Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  “Oh, so you were helping the poor,” he says.

  “Sort of…well, we gave them school supplies and stuff. But I feel like I learned so much from them.”

  I’ve been home two weeks, and I still can’t even put that trip into words. Miss Sweeney, one of the teacher supervisors, suggested we journal. But all the things I saw, the injustice, the poverty, men laboring in the sugarcane fields, women working in the sweatshops, orphans—God, the orphans—there are no words. Not really.

  I shrug and spin the bracelet round and round and round. “I dunno. But I’ve felt…different since I came back.”

  “Are you sick?” Xander asks. “You don’t look sick.”

  “No. But my real mother thinks I caught a bug of some kind.”

  She’s been on my case ever since I got home a few weeks back. She keeps telling me, “You’re not acting like yourself.” Shopping. Pedicures. Partying—it just doesn’t interest me any more. All that stuff that mattered so much before I left—having more, being more, just to impress more—it just seemed so trivial, so ridiculous when I got home. My mother asked if I’d taken all of my malaria pills. Did I drink their water? “This is your final year, Isabelle!” she ranted. “I should never have let you go on that trip. You can’t afford to be sick, not now, not when it’s all about the grades.”

  For my mother, it is always about marks. My whole purpose in life is making the grade. And hers, apparently, is about making me make it.

  “I’m just sick of my mother always being on my case,” I blurt. “Now it’s about acceptance letters. It’s my life! Why can’t I just do what I want to do?”

  The outburst catches me by surprise. Why am I telling this to Xander Watt, of all people? But in some ways, it’s so easy. He has no expression. No judgment. And I really don’t care what he thinks anyway. Kinda like telling it to a robot.

  He blinks. “What do you want to do?”

  His question catches me off guard.

  “I just…I just want to…” I heave a sigh. “I dunno. No one’s ever asked me before. All I know is this trip changed everything. All the things I used to think were so important—aren’t. Not any more.” I shrug and look down at my bracelet, admit what I’ve been wondering these past few weeks. “Maybe I’m depressed.”

  But he doesn’t look at me all judgey. “What does your mom think?”

  I laugh, but it’s not funny. “Yeah, I can only imagine the total freakshow if I ever told her I felt depressed. In my house, we don’t heal scars, we hide them. Because if her kid is messed up, that means she messed up. And my mother never makes mistakes, never loses a case, never fails at anything. Ever.”

  We sit in silence.

  “You’re like my blue Hanes,” he says.

  “Your what?”

  “Hanes. My underwear,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “They were my favorite pair.”

  And suddenly I’m sorry I ever spoke. Xander Watt? Pfft! What was I thinking? Of course he’s gonna get all inappropriate and stupid. It’s what he does.

  “I wore them all the time,” he goes. “Mom even washed them out each night so I could wear them again the next day.”

  I don’t want to know. I really don’t. But I can’t help myself. “What—like, you only owned one pair of underwear?”

  “Oh, no. I have lots. But I don’t like tags. And the waistband should have a certain elasticity. And sometimes the seams on the other pairs make my testicles—”

  “Okay, okay.” I throw my hands up. “I get it. These are your favorite pair. So what?”

  “Well, I guess they got caught in the spinner or something and got totally stretched out. Just like you.”

  I raise my eyebrow at him. “Hello? Did you just compare my life to your nasty-ass underpants?”

  “Yes.” He nods, like it makes total sense. “It’s a metaphor. A metaphor is when you—”

  “I know what a metaphor is!” God! I’m so irritated to be caught up in his nonsense. “I just don’t know why I bothered to listen to yours.”

  He shrugs and looks down at his camera strap. “Well, it makes sense to me. The DREX stretched you out. You can’t go back to the way things were. No matter how much you want to.” He nods, sure of it. “You’re just like my blue Hanes.”

  I want to make some sharp comeback. To laugh him off. But as I watch him fiddling with his camera strap, not looking at me at all, I actually start to see some sense in his words. Life is about stretching yourself, I guess. And once your heart has been expanded there’s no going back.

