#NotReadyToDie

by Cate Carlyle

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Ginny?” she asked.

  “Whatever you want it to mean, Kayla.”

  She looked at me with a hurt, puzzled expression, unsure why I was lashing out.

  “After today we will all go our separate ways.” I tried to explain. “We’re stuck with each other right now, but we won’t be once we get out. You and Paul will move on, and Max and Owen will too.”

  “Why, Ginny! Is this your way of showing me you care? Your twisted messed-up way?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But today is Twilight Zone and tomorrow everything will be back to the way it was. Maybe I’m just not sure what that means for me. Never mind.”

  “No, I get it. This,” she said waving her hands to indicate the chaos that was Homeroom A, “is exceptional. Not normal. And it’ll be hard to figure out how to deal with it and how to go back to real life. And how to even feel safe again.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I agreed. “Maybe it’s only just starting to sink in for me. I’ve been on autopilot all morning.”

  “Well, let this sink in to that thick skull,” she poked me in the forehead. “Whatever this is,” she waved her good arm around again, “we’ve dealt with it together, and we will walk out of here together. And a bond like that doesn’t just disappear, cute vet waiting in the wings or not. You’re stuck with me now, Ginny Bartholomew. Besties.”

  “Good to know, Barbie,” I said only half-joking. I let out the breath I’d been holding in. Besties sounded pretty nice.

  Kayla and I jumped, startled, when someone started banging on the classroom door. The force of the bangs weren’t as hard as before, the windows weren’t rattling this time. Still, it was frightening and very unexpected.

  “Anyone in there?” a deep male voice called out. A new voice. No one made a sound.

  “You can open the door. It’s safe now,” the voice said. “It’s SWPD.”

  Kayla stood up and walked over towards the door but stopped about 2 feet away. She was vulnerable now, a target. And fearless.

  “I am not opening this door for you,” she said loudly. “We haven’t been given an all clear.”

  “The all clear was given. Please open the door so we can help you.”

  This time Kayla didn’t respond. The room stayed quiet and she walked over to the left side of the door and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. She pulled out her phone and started to text. I crawled over and sat down beside her. I wasn’t fearless.

  “Good call,” I said. “We can’t open it up until we know who is on the other side. Who are you texting?”

  “My mom.” She continued to type. “Mom is going to find someone to ask if we should open the door, she knows our room number.”

  We waited, hoping Kayla’s mom would find out quickly. We were so close to the end.

  “Anything?” I asked anxiously a few seconds later.

  “No, Ginny.” She was staring up at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.

  C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. My patience was shot. I needed out of there.

  No one else in the room spoke or moved. No one was crying or whimpering anymore. All were on pins and needles wondering how this day would finally play out. They had all relied on Kayla and me a few times today and now their safety lay completely in Kayla’s hands. They obviously trusted her. And no one was stepping up offering to be the one to stand in front of the door in her place either. Go figure.

  “Here goes,” Kayla said, starting to type again. “Mom says they texted Miss Jones a few times to tell her the SWPD was coming to let us out.”

  “Well that explains it,” I said. “I’m not going over there to check Miss Jones for her phone though. No way.”

  “It’s fine,” Kayla said. “They’ve given us a code word to ask for. If he says the same word that the cops gave to my mom, then we can move the blind on the door and verify that it’s someone named Officer Snegg on the other side.”

  Kayla took a deep breath, stood up again and reclaimed her spot a few feet in front of the door.

  “Okay,” she demanded, “If you are SWPD, what’s the code word they gave me?”

  “Miss Jones,” the officer called back.

  Kayla visibly buckled, her hand went to her mouth and she let out a sob before she could stop herself. She then straightened back up, stood a little taller and walked over to the glass. Kayla lifted the blind a few inches and peered out. I scooted around to try to get a glimpse of who was out there. The person on the other side had a helmet on with a tinted face guard and I could see the top of what must have been his tactical vest. His gloved hand was pressing his ID badge against the window. The badge read Officer Snegg SWPD.

  Kayla called out, “I can’t see your face.”

  Damn Kayla, you are handling this like a boss. There was no way anyone else in the room could have stood there so calmly and called out a cop who just as easily could be the shooter ready to take her down. The cop took off his glove, reached up and slid his face guard onto the top of his head. A friendly face with a small sad smile looked back at Kayla.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said. “You can open the door. It’s over.”

  I couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking and feeling. She stood perfectly still staring down at the door handle for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Open the door, sweetheart. You are safe now,” the officer repeated. “We can’t help you out here.”

  Kayla didn’t move a muscle. She was made of stone except for the slight tremor I could see in her hands. The only sign of fear.

  “It’s alright, Kayla. You did it. We are safe. Open the door,” I tried to rouse her.

  She looked over at me like she was surprised to see me and had forgotten where she was, then ever so slowly she reached over, slid the bolt back to red, turned the handle and opened the door.

