by Beth Goobie
DON’T SHOP, she wrote in mid-size letters, then stopped to replenish the paint on her palm. Come on! she thought, jamming her hand desperately along the can’s sides to get every last bit. Give me enough for a few more words. Pulling out her hand, she managed a much smaller AT and BIL before running completely out of paint. DON'T SHOP AT BIL, she thought, staring at the truncated phrase. Whether or not it made sense, it was clearly legible—the elderly woman should notice it the next time she was out and puttering around.
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, thought Shir with a rush of fondness. The cookie fairy. Stiff and shivering, her right arm fiery with pain, she got to her feet and clambered back onto the Black. Then she stood a moment, fighting the dead weight of her legs, a sky-wide hopelessness pressing down upon her. Lifting a foot, she pushed heavily against a pedal and got herself moving, one more bit of darkness rolling through the greater dark. When she arrived at Myplace, she locked the Black to the Church Patrons Only sign and walked over to the bridge. Behind her loomed the church, a single security light on over the rear entrance; across the river, a few house windows glowed. In the night quiet, the water rippled calmly, traveling toward wherever it was going. As she stood watching it, Shir became aware of a painful throb in her lower back. She had hit the floor hard when Stella had thrown her. Poor old Mrs. Melville, who lived downstairs, would never recover.
Abruptly, Shir’s knees gave out, and she sat down with a thump. A whimper came out of her, and though she tried to bite it back, another followed, and another. Get a grip, she told herself weakly. Wash the paint off your hands. Do something. Slowly, she crawled to the riverbank, slid her hands into the water and splashed them around. Then, drying them on the new grass growing along the shore, she sat staring at the water, its dark ripples moving like thought across her brain. Breath harsh in her throat, she considered; several years ago, she had heard of a woman who had done it by filling her pockets with rocks and walking into a lake. With the fatigue and shakes currently convulsing her muscles, it wouldn’t take long, and the water looked gentle enough. This was a place that knew her; it probably wouldn’t be bad.
It would solve everyone’s problems, she thought dully. Mom, Stella, Mrs. Duran—no one would bother going after them if she was dead. And, finally, they would be rid of her, Mom and Stella—could go on to live their lives without having to worry about some drunken slob staggering around, messing things up. She hadn’t been much of a daughter, that was the truth, and she had been an even worse sister. How many times, when they were younger, had she gone and beaten on Stella after Mom had finished whaling on her?
It isn’t just my face, Shir thought miserably. No matter what Finlay says, I’m ugly through and through. BORN UGLY, LIVED UGLY, DIED UGLY—that would be her epitaph. They wouldn’t even have to put her name on the tombstone, just her final score from the Ugly Contest and everyone would know.
Breathing, just breathing, Shir sat, letting her thoughts ripple past, alone and quiet at the end of things.
Nineteen
She woke to the sensation of something brushing gently against her forehead. “Shir?” said a voice. “Shir, are you all right?”
Groggily, she opened her eyes to see Finlay leaning close, his narrow face tense with anxiety. Beyond him, in the distance, the sun hovered near the horizon. It appeared to be early morning. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “I’m okay.”
Relief flooded his expression and he backed away, allowing her to sit up. Stifling a groan, she straightened slowly. Her arm, not to mention every muscle, ached, her throat burned, and her chest felt as if someone was standing on it. She was coming down with something, probably pneumonia.
“Why are you here?” asked Finlay, his eyes skipping uneasily over the vomit stains on her shirt. “Without a jacket?”
“I … slept here,” croaked Shir, covering her face with her hands. “I couldn’t go home, I …” Convulsed by a body-wide shudder, she hugged herself.
“Here,” said Finlay, handing her a cup of take-out coffee. “I came here to drink this before school.”
“Thanks,” whispered Shir. Gratefully, she began to sip, moaning aloud as the heated fluid slid down her throat. On his knees beside her, Finlay shrugged off his knapsack, opened it, and pulled out a bag lunch.
“Chicken salad,” he announced, handing her two sandwiches. Without a word she tore into them, and when she had finished, Finlay silently removed his windbreaker and draped it around her shoulders. Warmed by his body heat, the jacket settled against her. Tearfully she pulled it closer.
