by Jason Parent
School had been cancelled for the remainder of the week. He was thankful for the time away from Carnegie High and the reporters swarming around it.
People were shot once every other month in Fall River. Some died, and some didn’t. Unless the victim was a cop, a politician, a kid, or someone with a ton of money, the crime received little press.
But a school shooting was front-page news that expanded well beyond city boundaries. Parents were already lobbying local government for stricter security at the public schools. School Committee members were investigating programs to prevent hazing and to warn of the dangers of firearms, as if high school students didn’t already know that firing a gun into another’s face was harmful. City Councilors blamed rap music and the latest edition of Grand Theft Auto. Liberals blamed the NRA and called for gun control. Conservatives blamed gun control and argued for armed guards in every school.
Everyone pointed fingers, but Michael blamed them all. He had told representatives of each faction—school, police, and parents—what was going to happen. Each had chosen to ignore him. Glenn’s blood dripped from the fingers that pointed; those pointing them were just too blind or ignorant to see it.
Despite all the hysteria going on in the city, and his rather accurate prediction, no one wanted to speak to Michael. Even after a week, his foster parents kept their distance. They were staunch Catholics and probably still thought he was some sort of demon or accomplice. Though they occupied the same house, he barely saw them.
His first friend in his new surroundings, Jimmy Rafferty, was taken away to where only God, and law enforcement brass, knew. Michael doubted he would ever see him again. His other friends, few that they were and scattered across the state where he’d lived in foster homes in the past, had made no effort to reach out to him. In the age of social media, where Michael had hundreds of “friends” on Facebook, their silence gave him a deeply rooted feeling of abandonment, one to which he was no stranger.
When he received a wall post on his Facebook page from a dummy account, he began to understand the reason for his isolation. He had finally become an outcast. One word, “freak,” told him all he needed to know. Someone had talked. Someone had shared his vision with the public at large. Among his fellow students, gossip traveled fast. Apparently, they weren’t receptive to his “gift.”
Damn Helen and Greg and their big mouths. They probably think I’m that kid from The Omen. He collapsed onto his twin bed in a room still decorated for a real son who had died fighting in Afghanistan or some other desert. Everywhere he went, in every suburban Massachusetts town the powers that be shipped him off to, Michael felt like an outsider. Even back in the city of his birth, he didn’t seem to belong. Why should I have expected Carnegie High School to be any different?
“Fuck!” He strangled his pillow then whipped it at the wall. “Punished once again for doing what was right.” He let out a deep, heavy sigh. No one was there to console him. He was alone. He’d always been alone. Except for Sam, he’d never had anyone he could really talk to. But even she had let him down.
His cellphone rang. Michael ignored it until the noise became annoying. Aggravated, he snatched up the phone, intending to send the caller to voicemail. But he decided to pick up when he saw Sam’s name.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Michael. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay, I guess. I’m not really sure what to make of it yet. I get the sense that everyone knows about my vision. They think I’m a freak.”
“How would anyone have found out? Did you tell other people?” Sam sounded concerned, which made Michael feel a bit better.
“Not sure. I only told Helen, Greg, Principal Alves, and you.”
“Michael, I hope you know I would never put you in a situation like that.”
“Yeah, I know.” There was something else that needed to be said. He didn’t know how to broach the topic.
The silence became awkward. Perhaps she was having difficulty, too.
Then, Sam blurted, “I wish I had listened to you, Michael.”
“It’s okay,” he lied.
“If I had just listened to you, you wouldn’t be going through all this now, and Glenn Rodrigues wouldn’t be dead. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. If I were you, I doubt I would have believed me either. What’s important is that you believe me now, right?”
After a moment, she replied, “I don’t know what to think. I believe that you believe it.”
Michael could almost hear her brain calculating through the phone. She was taking her time, choosing her words with caution. He wished she would speak her mind and be done with it. She’d never held back before. She doesn’t think Jimmy confided his plans to me ahead of time, does she?
As if sensing his thoughts, Sam added, “I don’t think you had anything to do with this. I’m on your side here. But people are going to have a lot of questions about how you knew what you knew. I’ll try to protect you as much as I can. You’re not to blame here. We are. We should have listened to you.”
Yes, you should have. He found it hard to bite his tongue. That’s exactly what you should have done. He wanted to shout out his agreement, to ream her for not trusting him. “What’s done is done.”
“Yes,” Samantha replied. He wondered if she could sense his frustration. She certainly wasn’t trying to provoke it. “Well, I’ll let you go. If you need me, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Michael hung up the phone without saying goodbye. He appreciated her show of concern, but if she’d just listened to him in the first place, her call wouldn’t have been necessary.
He tossed his phone onto the dresser, grabbed his pillow off the floor, and let his head sink deep into it. The stress and worry had worn him down. His eyelids were like windows that refused to stay open—each time he lifted them, they slowly slid closed again. If sleep insisted on coming, he hoped it would last the month. He would have settled for Tuesday, as if delaying his first day back after the shooting would somehow mitigate its difficulty. He closed his eyes and let his dreams take him where they would.