  After that it was a blur of voices and bodies. More officers rushed into the room and the last one shut the door behind him. A few officers zoomed straight in on Miss Jones’s green tablecloth under the window ledge and ran to her. I heard Max call out desperately, “Over here, over here!”

  I stayed where I was for a second, letting it all sink in. Then I stood up and went to the nearest officer who was handing out what looked like giant sheets of tin foil and wrapping them around people.

  “What should I do?” I said. “Do I run?”

  “Sit tight, hun,” he replied. “We are all leaving here together.”

  Officer Snegg announced that we would all follow him out of the room and walk down the hallway to the side entrance. We would then walk out with our hands in the air, cross the tarmac and continue on to the church parking lot across the street. There were tents set up there with food and drinks, and our families were waiting for us. He said that most of us would then be put on buses to go to the hospital and get checked over. His team had brought in stretchers and they were handing out bottles of Gatorade.

  “Alright,” he announced loudly. “Please follow me, arms in the air and we will all head outside. We will be taking Owen out first and then Miss Jones. If you are able, please help those around you who can’t help themselves.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jace rush over to the officer and speak to him. Officer Snegg nodded. Jace, Gregg, Steve and a few other guys assembled around Miss Jones, lifted her stretcher and made their way to the door. They waited for the stretcher carrying Owen to clear the door, then they followed the officer out into the hallway, then we all filed in behind. No one jockeyed for position, no pushing or shoving. I started to follow too, my hands in the air, when Kayla came up beside me and pulled one down to clutch in hers.

  “Remember what I said, Ginny? You and I are destined to be besties. We’re leaving here hand in hand.”

  “I do,” I said. “Thank you, but maybe we should lift them up just for our own safety,” I chuckled. “For you, maybe just the one. The good one.”

  “I guess you’re right, sure would suc
k to get shot now,” she laughed.

  “Nice symbolism though Barbie, I like that. Great in a movie,” I deadpanned.

  The hallway was dark, no lights on, just the glowing exit signs and dim backup generator lighting. The smell of gunpowder assaulted my nose. I tried to keep my gaze high and not look around, but I saw the blood outside our door. Owen’s blood? The shooter’s? Tables, chairs and garbage bins were strewn about. Some of the windows had bullet holes in them and shattered glass. When we passed through the final outer door the sunlight was blinding. My eyes burned. I couldn’t see anything for a few seconds and the world stopped.

  Despite the crowds of people, and the incessant sirens, and vehicles and equipment that I knew were everywhere, all was silent for me. I was walking in a vacuum except for the sound of the leaves rustling in the birch trees beside the school. No other sound. I followed the others, making our way like some macabre parade, hands in the air, foil blankets fastened at our necks, reflecting the white sunlight. We must have looked like shell-shocked aliens in silver capes. We reached the parking lot and started to scatter as loved ones appeared to claim us. I saw her right away. Mom was running towards me full speed, arms waving out in front. I didn’t know what she was saying, but I kept walking in her direction. I took my last step towards her, unfastened the foil blanket and dissolved into Mom’s arms. She caught me before I collapsed to the ground. The volume returned to my world and I could hear an anguished voice wailing, “I love you” over and over. The voice was mine.

  All was a blur. A flurry of movement. EMTs, police, nurses, doctors, all scurrying around, barking orders. Asking questions, carrying stretchers.

  “IV over her now!”

  “There’s more coming out, be ready people.”

  “Live from KWES news ...”

  “My son, where’s my son?!”

  “You are safe now, we’ve got you.”

  “Dad!”

  “Our Father who art in heaven ...”

  “Stay back, please! Behind the tape!”

  Voices. Sirens. Screams of agony. Wailing. Tears of relief. I couldn’t concentrate. My ears were ringing and I was getting a migraine. Where was Kayla? When did we let go of each other’s hands? Was that Mrs. Turner? Miss Jones? No, couldn’t be her. Where was Owen? Max? MJ?

  I was outside. I drank the Gatorade and I ate the banana that was placed in my hand. People were in my face, their eyes huge. Asking me questions, I think. But their voices were like Charlie Brown voices, making no sense.

  I was in the back of an ambulance. Legs dangling off a stretcher. Mom’s arms were around me, not letting go. A pressure cuff was on my left arm. A thermometer, in my mouth.

  I had secured a classroom from a madman shooter.

  I had calmed classmates in shock.

  I had stitched up human flesh.

  I had watched my teacher die.

  I had watched Owen get shot.

  But I was free.

  And I was tired.

  So very, very tired.

  “One more pick-up, then it’s paaartaaay time,” Paul cheered from the back of the limo.

  Owen’s mom had booked the huge SUV for the six of us so that no one had to drive. She would also be hosting an after-prom party for about forty of us later on in the evening. Owen’s mom was a highly regarded wedding planner, so I had a feeling it would be off the charts. I couldn’t wait.

