Internal Conversation

“Do whatever you want,” I said, but what I meant was I want you to stay.

It was two PM on one of those days that is going so good you know something really bad is gonna happen to make up for it. We had been dating for eight months, living together for three. She was bitching at me and I wasn't saying anything. My daddy always talked too much and it got him in trouble. I learned from his mistakes and I kept quiet.
“You're always out late, too late for a man not causing trouble.”
I say nothing.
“Where were you last night?!”
“Just around,” I said, and what I meant was shopping for her birthday present.
“Just around with who? Who is she?”
“There's nobody, Jean” and what I meant was I saw no woman but her.
“Like hell there isn't. You're out late almost every night. You don't smell like booze so you're not drinking. I ain't stupid. What else could you be doing?”
Working extra hours, saving up for a diamond ring. But I said nothing.
“You got nothing to say for yourself Riley?” she asked me.
“Nope.” I said, but what I meant was I love you.
“Do you care about me at all?”
I said nothing.
“I'm leaving you.”
“Do whatever you want,” I said, but what I meant was I want you to stay.
“You don't care. You never cared.”
She kicked a table behind me. I heard something shatter.
Neither of us said anything. She shut the door on her way out.
“Shit, it's already 2:20. Time for work,” I said, but what I meant was how can I keep going?

Dating advice for nerds with low self-esteem

I typed all this up for a kid on Yahoo! Answers, but it ended up being too long.


Question
the way to learn the way to get the gals to like me more?
Ive been dating this young lady for a few weeks, nevertheless I do think her appeal is fading for me. So how do I become the woman's to be able to such as me more

Answer
well that all really depends on what you're doing. You need to provide more background information, but I'll give you a few basics:

- Women like men with confidence. If you're acting insecure she'll think of you more as a puppy than a potential breadwinner. Exude your confidence by trying new things, making jokes and just having faith in yourself.

Confidence also shows though in appearance. Don't slouch, squirm or constantly make nervous gestures like drumming your fingers, biting your nails, running your hands through your hair or bouncing your leg. She might end up seeing your nervous signals and think you're either A, a drug addict, B, ADHD, or C, completely not interested in her.

You have to look comfortable in your body language AND your clothes. Don't wear pants that are too tight even if they look nicer; you're going to be fidgeting and she's going to think its because of her. Don't button your shirt to the top button or wear an awkwardly tied necktie unless that's your usual thing. She's going to be able to tell those things. Try to wear something somewhat stylish that you're still at home in. Stay completely away from clothes that are shunned in public. Even if you're talking about how you have 18 million in a hedge fund and own a yacht she's only going to be concentrating on the fact that you're wearing suspenders.


- Women like men with a sense of humor. Make jokes, but not creepy jokes. Don't make literary puns unless you have prior knowledge that she would understand or appreciate those things. Don't use pickup lines like "I wish I could be your derivative so I could be tangent to your curves" even if she WOULD get it. Don't tell dirty limericks on the first (or second, or third) date.

- Women don't like to feel intimidated. Be witty and intelligent, but don't spend all day looking things up just so you can toss around some scientific or political knowledge. You want to make her feel like she's your intellectual equal, not inferior.

- Find the things you have in common, and use these to your advantage. So you both like quirky silent films? Find a theater in the historic district that shows a film you might both enjoy. Do you both like aquatic sports? Animals? Collect the same or similar things? Are you both bibliophiles? Devout Catholics? Anything. We each have so many interests that it almost impossible to find someone that doesn't have anything in common with us. You're allowed your individuality of course, but you have to have an open to grow some kind of bond, and shared interest is perfect.

- Don't lie to her, at all. Even white lies will come back and bite you in the ass, so don't do it. I'm sure telling her that you ALSO ran the New York Marathon will impress her at first, but two days later when she asks you to fill a position on her relay team she's going to know you lied, and she's going to be pissed.

- don't spend all day talking about your ex. Unless she's a priest, she isn't interested in hearing your full life's confession. If you feel it needs to be brought up, especially if you have some common ground (you were both left recently for someone more attractive, for example) then go for it, but don't turn a potential good time into a tear-fest. She probably has plenty of her own drama and doesn't need yours too.

- Don't be creepy. There are a lot of things a new guy can do to creep out a woman. Don't tell her you like lurking in dark alleys or that you've had murderous thoughts. Don't give her the details your scariest nightmares. Don't tell her her hair smells nice, or she has cute feet. If you have a fetish, she probably doesn't want to know right away. I understand you'll be looking for similar interests in a partner, but even someone who might entertain the idea later on will be put off by you saying "I really like to wear diapers."