“Thanks,” she whispered again, and he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, watching her closely. “Now tell me why you’re here.”
Another shudder hit as the enormity of the situation rushed over her, and then, haltingly, Shir began to talk—about the second delivery to Manny’s house, her drunken attack on Stella, and her hand-painting spree on her boss’s store wall. “Whoa!” Finlay said wonderingly when she had finished. “No wonder you didn’t want to go to the police.”
“I can’t go home,” Shir said bleakly. “I don’t have a job. And after what I painted on the store wall, they’ll come after me. I’m a dog, and bad dogs get shot. My life is over. There’s nothing left—nothing.”
“Yes, there is,” said Finlay, a stubborn look crossing his face.
Wearily, Shir glanced at him. “And how do you know that?” she asked. “Did a singing mushroom tell you?”
Her words weren’t mean, just empty; in response, Finlay simply shrugged. “There’s got to be,” he said, his gaze darting across hers. “There’s just got to. I mean, think, Shir—just think for a minute. What d’you want to do more than anything?”
Head aching, her chest a dull, congested weight, Shir sat slumped. Nothing, came the thought. Nothing ever again. Then, almost imperceptibly, she felt something stir within herself—deep, blurred, and alive. Straightening, she met Finlay’s eyes. “Collier,” she said hesitantly. “The slag heap. But I don’t have any more paint.”
Finlay frowned, pondering, and then his face cleared. “I’ve got a magic marker,” he said. “Black, and it’s indelible. It wouldn’t work on an outside wall like at the store, but inside your school …”
He paused, waiting as she considered. Slowly, she nodded, then, looking at her watch, said, “What about your school? Don’t you have to get to Stanford? It’s 9:30.”
“Not today,” he said firmly. Holding out a hand, he helped her to her feet, and together they walked over to the Black.
“I can’t,” she said, after unlocking the bike. “My arm is sore, and I’m too stiff. You’ll have to pedal, and I’ll just sit on the seat.”
It was a fifteen-minute ride to Collier High; they arrived to find the playing field occupied by a gym class and the rest of the grounds empty. “It’s almost ten,” said Shir, again glancing at her watch. “Everyone will be in class. Come on.”
Leaving the Black at the bike rack, they entered the school’s south door. “This way,” said Shir, heading down a main-floor corridor. On the way over, she had been considering various sites for her message to Collier High—it had to be a busy hallway, if possible, the one with the most traffic, and her communiqué had to be written, not on a wall, but on the floor. Yeah, she thought grimly, a message from her, Shirley Jane Rutz, would have to be inscribed onto the lowest position possible—the floor under everyone’s feet.
“Here,” she said, stopping partway down a hall. Around the corner was the Guidance Office, and next to it, the front office. Five meters to her left, an overhead security camera whirred quietly, taking everything in. This had to be done quickly. “Have you got it?” she asked Finlay. “The marker?”
Hastily, he shrugged off his knapsack, rummaged through the contents, and handed her a large black marker. “Indelible, like I said,” he assured her.
Getting down on her knees, Shir stared at the scuffed, stained linoleum. Off-white with a faded brown pattern, it would display a black-marker m
essage well enough. With a jerk, she pulled off the marker’s cap. As she leaned toward the floor, the words came to her, seemingly without thought, as if rising directly out of her gut. I AM DOG FACE, she wrote in feverish slapdash letters, each movement of her arm sending pain shooting through it. YOU WALK ON ME. To her left, Finlay watched silently; she didn’t glance up to gauge his reaction. I AM DOG FACE, she wrote again. YOU SHIT ON ME. For a moment here, she faltered; the last phrases felt enormous, as if they would have to be torn out of her. I AM DOG FACE, she wrote for a third time. I KISS YOUR ASS. DOG FACE—I KNOW WHAT I AM. BUT WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?
Finished, she knelt, staring at the message she had written, each letter so large, together they took up two-thirds of the corridor’s length. Blood pounded in her ears and she felt herself breathing from some deep, raw place; as if from a great distance, she heard Finlay start to say something, and then the end-of-class buzzer went off, followed by the sound of classroom doors opening all over the building.
