Boy Shattered

by Eli Easton

  I sprinted to the end zone and spiked the ball. I whooped and shook my ass.

  “Dude, come on!” Cameron held his hands up, impatient for the ball.

  I picked it up and lobbed it at him.

  We goofed around, throwing and catching passes. Gordo tried to block Cameron, and they went down in a laughing heap. Jake tried to get the ball, but I hung on to it with fingers like iron claws, so Jake picked me up over his shoulder and ran over the goal line with me, screaming like a warrior.

  It was a good day, that last normal Thursday. My last day with Jake. My last day with a lot of things.

  We never see the train wreck coming.

  Is that a blessing or a curse?

  Chapter 2

  Landon

  THE DAY before the worst day of my life was pretty normal except for an unusual encounter with a cute guy, something that seemed like no big deal at the time.

  During Lunch B, I was sitting on the lawn near the portico with Madison and Josiah. We always preferred to eat outside when the weather didn’t suck, because the cafeteria was such a scene. Also, like usual, Madison and Josiah were having a heated discussion.

  For the most part, I was done with high school. Not that it had always been shitty, but I was over the constant drama, the gossip, and the many small minds. Madison and Josiah were the only two things I still cared about at The Wall. They were my best friends, and I knew I’d miss them when we graduated in June. We were moving on to different colleges, so I was trying my best to appreciate the eight months we had left.

  Not that Madison and Josiah always made it easy.

  “Are you shitting me? Game of Thrones is totally better than American Gods!” Madison insisted.

  Josiah looked doubtful. “The books or the TV series?”

  “The books, Nerdy McNerd-a-lot! But I think the answer you’re looking for is ‘both.’”

  Josiah turned to me. “This bitch is crazy. TV series only: American Gods is way better than Game of Thrones. Am I right?”

  I bit into my tuna sandwich and thought about it while I chewed. It wasn’t the first time I’d been enlisted to cast a deciding vote in one of their arguments. Josiah and Madison were both passionate and unafraid to fight for their opinions. Which was cool except when I got stuck in the middle.

  “Hmmm. Jason Momoa versus Salim and The Jinn….” I clutched my chest with my free hand. “Don’t make me pick. You’re tearing me apaaaaart!”

  Josiah laughed, but Madison squirmed uncomfortably. “Dammit! I forgot about Salim-Jinn. Maybe you have a point.” She considered it, rolling an apple in her hand. “Crap. Game of Thrones does have shit LGBT representation. They’re all weasels and cowards.”

  Josiah held up his palm, and I high-fived it.

  Madison glowered and stuck a SunChip in her mouth. “The Game of Thrones books are better,” she mumbled around the crunch.

  Even though they teased each other, Madison and Josiah were solid. The three of us had been best friends since our freshman year. Madison had unbelievably gorgeous bright red hair down to her waist. It was thick and naturally frizzy. Her skin was fish-belly white, and she’d only recently been freed from the braces she’d worn for years. She called herself “fat,” but she was just naturally big—tall, big breasts, big calves, big everything. Her parents were huge too. She wore funky clothes that might have been goth, except they were colorful, like the bright green peasant blouse she had on that day with a long, black, ruffled skirt. Her black Doc Marten boots sported neon green laces.

  Josiah was short and skinny. His mom was black, his dad white, and Josiah had light brown skin, hazel eyes, and a black fro that turned into the most awesome teeny-tiny twist curls in humidity. He also had the longest fingers I’d ever seen. Like, they were freakishly long. I kept telling him he should take up guitar or piano, but Josiah claimed he’d inherited his nerdy white dad’s complete lack of rhythm. His passion was writing.

  Our three-way alliance had initially been one of mutual defense. Madison had been called “Fatty Patty” because of her size and her Irish red hair. Josiah had been small and femme, so he’d been picked on. A lot. I hadn’t come out until sophomore year, but even as a freshman, I’d known I was gay. It pissed me the hell off when people called Josiah “fag” and “cocksucker.” I’d befriended them both the first month of high school, and I’d never regretted it for a moment.