  My parents, Bri, Darren—none of them get what I’ve been trying to say. I don’t even get it myself. But Xander Watt does. Go figure.

  “You know, Xander, in some weird way, that’s, like, the wisest thing anyone’s said to me these past two weeks.”

  “Sometimes, you just know when it’s time to let things go and move on, right?”

  I smile a bit, suprised by this weird connection. Who knows? Maybe I’ve been misjudging this guy all along. “It’s like, you gotta be open to change when you see the signs.”

  He nods again, completely serious. “Like skidmarks. Now there’s a sure sign it’s time to change.”

  ALICE

  I peek around the corner down the locker-lined hallway. Empty. No Noah. And no shooter either, thank God. I sprint, ducking into the first doorway to catch my breath. I stop and listen. Nothing.

  Moving doorway to doorway, I skirt up the hallway, sure I’ll be caught any second. But none of that matters, Noah is out here, somewhere. I just know it.

  He should be with Kim, the educational assistant who works most closely with him. Period 4—that’s reading time in the High Needs room or the library. But in all the drama, I forgot that Kim is off sick today. And though Julie, her supply, is a nice enough lady who knows all about autism, she knows nothing about Noah. Because only someone who really knows my brother would know that he bolts.

  I swallow and listen for his familiar noises, hearing nothing but my heart drumming in my ears.

  Come on. Where are you, Noah?

  There’s no point in calling his name. It would draw the police—who would most certainly lock me down. Or the shooter—who would most probably shoot me down. My stomach twists. No, calling won’t help. Besides, even if he hears me, Noah won’t answer.

  At the last doorway before the hall splits, I stop and strain to hear that familiar tune: “Hakuna Matata.” Noah hums it over and over when he’s in distress. Most people wouldn’t recognize the song, or even recognize it as a song, but it’s as clear to me as if he’s calling my name. Whenever he has nightmares, feels anxious, or is simply getting overwhelmed by the crowds or sounds, he starts humming, moaning, and flapping his hands. Rocking. Head slapping. And, if he gets there, a full-on meltdown.

  Thankfully, he hasn’t had one of those in a while. A couple of months at least. The last time, Kim was away for the day and the supply EA that day wasn’t picking up on his triggers. He had a meltdown so bad that afternoon that they called a Secure School. Kept the classroom doors locked while the whole High Needs team tried to rein him in and calm him down. The last thing he’d need at that point was hundreds of kids pushing by in the hallway after the bell rang.

  I should have been there. I should have known. I could tell things weren’t great that day when I stopped by the High Needs room on the main floor. I usually eat lunch there with him, but that day, I just dropped off his sandwich and juice. I had to meet Ms. Carter to go over my writing portfolio for that pointless application. He seemed agitated, unsettled as he paced the room, uninterested in the match-the-card game the supply EA had spread out on the table. He’ll be okay, I told myself. Apparently, he wasn’t.

  That meltdown never would have happened if I’d been there. I knew it. Gran knew it, too. Even if she never voiced it. I could tell by the way she looked at me.

  “You’re not his guardian angel,” Mrs. Goodwin said later when I sat in the guidance office in tears. “You can’t be everyw
here. You can’t watch over him all the time.”

  Mrs. Goodwin was probably right. But so was Gran.

  “You and I are all he has,” she told me years ago, when he’d had a major meltdown in the elementary playground. When I learned I couldn’t just watch or run away even when others did. When I realized that Noah isn’t like the others kids and, because of that, neither am I. “If we don’t watch out for poor Noah,” Gran explained, “who will?”

  Both are true. I have to watch over Noah even though I will often fail. But what kind of sister would I be if I didn’t even try?

  I bolt across the hallway and lean flat against the lockers at the intersection where the halls form a T. Straight ahead, on the right, the stairwell doors lead down to the atrium. On the left are the windows overlooking it. It’s a great vantage point to see down three hallways at once—and also, I realize, completely exposed.

  Then I hear it: HaKUna MaTAta. HaKUna MaTAta. HaKUna MaTAta.

  It’s so faint I think I might have imagined it. I want to hear it so badly I wonder if I have. But no, the song grows louder as I travel the empty hall. And I know where he is.

