by Eli Easton
I sat down on the end of the bed and sighed. I stared at my bare feet. After a moment she scooted closer and ran her hands over my back. She was trying to comfort me, and I let her. It felt nice. Safe. I was seventeen, and I was spending all my time in my room, and now my mom was touching me like I was a little kid. Way to be a boss.
“Phew! You need a bath. Want me to draw one? Or would you prefer a shower?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
She clicked her tongue unhappily. “At least let me crack the windows. It’s stinky in here.” She got up and went to the window. I held my tongue, determined not to say anything. I could not be this much of a baby.
She pulled the blinds up, a grating sound that made me flinch. The gray day seemed way too bright. I could see our small lawn and an old playset Lisa and I hadn’t used in years. A six-foot fence surrounded our little patch of land. There was a tree in one corner.
It would be so easy for someone to stand on the other side of that fence, maybe on a crate or something, and rest a rifle on the top of the boards. They could see right into my room.
Sweat broke out on my neck. A fluttery, sick feeling stirred in my belly.
Stop it. Why would anyone do that? I asked myself.
Why not? Why would anyone walk into a school full of high school students and shoot up the cafeteria? And they still hadn’t caught the shooters. Maybe they’d want to add to their body count. Maybe they’d think it was funny to go hunt down the survivors, the ones who’d gotten out of the hospital. It’s not like it was a huge secret where I lived. Or someone else entirely could be out there with a gun. Some old man who used to hunt who’d gone senile. Hell, it could be anyone.
“I’m warming some tomato soup. I’ll bring some up with a grilled cheese made with white bread. That’ll be easy to digest. Okay?”
“Just soup. You can put a few crackers in it,” I bargained.
“If you’re still having a lot of pain after you eat, you need to tell Dr. Berger tomorrow. You should be able to tolerate soft foods. You’re losing too much weight, Brian.”
“It’s better than it was.”
She sighed and left the room.
I waited until I heard her go down the stairs. Then I got out of bed, holding my side, and shut the blinds.
Chapter 9
Brian
ON THURSDAY, Dr. Berger said the words I’d dreaded.
“You’re doing terrific for the three-week mark, Brian. You’re lucky to be so young and fit. I think you can go back to school, son, as long as you take it easy. No sports of any kind. No gym class. No running. No banging around. Just attend your classes and go straight home. Your body is still healing, especially on the inside.”
Right. My body was healing. My head? Not so much.
I managed to stay home Friday, convincing my mom to let me rest one more day. But my dad lectured me about it for ten minutes at supper, and I knew it was the last day of grace I’d steal. He was “worried I was letting it mess with my head” and said I needed to “tough it out and get back on the horse,” that the longer I waited the more spooked I’d get. He seemed to think all I needed was to get back to my normal routine and everything would be aces. I knew he was trying to help me, but I’d rather be covered in honey and staked to an anthill than hear any more of that “man up” talk from my dad.
Telling my parents I’d go back to school on Monday was one thing. The reality? No bueno. I managed to not think about it most of the weekend. But on Sunday night, I couldn’t settle down to do anything. My teachers had sent me emails with my assignments, and I’d caught up on most of them. Still, there were chapters I could read, quizzes I could prepare for. But I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t get into a game or a movie. There was no escaping the clinging sense of dread. I’d been sleeping like shit; that was part of it. And I had a feeling tonight’s nightmares would be worse than ever, so I couldn’t even sleep to escape.
Then I thought of Landon Hughes. Without letting myself second-guess it, I sent him a text.
Brian: Hey.
Landon: Hey! How’s it going?
Brian: Not so good.
Landon: ?
Brian: Back to school tomorrow.
The dancing bubbles started and stopped a few times.
Landon: It’s majorly hard going back. It still freaks me out to be in that building. So I feel you.
Brian: Mostly I don’t wanna lose it in front of everyone.
There. I said it. I don’t know why it felt okay to say it to Landon. But it did.
