Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  The toilet flushes in the handicap stall and the girls both jump and look over at me with the same panicked expression. They must have figured it was just us in here. A couple seconds later, out comes that skinny guy in the black jeans and an X-Men T-shirt. With all the girl drama, I forgot he was in here—not to mention his weird entrance. He came blasting in while I was taking a leak. Just dropped his bag and made a beeline for the first stall. It’s not every day you see a huge animal at a urinal, but this dude never even gave me a second glance. He sees me now, though, even though he’s trying real hard not to.

  Skinny Guy sets his ratty backpack and a camera on the floor by the sink while he washes his hands. I can tell by the way he avoids eye contact that he’s freaked out by two girls in the bathroom. Or by being around girls at all, by the look of him. Probably been hiding in there waiting it out. Probably wanted to take a dump the whole time and couldn’t. Not with them listening.

  He washes his hands, a little longer than necessary, and I pick up his camera by the strap. It’s a Canon. An old one by the look of it. Frayed strap. Cracked lens. The whole thing seems to be held together with gray duct tape.

  “Don’t!” Skinny Guy snatches the camera from me and quickly puts it around his neck. “You’ll break it!”

  And then, “Sorry,” he adds, as if realizing exactly who he’s talking to. “I just—I don’t like people touching my stuff.”

  “Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me right now?” Izzy stands, gawking at this dude. Like she can’t believe he’s here. I’m just glad to see it’s not me that has set her off. She points at the door behind Nerd Girl. “There’s, like, fifteen hundred people in this building. Three floors. A million rooms. And you choose mine?”

  “Well, really you chose his,” Nerd Girl blurts, then when we look her way, she retreats a bit and mumbles, “I mean, it is the men’s room.”

  She’s right. He was here first. And yet, somehow, in Izzy’s mind all this is about her.

  “What’s your problem, Izzy?” I ask. Maybe it’s a theater-kid thing but she’s always been so overdramatic, even back in grade 7.

  “My problem? MY problem? I don’t have a problem.” She points her finger at the guy, who has now squeezed himself into the far corner by the spilled garbage. “Why don’t you ask Xander-freaking-Watt? Why don’t you ask him what HIS problem is?”

  She’s pretty riled up. In fact, she seems almost afraid of Skinny Guy. I don’t know why. She could take him. Hell, even scrawny Nerd Girl could.

  “You are not allowed to be anywhere near me, you perv. That was the agreement.”

  He nods, but doesn’t look up.

  “Wilson said!” Her lips are trembling. Is she gonna cry?

  “But you both take Writer’s Craft,” Nerd Girl says, poking her head up again. “Period 4. He’s in your class. Our class.”

  One look from Izzy and she shrinks away.

  “I needed the credit,” Izzy says, turning back to him. “But Ms. Carter said we’d never have to work together. And the police warned you, Xander.”

  Police?

  Now I’m really curious. This is more than just Izzy overreacting. I look at the guy trying to disappear in the corner. Pulling his legs in, his backpack close. Wrapping himself around that camera like a balled-up spider. There’s gotta be more to this geek than I thought.

  “Screw this!” Izzy blurts. “I am SO outta here.” She moves towards the door, but Nerd Girl jumps up and blocks her.

  “You can’t leave…and, oh whoa, WHOA, WHOA!!” She twists the bolt. “People! This has to be locked!” She turns back, her eyes wide as she whispers, “We have to stay here. We have to be quiet.”

  “Get out of my way!” Izzy moves to shove her aside. “I don’t have to do anything. It’s just another stupid drill. No one—”

  Izzy’s phone buzzes in her hand and she glances down.

  “But those are the rules,” Nerd Girl continues. “We stay until the officer unlocks the door and it is over. It won’t be much longer. Most lockdown drills are over in, like, fifteen minutes and—”

  “Guys.” Surprisingly, Izzy takes a step back. I thought for sure she’d blow by her. But instead, she looks up from her phone, her face white. Her voice a whisper, she says, “…it’s not a drill.”

  ISABELLE

  BRI: OMG NOT A DRILL!

  Overheard Wilson and cops.

  There’s like five of them now and more coming.

  They said there’s a SHOOTER in the building!!! A SHOOTER!!!

