Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  Alice grins at me and I feel my scowl coming on.

  “No,” she says, “you’re on to something.”

  I realize she’s not laughing at me. I see it in her eyes. Something I haven’t seen from anyone in a long time. Something I thought I’d never see again.

  Respect.

  She looks back at the floor and taps her lip, deep in thought. “Every tragic hero does have a fatal flaw. A trait that brings him down.”

  “Ya,” Izzy cuts in. “How about crazy? Lunatic? Demented? Oh, what does it matter, anyway?” Izzy moans in her melodramatic way. “We don’t even know who he is.”

  They’re both right. It is a hero’s journey. And it is real life. But I hope to God I’m wrong. Because I learned something else in Dunne’s class, something I am not about to share.

  In a Shakespearian tragedy—everyone dies.

  NOAH

  Roundandroundandr­oundandround

  Paper towel rolling,

  rippling

  brown paper

  puddles on white tiles.

  Out!

  —the paper needs out!

  Round​andro​undand​round​and—

  DONE!

  Hummmmmmmm.

  Stepping tile to tile.

  Follow the rhythm of gray grooves

  left

  and right

  and left

  and right

  and left—

  Flap-and-flutter-and-flap-and-flutter-and—

  Kim? I don’t need to pee right now.

  Out. I want out!

  HummmmMMMm!

  Finger follows cold grooves.

  Where does it go?

  How does it go?

  Up. Stop.

  Across. Stop.

  Down. Stop.

  Stop and go. And stop. And go.

  Around and around.

  Humm​mmMMM​mMMMM​mmM​mmM​Mmm​mmM!

  Never getting out. Never getting out!

  Trapped inside a cement song.

  ALICE

  After a few laps around the room, Noah seems quieter. Well, quiet for Noah. This isn’t where he is supposed to be, but he’s walked the room, he knows the place. He’s okay. For now. His “stimming,” as the doctors call it, has slowed—almost no slapping or hand flapping, no bobbing and waving. He settles himself next to the Hulk and starts fiddling with the costume fur.

  “You okay with that?” I ask, unsure, as Noah hums and rakes his fingers up and down through the Hulk’s furry forearm.

  It might turn into another “incident,” one of those awkward moments that usually ended up with Kim re-teaching Noah from her Social Stories binder. Tales about Touchy Tom who didn’t know about appropriate touching. Or Snot Scott who picked his nose. Or Naked Ned who took his clothes off in public places. Those story pictograms worked, funnily enough. They made sense to Noah. At least, we thought so. And it has been some time since he’s done any of those unacceptable things.

  But that doesn’t mean he won’t.

  The Hulk shrugs. “As long as it keeps him quiet…and he keeps to just the arm—yeah. It’s fine.” He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. “Actually, it’s kinda relaxing.”

  Noah hums as he strokes, his hoarse voice low and raspy like the lazy drone of a bumblebee.

  “So, like…what’s wrong with your brother?” Isabelle asks.

  I hate that question—the assumption that he is “wrong.” I know she doesn’t mean it maliciously, but still.

  “Geez, Izzy,” the Hulk scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “Well…I know that.” She blushes, unsure of how to proceed. “But he’s High Needs, isn’t he? I mean, look at him. The way he acts. The hat and everything. Come on, guys. It’s not…normal, right?”

  Noah’s hum becomes a moan, but he keeps petting the Hulk’s arm.

  “Who knows what normal is?” the Hulk says before I can answer. He opens one eye and glances at me. “Does he normally do this?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Every day after school. He pets all our dogs in the kennel. It’s a great calmer—for everyone.”

  “Makes sense.” Leaving his arm in Noah’s grasp, the Hulk stretches out on his back in front of Isabelle. “Izzy, you look real tense. Why don’t you get started on my belly?”

  She shoves him away with her foot. “In your dreams.” He laughs and sits back up.