- Try not to look like a loser. If she asks, "Where do you live?" and you respond "In my mom's basement," you're going to look like a complete loser, no matter WHAT the circumstances. Talk about the circumstances FIRST. "I wasn't happy at work so I decided to go back to school. I'm in a master's program, so for the time being I moved back in with my folks." Oh, okay, fantastic. Now you look smart, sensible, career-driven and potentially wealthy in the future instead of just being a loner spending his nights in his mom's basement downloading naked pictures of Megan Fox.
Also, don't snort when you laugh.

- Don't spend all day pretending to be interesting; focus your time in being interested in HER. Not just her boobs, I mean her personality. If after the first three dates you're still iffy about her personality she's probably not right for you. Focus on things you like: the way she tells a story, the way she jokes around. Consider exploring some of her interests. Is she a certified scuba diver? Awesome, try that out with her sometime, as long as you're not afraid of the ocean. Again, don't lie to try to impress her with your openness to new ideas. If you're afraid of the ocean, or heights, like I said before she's going to figure that out pretty quickly.

- Try to read her cues. Most girls are not going to want to get busy on the first few dates, but you might come across one who does. Assume that you're going to be at bat and nothing else. Maybe first base while you're on her porch thanking her for the evening. Let her make the decisions, but don't wait for them to be completely obvious. If she wants you to round second base she isn't going to just grab your hand and place it on her breast. Women aren't that literal. If her breast touches your arm briefly while she's reaching for the popcorn at a movie, don't assume that's a come-on; women aren't that subtle. Wait for some middle ground like prolonged contact, frequent eye contact or gazing, smiles or biting her lip when you meet her gaze. All that usually means sexual tension.

- Don't take a new date too seriously. A lot of guys don't, but if you don't date much you might have problems with this. If this is your second date, don't refer to her as "your girlfriend." Don't talk about her to your friends so much that if you run into someone she's never met they instantly know who she is and recognizes her. If you're going out casually, dress casually. Don't lavish gifts on her right away for no reason. If you bring a $50 bouquet of roses or a diamond necklace for your second date she's probably going to be more weirded out than impressed. Don't be overexcited just because you're with a girl; she'll catch onto that. Wait until the point where she can be sure that your happiness and gifts are because you think she is special, not just because she's the first woman to talk to you in two years.

Lastly, remember you can't make a girl like you. You can follow all these steps perfectly and she might still climb out of the bathroom window halfway through dinner. Sometimes no matter what you do or say things just aren't going to work out, and its tough at first but eventually you'll find someone perfect for you.

Chatter in the Hood

“So did you hear about the Tillmans?”
“oh my, yes. How completely dreadful.”
“I can’t imagine going through that.”
“Heaven help that you don’t have to, dear.”
A pause while they sipped their tea.
“’Course, anyone could see that coming a mile away.”
“These things do happen, as unfortunate as it is.”
“Especially with THOSE kids of people.”
“Do you suppose he took marijuana?”
“Oh GOD yeah, and probably more.”
“No! In this neighborhood?!”
A nod.
“My.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly.
Another pause. More sips.
“I always believed there was something…peculiar about them.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Do you remember that girl of theirs? The boy’s older sister?”
“What about her?”
“I’d hardly seen such a child!”
A snort of laughter.
“I know it may be rude of me but its true! I bought cookies from her Girl Scout troop because I felt sorry for her. Always going about with her mouth open…”
A full laugh this time.
“Oh she did not!”
“She did! The poor child went about plodding around like a sow, mouth gaping to the elements or insects or what have you! It’s a wonder she never caught cold.”
Sipping again.
“Whatever happened to that child?”
“I dunno, I know she had a boyfriend that she met at that college but I haven’t seen her come home since Christmas two years back.”
“We’ll likely see her now.”
“Probably, yeah.”
“I wonder if she still keeps her mouth open all the time?”
A chuckle. The sound of dainty porcelain cups tinkling against dainty saucers.
“Have a biscuit dear.”
“Thanks, I think I will.”
“I plan to bring them a casserole this evening.”
“Have you heard where the funeral is?”
“Not yet, but likely at West Lake Mortuary. Honorable, yet modest.”
“Open casket or closed?”
“Heavens, I hope it will be closed! You know what they say about that, how the tongue protrudes and such.”
A tsk of distaste. A frown.
“I just can’t imagine..”
“ Perfectly dreadful.”
“He was always a strange boy. Dark. But still..”
“A terrible thing.”
“Yes.”
“More tea, dear?”
“Yes please, thanks.”

March 5, 2001 part II

The shooter's name was Andy. He was an unnattractive, scrawny kid who had lived in the area for less than a year. His mother and brother lived in Maryland and he had minimal contact with them. His father neglected him. They lived in a studio apartment in a run-down complex near Santee School. He had trouble adjusting to Santee. The only friends he made were like him; poor, not the best upbringing. They skateboarded and smoked weed. He was picked on at school.

