on my forearm with my thumb. When I couldn’t cut, the feel of the smooth raised edges would sometimes calm me and get me out of my head. But not this day. I noticed one of the K-something Barbies watching me (Keira? Kara?), one of the interchangeable pony-tailed blondes, and I quickly snapped my sleeve back in place. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me.

  As far as I knew, I had been genius at keeping my dirty little secret just that. But it seemed that the proverbial cat was clearly now out of the bag. If we survived this day, I would either have to own it or come up with a brilliant excuse for what she had seen. The Barbies had a gossip chain that could spread a rumor faster than one of Donald Trump’s explosive tweets.

  Though I tried not to do it too often, I could lie in a pinch. I could claim that the scars were from a particularly nasty run-in with a barbed wire fence. Or an athletic injury and resulting surgery that went wrong. But me and sports ... that would never fly. Or the result of an exploding glass Pyrex dish. That had actually happened to me. I’d go with that if need be. Or maybe I wouldn’t have to explain? Who knew how this day would end up? Then again, my scars were probably the least of my worries considering I was trapped in lockdown with a gunman on the loose.

  I checked my phone again. No reply from Mom. I looked over at Owen who was still curled in the fetal position, white as a sheet, clutching both his nose and his leg. I couldn’t reconcile that sad lump with the Owen I knew. The Owen who didn’t know that if he didn’t ask me soon, then I was going to make the prom proposal. The Owen who didn’t know that when we had played spin the bottle in fourth grade in my best friend’s basement I had begged her to weigh the bottle so it was rigged and only I would get to kiss Owen (she did, but Owen got chicken pox and didn’t show, and I got Jerkwad Jace who tried to cop a feel in lieu of a kiss). The Owen who didn’t know that the golden flecks in his chestnut brown curls caught the morning sunlight and made me catch my breath each and every morning. The Owen who didn’t know that I sent the “From your secret admirer XO” Valentine rose to him every year. The Owen who was oblivious to the fact that the best part of my day was when he texted me before going to bed each night, even though the text was always a friend zoned, “Sleep tight, good buddy (complete with poo emoji)!”

  It may have been the sight of the drop of blood beading on one of Owen’s curls that flipped the switch for me, but at that moment I decided that I was damned if I was going to let a homicidal predator destroy my Owen, or mess up my plans for prom, or force my Mom to host another funeral. Screw it! I couldn’t take another minute curled under my desk, helpless, waiting for the worst to happen. If we were locked in this room for another ten hours or even another ten minutes, I was going to do what I could to make sure we all emerged alive. I couldn’t just sit and wait while Owen bled out.

  I remembered that when Mom had first caught me cutting she’d sent me to a therapist who had gone on and on about self-talk. I’d attended the required sessions, listened, promised to do the homework, and said what Dr. Lee wanted to hear: “I’m not cutting anymore ... When I get overwhelmed or anxious, I ask myself ‘What’s the worst that could
happen?’. It’s so helpful ... I tell myself to stop listening to the negative voices and focus on the positive ... I tell myself that the cuts are only masking my inner pain temporarily ... You are a genius, thank you so much for helping me Dr. Lee!”

  I told my mom all about self-talk and how it had cured me, all lies, and proceeded to cut the bottoms of my feet where no one could see.

  But things are different when you are desperate and there are no sharp objects around. With nothing to lose, I gave the self-talk a try and told myself that we would all get out alive and that if no one else was going to do something then it would have to be me. I even struck a superhero pose in my mind for Mom.

  I slithered out from under my desk and looked around the room for anything I could use for reinforcements. I noted that the moveable three-panel whiteboard at the front of the classroom could serve as an extra barrier against any bullets that may come through the wall and into our group of sitting ducks. I crawled on all fours and tried to push the whiteboard over towards the inner wall while still staying down on my knees. The stupid thing was heavier and harder to push than it seemed. I could barely budge it on my own. I was looking back, hoping someone would see what I was trying to do and come help me, when suddenly the board started to move.

