Hannah bristled. “I don’t? I’m the victim here.”
“That’s just it, Hannah. You’re not anymore. The moment you charged into that building shooting people left and right, you were no longer the victim. You transformed into one of them—one of the bad guys.”
She froze, mid-chew.
“It took me a long time to figure that out. I know it seems like it’s justified—hurting someone who hurt you—but it’s not that simple. I think we were trying to simplify a really complicated situation.”
“So, what were we supposed to do, then? Huh?”
He paused.
“Exactly,” she said, satisfied.
“Now, hold on. Just wait. Give me a second to think,” Jeremy said.
It was hard to think of a solution. He was never successful in finding it anywhere. The Old Testament god didn’t offer it. He was positive karma was bullshit. The justice system was a joke. The tattoo on his back no longer meant anything—just a wistful prayer for a world that could never be truly just.
“Sooo, what are we supposed to do about the bullying?” Hannah pressed.
And then it hit him—something he read a long time ago. He couldn’t remember from where, but the sentence stuck with him. At first he hated it. He didn’t like the “turn the other cheek” message it implied. But now he interpreted it completely differently. And he saw the goodness as strength, not weakness.
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good,” he quoted.
She stared at him, perplexed, then repeated the words.
He smiled and shoved his hand in her chip bag.
“So what? You’re a sage now?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Not even close. Just trying to make sense of my world.”
“Maybe you can do a better job than I did,” Hannah said.
“I’ll try to make you proud,” he replied.
She nodded.
He looked her over. “I’ve never seen you wear a dress. Why today of all days?”
“Because I held a gun in my hands,” she replied softly, “so I knew they’d let me.”
He was quiet.
“It felt really good to wear what I wanted for the first time in years,” she went on. “I felt really pretty.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Am I crazy?” she whispered.
“We’re all crazy.”
“Will you miss me, Jer?”
“Yes, Hannah, I’ll miss you . . .”
His eyes flew open to the beeping sounds of the monitors. He didn’t mean to doze off, but he’d been at the hospital for a week and a half straight, running on little sleep and too many cups of black coffee. He glanced at Regan, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest.
Hers was no superficial shoulder wound. The bullet nicked her heart, and she almost died. Twice. After the second emergency surgery, he screamed in her face.
“You have things to do, Regan!” he cried angrily. “You have a lot of soccer games to play! A lot of cakes to bake for me! You’ve got a big future waiting, so don’t fuck it up!”
Naturally, he was dragged from the room. Mr. Walters tore into him with the filthiest verbal assault he’d ever launched. The words threatened fisticuffs, and Roy had to come between them. The men wouldn’t speak for two days until Jeremy asked for forgiveness with a Snickers bar from the vending machine.
“I’m not sharing,” Mr. Walters said, snatching the candy bar and ripping it open.
He was starving. Jeremy was starving. Everyone was starving and tired and cranky and angry. They were confused and worried, too, but they hid those emotions. After all, anxiety was weakness, and they wanted Regan to sense only strength, even if that strength came in the form of an argument.
When Regan was once more stabilized, Mr. Walters asked the doctor to please keep her alive this time. That launched another fight—more of a spat—and Regan’s dad was relegated to the main lobby for a few hours.
No one wanted to discuss the tragedy—thirty-two minutes of terror. No one wanted to discuss the victims, both dead and wounded. Twenty-two. Twenty-two victims—eleven dead, eleven wounded. Split right down the middle like she’d planned it, like she was a killer with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Among the dead, four teachers: Mr. Armstrong, Ms. Stacy, Mr. Howard, and Ms. Griffin. She died shortly before the medics reached her. Seven students—all of them connected to Hannah’s pain in some way. All considered bullies, even the unlucky one who caught the bullet through the lab door. But they were victims now—given no opportunity to right their wrongs, to grow and be better, to mature and learn how to love.
Jeremy thought of Brandon—his last ditch effort to dig deep and find the goodness within. He hated Jeremy’s guts—the sentiment pounded all over Jeremy’s body—but he wouldn’t allow Jeremy to die for him. Maybe it was pride, but Jeremy didn’t think so. Or at least he chose to believe that Brandon made the conscientious decision to do something right—to save his life—and Jeremy would forever be indebted to him.
The massacre was the only news—both local and national—for two weeks straight. Along with it, came all the mistakes of up-to-the-minute reporting. The numbers changed daily. The killer had a multitude of motives until everyone agreed on one. The gun debate flared up right on schedule—that moment directly after the first report. Everyone cried and screamed and fought with one another and proclaimed their moral superiority.
“I know what’s best!” they bellowed during discussion panels on cable news networks.
White noise to Jeremy. It was all white noise. He was the only one who truly knew Hannah. He was the only one who could understand her pain and her plan. That understanding didn’t excuse what she did, but it allowed him to release the day—her horrifying actions and death—from his heart forever. There was no reason to dwell on what she did or how she went. His only reason lay clinging to life in a hospital bed on the fourth floor of Mountainview Regional Medical Center.
“Regan?” he said tentatively. “You know it’s really unfair if you leave me.”