The papers had a field day with Andy's story. They made him a case example of what abuse, by family or peers, leads to. But that isn't all of it.

Santana's social strata wasn't what you see in movies. It wasn't a pyramid with the attractive jocks on the top and the runny-nosed, buck-toothed band geeks on the bottom. We still had some separation, because people get along best with like-minded people – but for the most part we all had some social equality. We didn't have gang wars by peer group or graduation year. You'd never see a guy from the football team trash can a freshman, unless it was his little brother. There was no teasing, no picking on specific targets except by people you knew. The few times I was picked on at Santana were by kids I had gone to Cajon Park with, when picking on me through elementary and junior high school was in style. No strangers, different social level or not, ever gave me any trouble. Nor anyone else I saw.

The kids who picked on Andy were his “friends.” He stood there and took it, and the worst thing you can do to a bully is ignore it and pretend like its nothing. Bullies have two goals in mind: to rattle you and to get away with it. He let them get away with it, and rattling him had become a challenge. He showed up to their group, hung out with them day in and day out voluntarily. He obediently took the teasing, which just led to more. I know these kids that picked on him, and I know he wasn't the only target. They were all targets to each other. Everyone picked on everyone else, trying to one-up each other. Maybe Andy didn't realize that because he was new. Maybe he did, and didn't know how to retaliate. Maybe he did retaliate, which is why he was accepted in the group, but no one cared to mention that when the reporters came calling.

Andy had “fallen in with the wrong crowd.” His friends were depicted by the media as being hoodlums, the worst of the worst, but in reality they were a bunch of teenage losers capable of little else than shoplifting liquor from Albertsons. They hung out at Woodglen Vista park behind the bathrooms, taking bong hits and passing a stolen bottle of vodka. They wrote on the picnic tables with sharpies. They didn't start fires or steal little old ladies' purses. They didn't get in knife fights or turf wars. These weren't hardened criminals that he was associating with, these were just unsupervised teenagers doing the things that unsupervised teenagers do. None of them to my knowledge have gotten in any serious trouble in the time since.

The news reported that someone had stolen his skateboard the week before, three times. Andy and his dad were poor. Neither could afford to replace a skateboard at all, let alone three times in one week. Obviously, he got the same one back. So here's a scenario for you: some kids hanging out behind the bathrooms at the park, sharing a joint. Too blazed to realize they'd left some of their stuff laying around for a considerable amount of time. Someone sees a skateboard, recognizes it as Andy's. They take it and ride it, or just hide it. He finds out, laughter ensues, eventually the thief returns it or says where its hiding. This happens three times.

Big deal.

Andy's best friend Josh Stevens was quoted in Time Magazine, saying "Listen to In the End, track eight on Linkin Park's CD. That was the song that inspired Andy." I just wanted to be like, are you shitting me?

Trying to hold on, I didn’t even know
I wasted it all just to
watch you go
I kept everything inside and even though I tried
it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time
I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter

Like most songs from Linkin Park's first three albums (four, if you count the compilation with Jay-Z) this song is about a breakup. This is where you got your hardcore inspiration? This explains how you were picked on and everyone hated you? This is why you decided to become a murderer?

After ABC Today and Time Magazine pushed the Linkin Park issue (clearly people who had never listened to Linkin Park), frontman Chester Bennington replied with "You might as well say, 'it's because he ate mayonnaise that day.' "

Andy also used the chorus for In the End in a note to his father explaining why he did it. Which didn't really explain anything at all.

Andy had been talking about “pulling a Colombine” for weeks. A couple guys who heard said, “yeah right, I dare you.” At least two adults knew, maybe more. One, the aunt of a friend, overheard some of Andy and Josh Stevens' detailed plans. She waited two days to asked Josh if it was serious. He told her it was fake, and that he was going to have his mom's boyfriend talk to Andy. She figured this would be good enough. 29 year old Chris Reynolds, Josh Stevens' mother's live-in boyfriend, was more of a buddy than a responsible adult. He hung out with the boys, skateboarded, took them paintballing and was disliked by most of the residents of their complex, Woodglen Vista Apartments. Two days before the shooting he overheard much of the conversation between Andy and a group of boys, heard Andy and Josh say they were going to steal a car and go to Mexico afterwords. Someone replied, “you're a pussy, you won't do it.” Reynolds asked Andy if it was true. He said no, and Reynolds felt that was good enough.

Monday morning Andy met up with friends, got stoned and then headed to school. A few of his friends were apparently concerned enough to actually pat him down, checking for a gun. One looked in his backpack but didn't move the books to see his father's handgun resting beneath it. Satisfied, Andy's friends let him pass. He went in the bathroom. No one thought to tell a teacher, a counselor, a principal. No one called the cops. The shooting started less than fifteen minutes later, when Andy shot Bryan Zuckor in the head after he entered the bathroom.