When Monday morning came, Michael was unable to think of any good reason to stay home. Sooner or later, he would have to face that awful first day back as the freak who had foreseen Glenn’s death, so he might as well just get it over with.
All morning long, he kept his head down. He could feel the other students watching him, though, condemning him. But no one spoke to him. I may get through this day yet.
Class after class passed uneventfully. Lunch came, and he ordered his usual cheeseburger and tater tots. He sat at the end of a table that was nearly full except for the seats adjacent to and across from him. He was alone but not conspicuously so, just as he intended.
The chatter of six hundred voices, none of which seemed interested in him, made Michael feel nonexistent. It was a good feeling. The noise drowned out his thoughts. He appreciated the chance to let his mind go blank. He huddled over his food, content to be undisturbed.
Silence had a way of unsettling the calmest nerves, particularly when it came unexpectedly. In a crowded cafeteria, silence had no rightful place. Michael wondered how long it had been before he noticed the stationary mouths, voices turning into whispers or quieting altogether. Someone or something had caught the attention of a cafeteria full of students, but Michael kept himself ignorant, eyes on his meal.
Footsteps came close to his table. He tried to think nothing of them, guessing they would soon pass him by, but a feeling in his gut told him to beware. The footsteps grew louder. Then, the owner stopped right beside Michael. A shadow loomed over him, a very big shadow. Reluctantly, Michael raised his head.
Robbie. Fuck. He was the last person Michael wanted to see. Does he blame me for Glenn’s death? Does he want revenge? What else could he possibly want from me? With a gulp and a quick prayer, Michael look
ed away. He didn’t want to see the pain coming.
“I heard what you did,” Robbie said. He didn’t sound angry. “You tried to save him, even though he… no, we were jerks to you.”
Michael was speechless. Why am I not dead yet? Is he actually apologizing? He couldn’t believe he was hearing Robbie correctly. He wondered when Robbie would get to the punchline and how painful or humiliating it would be. Or maybe he’s worried I might try to shoot him.
“Anyway,” Robbie continued, “I’m sorry for what we did to you. I was against taking it that far, but that doesn’t excuse my part in it. It wasn’t right.”
Flushing with anger, Michael met Robbie’s eyes. “Tell that to Jimmy,” he blurted then immediately regretted the outburst. Robbie could snuff him out as easy as extinguishing a cigarette. Michael leaned away as far as he could, fully expecting a beatdown to ensue.
But Robbie just shrugged. “I wish I could. I owe him more than that. I owe you, too. Anyway, if you ever need anything…”
Michael could see Robbie meant it. He wondered if the big, scary monster had a heart after all. His anger and fear retreated. Without a word, he returned to his food, dismissing Robbie’s presence as though the boy weren’t worthy of his time. Robbie left, probably going back to whatever group of post-growth-spurt mongoloids he hung out with at lunch.
The rest of the day went smoothly. Michael held his head a little higher with each passing hour. When the final bell rang, he even had the slightest skip to his step as he exited the building.
“Michael,” someone called from near the exit.
He looked up and saw Sam standing by her Toyota Camry, her personal and professional vehicle, not the typical American-made car most cops were required to use. If there was one thing Michael knew for sure about Sam, it was that she was never really off duty. He walked over to greet her.
“Spying on me?” he asked, only half joking.
“Not at all.” Sam smiled back. “I did want to check in on you, though. How’s everything going?’
“Could be worse, I suppose.”
“I’ve got someplace I’ve gotta go. Can you come with me? There’s someone I would like you to meet. I’ll take you home afterward.”
Michael considered his options: go home and be bored, or go with Sam and probably be bored. He opted for the latter. Jumping into the Camry, he slouched back into the seat, feeling a mixture of pride and relief and hoping tomorrow would be easier.
Chapter 8
Gloria didn’t know what to make of Robbie Wilkins. In all her years as a guidance counselor, she had never met a bully who seemed to be genuinely sorry for what he had done, and not just because whatever infraction he had committed had landed him in detention or jail. She wouldn’t feel sorry for him, though, not until she was certain he had learned his lesson. “Give me something, Robbie. Help me to understand why someone as big as you needs to terrorize the younger kids by stuffing them in toilets?”
“I don’t really like talking about this stuff, Ms. Jackson.” Robbie averted his eyes, slid down low in his chair, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I mean, what we did to those freshmen was wrong. I know that. I knew it when we did it, too.”
“You don’t seem like a bad kid, Robbie.” Gloria folded her hands together and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “If you knew better, why did you do it?”
Robbie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’m going to ask you something, and remember that whatever you say in here is one hundred percent confidential—do you regret what you did?”
“To which one?”
“Both.”
Robbie’s eyes began to shimmer, and his lower lip trembled. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Gloria smiled softly. It was a smile she wore often to pacify those who came to see her, to let them know she was a friend. And although the smile was contrived, the sentiment behind it wasn’t the least bit phony. She knew what kids like Robbie generally thought of high school guidance counselors. Yet he had come to see her without prompting. “There’s hope for you yet, Mr. Wilkins.”
Gloria stood. “What you did was wrong, and I don’t have to tell you how much harm your actions have caused. The important thing is that you realize your mistake, and you learn from it. You did a bad thing, but you can still be a good person.”