  He shot out the atrium display cases.

  OMG IZZY NOT A DRILL!

  IZZY: SHOT?! Like with a GUN?!

  BRI: I’ll txt if I hear anything else

  OMG I can’t stop shaking.

  What if he comes in the office?

  What if he finds me?

  IZZY: Stay hidden. Stay quiet.

  No one knows you’re there.

  Just stay where you are.

  ALICE

  I read about stuff like this in the news—shootings, guns, real lockdowns.

  But it doesn’t happen here at St. Francis Xavier. Right? This can’t be really happening.

  The text has to be part of the prank. Yes. That’s probably it. That has to be it.

  Isabelle returns to sit in the corner opposite Xander. Apparently, whatever threat he poses is less than the unknown danger outside that blue door. Her thumbs dart in a blur over her iPhone screen as she texts.

  “Don’t worry,” the Hulk says. “It’s just another Friday prank. Another stupid joke.” But even he isn’t sounding too convinced.

  True, there have been many of those ridiculous pranks this past semester. Up until Mr. Wilson called the assembly about it, they seemed to be happening almost every other Friday. The X-Guys, or whoever they are, would pull the fire alarm sending the whole school out to the back field. Then, while the building was empty they’d stay back and set up their latest stunt. No one knew who they were, but we all knew their pranks: false alarms, stink bombs, exploding garbage cans. But the worst, by far, was when they destroyed the grad mural. Splattered the whole thing with red and yellow paint in their signature big X.

  “It’s not a joke. It’s vandalism,” I say, remembering how crushed I was when I saw the mural. It took the committee (me and Lucy Lowry) weeks to design our Tree of Knowledge, and weeks more to hand-letter every grad’s name on a leaf. “That was supposed to be our grad legacy.”

  The Hulk shrugs. “Guess some people wanna be remembered in a different way.”

  “By pranks? Nice legacy,” I mumble. When Grampa died this winter, he left behind Waters’ Farm, the kennels, the dogs he bred and trained over the years, the happy families that adopted them, the Pet Therapy Program he started at the Children’s Hospital—all the things Gran and I are trying to carry on. Now that is a legacy—something worth leaving behind.

  Isabelle looks up from her phone. “Well, there are tons of better ways to be known and remembered than pranks or a mural.” She flicks her gaze towards me. “No offense.”

  “What—like pep rallies?” the Hulk scoffs. “Sorry, but I’d rather be known for something other than wearing stupid Spirit Day crap.”

  “You are,” she snaps, and folds her arms.

  She seems insulted, but he’s right. I mean, who wants to walk around school all day in a precariously pinned bedsheet? I’m sure a bunch of those togas were still warm off the mattress that morning. That’s not fun. It’s unsanitary.

  “I guess some kids wanna leave St. F-it with a bang,” the Hulk continues. “You know, make their mark in their own way.”

  We all look at him. Even Xander.

  Isabelle eyes him skeptically. “You don’t know anything about this…prank, do you, Hogan?”

  For a moment, he seems almost hurt by her accusation. But the scowl quickly returns, drops over the hurt like a mask. Like the Hulk is unable to control a bit of Bruce Banner from breaking out now and then.

  “What?�
� she says defensively. “You do have a record. I’m just saying.”

  “For stealing. One stupid Supercycle from Canadian Tire.” He sneers in disgust. “It’s bad enough it cost me my placement there, my co-op credit, a month’s grounding, AND a criminal record. I needed that co-op credit to graduate.”

  “Technically, you did break the law,” Xander adds, for no good reason whatsoever.

  “I needed a bike,” the Hulk says, like that justifies everything. “So what? Now I’m guilty of being a psycho? Nice. Thanks, Izzy. Thanks a lot.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She defends herself so hotly, I wonder if she really does feel bad for bringing it up. “I was just…just pointing out the facts.”

  “Can’t argue with fact,” Xander adds, unhelpfully.

  “Well, how about I point out a few facts about you?” The Hulk spits the words. “Little Miss Perfect driving Mommy’s BMW to soccer practice. And horseback riding. And dance competitions. And drama-geekfests. I wanna horse. I wanna cruise. I wanna iPhone.”