  Izzy picks up the mascot head and fiddles with the remaining whiskers. “Just so you know, I wasn’t asking to be mean. I just…I don’t really know anyone who is…who acts like that.” She looks at me, curious. “What’s it like to have a brother like him?”

  “I dunno, really.” I shrug, unsure of how to answer. “I’ve never had any other kind of brother. That’s just Noah. And he’s not retarded.” Not that anyone should be called that. “He is autistic.”

  “Can he be cured?” she asks.

  A fair enough question, I guess. One of many I asked Gran growing up. Why does Noah still drool and have tantrums and poop accidents like a baby? What if I catch “oddism”? Why can’t he do the things I can? Even then, I felt sorry for him and guilty about what I could do and he could not. In my dreams, Noah looks at me, laughs with me, speaks to me. In my dreams, he watches over me like a typical big brother. And when his night howling wakes me once again, because he usually only sleeps for two or three hours, I miss that brother in my dreams. I wish for him. Desperately.

  “Gran showed me a documentary about autism,” I continue. “Mozart, Einstein, Hans Christian Andersen, Isaac Newton, they probably would have been diagnosed on the autism spectrum. Autism isn’t a virus or a disease, it’s a way of being and seeing.” I look at Noah. “It’s how he is. A part of who he is.”

  I always wonder what the world looks like through his eyes, sounds like to his ears, or how it feels through his fingers.

  “So, he’s never gonna get…better?” she asks.

  I asked that question too. So I give Isabelle the same answer Gran told me. “Well, he is learning better ways to communicate. But even if science ever discovers how to separate autism from the person, who you’d be left with would not be the same person you started with.” As much as I wish for the brother in my dreams, I love the brother in my life.

  Noah’s fingers stroke up the Hulk’s arm and into his hair, raking through the blond spikes.

  “Woah!” the Hulk jerks away, frowning. “Personal space, man!”

  My body tenses—ready to intervene, to explain, to protect.

  But the Hulk simply takes Noah’s hand and puts it back on the sleeve of his costume. “Stick to the arm, okay?”

  I exhale, surprised to realize that I’ve been holding my breath.

  Isabelle watches them, intrigued. And I am suddenly curious about her story.

  What is her normal?

  I bet she doesn’t have to lock up her special things so they don’t get broken or go missing. I bet she gets to sleep in. And take vacations. And eat in restaurants without people staring. I bet she can watch whatever she wants on television without having to deal with tantrums for Lion King.

  “What’s it like to be an only child?” I ask.

  “I dunno.” She looks down, shrugs one shoulder. “Lonely.”

  Click.

  ISABELLE

  Lonely. I can’t believe I said that.

  “Well, not…lonely,” I add, “like, pathetic-loser lonely. Just…alone.”

  No one says anything. They just look at me…differently.

  Is that…are they…like…feeling sorry for me?

  “My dad and I are close,” I add, and we are. “He travels a lot for work, though, so it’s mostly me and my mother at home.”

  “Aren’t you close with her?” Alice asks.

  Too close. The woman smothers me. “No. I’d rather be alone in my room than sit through another one of her lectures about my weight, about my grades, about my messy room. Ugh. Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. ‘Pizza?
Oh, Isabelle. You know that gives you pimples!’ ‘I hear Jenny’s daughter got early acceptance. Isabelle, are you sure you filled out the application correctly?’

  “ ‘Yes, Mother, I filled out the application correctly. You should know. You, like, made me go over it a million times.’ She even came with me on the campus tour, which was just for students, and made the guide stop at the admissions office so my mother could double-check they got my application. Who does that, I ask you?”

  “Your mother,” Xander says.

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I snap.

  “You’re welcome,” he adds. “I’ve been working on my listening skills lately.”

  Awkward pause he doesn’t hear.

  “Maybe your mom is just trying to be helpful,” Alice says.