  I fell forward as it left my hands. The petite perky Barbie who’d been spying on me, Kara or Keira or Kayla from the desk beside me, had come over to help and was pulling the other end. We slid it over and locked the wheels so that its 15-foot expanse served as an extra layer of protection from the shooter or shooters in the hallway. I tilted my head at Barbie in silent thank you and then gestured over towards the door and the crumpled Miss Jones. I raised my eyebrows and motioned to her to follow me so we could check on the teacher. We scooted down the board and were startled by what we discovered.

  Miss Jones was keeled over sideways, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were closed and she was as still and pale as a porcelain doll. Barbie got to her before I did and grabbed Miss Jones’s hand to check for a pulse, giving me a thumbs up and a brief smile when she found one. Miss Jones was alive, a small mercy.

  Barbie motioned to me that we should drag Miss Jones back towards the windows and away from the hallway side of the room and she lifted her up under her armpits. I hoisted the teacher’s limp legs and we awkwardly carry-dragged her, laying her down under the windows, a river of red trailing behind us. I then clambered over to Jace’s desk and yanked his jean jacket down off of it while muttering “useless a-hole” under my breath.

  While his classmates were bleeding out, or frozen in terror, or trying to save their teacher, big tough Jace was playing some pointless game on his cell and finishing off the last bite of a CLIF Bar. If we were in this for a long haul, I’d make sure Jace was the last one hauled out of this room.

  I spread his extra-large stonewashed jacket over Miss Jones’s legs, then grabbed someone’s water bottle off the windowsill and held it to the teacher’s mouth. Not the time to worry about germs or ownership. Miss Jones weakly parted her lips and took a drop or two of water like a baby bird before retreating back into herself. While I was trying to get the teacher to drink, Barbie had removed her own beautiful pink paisley scarf and was using it as a tourniquet around Miss Jones’s middle to staunch the bleeding from her gunshot wound. The scarf seemed to be doing the trick. Silk? Those airhead cheerleaders had money and style. Barbie frowned up at me and shook her head no. It didn’t look good for Miss Jones. We locked eyes for a moment and Barbie pulled her phone out of her pocket. She swiftly typed a note and passed the phone over to me.

  I processed what she had written, then typed back:

  It was only as we were crawling over towards Owen’s desk that I realized that a Barbie had used a four-syllable word and, most likely, spelled it correctly. WTF? Also, I swear I saw Oompa Loompa wallpaper when Barbie opened her phone. The day could not get any more surreal ...

  By the time Barbie and I got to Owen (mere seconds as we were quickly getting quite adept at silently crawling on all fours in and around the desks and chairs), he had turned a ghastly shade of gray. Nurse Barbie quickly, and expertly as far as I could tell, checked Owen’s pulse on his wrist and then laid his arm back down. He seemed to be sleeping, and Barbie confirmed he was definitely still alive, giving me the thumbs up on the pulse.

  Nurse Barbie then looked at his face and leg and then the dried pool of blood curving like a chalk outline around his body. I guessed that the lack of fresh liquid meant that the blood had been staunched, for now. I watched as she patted his shoulder gently and smoothed down some of the sticky blood covered curls behind his ears. She was definitely full of surprises, that one, with her medical terms and soothing bedside manner. It was probably all for show. Trying to hone in on my Owen now, Barbie? Not gonna happen. We both sat cross-legged on either side of Owen, catching our breath for a moment and taking in the enormity of the war zone that our classroom had become. Nurse Barbie caught my eye and leaned over towards me.

  “Nice one back there with Jace. He is a total a-hole.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “We went out once and I’ve always regretted it.”

  I didn’t say anything, caught off guard by her confession and unsure where it was going.

  “We were playing pool in his basement after the date and then I woke up in his bedroom, wearing only his shirt, with no recollection of how I got there.”