  A flush spreads up her neck and cheeks and she quietly slips her phone into her back pocket.

  “Little Miss Perfect who gets any toy, any trip…and any guy she wants,” he continues. “John, Trev, Darren. Sounds like you’ve got a record of your own.”

  “What?” She frowns as she searches for the words. “I’m not…I don’t…”

  “So do you just order boyfriends—like some kinda drive-thru? ‘Gimme a tall blond.’ ‘I’ll try a grande bold, black.’ Or do you just go for the special of the month, like your fancy tai chi?”

  Chai tea, I correct, pleased that I manage to keep that one inside my head.

  He has a point. She does do all of those things, right down to the Starbucks. But that is just Isabelle. Isabelle Parks—the chosen one. School President. Yearbook Editor. MVP. Isabelle Parks not only knows all about the school, she runs it. In her mind, she is St. F.X. High School. She often comes late to class because she stops at the drive-thru on her spare. Had I the car or money to buy a coffee every day, or the nerve to always come late to class, I would at least bring one in for Ms. Carter. But it never seems to occur to Isabelle that she is interrupting us each time she arrives late. I guess, in her egocentric universe, nothing starts until she arrives. No lesson. No meeting. No practice. No performance. If she thinks of us at all, which she obviously doesn’t, she must assume that we just sit around in nothingness waiting for her appearance. Like she is the Big Bang.

  But I never take it personally. Everything in Isabelle’s life is about Isabelle. She is the center of her universe and that of her parents, her friends, and every guy who has ever been infatuated with her. Their worlds revolve around her.

  So she has both parents. So what? So they are rich lawyers. So she has the time and talent to excel at whatever she tries. Sure we envy her for it. Wonder what it would be like to be that dark-haired girl standing on stage bathed in a spotlight and drowned in applause. Who wouldn’t? But I’ve never seen anyone react like the Hulk. Like he sees her successes as inversely proportional to his own. Like she does it to spite him.

  “Shut up, Hogan,” she finally says, eyes brimming. “You don’t know anything about me. So just shut it.”

  Click.

  Xander’s shutter stops her short. She glares at where he sits, face hidden behind the lens.

  “Did you…?” She wipes her eyes. “Ohmigod, did you seriously just take a picture of me right now?!”

  Click.

  Xander takes another, catching the exact moment her pain flares into anger.

  “What the hell?!” She stands and looks at her face in the cracked mirror as she runs her finger under her eyes to wipe the mascara smudge. “I told you before. Wilson told you. You can’t just go around taking random pictures like that!”

  An overreaction. Even for Isabelle.

  “Why not?” I ask, curious now. As Yearbook Editor she rarely went anywhere without her camera. “You take pictures all the time.” Not that I am ever in any of them. Still, I don’t know why she is reacting so strongly. “I assumed you liked having your picture taken…given all your selfies on Instagram and Facebook.”

  “Oh, so now you’re creeping me?” She raises her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips, challenging me.

  “Um, no,” I say, unsure if it is creeping, exactly. I am sorry I spoke. Why did I speak? Nothing good ever comes of it. “It’s just…we are friends.”

  “Friends?” She looks at me like I just articulated the ridiculous.

  “On Facebook, I mean.”

  “Oh. That. So, not like real-real friends.”

  Real-real friends?

  “Well,” I say, “it’s not like you’re my imaginary friend. Although I did have one of those when I was younger—”

  “Whatever.” Thankfully, she cuts me off. “I have, like, 1,523 Facebook friends and almost 1,800 followers on Instagram.” She turns back to the mirror and fixes her perfect hair. “I can’t be expected to know them all.”

  “But you know me, right?” I blurt. I mean, she does. She has to. “We went to elementary school together since kindergarten? Remember? I invited you to my last birthday party back in grade 4?”

  Everything comes out like a question. But I know the answer. My face burns.

  “C’mon, Izzy,” the Hulk jeers, enjoying my awkward moment. He gestures at me with his furry arm. “What’s her name?” Like he knows. I doubt he does. I hope he doesn’t.

  She looks at me then, as if willing herself to remember. But the truth is, she can’t. “I know of you,” she brags, like that is something. “You’re…that guy’s sister. Allie, right?”