“Shir,” said Finlay, “they’re coming. We have to get out of here.”
Lunging to her feet, Shir took off down the hall. At the corner, she turned and raced toward the school’s main exit, which stood between the Guidance and front offices. “Come on,” she called to Finlay as she pulled open the heavy oak door, then froze as her gaze fell on a man standing at the bottom of the outside stairs and talking into a cell phone. At that moment, the man looked up, their gaze met, and she saw his dark eyes narrow. Manny—in spite of the sweatshirt hood pulled over his head, Shir recognized him instantly, and as his right hand darted into a sweatshirt pocket, she retreated frantically through the open doorway, bumping into Finlay and forcing him back into the corridor.
“It’s him,” she hissed. “Manny. I think he’s got a gun.”
Instinctively, she turned toward the front office, but the press of students coming from that area was too dense, and so, followed by Finlay, she took off in the opposite direction—past the Guidance Office and the hallway where she had left her message, and on toward the school’s west wing. All over the building, students were on the move, intent on a bathroom break or a quick smoke before their next class. Racing along the corridor that led to the languages department, Shir kept thinking, A gun. He’s got a gun and he wants to shoot me. The most obvious way to keep safe was to ensure that she was surrounded constantly by other students—Manny wasn’t likely to shoot if there were ten or twenty kids in the way.
And then it came to her—a school shooting. If Manny took her out along with ten or so other students, no one would think to question her individual death; she would be simply one of many, indeed the one least mourned or missed. In a fresh rush of fear, Shir glanced back and saw Manny entering the corridor she was now halfway along; though he was taller than anyone in the vicinity, with his sweatshirt hood up, he could pass for a grad-year student, and no one was giving him a second glance. Ditto for the security cameras; if anyone in the front office was currently monitoring them, they hadn’t picked up on his presence. Then, glancing upward, Shir realized there were no cameras in this short secondary corridor—they were positioned, for the most part, in the school’s main halls and exits.
Behind her, Manny’s pace had been slowed by the press of students; she could see him talking into his cell phone as he scanned the surrounding crowd. He didn’t appear to have noticed her further down the hall, and as far as she knew, he had never seen Finlay before; at the same time, she realized it was unlikely he would have chosen this route if he hadn’t seen her head this way.
Seven meters ahead, the corridor divided into two staircases, one descending to the business department, the other traveling upward to the languages classrooms. Halfway up the ascending staircase, the steps leveled off into a platform and the wall made a ninety-degree angle to the right, creating a small corner. Without hesitation, Shir headed up the ascending staircase and ducked into the corner. A second later Finlay joined her and they huddled together, peering out at the passing crowd.
“School shooting,” hissed Shir. “I think that’s what he’s got planned—me and anyone nearby.”
Finlay’s eyes widened. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Where’s the nearest exit?”
“He’ll still come after me,” said Shir. “One way or another, he has to get me.”
Overwhelmed, Finlay gaped at her.
“He won’t shoot unless he sees me,” continued Shir, her thoughts so intense they hurt. “He doesn’t know you at all. Go down the stairs and walk in front of him. Slow him down as he gets to just about there.” Raising her hand, she pointed straight across the small platform to the handrail that ran along the outside of the stairs. For a moment, Finlay simply stared, and then he nodded—a fellow bridge-frequenter, he understood what she intended to do.
“You sure?” he whispered, and the look in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Wordlessly, he stepped out into the stream of students and walked down the stairs. Pressed to the wall, Shir peered around the corner, bobbing up and down to see through the crowd that continued to pour past. Approximately ten meters away, Manny was walking quickly but cautiously, his eyes darting between the two flights of stairs ahead. The choice seemed to have him perplexed, but as Shir watched, a thin dark-haired boy appeared to Manny’s right and brushed against his arm, causing the man to instinctively shift left, away from the ascending set of stairs. “Not too far,” Shir whispered in alarm; as if Finlay had heard, he dropped back behind Manny and moved around to his other side, where he gently herded the man toward the handrail that ran along the outside of the ascending set of stairs.