Andy had a dysfunctional upbringing. He didn't live in the best area and he wasn't the most popular kid in the school. Neither was I, and I've never killed anyone. I even listened to Linkin Park at the time, too. Yet somehow we're supposed to believe that this combination of a divorce, an unhappy family life and feeling like you don't fit in with your high school is clear grounds for murder. Of the 1700 students at Santana, more than half of us were the products of broken or mixed marriages. Only one of us brought a gun to school.

When the police broke into the bathroom and Andy handed over his gun, reloaded and cocked, he said “its only me.” And it was. At some point Josh had dropped out of the plan – or maybe he was never really in it. Maybe, to him, it was just talk, just a way to work out frustrations. He and the other people involved were all on the news afterwords, starting in the Albertsons parking lot a few short hours after the shooting. Reporters couldn't get enough of Chris Reynolds at first, and many of the boys freely did interviews before someone realized they were incriminating themselves. Eventually Stevens and Reynolds hired lawyers, just in case, and all of the boys that had been associated with Andy's grand plan were transferred to different schools in the district. Only Andy went into custody and was tried as an adult. He is serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole for 50 years in a state penitentiary. Some people disagree with this decision. There has been a small movement since his conviction to get the decision overturned based on his age and mental status at the time of the shooting. Taking away all hopes and ambitions from a 15 year old boy seems excessive to these people, who ignore the fact that he did exactly that for a 14 year old and a 17 year old. He murdered two people, injured 15 and permanently scarred the rest of us. Fifty years sounds fine to me.


Related:
A website is run by friends and family (people that seemed to have only shown support for him after the shooting) and has been up for some years; http://andyspeaks.com .

The Time Magazine article discussing Linkin Park and other events leading up to it:
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1101010319-102077,00.html

Photo montage made by another student:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vurdZm79r08

March 5, 2001

Usually when someone starts a story about something that happened to them, they can detail every event leading up to it. I can't. I have no idea how my morning started. I don't remember what I had for breakfast (probably nothing), I don't remember if I got to school on time (probably not). My memory of that day doesn't exist until 9:21 am. It was a Monday, the first bell had already rang and I was walking with Sarah. Slowly. We wanted to be late. We were heading to lockout.

Lockout was their version of a one period in-school suspension. Located in the very last room of the 100 building, lockout was a way to confine both the bad kids and the tardy kids in one tiny room, deprived of posters and colors to make it feel like punishment, but still on campus so the school could collect the attendance funds. It didn't take me long to figure out that often, staring at a blank wall was better than going to a hated class. Nor did it take long to realize that going to lockout the day after ditching was an easy way to get away with not having a signed note from a parent excusing your absence. I performed the ditch-then-lockout trick frequently.

The Friday before had been Donald's birthday. His parents hated him and we all knew it, so Michelle and I ditched second block and walked across the street to Albertsons. The narcs didn't notice, that time or any of the hundred or so other times I strolled off campus those first two years. We returned about an hour later with the best our combined $13 could come up with. A few balloons and a lopsided teddy bear. He loved it, and I knew going to lockout the next Monday would be worth it.

I don't remember why Sarah was going to lockout. I don't remember what we were talking about. I do remember a sound I'd never heard before, a sound I couldn't place at first, drowning out our conversation. A fraction of a second later we saw the cause. Hundreds of pairs of sneakers hitting polished concrete, the sound reverberating and echoing down the halls. They flew out of the breezeway and spread like a spill. We stood our ground; neither of us were knocked over. They parted to go around us and regrouped immediately after, a sea of panicked teenagers rushing, screaming, wailing. The flow slowed. We spotted Christine, the first face that wasn't a blur. She was crying hysterically, but she was prone to crying fits. We asked what was happening. She didn't know; everyone was running, she was terrified. Someone said something about fireworks. She continued past us, jogging. Sarah and I looked at each other, then looked down the hallway. Nothing was coming, we heard no sounds. We were both subdued people, and being together kept us calmer. The entrance to the small quad from the large quad, the breezeway between the drama room and the library, was the closest we got to it. We turned and walked back the way we had come.

We reached the student parking lot. Still a couple hundred people, panicked, swarming. Kids jumped into other kids' vans, piled into strangers' cars. Cliques and races were no longer an issue. They moved as a single unit with a single object in mind. Get out. I saw three guys and a girl chase a truck that was already speeding away. The driver noticed, stopped. The runners jumped into the bed. A few more caught on and did as well. One was still only halfway up when the driver hit the gas. She fell, got up, ran again. All inexperienced drivers, all terrified. There were no accidents, no pedestrians run over. I commented on the amazing luck of the situation to Sarah. She nodded. Had nothing to say.