Landon was different. He said things like, “I’m sure a lot of it was down to your strength and will to live.” Jake would never say stuff like that, and if I’d said something like that around him, he would have ragged me for it.
“Geez, Brian, you’re so sensitive,” Jake said with an eye roll.
“I don’t like seeing guys get hurt, okay? They took that kid off on a stretcher. Football is supposed to be fun.”
“Your problem is, you’re too nice,” Cameron said. “Football is about intimidating and punishing the other guys. How do you think you get such great openings to throw your passes and be a star?”
“Yeah, pretty boy. We wouldn’t make any touchdowns if me and Cameron weren’t badasses,” Gordo agreed.
“Aw, leave Brian alone,” Jake said. “He’s just a widdle softie.” He said it fondly and grabbed me in a bro headlock.
It had still stung.
Nope. I never would have said this stuff to Jake.
Landon: It’s been hard for everyone. Epically hard. The first day back there were people crying everywhere. Do you know Naomi Fisher? She stood in the parking lot and couldn’t go inside till a teacher went out and helped her. And I’ve heard of at least four people who won’t be coming back. Home schooling or transfers.
Okay. So it wasn’t just me. That made me feel a little better.
Brian: Everyone’s had a week to adjust though. So I’ll be the whacked one.
Landon: A week is nothing. And you were SHOT. Believe me, people will be all over you, wanting to hug you and all that. Especially the girls. ;-) No one’s gonna judge you.
I sat there, breathing through the tightness in my chest. On the one hand, the conversation made me feel less worried. But it also made going into that school tomorrow seem even more real. The ugly stuff rose up inside me, making me want to puke or pass out. Or do something nonsensical, like pack a bag and run away.
Landon: Want me to pick you up tomorrow? We can go in together.
I stared at the screen. Yes. God yes.
Brian: Is it out of your way?
Landon: Nope. What time? 7:30?
Brian: Perfect. Thanks.
I gave him my address, and we said good night.
After I hung up, I played Mario Kart because it was mindless and bright and silly. Anything that would take my mind off school.
It didn’t help.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was in The Wall. Only all my classrooms had changed, something to do with new security measures. I wandered around, trying to figure out where I was supposed to be. The hallways were empty and ominous. Too quiet. At first, I thought no one was around because I was late, and everyone was in class already. But I peeked in one classroom after another, and there was no one there. The chairs were shoved back, and books were on the desks, like everyone had just walked out, like there’d been a fire drill, or—
That’s when I noticed the red flashing light in the hall.
Active shooter. There was another shooter in the building, and everyone had evacuated. Everyone except me.
I ran, my legs weak with terror, a scream lodged in my throat. Hallway after hallway, turning left and right. Every hallway had nothing but flat, staring lockers and more intersections. I couldn’t find an exit. I tried dialing my cell phone, but I kept screwing up the numbers. I couldn’t remember anyone’s number, and I couldn’t even enter 911 without screwing it up, punching the wrong numbers or deleting them
, because my hands were shaking so bad. I tried to hide in a locker, but I didn’t fit. I tried to go into a classroom to hide, but all the doors were locked.
“Brian? Better get up, honey. Or you’ll be late for school!”
AFTER MY shower, I stood in the bathroom looking in the mirror.
Back to school.
The incision was gory on the lower left side of my stomach. It was a long gash, red and puckered, like a ripped piece of paper that was stuck awkwardly back together because bits of the edges went missing. The area around it was faded yellows and purples.
I was getting skinny. I used to be obsessed with gaining muscle and now I saw it shrink and fade. The old me would have freaked the fuck out, chugged protein shakes, headed to the gym.
The new me didn’t care.
Maybe I wanted to wither away, shrink up until I was small and hard, like the Shrinky Dinks my mom found on eBay one time and made me and Lisa do with her, eyes glowing at reliving her childhood.