  “I don’t need her help!” I blurt. “She still e-mails my teachers if my marks aren’t ‘fair’ and then calls the principal if the teachers won’t listen. She even called the soccer coach when I got cut at tryouts. Next thing I know, I’m back on the team, and my mother is volunteering as the new team manager.”

  “You got cut?” Hogan says, like it’s ridiculous. It was, really. I am a totally better player than Kelly Cooper. Clearly, they made a mistake. Right?

  “Your mom sounds kind of like a helicopter parent,” Alice adds. “We learned about that in Anthro last semester. They like to hover over their kids.”

  “A helicopter?” I snort. “My mother is a full-on aerial assault.”

  “Man,” Hogan says, “you must be just itching to graduate and move out.”

  I don’t want to tell him I’m not, actually. For some reason, the thought terrifies me even more than being stuck at home.

  “Where are you going, anyway?” he asks.

  My phone vibrates and I look down, glad to have an out from this totally awkward conversation. I drop the mascot head and scroll through. There’s a text from Bri telling me there are even more cops arriving—but still no word on who this guy is. A few Instagram alerts. And an e-mail. From Queen’s University.

  Oh. My. God. This is it.

  I open it.

  Pleas​egodp​leas​egod​plea​segod—

  Two words in and my heart sinks: “We regret…” I don’t have to read the rest to know what it says. It doesn’t matter what it says. Nothing matters now.

  I didn’t get in.

  XANDER

  January 15, 2016

  Social Autopsy #78

  Event: Yearbook Assignment

  Given my photography skills, Mrs. O’Neill thought Yearbook would be the perfect course for my first semester. Isabelle Parks, the editor, did smile a lot at first. I thought I was cracking more of the girl-code. But as I handed in my assignments, I noticed she seemed to have “annoyed” face, even sliding into “WTF” range.

  I talked to Mr. Strickland, the Yearbook teacher. And he told me there are “candid photos,” where the person doesn’t know you’re watching. And then there are “stalker photos,” where they don’t want anyone watching.

  Note to self: Photographing students = creeper.

  Photographing celebrities = paparazzi.

  So, I asked Isabelle for clarification, and Isabelle said: “Consider your audience. High school kids want to see pictures of themselves. Take shots of kids doing what kids do at St. F.X. Like basketball games or clubs or kids socializing. That kind of thing.”

  So I did. For the next three months, I took hundreds of pictures all over the school. I never went anywhere without the Tank. At sporting events. In the lunchroom. In the classrooms, the lab, the yearbook room. I took pictures of kids doing what kids do at high school—just like Isabelle Parks asked.

  I spent hours in the darkroom developing negatives. I made her prints, four-by-six, in black-and-white, like she asked. But when I gave her the pictures, she freaked out. Like at the far, far end of freak-out: the “ohmigod he just ran over my dog” face.

  Yes. She was that upset.

  The next day, I got called to the principal’s office to talk to Officer Scott, and to the guidance office, and did several autopsies with Mrs. O’Neill. But even after all that, I’m still confused.

  Facts

  • The pictures were well developed—no graininess or bubbles.

  • Full tonal range. Check.

  • Leading lines. Check.

  • Good use of negative and positive space and light and shadow. Check.

  • Rule of thirds. Check.

  • Short depth of field. Check.

  Conclusion

  • Each photograph had excellent composition and layout.

  • Every one told a story. At least a thousand words.

  Hypothesis

  Mr. Reeves would have given me an A+ on those in

  Photography class last year. I’m sure of it.

  Facts

  • I wasn’t doing drugs or bullying or taunting.

  • I wasn’t having a meltdown in the High Needs hall or sulking on the team bench.

  • I wasn’t cutting or kicking or vandalizing or any of the hundreds of things the Tank caught kids doing.

  Follow-up Question

  So why, exactly, am I the one in trouble?

  ALICE

  Isabelle sits consumed once again by her phone. But this time, she seems awkward. Almost embarrassed. Maybe even sad. Clearly, the perfect world of Isabelle Parks isn’t so perfect.