As they drew close, the rising staircase began to block Shir’s view, and she had to move out from her hiding place to keep them in sight. But Manny had made his choice and was keeping his gaze focused on the descending set of stairs, nowhere near the straggly, carrot-haired girl easing up to the handrail above him, her breath held in and watching the stream of people below, the way she had so often watched the river flow under the first western support arch … so often, she knew exactly how long it took a ripple to shift from one trajectory to another, then pass by and out of sight. And so she knew from years of practice how to calculate Manny’s speed and direction, knew the exact moment he would draw abreast, still three meters from the point the descending staircase began, how she would then need to swing her legs up and over the handrail, letting go of life the way she had so often thought about doing it at Myplace—dropping down toward the smoothly rippling water, the void, the end of it all. As she went over the handrail now, shouts broke out behind her, but the distance of her fall was too brief to give Manny time to react; angling her hip, Shir hit his head straight on, and carried it directly to the floor. There was a resounding crack, she felt his tensed body splay, and then she landed beside him, taking the shock of impact on her right shoulder.
She was still alive, Finlay immediately at her side, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her upright. “Not that arm!” gasped Shir, as a searing pain shot through her right shoulder. “The gun—get his gun.”
But the need for panic appeared to be over. As Shir clambered painfully to her feet, she caught sight of the blood pooling under Manny’s head and the dull blank look in his eyes. “I think he’s dead,” Finlay said hoarsely, staring down at him.
A cold, sick feeling washed over Shir. “Get his gun anyway,” she rasped, clutching her sore arm. “It’s in his right pocket.”
“Gun?” demanded a nearby voice, and abruptly she became aware of the hundreds of eyes fixed on her. From one end of the hallway to the other, traffic had come to a halt, students riveted and ogling the body on the floor. Here and there, they were talking into cell phones; a few appeared to be filming the scene.
On his knees, Finlay was fumbling awkwardly inside Manny’s right pocket. “I’ve got it!” he cried. Withdrawing his hand, he opened his palm and displayed the weapon—small and snub-nosed. Not a machine gun, thought Shir, swallowing hard, but enough to t
ake out more than me.
At that moment, there was a movement in the crowd, and Shir glanced past the body at her feet to see Officer Tursi push his way through to the front line. Dressed in casual clothes, he wasn’t identifiable as a police officer; most of the students present probably assumed he was a substitute teacher, putting in a shift at Collier High. As his eyes darted from Manny to Shir to the gun in Finlay’s outstretched hand, Shir could almost read the man’s thoughts, and she kicked Finlay’s foot to get his attention.
“Put the gun down,” she said. “On the floor. Then back away.”
Uncomprehending, Finlay stared at her. “It’s Tursi!” she said frantically, pointing at the police officer. “He probably has his own gun and he wants to shoot! Put your gun down!”
Mouth open, Finlay whirled toward Officer Tursi, giving the police officer the excuse he needed. But as the man’s hand darted into his jacket pocket, the crowd erupted behind him; suddenly his knees buckled and he pitched forward, a blurred figure clinging to his back.
“Come on!” shouted a familiar voice, and Shir, astounded, recognized her sister, struggling to pull Officer Tursi’s arm behind his back. “Someone help me keep this guy down!”
A horde of students piled on, just as Principal O’Donnell and several teachers managed to push their way through the crowd. “What is going on here?” demanded the principal, his mouth dropping as he surveyed the scene. Voices broke out around him, students shouting explanations, and then Stella got to her feet and silently handed him the gun she had found in Officer Tursi’s pocket. As Mr. O’Donnell accepted it, Finlay also gave him Manny’s gun. Aghast, the principal gaped at the two weapons, then turned to one of the teachers and snapped, “Call the front office and get them to put out a lock-down order. Then call 911.”
The teacher pulled out a cell phone, but it was hardly necessary—several students had already called and distant sirens could be heard, their mechanical cries interweaving as they headed toward the school. Trapped under a mound of determined students, Officer Tursi wasn’t moving—playing dead, thought Shir, or working out the bullshit he planned to lay on his buddy cops when they arrived.