They had crap toys in the seventies. Just saying.
Then I would be as impervious as a bit of plastic. Shrinky Dink Brian, the plastic boy.
And my face? God, who was that hollow-eyed teenager? My expression was sort of ghastly. Or aghast. Or permanently stamped with horror. I forced a smile at the mirror. It was even more cringeworthy.
It was hard to pinpoint what made my expression look that way. Was it the cat-puke shade of my skin, as if, despite two transfusions, I didn’t have enough blood left in me to reach my outer layer? Or maybe something inside me kept draining it away. Maybe my body had started a reservoir deep inside to save up blood so I didn’t run out again. The horror was in the lines around my eyes—they belonged to an old man. And my irises, which used to look so blue, only looked bleak to me now. It was like my eyes were begging—please God, let me wake up from this nightmare.
I couldn’t look at myself anymore. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to stand there and brush my teeth. I wouldn’t be able to put one leg inside my pants and then the other. Or pick up my backpack. Or head down the stairs.
My feet tromped down the carpeted steps just like they used to. My hands slung the backpack over my shoulder. I was careful not to pull on my left side, but the backpack, and the hands, were the same. My mom was all fake cheer as she handed me a bag lunch and kissed my cheek. “Have a good day!” she said.
Have a gosh-darn good day.
Part of me watched all of this like it was happening to someone else. Part of me stroked his goatee and sat with one leg crossed in a big office chair.
Zees is interestink. You fink you can be normal? You fink this is everyday life?
Spoiler: I didn’t think so. But everyone else acted like it was. Like the world hadn’t cracked down the middle and was on the verge of spiraling into darkness. So what else could I do? The show must go on.
Landon was waiting for me in the driveway. I opened the passenger door on his old Volvo station wagon and got in. His brown eyes were warm, and his smile was kind.
He didn’t say anything until we were on the road. Then he glanced over at me. “How are you feeling about this? Any better?”
“Uh, nope. Not even a little bit better,” I answered, trying to joke. I rubbed my palms nervously up and down my thighs. I was wearing my favorite clothes—a soft old pair of button-fly 501s that were loose on me now, a faded black Rolling Stones lips T-shirt under a black flannel shirt, and my letter jacket. It didn’t help. I still felt like I had a basketball-sized piece of ice in my gut.
“Just know that everyone feels like you do. No one feels safe at school now, especially with the shooters still at large. But they’ve got, like, three patrol cars around the building, and, I dunno. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, or something like that.” His tone was bitter.
“Have you heard anything about who the shooters might be? They have to have suspects by now, right?”
He frowned. “If they do, they aren’t telling us. They were at the school doing interviews all last week.”
“Yeah. They came to talk to me in the hospital.” I clenched my fists in my lap. Talking about it was good, though. It was good to hear the frustration in Landon’s voice, to be able to vent my own. To get it out in the air instead of locked up in my own head. “So if they haven’t caught them, why wouldn’t they just do it again?”
Landon gripped the wheel in both hands, his knuckles white. “Well, like I said, they’ve got three cop cars stationed around the building. And there were lots of other people at the school last week too. Parents, cops, and a slew of counselors for anyone who wanted to talk. They even handed out free doughnuts and box lunches. They’re trying to make us feel more comfortable, I guess.”
“Are there still news crews hanging around?”
“Yeah. Not as much as before, but some.”
Jesus, what had my high school turned into? A crime scene. A graveyard.
“You okay? Want me to pull over for a bit?” Landon asked, glancing at me with a concerned frown.
It almost seemed like he couldn’t be straight-up, like no one could be that nice. There had to be an eye roll in there somewhere, a snide comment behind my back. Then I remembered how he’d sat with me after I’d been shot, the utter determination in his eyes and voice when he told me I would live.
My eyes flickered to his hands on the wheel—those hands had held me fixed to the earth, to the living. Something new stirred in my gut. I knew what it was. Hell, I was seventeen. But the sensation didn’t sit well with the dread and anxiety already in my system. It clashed like the worst sweet-and-sour candy in the world.