  “It’s Alice, actually,” I mumble, recalling that she did not come to that birthday party because, as she told me then, “Your brother is too weird.”

  But even my words get lost as she turns to the Hulk. “See?” She smiles triumphantly. “I do know who she is.”

  XANDER

  Writer’s Craft Journal

  Xander Watt

  February 4, 2016

  PROMPT: If you could only save one thing in a fire, what would that be?

  —

  Facts: July 25, 2011—Mom’s Matinée cigarette fell onto the living room carpet and started to smolder. The fire alarm woke me at 1:25 a.m., and when I saw the smoke and flames, I called 9-1-1. The operator told me to get everyone out. In the 13 minutes it took the fire truck to get to our house, I not only helped Mom onto a lawn chair out front, as well as Sheldon, my turtle, I also rescued the three crates of Dad’s comics collection I carried up from the basement, my box of 151 original Pokémon guys, my Lego Death Star that Dad and I were working on, and even a box of Ritz crackers in case Mom and I got hungry. The firemen arrived at 1:38 while I was standing on the porch in my Darth Vader PJs. Back to the flames, camera in hand, I looked through the lens at all I had saved that night.

  Mom, slumped in her Blue Jays lawn chair, surrounded by all our most important things. I’d put hers in her lap: her big, red purse, her near-empty bottle of Jackson-Triggs wine, her pack of Matinée cigarettes.

  Click.

  The lighting was perfect. Excellent composition. It still is one of my most favorite pictures. Mom thanked the firemen for saving our house that night. I thought she would have been happy with all I did, but when she saw that photo, she only cried.

  I was twelve, just a kid, really, but I realized four things on July 25:

  1. Anyone can save more than one thing in a typical house fire.

  2. Though she’s always looking for them, apparently, Mom’s purse, Matinée cigarettes, and Jackson-Triggs wine are NOT her favorite things.

  3. Had I not called 9-1-1 (like I was supposed to) and not evacuated (like I was supposed to), I probably could have peed on the carpet (like I’m not supposed to) and put the fire out.

  4. Dad really wasn’t coming back home. Not for his comics. Not for his camera. And not for me.

  So to answer your illogical
question, if I had to pick just one thing, I’d pick my camera. It’s a Canon T90, a manual focus 35 mm SLR. Nicknamed “the Tank” by Japanese photojournalists because of its ruggedness. Like me, it can endure a lot of things. Plus the T90 is voted by experts as the best Canon design ever—even if newer models are preferred by other photographers.

  And my dad.

  HOGAN

  The awkward silence after the name-that-girl gongshow doesn’t last long.

  Unfortunately.

  I’m not one for talk and these girls never shut up. Xander’s weird and all. And kinda obsessed with that picture thing. But at least he’s quiet. Minds his own business.

  “They’re not answering.” Izzy’s thumbs tick-tick-tick across the phone. “Why won’t they answer?”

  “Oh, so everyone has to jump when you call?” I say.

  “Who?” Alice asks.

  “Darren or Bri,” Izzy says. “She’s hiding in the main office. But I haven’t heard from Darren since before the lockdown.”

  “Well,” Alice goes, “it’s against the rules to text in a lockdown.”

  I’m not a rule follower, but still, this isn’t some drill. Or some prank. Something’s not right. I feel it in my gut. “What’s the point of hiding from a psycho shooter if their phones keep buzzing with your stupid texts?”

  “Psycho shooter?” She looks at me, horrified, then back at the phone.

  Alice nods. “Well, clearly, anyone who brings a gun to a school is unstable.” She starts mumbling about stats in the news.

  I’m not sure why I keep giving Izzy such a hard time. All that crap about being a princess. About the guys she’s dated. I’m jealous of Darren. I admit it. But why the digs about remembering Alice’s name, and, now, freaking her out about her texts? Hurting Izzy? That’s the last thing I want to do. But things get all jumbled in my head and come out the wrong way, and they usually end up sounding like the exact opposite of what I mean. Honestly, I was trying to reassure her. No. That’s not it, exactly. What I really want is for her to stop texting and pay attention to me. But it seems the only attention I know how to get is for being an ass.