  Of course! The janitor’s closet!

  Noah always helps the custodian after lunch. His job is to sweep the floor, and Noah takes it pretty seriously. Mr. Dean even gave Noah his own broom—a four-foot-wide, swivel-head thing that can clear three tiles wide in one shove. Whether it’s the sensation of it against the tile, the repetitious motion, or the quiet time of them both pushing in tandem, Noah loves sweeping. It comforts him.

  I grasp the door handle. Please be unlocked. The knob turns and I open the closet to find Noah moaning and rocking among the brooms and buckets. He’s gripping his broom’s handle—compulsively flicking the masking-tape tag marked “NOAH.” His orange Lion King hat is rolled down over his eyes and ears—a sure sign the world is just too overwhelming. He wears it that way a lot. Some days, I wish I had a hat of my own. A quick escape until the spotlight goes away and the crowd moves on. Until the teacher calls on someone else. Or the girls stop laughing. Until I am invisible again.

  Noah’s song continues, and though there’s barely enough room for him to stand, he seems content. He’s always liked a tight squeeze when things feel chaotic. If he’s having a really bad day at home, I usually pile all the couch cushions on him and sit on top. “That’s not normal,” a friend said once when she came over. I didn’t know what she meant. It was our normal. We did it all the time. I stopped inviting friends over after that—or maybe I had no friends to invite. But it doesn’t matter, really. Like Gran says, so long as Noah has a good day, we all do. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true, exactly. But I do know that if Noah has a bad day, we all do.

  I glance down the hallway on both sides, unsure of what to do next. There’s still no sign of anyone else. But for how long? I try to squeeze in with him but there isn’t room for both of us. The door won’t shut, and the jostling pitches his moan up a notch.

  Once again, I have written myself into a dead end. I always get these great ideas and excitedly plot from one point to the next.

  Get out of the room. Find Noah. And…

  And what?

  As usual, I have no idea how to resolve it. Only this is the worst time for a creative block. Because I’m not abandoning some fictional character to his unfinished fate. This time, it’s real. This time, it’s Noah.

  And I’m all he’s got.

  ISABELLE

  BRI: How you holding up?

  IZZY: Ok, I guess. You?

  BRI: I can’t believe this is real. Darren said it’s like an episode of Cops.

  They’re searching the building now.

  IZZY: Darren? He txted you?

  BRI: Ya. Why?

  IZZY: I’ve txted him this whole time—he hasn’t answered!

  I thought his phone was off or in his locker.

  What did he say? Is he mad at me or something?

  BRI: Actually, we didn’t talk about you at all.

  IZZY: Oh.

  Well what did he say?

  BRI: Just stuff about Kate’s party. OMG it was crazy!

  IZZY: You were there? I thought you weren’t going?

  BRI: No…you said you weren’t going.

  IZZY: You went without me? First Darren and now you? WTF?!

  BRI: Iz, you can’t get mad at us for wanting to have fun.

  IZZY: Whatever. Like getting falling down drunk is fun.

  I’m not into that. Not any more.

  So, what lucky bachelor did you end up with this time?

  Please tell me you didn’t get back with Todd.

  BRI: No, I didn’t.

  What’s up with you, anyway?

  Even Darren says you haven’t been the same since your trip.

  IZZY: I’m not. I’m all blue-Hanes-ed.

  BRI: I don’t get it.

  IZZY: I know.

  ALICE

  “Noah?” I take his hand firmly but gently. It flutters in my grasp like a trapped bird but I don’t let it go. I have to get him back to the washroom. It’s the only option. Not ideal, but safer. At least we’ll be together.

  I pull the bottom of the broom handle slightly, sliding the rectangular head into the hall as I coax him out. “Noah. Come with me. It’s time to sweep.”

  Noah doesn’t speak, but he has lots to say to the few people who know how to listen. No, his body says. He pulls away. Rocking side to side. Tapping his head. Noah knows his schedule, the photos Kim uses to cue him for his next activity. Lunch is over. Caf duty is done. It’s library time with Kim now. This isn’t right and he knows it.