My parents had set up a code for my sister to use with any pay phone in the event of an emergency, and kept it active for me. This was an emergency. I went to the pay phone by the gym and used the code. I called my mom. “I don't know what's happening, everyone just ran past us screaming.” The whole large quad is empty. We're not going in the small quad. Sarah and I watched the lot empty. The band room door opened, a head peeked out. “Get in here! The whole school is on lockdown.” I repeated that to my mom, ignored her screamed demand that I get home now. Another exchanged glance with Sarah, another calm, slow-paced walk to the door.

We had joined the band director, Sipos, and about fifteen other students. I don't remember the faces. I just remember Sarah, and Sipos. I remember waiting. Fifteen minutes in, maybe twenty and I stepped out of the room. We hadn't heard anything, we still didn't really know what was going on. I went back in. Relocked the door. I had nowhere else to be right then anyway.

We didn't know what was happening. Surburbia is known for its overreactions to typically urban incidents; every time a burglary or a police chase happened nearby the school went on lockdown. We had also seen a few pranks as well; bomb threats, the occasional abandoned package. Sarah and I knew something had happened, something crazy enough to horrify hundreds of teens and send them not just out of the area but off the campus, but we still didn't know what. Not for sure anyway. We weren't idiots. Sipos had gotten a call about five minutes before from the office, saying the school was on lockdown. They didn't say why, or if they did he didn't tell us. The kids who had been in the band room were students that were about to begin class, or those who were ditching theirs to get in more practice time. The room was at the opposite end of the school from where people had run from, and only Sarah and I were newcomers. The little information we had was the only information.

We were sitting in a circle, mostly silent. Something banged against the door. An unintelligible yell. Sipos cracked the door open and all we could see was a rifle. The owner yelled again. This time we could make it out. “SDPD, SWAT! How many students present?” We told him. The door shut. Opened again a moment later. We were to follow him, single file. We were going to the shopping center parking lot across the street. I think he took names, I don't remember. I just remember the huge gun, the intensity of his voice. There were three more just like him outside. The school was being evacuated and we were in the last building. We followed out the door, single file as we were told. We tried to ask questions. They pretended not to hear.

We got as far as Second and Magnolia before I heard my mother's voice. After my call she had called the school, then the cops, then the neighbor. The neighbor was her taxi driver. My mom was screaming my name from the passenger seat. I looked over, dumbfounded. Started to walk towards the car. Mr. SWAT grabbed my shoulder and told me I needed to remain with the other students, that we were all meeting at the shopping center. I didn't get a chance to say a word, my mother did. “LIKE HELL SHE IS, THAT IS MY DAUGHTER AND SHE IS COMING WITH ME.”

I didn't go with her. She told me to walk home. I don't remember why. By the time I walked in the door the news was on, a helicopter view of the Albertsons' parking lot, a thousand swarming people in a mob. The image switched to ground coverage and I saw people I saw every day at school with tears streaming down their faces. Kristin, Pam, Erin. One girl was crying so hard she was hiccuping. You couldn't understand a word she was saying, but the camera kept rolling. The image changed again, this time an aerial view of the football field. Clear enough for me to recognize the senior from up the street, the one who had been picking on me since we moved in eight years before. He was being loaded into a LifeFlight chopper. I didn't know how I felt about it. I didn't know how I felt about any of it. The ticker scrolled across the bottom. Shooting at Santana High School in Santee, California. One confirmed dead, eight injured.

The count rose as the day progressed. 13 wounded, two killed. They began showing names as the families were notified. I recognized all of them. Scott Marshall from my elementary school. Heather Cruz from my history class. Trevor Edwards was that quiet guy that hung out with some of my friends. Matt Heier's little brother sat next to me in English. Melisa McNulty was one of the first people I started talking to freshman year. Triston Salladay was in band with me. Ray Serrato shared a limo with us at the winter formal. Karla Leyva was in the drumline. Barry Gibson lived up the street. James Jackson was one of those nerdy guys that hung around the band room because he associated with the geeks. Travis Gallegos-Tate was on the football team. Tim Estes was a student teacher, Peter Ruiz was the narc everyone hated. The two killed were Randy Gordon, 17, and Bryan Zuckor, 14. Bryan was in the PE class that ran at the same time as mine. I didn't know Randy, but I knew his younger sister.

It was two weeks before my sixteenth birthday and I learned that there is a coldness in some people, a calculating cruelty that enables them to step into a bathroom, shoot someone in the head and then continue firing out the door. He reloaded four times. He kept shooting until there was no one left to shoot.
The school was closed the following day. They had to mop up the blood.


It opened again on Wednesday. Teachers sat in desk chairs while professional counselors on teen tragedy took over. They tried to get us to do group activities. Sit in a circle and hold hands. Some of us did, some of us didn't. Some of us walked out. No one stopped us, as long as we didn't leave campus.

