And just like that, there’s a new vibe in the room. Sharp. A kind of after-energy, a post-concussive silence, just a whiff of sulfur and dust to hint at what’s happened.
What’s happened is this: we’ve just finished a story in English. Something about stones and the violence of luck. Or the luck of violence. We mostly weren’t paying attention, to be honest. Then, into the pinched absence of reaction, Mateo raises his hand.
“It’s like Chekhov’s Law, right?” The question’s out before he’s called on.
Mr. Oneida raises an eyebrow. “Explain that more.”
“Well, if there’s a gun in the first act of a play, the law says it has to go off by the third. Y’know, foreshadowing.”
A look at the smart kids’ faces tells us it doesn’t fit, but that’s irrelevant–Oneida’s eyes have gone glassy, like he’s already polishing up the anecdote for the staff room.
It’s not Mateo’s question that shifts the air, though. We couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Chekhov’s Law or anyone else’s. Most of us would, in fact, rather watch two rats’ asses fucking than discuss some law or story. No. It’s that word.
Gun.
It ricochets around the room, grabbing our attention by the earlobes.
Phil starts pressing a three-chord progression against his knee, the only lyrics he knows on a loop: Janie’s got a gun. He glances up at the real Janie and imagines her watching him play, admiration snapping her daydream-blurred eyes into focus.
From the corner, David chuckles. We hear he got his schedule changed last year so his route from math to PE mirrored one of the levels in Fortnite. The pattern of turns. The steps between. He’s always got an imagined gun in front of him, swinging between targets. That, more than the chuckle, unnerves us.
Jerek points a finger gun across the aisle at Cristian, blowing a raspberry fart with the pull of the trigger.
For the thousandth time, Jacqueline wonders whether Fisher will ask her to go hunting. She’s been slipping her dad’s AR-15 out of the unlocked safe so she won’t look like an idiot if he does. Each afternoon, she holds it steady until her biceps quiver, one eye and the barrel pointed at the mounted deer head in the den, the other eye focused on her dad, smiling from his faded wedding photo.
Ryan pictures his uncle’s Yosemite Sam tattoo, the way the six-shooters twitch when he flexes. Would it be retro or lame if he got the same one?
Only Ashleigh’s impervious. Alone amidst our gun-fervor, she slouches, clicking her ballpoint pen. We think maybe she’s retarded, the way she deadeyes anyone who talks to her, sheeting her crimson-and-black hair across her face. We think maybe she’s a genius, the way her hands are never still, folding her unrelinquished tardy slips into intricate shapes, sketching tiny scenes in textbook margins, passing from one grade to the next without ever turning in an assignment.
Or maybe she’s not immune after all: a few of us note the percussive rat-tat-tat of that pen trigger, a subliminal soundtrack playing behind our thoughts.
***
The fallout spills past the classroom walls. Halfway through Bio, Mrs. Hall jerks to a stop behind Otis’ laptop. “What are you browsing?” Her inflection rises, but we know it’s no question.
“Online textbook.”
She snakes her arms over his, types a command we can’t catch. A page of rifle sights appears. “You can finish the diagram longhand.” She snaps shut his laptop and smacks his notebook. Then she seizes that, too. Those of us nearby see the page is filled with semi-automatics, drawn with more precision than any assignment he’s attempted.
“What? I can’t even draw now?”
“A page full of guns? In a school? No.”
“So, what? If I draw mushrooms, you gonna take that away, too? Because maybe I’m doing drugs?”
We eye him over our own screens. Bloodshot eyes, long hair held in place by the memory of a ballcap, mouth perpetually half open–the guy’s basically Shaggy without the Mystery Machine.
They usher Otis out at lunch, Principal McNair flanked by the guidance counselor and a chubby city cop.
Route 7 is one stop shorter. Ashleigh gets let off two minutes earlier than usual. She steps off the bus, unfolding into fullness like one of her own origami creatures before she disappears into the warren of trailers behind the Walmart.
The driver has to break up a squabble between fifth graders. By David’s stop, we’re three minutes late. He follows his imaginary gun through the folding doors, pivots in the gravel, and aims at the emergency exit door. BANG, he mouths, arms jerking with the recoil.
***
Otis is suspended for ten days while they do a threat assessment. That part’s fact, but it’s the only one we’ve got. Huddled around our lockers, we rehash the stale details of the day before and compare notes on everything we’ve heard or suspected about Otis. As we talk, we skirt our eyes toward the door, where the secretary’s grabbing kids as they come off the buses and shunting them into the counselor’s office. Otis’ lab partner. His locker mate. The stoners he skates with in the park after school.
We wait for them to return with news. We ask each other if maybe Otis’ll show up anyway, we say we hear his mom threatened McNair, his dad will sue, the cops found his stash. We relish our embellishments, more elaborate with each iteration.
When Jerek is released from the counselor’s office, we snag him.
“Well? What’d you say?”
Jerek tips back the crumbs from a bag of Takis, his bribe for talking. “Nothing. I’m no snitch.” Red dust clings to the corners of his mouth.
“What’d you hear, then?”
There’s the hush of muffled gossip, and there’s the hush of sucked breath before a scream. One becomes the other when we aren’t looking. None of us quite sees the moment of impact, though we’ll pretend to later.
We do a double take: It isn’t Otis. It’s Ashleigh.
We see the butt of her fist up against Ian’s chest, his face drained ghost gray. We swear we can hear the click-click-click of her ballpoint pen as she punches the nib deeper between his ribs and then yanks it back, cracking off the top. Ian stares at the stain waterfalling down his shirt, red and black, ink and blood swirling together.
A few of us gasp her name on disbelieving inhales. McNair yells it across the cafeteria as she walks out, the pen clattering on the linoleum behind her. We back away, except for those of us who move closer. David drops his imaginary gun, his hands splayed in palms-out surrender.
We are shocked. We are enthralled.
We will tell and retell our stories in the aftermath. The whats and the hows will flow easily. The whys, though–the whys will worm holes in our brains. Why did she do it? Why Ian? But mostly, why didn’t we see it coming?
+++
A native of the Pacific Northwest and a recovering English teacher, Lindsey James draws inspiration for her writing from the people and landscapes of eastern Washington State. You can find her published and forthcoming work in Vast Chasm, The Saturday Evening Post and Penmen Review.