  “Wow, Barb — er ... that’s brutal. I guess I underestimated his creepiness, if that’s possible. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No,” she said, “you’re the first. Figure someone should know in case I don’t get out of here today. My grandma always said it’s not good to die with untold stories. I was embarrassed and ashamed at the time. I couldn’t remember anything so I thought no one would believe me. Thought it might become a he-said, she-said thing. I’m pretty sure he slipped something in my cola.”

  “Jeez, that’s awful um ...”

  She pointed at her chest, “Kayla.”

  “I know,” I lied.

  She gave me a sad half-smile, “Right.”

  Kayla (after our pseudo-bonding moment I guessed I could try to stop calling her Barbie just for the day) fidgeted nervously with her rubber Southwestern Cheer bracelet for a minute then seemed to refocus and leaned back down towards Owen. She gently adjusted his legs so that his knees were bent a little bit more and tilted his head to the side.

  “Recovery pose,” she whispered. “I volunteer at the veterans’ hospital after school.”

  I nodded like I knew that, or like I was also out there changing lives and helping people after school. I wasn’t. Kayla was definitely not what I expected and I had a nagging suspicion I was only starting to scratch the surface with this girl. I hated to admit it, but her bedside manner was inspiring, while mine on the other hand, would best be described as non-existent. When I was little and stayed home sick from school, Dad was always the one who stayed home with me. He’d say that he was working his second job as Dr. Dad on those days. Dad would ask me where it hurt and no matter where I pointed his reply was always the same: “Oh no, doesn’t look good. I am afraid that we will definitely have to ambertake.”

  I couldn’t pronounce amputate as a child and it would forever be ambertake in our house, like spaghetti would always be passgetti, or like Sunday roast beast. The ambertake diagnosis never ceased to bring on a fit of giggles, with Dr. Dad chasing me around the house while I squealed with mock fear, “No ambertake, Dr. Dad! No ambertake!”

  Dad would always catch me and fling me fireman-style over his shoulder. “Phew! Dr. Dad is so tired from chasing you, that there will be no ambertaking today.”

  Our ambertake chase always made me feel better, which I’m sure was his plan all along. On the day of his funeral, when Mom and I had one last moment alone with him before they lowered his casket, I kissed the lid and whispered, “I love you, Dr. Dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you better.”

  Jeez Dad, I
sure miss you

  Lost in my memories it took me a moment to realize my phone was vibrating. I reached down and pulled it out of my pocket. Four texts from Heather, Mom’s supervisor:

  I texted back.

  I waited anxiously while the ellipsis flashed showing me that Mom was typing. I had been able to hold it together and be relatively useful until that moment. Mom’s texts made it more real somehow; I could feel her anxiety and her fear in those few lines. And, God love her, my mom would not text a contraction if it was her last day on earth. She texted like she was writing snail mail, punctuation and grammar on point, and each word tapped out at sloth speed, with one dainty finger. Mom used to address her texts “Dear Ginny:” ’til I gently let her know that only older people did that. The fastest way to get Mom to stop doing something was to tell her that it made her seem old.

  I texted Mom back:

  I turned my screen towards Kayla and shared the texts.

  “I know,” she whispered, “some of the news sites are starting to post about it now. Saying it’s one of the night custodians, armed to the teeth and claiming to have bombs and grenades too.”

  “Jeez,” I whispered, “we’ve become the daily news. You’d never think this’d happen here.”

  We both looked towards the door at that moment, neither speaking, letting it all sink in.

  “Hey,” Kayla whispered, “saw your arm earlier. What happened?”

  The way Kayla said it, I figured that she knew the answer already or at least suspected as much. There was something in her tone and the knowing look she gave me.

  “Oh that,” I said laughing it off, “I’m a walking cliché I guess. A Netflix mini-series: Quirky girl’s father, the sun in her world, dies suddenly, leaving girl to self-medicate with morose 90s playlists, a memorial tatt, and cutting until a hot newbie with tousled hair moves to town, falls in love with her, and fixes everything. Cue credits and Alanis Morissette’s ‘You Learn’ — Oh, but my tale doesn’t have a sexy outsider or a happy ending it seems.”