The school was surrounded by cameras, by reporters, by big news vans. We were plagued by well-wishers and crazy people alike. Two crying men stood at the entrance to the student parking lot, handing out pocket-sized new testaments and trying to give each of us a hug. I declined the hug. I still have the new testament.

It was at this time that I realized there really are people who would stop to watch a train wreck, and I think I met every single one of them. A man from El Cajon drove past multiple times a day in a converted U-Haul with gory blown-up abortion pictures plastered on the sides. The Westboro Baptist Church came and staged a “God Hates Fags” protest across the street at the Mobile station. Bloodthirsty reporters chased students walking to school, hoping to evoke an emotional moment that would get them in the first five minutes of the broadcast. Governor Grey Davis' wife came down from Sacramento and talked about how she used to go to our school. People from other states drove in just to mull out front and talk to us. The whole two blocks in front of the school, from the entrance to Albertsons to Second Street were impossible to get through. People drove around picking up friends so they wouldn't have to walk through it. Others added half an hour to their route just so they could get in a lesser-known back entrance. A friend of mine broke a reporter's nose after he chased him and some girls onto campus. Every evening we held a candle-lit memorial in front of the marquee and every evening our tears were filmed. I avoided the cameras like the plague and threatened more than one news reporter. I still found two images of me from the rear on the internet. My hair was orange and flowed all the way down my back. I had traded out my usual black t-shirt for my mom's baby blue sweater. Only I know its me.

This went on for two weeks before it finally began to dwindle. A group of Chargers in full gear showed up. A few of them scrawled their names in one of my notebooks. I don't remember which one. POD claimed their song “Youth of the Nation” had been written about our school, and dedicated it to us. Despite the fact that the album had been released the year before, their popularity soared. Someone paid for t-shirts for every student. White, with the words “One School, One Heart” across the chest. The back said “In Memory of Randy and Bryan.” A couple weeks later a church organization sent us 1,000 donated teddy bears. Both girls and boys carried them around. Mine is tan and spent the next two years beside my pillows. The state declared us an emergency site and donated funds to support a full Elite security staff until the end of the school year. Standardized testing was cancelled. Education was put on hold while we wandered around like zombies, donated teddy bears clutched to our chests. Tough guys, seniors, hugged and cried openly a month later. We cried for our friends, we cried for each other, we cried for ourselves.

Everyone who was injured returned to Santana, except student teacher Tim Estes. I heard he changed his mind about becoming a high school teacher, but maybe that was just a rumor. For a short time the injured kids were not just popular but almost holy. The few younger ones that hadn't been well-known were suddenly known by everyone, and were subject to awed stares from the shy, and hugs or pats on the back from the bold. We underclassmen were suddenly interested in the upper classmen who had been involved. Everyone knew the story of how Barry had reacted; hearing the shots, he grabbed two friends who were frozen and pulled them to safety. Turning back and realizing some were still there, he actually ran back for them. He was shot in the leg during this second trip. Similarly, Peter Ruiz became a celebrity. Before the shooting he was an ex-cop on an authority trip. After the shooting (and he returned to work surprisingly quickly for someone who had taken five bullets) no one could get enough of him. He still never smiled, and he still strolled around with his bulldog expression and the fuck-you air of a bouncer, but every student and staff member imagined they were looking past that into the deep soul of a hero.

The younger siblings of both Bryan Zuckor and Randy Gordon attended Santana afterward.

I was never a cheerful teenager, never one who was particularly open about my feelings. In the weeks and months after the shooting I used this skill to my advantage. I wasn't one of those girls who cried constantly and had to have her friends accompany her to the restroom. I internalized everything and delt with it on my own as I always had. I built up my shell and chose to make myself less conspicuous. I wore my hair down in my face more and wore the same black sweater every day. I was a smartass to some, silent to others. Everything else the rest of the year was brooding, dark, somber.

The group healing activities were a joke; outsiders trying to talk to discuss it with me were coldly shot down. The most therapeutic thing I did that semester was bring a deck of cards to school and play speed with Cassie. Constantly. We didn't talk, and when we did it was about something else. Boys, music groups, band, whatever. It was never about the shooting; it was always about the shooting. I wasn't mourning Randy and Bryan so much as I was mourning our collective loss of innocence. I felt betrayed. High school wasn't just our social organization but our protective glass case which held us in limbo between the adult things we weren't ready for and the childhood things we were too old for. The safety glass shattered at 9:21 AM on March 5^th of that year. The illusion that bad things didn't happen to people I knew was shattered. The illusion that bad things couldn't happen to me was shattered.