  “So convince me to read the books,” Josiah told Madison. “They’re so massive that one would eat up, like, two weeks of my reading time. Why should I bother?”

  Madison’s face lit up. “Okay, first of all….”

  She launched into a dissertation on the George R.R. Martin books. I tuned her out because I never had time for pleasure reading anymore. My mind wandered to the Spanish essay I had to finish.

  The glass doors at the end of D-Wing swung open, and four guys walked out. Jake, Cameron, Brian, and Gordo were all football players, and they hung around together like a pack—a pack of very athletic jackals. Brian glanced over at us, and for a second our gazes met.

  I looked away. Brian was the Tigers’ quarterback and arguably the hottest guy at The Wall. I would not be caught staring at him like a fool. Nope. I had my dignity. And my standards. Looks weren’t everything. In fact, in my experience, the better looking guys were, the more they were empty-headed or empty-hearted. It was practically a natural law.

  Josiah nudged Madison’s leg, and she spotted them. Her George R.R. Martin dialogue cut off midsentence. We were silent as the guys walked past under the portico.

  A weird thought occurred to me. It was like we were mimicking the behavior of a school of fish that went still when sharks swam by. It wasn’t that the football players were likely to bother us. We were seniors now, and a certain gravitas came with that—like, if you’d survived that long, you were due some respect. Plus, if they tried it, I’d rip them a new one. Most people at The Wall knew by now that I had a temper and a big mouth. Madison was no slouch when it came to savage repartees either. But Cameron and Gordo had picked on Josiah in the past, in seriously fucked-up ways—like head-in-the-toilet-bowl level of douchery. He avoided them like the plague.

  Josiah stared down at the noodle bowl on his lap and picked at it with his fork.

  Today, the sharks ignored us and kept walking.

  That’s when it happened. Brian was goofing around with a football, tossing it up and catching it. He lost control of the ball, and it came flying right at us.

  I shoved the rest of my sandwich to the side, got up on one knee, and grabbed the ball as it spun and wobbled. If I hadn’t, it would have smacked Madison in the head.

  Brian jogged over. “I’m so sorry!”

  I stood up slowly, holding the ball. I was ready to open a can of whoop-ass, because that was so not cool. Then I saw how red and embarrassed he looked.

  Brian was the least bad of the lot. He’d always struck me as quiet. Not stuck-up, just the sort of guy who didn’t say much. I’d never seen him openly be an asshole like his friends. He said “hi” to me in the halls sometimes with a shy nod.

  Also, from this close? It was hard to be mad with those big blue eyes looking at me so worriedly. Navy blue, in fact. With black lashes. They were warmer and deeper than I expected. Brian was what my mom would call “totally dreamy.” She called George Clooney “totally dreamy.” Yeah, George was okay. But if I had to define “totally dreamy,” it would be the guy standing in front of me.

  Brian Marshall was average in size, a little shorter than me and lean. But he had an amazing body—wide shoulders, super narrow waist and hips, and a tight little bubble butt. Like, his ass did not even look real. He was more of a Harry Styles boy-band type than a Dwayne Johnson he-man type like his buddies. Which I found way more appealing. He had a cute face that was very tan from being outdoors and longish brown hair that curled up on the ends. I’d been to a few games, because team spirit, rah, rah. And hot dogs. And crisp fall nights. And football uniforms. So yeah, I�
�d seen him play. He was very tricksy on the field. His passes were like speeding missiles, he was known for master fake-outs—sometimes running the ball himself while the opposing team scratched their ’nads in confusion—and he had a way of squirming out of attempted tackles like he was greased.

  Not that I was going to say any of that to his face. Ever. On pain of death.

  Instead, I smirked. “Hope you hang on to the ball better on the field, O.J.,” I said, thrusting it into his hands.

  By then his friends were hooting and laughing at him. He gave me a puzzled half smile and took off with the ball. They slapped his back in a manly sort of way, and they all ran toward the football field.

  When they were gone, I hung my head and sighed.

  “What the hell did you just say?” Madison asked, her voice somewhere between hysterical laughter and utter disbelief.

  I sighed again, lifting my shoulders and letting them fall dramatically.

