Eleventh grade: Bus stop. Bloody lip. Bruised ribs.
“You look at her again, and I’ll put you in a wheelchair. Permanently.”
Pick up your guns and fight!
Jeremy nodded.
Yes! Pick up your guns and fight!
“All right.”
With conviction! Pick up your guns and fight!
“I’ll do it.”
Make me believe you! Pick up your guns and fight!
He shot out of the bed.
“I’ll do it! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill them!” he shouted into the dark space.
Silence.
He squinted, searching the room for his vigilante. He expected him to materialize, grab his fist and thrust it into the air: “We have a champion!”
He hesitated, and when no one appeared, he shuffled back to bed, crawling deep under his sheets, trying to hide from his deadly principles.
~
I don’t have one more goddamn thing to say about it.
~
Lab work usually consists of lots of movement, talking, burning, mixing, measuring, slicing, labeling. Today, though, the lab was quiet—seniors were studying individually for an upcoming exam. The only noise inside was the low whirring of the air conditioner clicking on and off, on and off—trying to maintain a steady temperature. A few birds gabbed in blooming Curl-leaf Mountain Mahoganies planted just outside the lab windows. They were pleasant sounds that offset the feverish study atmosphere inside.
Regan slipped a note to Casey, who stifled a giggle. Ms. Griffin cleared her throat and shot warning eyes in the girls’ direction. Students only got one. If she had to do the eye thing a second time, it was office time. They grew quiet and continued their work.
Pop!
The noise sounded from a distance. Half the class looked up.
“Get back to work,” Ms. Griffin ordered.
They resumed their studying. Probably a burst pipe somewhere. As long as they didn’t smell leaking gas, they were fine.
Pop pop!
Everyone looked up this time, staring at Ms. Griffin, waiting for an explanation.
“Pipes or something,” she muttered, unconcerned, and left her desk.
Regan chewed her fingernail. She couldn’t pinpoint the sound, but she knew she’d heard it before. A long time ago. Perhaps with her father? Where? Where did she hear it? She chewed and chewed until she drew blood. She watched it ooze from underneath the stubby nail, and then realization burst in her brain like a blinding sunray.
A hunting trip. The gun. The pop pop of the gun!
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, mind racing. “Jeremy.”
She couldn’t ignore it—his fight with Brandon, his ominous words. The journal. The journal! But the date! Today was March 15, almost an entire month before the date he wrote in his notebook.
“It’s not right,” she breathed, then sprang from her desk. “Stay here!” she yelled to her classmates and headed for the door.
Casey jumped up, too, and followed her. “Regan! Where are you going? What’s going on?”
Pop pop pop!
Close this time. Where was Ms. Griffin? Why hadn’t she returned?
Regan whirled around. “Lock this door,” she ordered.
Casey grabbed Regan’s wrists. “What’s going on? What’s that noise?”
“Yeah, what is that?” Brandon called from the back of the room.
“Casey, lock this door. I mean it,” Regan said. “I’ve gotta go. Now.”
“What? I can’t lock the door. I don’t have the key!” Casey cried. “Where are you going?”
Instant tears.
Pop pop!
Someone yelling in the hall.
“FIND THE KEY!” Regan screamed, cursing the administration. Cursing the building designers. Doors only locked from the inside with a key—a “safety” feature to keep students from locking teachers out of their rooms.
Casey ran to Ms. Griffin’s desk and tore through the drawers. Other students rushed to her side to aid in the search.
Regan bolted from the room, certain she’d come face-to-face with Jeremy in this hallway—Hallway D. She had to; the gunshots were much too loud to be anywhere else.
The hallway was deserted. She halted in her tracks, listening for the next sounds.
Pop pop pop pop!
She ran the length of the hallway and took a sharp right, following the sinister sounds through the empty passageways. No one. Anywhere.
“Good,” she huffed. “They’re hiding. That’s good.”
She picked up her pace and rounded another corner, wiping every now and then at her guilty tears. She was to blame. If people were being murdered right now, she was to blame. How could she ignore the blatant signs? How could she ignore those words in his journal? How could she let him trick her so?
POP!
So close.
But maybe he didn’t trick her. Maybe he never had a plan to shoot people. Maybe it was the fight with Brandon that sent him over the edge. Maybe he was fine until . . .
She turned the corner screaming, “JEREMY STOP!” then skidded to a halt.
Hannah turned around slowly, cradling a rifle to her chest. Regan barely recognized her. She shed her oversized, boyish clothes for a skater dress and flats. Her spikey hair was now pink-tipped, and she donned full make-up: mascara, blush, lip gloss.
She was a killer knockout.
Regan blinked, then dropped her eyes to the floor. Ms. Griffin lay at Hannah’s feet—shot in the leg—bleeding out on the tile.
“Regan, run,” Ms. Griffin breathed.
“Yeah, Regan. Run,” Hannah echoed coolly.
Regan froze. Urine trickled down the inside of her leg, soaking her tights. A few droplets puddled on the floor.
“Hannah?” she asked, voice quivering.
“And you thought it was Jeremy,” Hannah said. She frowned. “Why did you think that?”
Regan shook uncontrollably, then cried out when Hannah raised the rifle at her face.
“Why’d you think that?” she demanded.
“I don’t know! Because he was picked on! I don’t know!”
“Liar. You know something I don’t,” Hannah said.
“H . . . Hannah, I d-don’t know. He was picked on. That’s all I-I know,” Regan sobbed.