I hate loud popping noises, not because I heard the gunshots myself but because I heard so many other people's descriptions. I don't trust therapists, counselors, grief counselors or any other specialist with a similar title. I absolutely despise news reporters, and I think there's a special place in hell for bottom-feeders like the guy driving the abortion mobile and my friends at the Westboro Baptist Church who make a mockery of serious tragedies. I respect cops and response teams, and I believe wholeheartedly in a community's ability to heal together.

I also believe I was lucky.

The shooting happened out of the bathroom on the back side of the 200 building. My next class, the class I would have been going to if I hadn't been heading for lockout was directly across the hall.

I don't remember crying at school until two years later. Mr. Gushwa, my Government teacher, was the funniest and coolest teacher I had in high school. He had to be in his sixties and was pushing retirement age but seemed as active, cheerful and lively as a man in his twenties. One day he told us his story. Students had come into his classroom yelling about someone having a gun. He stepped outside. The halls were mostly clear, everything was silent. He saw a student, a thin boy crawling across the sidewalk. Dragging himself to safety. Gushwa reacted quickly, grabbing whatever he could from his room and trying to stop the bleeding with pressure. He screamed for someone to call an ambulance. He held the boy, put pressure on the wound and tried to talk to him until the ambulance came. He didn't know the student but he was the last person he ever saw. Randy Gordon died in Mr. Gushwa's arms, and he put his hands over his face and sobbed uncontrollably as he described it to us.

One image from the news feeds effects me more than the rest: a still shot of a teenage girl hugging her mother in the Albertsons parking lot. Her left arm is draped over her mother's shoulder and you can see how she painted each of her fingernails a different color. You can also see the frozen expression on her face, you can see the wail she's halfway through and you know she isn't going to be done crying for a while. I see that picture and I wonder if she was ever happy or carefree enough to paint all of her nails a different color again.

The Rescue

This was a writing assignment where the instructor had the students choose a past assignment and rewrite it using a different character's perspective. This story is loosely based on a dream I had that I turned in as a journal entry.

I just got off work and had to stop off at my mom’s to pick up my mail; I didn’t intend on being there for very long. When I got there, the house was empty; the cats weren’t running around or sleeping quietly on the furniture. I walked into the dining room to check the back window; the dogs weren’t waiting anxiously at the back door to see me. Mom wouldn’t have taken the animals somewhere, would she? I sent my sister, Jessica, a text, grabbed my mail, and headed for the front door. I was sure there was a reason for the animals being gone; figured maybe she would know. As I headed to the door, I could see a figure blocking the oval door window. The design in the window distorted the figure, but I could make out the color of the figure’s jacket; it was purple. Mom’s favorite color is purple. I opened the door expecting to see my mother w the animals; but it wasn’t her smiling face I saw. I tried not to scream as I looked at this stranger’s face. It was a man’s; at least I thought it was a man…His face was painted up like a clown’s; I’m terrified of clowns…He had green hair, and his face was painted white with red lipstick made into a giant demented smile. I slowly backed away from the door, eyes wide and mouth gaping in horror, still staring at this smiling face.

“Don’t be rude, my dear. Aren’t you gonna let a fella in?” he said coyly in a soft but gruff voice that was followed by a high pitched evil laugh. I regained my courage and made an attempt at slamming the door in this man’s face; he stopped it from closing with his foot. I turned and ran for the back door as he made his way into the house, pulling my cell phone out of the front pocket of my jeans along the way. I heard the man yelling at others behind him; “Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Get her!!” I successfully dialed my sister’s number and heard it ring once just as I reached the back door. I unlocked it and turned the knob, but was taken by surprise by one of the creepy man’s henchmen. My phone dropped to the floor just as Jessica’s voicemail kicked in; I was able to let out a single scream before a purple bandana was forced over my mouth and nose.

***

I didn’t know how long I was out. I just remember screaming and a sweet smell filling my nostrils. Did chloroform smell sweet? I didn’t know. I couldn’t worry about that right now. My eyes slowly adjusted and I looked around. It was midday; I hadn’t been out for very long. I recognized this room; I was still at my mom’s, in Jessica’s old room…Why was I still here? The room was completely empty; I was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room with a gag in my mouth and my arms behind my back, tied incredibly tight with thick rope. It was digging into my wrists and I could feel the blood slowly running down to the tips of my fingers. There was a small 19” tv in front of me; it was wrapped in bungee cords, secured to the floor; it was playing “The Dark Knight”. What the hell was going on?? I felt so helpless. I kept thinking about that frantic phone call I made to my sister. I kept thinking she never got it. I was going to die here. My mom was gone, the animals were probably dead. My eyes filled with warm tears as I continued in my thoughts.