  “Come on, Noah,” I urge, slowly turning up his hat so he can see. He tilts his head, watches me in his peripheral vision, as usual. As much as I want him to, he never looks at me directly, but I know he is listening.

  I push the broom head with my foot and he follows its handle out of the closet. His free fingers twiddle his hair, worrying the strands left around the bald spot behind his ear.

  BANG!

  Instinctively, I duck down, dragging Noah by the arm. The explosion came from the main stairwell. Close. Too close.

  “MUTANTS RULE!” a guy’s voice shouts before getting drowned out by a series of blasts.

  BANG-BANG! BANG!

  Noah shrieks and raises his arm, breaking free to cover his ears.

  BANG-BANG!

  The stairwell window explodes, raining shards of glass down the hall.

  “NO!” I reach, grasping at Noah’s track pants as he tries to bolt. “Stay with me! NOAH! Stay here!”

  But it’s all too much for him. And he runs, broom in hand, back the way I came, disappearing around the corner.

  I take off after him, terrified his long stride has already taken him out of my reach. But as I turn right, I run headlong into something huge. Someone huge. And ricocheting off the barrel chest, I fall back to the ground among the broken glass.

  I look up to see the Hulk towering over me. He’s got my brother by the scruff of the neck. And no matter how Noah shrieks and flails, the Hulk holds fast.

  I don’t know whether to be terrified or thankful.

  Then, with his free hand, the Hulk reaches down for me. “C’mon! Move!”

  The three of us run back down the hall, circling wide by the west stairwell doors. We sprint for the men’s room, slamming into one another as we hit the locked door.

  “Open up!” the Hulk pounds on it with his huge fist.

  “She can’t open it,” I say, breathless. “It’s against the rules.”

  “C’mon, Izzy!” He pounds harder. “It’s us. Open the damn door!”

  A few pops echo in the empty hall. Not nearly as close as the last ones, but just as unnerving. Especially when we hear, “This is the police! Put down your weapon!”

  The blasts continue and seem to be growing louder. Closer. Any second I expect to see gunmen come running around the far corner.

  The Hulk looks at me and we both know, there�
��s no way she’s opening it now.

  “Screw this!” he yells and lifts his huge furry foot. He kicks the door hard. Once. Twice. On the third, the wood splinters around the lock, and the door flies open to reveal Isabelle cowering and freaking in one corner. While in the other, Xander watches us all through the lens of his camera.

  Click.

  ISABELLE

  “Ohmigod!” I scream as they literally come barging in. I rush past them and try to close the door but the bolt is ripped free. Which means the door won’t stay shut. Which means we’re gonna die!

  Great. Just freaking great! Could this day get any worse?!

  I walk over and shove him in his stupid furry chest. “You broke the damn door!”

  “Well, YOU wouldn’t open it.” He pushes me aside and heads to a stall.

  “We are in a freaking lockdown! Tell him, Alice!” I look at her for her rule-following support but she’s too busy trying to calm down her weirdo brother.

  “Where the hell did he come from?” I ask, but no one answers. For all I know, he could be the one the cops are after.

  I look back at Hogan, who has not gone into the stall but instead has grabbed the door by the top and side and is literally trying to rip it off.

  “So you just go around breaking doors for fun now?” I say. “Is that it?”

  The metal groans and shrieks as he twists and pulls. Is he serious right now? I glance back through the open doorway down the hall. He’s gonna get us killed.

  I shout over the noise, “Why don’t you just put up a sign that says, HEY, PSYCHO, WE’RE IN HERE!?”

  “Who needs a sign,” he snaps, “when we’ve got you screaming it at the top of your lungs?”

  I cover my mouth.

  With a metallic shriek the door rips free. I didn’t think he could do it. But now that he has, I have no idea why. Hogan carries it to the entrance.

  “That metal door is too small to fit there,” I say. But that isn’t his plan. Instead, he shuts the wooden door and, holding the metal one parallel to the floor, rams it against the wood, wedging it in between the door and the edge of the sink. Smart. Well, at least until he starts pounding on it with his thick fists.