I looked out the window and took a deep breath. “Nah. Let’s just get it over with.”
Five minutes later we sat in a line of cars approaching the high school. It was always a zoo in the morning, and today was worse than usual. I could see The Wall—a long, low building with multiple wings. The parking lots. The football field. It was all so familiar. And at the same time, as if we’d traveled to an upside-down world, it was the place from my nightmares.
The back of my neck began to sweat, and my stomach churned against the breakfast I’d made myself eat. I closed my eyes. Maybe if I didn’t look, I could get through this.
Landon’s hand, cool and smooth, folded over mine on my leg and squeezed. I felt him start to pull away, but I gripped his fingers, desperate for anything that would make this better.
“Want me to turn around?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. Just don’t want to look at it.”
“Understandable.”
I laid my head against the headrest and squeezed his hand, my eyes shut fast. It’s fine. Chill.
The car turned a few times as it crept forward. Then it stopped, and the engine turned off.
“I’m impressed you could do that with one hand,” I managed to joke, still not opening my eyes or letting go of his fingers.
He laughed. “It’s amazing what you can do with the right motivation.”
Wait. Was he saying holding my hand was motivation? Or maybe he was motivated to have me not freak out in his car. Because God only knew I had to be hella sexy like this—a shivering, nauseous mess.
“We’re in the north parking lot close to the D-Wing portico,” he said quietly. “Is that okay?”
“D-Wing is good. My first class is there.” At least I wouldn’t have to pass through the center of the school. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.
The parking lot was crowded, and there were lots of people going into the building. I wouldn’t say the scene looked normal. Everyone was more somber than usual. But it was normal enough. Still. My body did not understand why I would willingly walk into a situation where I’d been stalked and hurt so badly. The caveman in my head was really fucking adamant about running away.
“What’s your first period?” Landon asked.
“Um… Personal Finance with Bushnell.”
“I had that last year. It’s about halfway down this hallway, right?” He nodded
at the door in front of us.
“Yeah.”
I was still squeezing the life out of his fingers. I made myself let go and squeezed the door handle instead.
“Brian, we don’t have to go in there. Say the word, and I’ll drive away.” Landon said it like it was no big deal, like it was a reasonable option.
“My dad… I have to go back to school.”
“Well.” Landon’s voice was flat. “Your dad’s not here. So. You could always try again another day.”
“No, I’m good,” I lied. I opened the door and got out because there was nothing else I could do.
We walked under the portico to the door of D-Wing, me staring down at the concrete sidewalk. The door in front of me opened, and I stepped inside. Landon stuck by me as I made my way down the hall.
I got six hugs, mostly from girls, but from a couple of guys too. So many people asked how I was doing, I got tired of repeating myself. I’m better. They were able to patch me up okay. I’m gonna be fine.
I even ran into one of my teachers, Mr. Fishbinder. He seemed surprised to see me. “Welcome back to school, Brian.”
“Hi. Uh, thanks for sending me my assignments over email and everything.”
Fishbinder, besides having a god-awful name, had blue eyes that were light enough to be freaky, thick black eyebrows, and silver hair cut short. He was the kind of older guy who still looked fit, though.
“I was sorry to hear you were wounded. What a shame.” He tsked and shook his head.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“You’ll be in seventh period?”
I blew out a breath. “Planning on it.” If I survive that long.
It was weird to get sympathy from Fishbinder, who was not a sympathetic guy. He’d ripped me a few times when he didn’t like my work.
All the attention made me feel like people cared, and it distracted me from the fact that I was inside The Wall. But with every familiar face I saw, I couldn’t help wondering: Why are you here and not Jake? Why did we survive when so many didn’t? And: Are you the shooter? Do you know who is?
When we got to the doorway of my classroom, Landon turned to face me.