I cleared my head when I heard the engine of a motorcycle revv as it passed down the street. It was a nice day out, I was sure Jessica would be out joy-riding today. Maybe she was out and about when I called. I hoped she would check her voicemail box right away; I knew how much she hated seeing the little icon on her phone. I heard more motorcycles passing down the main road coming from downtown. I could make out the difference of each bike from the sound of the engine; Harley’s, Yamaha’s, but none were my sister’s. I slowly rested my head on my chest and began to cry again. This really was it. I was exhausted and half-asleep when I heard the Joker talking. There were speakers behind me, hanging in the upper corners of the room. He must have had his henchmen install them while I was knocked out.

“Oh, how sweet! The older sister coming to the rescue! I think I’m going to cry!” he said with a laugh. So one of those bikes really was my sister! Tears of joy escaped my eyes and saliva from my lips soaked into the gag. I’ve never been this excited to see my sister.

“Be careful of the water, darling! Those “worms” aren’t friendly!” Again, his high pitched laugh pierced my ears. He was taunting my sister as she made her way through his little fun house. I was certain that he had a few more of his henchmen hiding, waiting to ambush her. Maybe even some horrific traps. I couldn’t think about that, so I turned my eyes to the tv. The movie had ended once already, but was playing again. Somehow, The Joker rigged it to play over and over, as a form of punishment. Did he hate this movie that much?

The Joker was quiet for quite some time; I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know whether or not Jessica had been ambushed and taken by the henchmen or still making her way through the obstacles laid out in front of her. I became more and more anxious as I waited. I was drifting into sleep when I heard The Joker’s voice screaming out of the speakers; “You fools! How did she get passed all of you?! I pay you to do my dirty work!! I didn’t help you escape from prison for nothing!!” I heard steps running up the stairs behind me, and I started screaming through the gag. I tried looking behind me, but was unsuccessful. I began shaking the chair and hopping in it to get it to turn, or fall over or something, just so I could see behind me. I was so frantic in my efforts that I never heard the footsteps approach closer.

“Hey, hey, hey it’s cool! I got you, Hannah, calm down!”

She removed my gag first, “I’m so frickin glad to see you! I don’t know how long I’ve been here! What the hell did he want?!”

“Dude, I don’t even know, let’s just get outta here…”

I nodded my head in agreement as she untied the knots; I was so relieved that she was here and we were getting out of this mess.

***

            The strange man went on to terrorize a dozen other families just like he did to mine over the course of 3 weeks. I heard about it on the news, but no one seemed to know what he was looking for exactly. All I cared about was someone catching that crazy bastard before he started to kill innocent people.

The Wallet

“I didn’t steal it,” he mumbled as he walked down Sixth Avenue. He heard nothing as he walked; not the foreign cursing echoing from a crumbling building, not the angry honking as other pedestrians confidently walked out into the busy street; not even the smack-flip sound his separating right sole made onto the cement with each step. He reached his building. A pair of feral cats were fighting over chicken bones recently retrieved out of the open garbage cans, hissing and spitting, while a slumped and bearded homeless man moved in on their prize. They also went unnoticed. 

                He made his way up the stairs to his sixth floor apartment, past crude graffiti over crumbling wallpaper of an indiscernible pattern, avoiding the loose eighth stair after the fourth landing. Once there was a working elevator in the building, but like everything else in this area of town it was long gone. The world had moved on, and many places like this had been conveniently forgotten. 

                He made his way to the tray table he called his desk and sat in the armchair with the shredded upholstery. A stack of old paperbacks leaned precariously next to the table. Salinger, Bradbury and Hemingway watched as he folded himself into the seat. He looked at the door one last time, making sure he was alone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. Leather, by the look of it, and plumper than a roasted chicken. He ran his hand across his stubble and sighed. 

                He stared at the wallet on the table. Inviting it to offer its thoughts, its opinion of him. It said nothing. He heated up a can of beans. The wallet waited, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. 

                It was six hours before he opened it. He read every bit of information on the drivers’ license as he ran his thumb across the rows of hundreds he had expected to find. He tried not to, but finally he gave in and flipped through the picture book. No kids, that was good. He wouldn’t want to take from kids, even rich kids. He pulled out the many credit cards one by one and looked at them on the table.  He returned the cards to the slots and removed the cash. He sighed again. From down the hall came the sound of a child sobbing, and this finally brought him out of his daze. He nodded to himself, found a scrap of paper and wrote down what he had to say. 

                “I found this on the L-line. I didn’t steal it. Sorry about the cash, it was needed.”

He folded the paper and carefully put it into the slot where the cash had been. He’d take it to the post office and send it to the address on the license. That was going to cost him five bucks he didn’t have, but it couldn’t be helped. 

                He stepped back out into the hall, closing his door behind him. He took a few steps and stopped at an apartment down the hall from his. The child had stopped sobbing for now, but he knew it was still hurting as it had been for a long time. He slipped the cash under the door, knocked twice and said out loud, “Take him to the doctor.” 

                By the time the door opened he was already down the stairs.