  “What the—?!” She brings the phone closer then drops it. It clatters against the tiles but Isabelle doesn’t even notice. Instead, she just hugs her knees, drops her head on her arms, and rocks.

  Is she…crying?

  I look at the Hulk and he shrugs, just as confused.

  “Isabelle?” I tentatively touch her arm. “Umm…are you okay?”

  She shudders. Definitely crying.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” I say. “I mean, your mom probably isn’t really a helicopter parent…”

  The Hulk picks up her phone, glances at it, and turns it towards me. A photo. I recognize some kids from our school partying, red plastic cups raised as they cheer on a couple who are literally all over each other. The guy is Darren Greene. And he has her up against the doorframe, one hand pulling up her skirt, the other hiking up her leg while she runs her fingers through his hair. Hulk scrolls down the Instagram account and the photos get worse.

  No wonder she’s embarrassed. I’m embarrassed just looking at them.

  “Don’t worry, Izzy.” He puts the phone down. “By next weekend, there’ll be another party. Someone else will do something crazy and these pictures of you guys will be old news.”

  I don’t bother reminding them that although these kinds of pictures might be forgotten, they will never disappear. Imagine her parents seeing that? Or her future boss? Like Officer Scott told us, there are dozens of scenarios where inappropriate photos can be problematic.

  “Anyway,” I add, trying to be somewhat optimistic, “you can’t really see your face.”

  “It’s not me,” she says, her voice muffled in her arms.

  “Well, alcohol changes people,” I admit. “It makes you do crazy things. Like this one time? Gran was gone and I thought I’d try her crème de menthe. Just a taste. Next thing I know—”

  “NO!” Izzy slams the floor with both hands. “Don’t you get it? I wasn’t there! I didn’t go to the party!” Her scream bounces off the tiles in piercing echoes. Noah covers his ears with his fists. “The girl. With my boyfriend. Whoever she is…she’s NOT me!”

  She drops her head into her arms again and sobs.

  Click.

  I don’t know what to say. Clearly, this is way worse than my minty barf-o-rama. Worse, even, than having Gran wake me at 6:00 a.m. to clean it all up. I still can’t smell mint without gagging. I even have to brush my teeth with kids’ Grapelicious.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I promise Isabelle with more confidence than I feel. Everyone knowing your boyfriend cheated—everyone but you—how do you clean up a me
ss like this? Especially when it keeps spilling from one person’s phone to another.

  Click.

  “…And Xander is gonna to delete all these pictures from today, right?” the Hulk says, giving him the stare.

  “Um…no,” Xander says in his monotone voice. “No. I cannot do that.”

  “What? Oh, yes you can—” the Hulk swipes for the camera but Xander is too quick.

  “It’s not possible!” Xander recoils into the corner, his camera clutched to his chest. “They cannot be deleted.”

  “Stop!” I shout, getting their attention and surprising myself. But they aren’t listening—and they’ve totally forgotten all about Isabelle. Sighing, I look at Xander. “Why can’t you delete them?”

  “It’s 35mm Ilford,” he says, like that explains everything.

  “Film?” I say. “You mean, it’s not a digital camera?”

  He nods, still breathless from the assault.

  The Hulk scowls and sits back against the wall. “Whatever. Just get rid of them, loser. People should just mind their own business. Taking stupid pictures is what started all this mess.” He looks at Isabelle. “It’s probably just a dare. A stupid drinking game. And someone thought it would be funny to take a picture of it.”

  “It’s not just that,” Isabelle moans. “It’s…” She sniffs and shudders. “I’m, like, killing myself to make this the perfect prom. Why bother? Darren’s probably going with her, whoever she is. And how am I going to tell my parents that I didn’t get into Queen’s Commerce? The first Parks in five generations. Way to disappoint the entire family! Ohmigod, my mother is going to kill me!”

  I want to tell her there’s still a chance. Still time to raise her average in summer school or something. But her rant rages on.