Robbie nodded. As he walked out of Gloria’s office, she asked him to send in her next appointment.
Two girls entered, one pushing past the other and charging up to Gloria’s desk while the other girl, quiet as a mouse, hung just inside the door.
“Veronica—” Gloria managed to say before the over-made-up Barbie doll cut her off.
“Ms. Jackson, we need to talk about Jocelyn. She keeps running cheer practice like she’s Hitler and we’re her slaves. I mean, I’m way better than her. She can’t even do a split all the way down. How she got to be captain is beyond me.” Veronica threw a thumb back at the girl at the door as she chomped down on a massive wad of gum. “This one would make a better captain than that slut Jocelyn. What do ya say, Tessa? Feel like trading your church wear for a short skirt and spandex? Maybe let the boys see what you got hiding under there?”
Gloria slammed a hand on her desk. “Veronica!” The bubbly cheerleader jumped, and Gloria pointed at the door. “I have an appointment with Ms. Masterson. Please, wait outside, and I will be with you when we are through here.”
Veronica smirked. “You have an appointment with Tessa? I know freshman boys who are more interesting than her. I’m not even sure she speaks. At least I won’t have to wait very long.” She stuck out her tongue at Tessa and skipped out the door.
“Veronica?” Gloria called.
“Yes?”
“Shut the door.”
When the room was finally theirs alone, Gloria scrutinized the skinny sophomore standing in her office, hugging herself tightly. If there were any bruises or scars on the girl, they were in places well hidden. Tessa’s turtleneck and pants covered all the usual locations where physical abuse manifested itself on the human body. But from her face, Gloria’s trained eye could read volumes. Tessa had no black eye, split lip, or other smoking-gun indicators of a problematic personal life. But her inability to even fake comfort, her nervousness that far exceeded that of a normal self-conscious teen, called out to Gloria. It cried, “Help me,” even if Tessa didn’t realize it herself. But without proof of physical abuse, Gloria would have to poke and prod for another type of scar, the emotional kind.
Tessa stood behind a chair, one of two mismatched, upholstered monstrosities the school had probably picked up from yard sales. Shaking like an addict in withdrawal, the teen seemed as if she were only half there, her mind a prison to fear. To call her introverted would have been an understatement. One look at Tessa, and Gloria knew the girl was a recluse. At her age, Tessa had two choices: accept and insert herself into a superficial and often cruel high school social class structure or retreat from it. Gloria didn’t need her files to tell her which Tessa had chosen.
Her gaze cast downward, Tessa fidgeted with her hair, awaiting her instructions. Gloria could see she didn’t want to be there. None of them ever did. How could Gloria explain to the poor child that she had taken the job as one of Carnegie High School’s four guidance counselors—four to guide more than two thousand—to help girls like Tessa, girls who thought there was no way out of the hell that surrounded them. They never asked for her help, but she gave it all the same. She helped as many as she could and took comfort in the fact that they were usually grateful after they received her help. Usually.
“Sorry about Veronica. She can be a real pain in the you-know-what.” Gloria hoped the jab at Veronica would endear her to Tessa, but the girl didn’t show any sign that she had even heard it, never mind a smile. “Please, have a seat.” She watched closely as Tessa pulled back the chair with slow precisio
n, as though any noise it made against the carpet would shatter the fragile balance existing in the air, opening the world to chaos.
After stepping in front of the chair, the girl scooted it forward and beneath her with the same caution. She sat with her back straight and her legs crossed. Still, she avoided Gloria’s eyes.
“Hello, Tessa,” Gloria said gently. She needed Tessa to see that she was a friend, someone she could not only trust but also confide in. But trust came only with time, if it ever came at all. And for those whose trust had already been betrayed, it rarely did.
Tessa’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Gloria took it as a responsive greeting. Small talk won’t likely be fruitful with this one. She decided to delve right into the business at hand. “Your teachers have come to me with concerns about you. Let me say first that you are not in trouble. We are worried about your well-being. That’s it. We want to help.”
She paused. Tessa didn’t look at her, nor did she respond. Getting through to the girl wasn’t going to be easy. But the toughest cases usually required Gloria’s interference the most.
“Your teachers say you don’t talk to anyone, you have no friends, and you’re having trouble fitting in. They say some of the other girls have been picking on you.”
“I get along with everyone just fine,” Tessa said softly but with a hint of defensiveness. Her head tilted slightly, and Gloria thought she might make eye contact, but it didn’t happen. “And my grades are good,” she added.
“You’re not in trouble here, Tessa. This has nothing to do with your grades, which are excellent. You could have a bright future… if other issues don’t hold you back. You’re even in the running for valedictorian, though from what I’m gleaning from you, I doubt you would like that very much.”
Tessa shuffled her feet.
Gloria sighed. What can I say or do to connect with this child? But she wasn’t defeated. She wouldn’t stop trying. She would never stop trying. “I want to help you, Tessa. If anything were wrong, anything at all, not just here but outside of school as well… at home, maybe… you could tell me. You know that, right? Anything you say here would never leave the confines of this office.”