  Owen seemed to be healing as well as could be expected. His stitches were out, and he and Max were too. Owen was finally able to walk without crutches, with just a slight limp, a souvenir of that horrible Monday. He’d been going to therapy, both physical and mental, for the three months since the shooting. He was assured he would make a full recovery, physically at least.

  He and Max looked amazing sitting on the side bench in the limo, hair slicked back, wearing jet black tuxes with black polka dot bow ties and yellow kicks — a stunning couple very much in love. Kayla and Paul didn’t look too shabby either, and appeared just as you’d expect the wholesome boy and girl next door to. Kayla’s off the shoulder tulle confection of a dress was yellow as well, a hopeful, happy color. The tiny scar on her shoulder was a faint reminder of what she’d been through. Paul’s bow tie matched his cornflower blue eyes, and I had to admit, he was pretty hot. Nicest couple you’d ever meet, but tough as nails when their friends needed them.

  There was talk in town of leveling Southwestern High School and building new somewhere else, making the school’s footprint a memorial to the twelve people who had died that day. Some citizens felt that was giving in to the shooter, some wanted to rebuild on site. For now, the school remained as it was, a crime scene. We had never returned to class after that Monday. The year had ended early. I had no idea what would happen in September for our final senior year.

  I was seeing a therapist, working through what I experienced in lockdown. I had a hard time with sudden loud noises and confined spaces. I skipped the Victoria Day fireworks and spent the evening in my room reading a book, noise canceling headphones on tight.

  If I thought Mom was over protective before the shooting, she was now out of control. She wanted to know where I was at all times, when I’d be home, who I was with. She bought me the latest iPhone and I swear if she could place a tracker in my ear like they do to dogs, she would.

  I was trying to ease myself off the cutting, but it was a hard habit to break when I felt broken. Sometimes when I cut, and the blood bubbled up, the smell and sight of it sent me right back to that morning in Homeroom A. Sometimes I wanted to be back in that moment, to try and make sense of what happened and feel that bond and trust that we had all shared. Other times I didn’t want to even acknowledge that it had happened.

  But when I was struggling and felt like no one else could understand what I was feeling, I called Owen, or Kayla, or Max, or MJ, and we would talk for hours. They got it. We’d always have that day in common. Like the identical tattoos we all shared with the date of the shooting inked on our wrists, APRIL 28 2019 RIP.

  “Here we are,” Kayla hollered over to me. “Think your date is ready?”

  “I sure hope so Prom Queen Barbie, cuz this girl wants to dance!”

  I smoothed the skirt of my purple organza gown, silently rehearsing what I would say when my date appeared. I wanted to nail it.

  The driver got out and came around to the side door and opened it, ushering my date into the back with the five of us.

  “Buenas nachos hermosa dama,” I addressed MJ as she awkwardly tried to navigate the high step up in her stilettos. Her periwinkle beaded strapless dress shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  “Um ... thank you, I think,” she replied. “But I’m pretty sure it’s noches, not nachos,” she said, a huge grin spreading across her face. “Good try though, Ginny! And by the way, you all look amazing.” MJ looked relaxed and confident. She was not the same person who had shown up for class in Homeroom A that sad Monday. None of us were. I had crossed numbers 1,2,3,4 and 6 off of my to-do list, but mastering Spanish was going to take longer than I thought.

  The month before, when Kayla found out that she would be getting one of the many student awards for bravery from that awful day, and that she and I would be celebrated as Prom Queen and Queen for our “exceptional leadership and compassion” in extreme circumstances, she insisted that the six of us go together as a group. She was embarrassed by the accolades and the fuss in the press, but we wouldn’t let her get out of it. Kayla deserved every bit of recognition and every reward.

  Not everyone was going to the prom, some were no longer with us, and some just weren’t ready to have fun and maybe never would be. But we were ready to party and celebrate the fact that we were breathing and together. Who knew what the next Monday would bring? Or the next week, or the next year?

  Whatever the future held for us, we were going to carpe the hell out of every diem.

  Acknowledgements:

  For my parents, always and forever.

  For my mento
r, Lou Duggan, who made me trust my wings and not the branches.

  For my baby girl, Bronwyn, who gave up her sleep on the long drive to and from the island to talk about Ginny. Any time I spend with you is a gift.

  For my son, Dylan, who keeps me current and still answers my rambling texts. I am so proud of the man you have become.

  For Marisa and Emily, who saw that first rough draft and treated me with kid gloves, and for Angela and Jenna, without you there is no Boot Snack!

  Thank you to “The Herd”, Kirsten, Emily, and Ellie, for believing in my story and taking it to that next level.

  Most importantly, this book would not exist without Bruce (especially the tweets!), my BF, my safety net, my travel buddy, and my biggest cheerleader. You are one of a kind, you save me every day, you listen to my writing over and over and over and over and always have something to offer to make it better.

  And finally to Lucy, for keeping my feet warm while I type and only asking for a carrot and a butt scratch in return.