  “Hope you hang on to the ball, O.J.?” Josiah gasped.

  They laughed so hard I thought they might choke. I sat down heavily and stuffed the rest of my sandwich into the bag from the cafeteria. They were right. As one-liners went, that one would go down in infamy as one of the stupidest sentences uttered ever.

  “O.J. Simpson! He was a thing! I don’t know any other famous football players. Okay?”

  “No, not okay. Oh—oh—oh-JAY.” Madison could barely get it out, she was laughing so hard.

  “You suck. All y’all.” I pointed at each of them with a scowl. “It’s not like I had time to prepare a soliloquy.”

  That just set them off again.

  “Thy hands are not the sturdy instruments of thy youth,” Madison tittered in a high voice. “For you failed to catch the anointed pigskin.”

  Josiah straightened up and put out a limp wrist. “Oh, good sir. A thousand pardons, but I think thy ball hast landed in my face.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said flatly.

  Madison’s laughter died down, and she gave me a fond look. “It’s just that we so rarely see you fall all over yourself, Lanny. It’s sort of adorable.”

  “I didn’t fall all over myself. I saved you from getting a bloody nose.” I pointed at her. Then I pointed at Josiah. “And you, sir. Don’t tell me you’d have done better when face-to-face with Brian Marshall.”

  Josiah stopped laughing. “They’re all troglodytes. I refuse to find troglodytes hot.”

  “Yeah,” Madison agreed. “Cameron’s the worst. Did I tell you about that time he killed a rat in science class?”

  “What?” Josiah, a huge animal lover, looked horrified.

  “He took it out of this glass case and was trying to scare a girl with it. The rat bit him and got away and everyone was screaming, and he ended up stomping on it. Then he just, like, threw it back in the cage. No one said anything when Mr. Thomas came in.”

  “That’s horrible! That’s animal cruelty!” Josiah yelled.

  “Someone should have reported his ass,” I agreed.

  Madison made a face. “Tell me about it. But everyone’s afraid of Cameron. Brian isn’t half-bad, though. He’s in my Composition class. He’s nice. Ish. And he’s written some decent poems.”

  Josiah snorted. “Yeah, right.” He intoned in a flat voice, “I play football. Or does the football play me. I am so. Confused.”

  Madison rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Josey.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were all about la femme.”

  Madison sat up straighter. “I just said he’s nice. I didn’t say I wanted to bone him. Though I have been thinking I might be bi. But that has totes nothing to do with Brian Marshall.”

  I was about to call bullshit because I recognized that little flush on Madison’s cheeks, but my phone dinged. That would be my 12:45 alarm.

  “Gotta go, kids.” I stuffed the remains of my lunch in my backpack and stood up. “Tomorrow, sir.” I held out a fist, which was bumped by Josiah, then Madison. “Maddy Cakes.”

  “I still hate you for getting early dismissal,” Madison snarked for the hundredth time.

  I bared my teeth in a shit-eating grin. “I know. Have fun in class, babies.”

  “Asswipe,” Josiah grumbled.

  I raised my hands and made a “what can you do when you’re just naturally perfect” face. Madison stuck her tongue out at me before I turned and headed for the parking lot.

  I got into my car, a ten-year-old Volvo station wagon my mom had passed down, and rolled out of the parking lot. As I drove past the football field, I saw Brian running out for a pass and Jake with his arm back, waiting to throw the ball.

  I didn’t bother to slow down and watch. I had less than an hour to get home and get set up for my online Topics in Law class. It was my first college credit in my future major, and I was determined to get an A. I’d done the reading, a fifty-page breakdown of Buck v. Bell, and I had a list of observations and questions ready.

  As I pulled out of the parking lot, I looked in my rearview mirror at the school. By June, high school would be in my rearview mirror for good. I already had one foot out the door with early dismissal, and thank Christ for that.

  The Wall was my past, not my future. That’s what I thought as I drove away.

  But I was wrong.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, September 28

  Landon

  MY FOURTH-PERIOD class was Drama I. My debate teacher had suggested theater as a way to get more comfortable with public speaking. That, and Madison begged me to take the class with her. Her long-term crush, Sophia, was taking it, and Madison wanted my “emotional support.” So there we were.

  It was Friday, and the drama teacher, Mr. Finch, was holding auditions in the auditorium for our big class project, a production of A Christmas Carol. Madison and I were sitting in the second row waiting for our turn. And, more importantly, for Sophia’s turn.

  The auditorium at The Wall was only about five years old, and it was awesome. There was a curved wooden stage, heavy red velvet curtains, and tiers of cushioned red folding seats like a movie theater. The other students in the class were spread out in the first and second rows. Mr. Finch sat in the center of the first row, watching a freshman girl named Isabelle read for the Ghost of Christmas Present. Since this was the entry-level drama class, there were a lot of freshmen and sophomores, along with us few not-quite-thespian-material upperclassmen.

  “I think Sophia is next!” Madison whispered. Sure enough, Sophia, a voluptuous Latina with sassy pigtails, had edged up to the stage steps.

  Madison squeezed my hand so hard I said “Ow!” loudly. Mr. Finch gave me a glare over his shoulder.

  “Sorry.” Madison made a rueful grimace and sank down in her seat.

  “Shhh!” I pointed to the stage and whispered in her ear. “Don’t harsh the magic.”

  She snickered.

  Isabelle plunged on. “There are some upon this earth of yours who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name—” Cough, cough, cough.

  Isabelle’s cough turned into a hacking fit. She covered her mouth with the crook of her arm, her eyes apologetic.

  “Take your time,” Mr. Finch said.

  Isabelle had a cold. Her voice was scratchy, and she’d been hacking on and off since class began. She tried again. “There are some upon this earth—” Cough, hack, cough.

  “All right.” Mr. Finch stood up and turned to face us. “Does anyone have a cough drop they are willing to sacrifice for the sake of Isabelle’s audition?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Finch,” Isabelle said, looking chagrined. She wiped her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.

  No one else said anything, so I raised my hand. “I’ve got cough drops in my locker. Halls Menthol-Lyptus.”

  Mr. Finch quirked an eyebrow at me. “And your locker is where?”

  “Just around the corner in A-Wing.”

  “Then go get them, and hurry, plea
se, Landon. Isabelle, you can read later, once you’ve had a cough drop. Grab the box of Kleenex from the backstage hall and come down, please. Sophia, you’re up next.”

  I stood and scooted out of the row. Madison gave me a kissy mouth, which I think meant I was kissing the teacher’s ass. I smirked at her. Any excuse to leave class and stretch my legs was fine by me.

  I pushed out the heavy theater door, went down the hall, and turned the corner to A-Wing. Every year, my mom gave me a zippered bag of “emergency supplies” to stash in my locker. It included cough drops, aspirin, Band-Aids, tissues, wet wipes, safety pins, and a few weird things like a can of Ensure. In case the apocalypse hit, presumably. Or I turned eighty-five during third period.

  At my locker, I stuffed a handful of cough drops into the front pocket of my jeans. As I shut the door, I became aware of a long, loud sound in the distance. It sounded like a power drill or like…

  Like…

  Oh shit.

  Like gunfire.

  The alarm lights on either side of the hall flashed red, and a man’s voice came over the PA.

  “Invader in school. Active shooter procedures now in effect. I repeat. Active shooter procedures now in effect. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”

  It was Principal Baylor’s voice, and he sounded rushed, panicky. My mouth went bone-dry and my heart thudded so hard, I thought for a moment it had stopped. I stood by my locker and listened. There was perfect silence.

  We’d had an active-shooter drill the second week of school. I knew why there wasn’t an alarm blaring—so we could hear gunfire and identify the shooter’s position. I listened, but I didn’t hear anything. The lights continued to flash red in silent warning. Then it came again, louder now, the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire, like I’d heard in a million video games and TV shows. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  My knees went weak. Oh God. What was I supposed to do?

  Avoid, deny, defend. That’s what they’d told us.

  Avoid—if you had a clear and obvious exit, take it. Keep your head down and get as far from the school as possible.