I fold your note. Go out of the lunchroom. Head left. I pass Mr. Baumgartner’s. Make the mistake of looking in.
Mr. Baumgartner sees me. Stands. He’s coming out.
I keep walking.
Mr. Baumgartner’s calling me. “Come here for a second.”
“I can’t.”
He comes up beside me. “What is going on with you?”
“Just one of those days. I’ll check you tomorrow ok?”
Hand on my shoulder. And I’m looking up into his big eyes. At his bald head with a combover, but somehow it’s sweet. He brings me into his office. “Sit down for a second.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
He laughs. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you—are you planning on working all day? I mean when do you get off?”
“Why?”
“Nothing. Don’t listen to me I’m stupid today.”
“What class are you supposed to be in now?”
“I don’t have class today. I have—painting.”
Mr. Baumgartner looks doubtful.
“You know I don’t go to class.”
He smiles. He’s looking at some kind of register.
I’m looking out the window. “You know this bumper sticker I saw the other day?”
Mr. Baumgartner closes his register and says. “Tell me.”
I pause for effect. “It said: FAT PEOPLE ARE HARDER TO KIDNAP.”
“Was the driver fat?”
“That’s the thing. No she wasn’t. She was skinny.” I knew Mr. Baumgartner would understand.
“I want to talk with you about your PSAT.”
“I was just trying to finish first.”
“I saw that.”
“Did I fail?”
“You got the highest score. You got the highest score in your class. And. I was looking through some records. I believe you got the highest score in the history of the school.” The guy definitely has a combover. But in his case it’s cute.
“Ok.” I say. Ok. I’m getting kind of nervous. “So what are we gonna to do about this?”
Mr. Baumgartner leans in. “I know you’re going to graduate early this year.”
“Right.” Definitely. Definitely cutting out of here.
“Are you thinking about what colleges you might want to go to?”
Smiling. Wow. Yep, I’m smiling. Leave that to Mr. Baumgartner.
I’m shaking my head and biting my bottom lip. Looking at my lap.
Actually, I’m gonna be a Playboy model. Wanna see my tits?
In the hall I see Jared walking with one of the detonators.
He had the hand-grip thing. The neoprene handle. That’s definitely what I saw.
I run to the door.
People throughout the hallway. Jared.
Jared just walked into the lunchroom holding the detonator.
Cringe. Tight fingers. Make them claws. This was not my original plan for the day. This was not the plan. Think about going to Jared. Asking him to stop. No. Go back to Mr. Baumgartner’s desk. Get my bag. Go out. You don’t have to talk to him. Why don’t I just ask Jared to stop? Exactly why am I not asking him to do that? Because I want to see what happens? Or maybe: for no reason. William, why did you have that stuff in your locker? Why didn’t you tell me about it? How did you buy it? Can they trace it to you? Did I sink us both? Did you? At least we’re gonna sink together.
I can’t stop it. Stay calm. I can’t stop it. That’s not possible at all. If I run to Jared now, he might set it off. I don’t want to die today. I don’t want to die.
Keep going. Steady. Steady. Round the corner. Definitely do not look back. Whoa—leaning. Not good. Stop. Two feet. Two feet, two legs. Now walk. Yeah. Perfect. Just like normal. Walking can be done in many circumstances. I walk now. It is the same act as when I walk any other time, regardless of what just happened. Or maybe what’s about to. Many people walk and it’s all walking. Guilty people walk. Children walk. People who are about to get hit by a car, walk. All the same.
Paint lab. Mr. Evan Walker. Same lovely beard. Cute old man. Well, cute middle-aged man. Laura Hollister. Jason Atkinson. Beth Rice. Erica Jones. All painting. You are the lucky ones. Smile weakly. Hike past them. I peer into my studio. Empty. I shuff off my bag. It hits the floor with a clomp.
Back in the main room. “Have you seen William today?”
Mr. Walker points at the door. “He just left.”
Grab Mr. Walker’s keys. Red neck strap. On the desk by Laura. On top of a yellow folder.
Push the door. Open. Lean out.
You’re right there. Coming from the direction of the special-ed room.
I step into the hall. “Did you go to check on your special admirer?”
“Kayla?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I took her virginity.”
Tug your shirt. “Get in here.”
Mr. Walker doesn’t even look up. Back in the room. Push you toward the studio. “I’ll meet you.” In one move, I take the keys from the yellow folder. Go to the door. Lock the door. Push the handle. Locked. Turn and place the keys back on the yellow folder. Eyes catch with Laura. She saw. But only she saw. Lock eyes. Remove hand from keys. Smile. Get a screwed up face in return. Heart leaping. Feeling nervous now! Laura’s look follows me only halfway to the studio. She’s looking at my legs. That’s what I get for wearing short skirts! Turn around. Paint your portrait of—who?—actually that’s not half bad for her. Kind of lopsided. I’m waltzing through the room. Jason Atkinson painting fruit that looks like a vulva. And some that looks like a cock and balls. Nice. Very nice. You have a future. To the studio, fluorescent light in the main room, incandescent in here. How many? Four, five, six, seven. You are the lucky ones.
I pull the studio door so it’s almost shut. “Please say you just went to the lunchroom to find me.”
“I was looking for you all morning! I’ve been calling you.”
“I lost my phone. I figured out your science project. Did you know this was gonna happen today?”
“No! No. Just—listen to me. No matter what. No matter what don’t say anything. Ok? Just—. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t know about it.” You’re shaking your head. Your hands pulling me in, dizzying me. “I’m serious.”
“I’m serious too.”
You touch my arm. “You’re clammy.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” You look worried. “You’re shaking. Did you eat anything?”
I whisper. “Call Jared. I just saw him. Going in the lunchroom. Call those guys. Are they about to do it?”
You take my head in your hands. Our eyes burn together.
“There’s no reason you have to get in trouble for this. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Call those guys and get your stuff back.”
You push open the door of the studio. “I’m getting you some water.”
I grab your arm. “I don’t need water.”
You look out at Mr. Walker’s class.
“I locked the door.” I say.
And something rocks the building.
We look at each other. Then you open the door from the studio into the main classroom and we stop our conversation right away. You’re not dumb. That’s part of why I like you.
I’m looking at Mr. Walker.
His eyes dart to everyone in the class. “Did you feel that?”
Jason Atkinson sets his paintbrush down. Steps back. Looks at his painting.
Beth and Erica are laughing.
My heart is beating fast.
I want to get myself off.
I pull you into the sculpture studio. Press myself against you. You undo the top buttons of my shirt. Put your hand on me. Press your fingers under my skirt. Wetness. I’m kissing. Kiss. Horrible, horrible me. It can’t go back now. It’s done. It will never be then ever again. It’s all now now.
You’re off balance, leaving me, trailing my hand to the classroom. People are looking. I button my shirt. You push on the class door. It won’t go. It was locked with a key. You take the key from the desk. You open the door. You’re out in the hallway. Don’t go. I’m pulling you.
“I have to see what happened.” You say. “We might have to go.”
People are milling around the hallway. Did you feel that?
You pull me close. You speak clearly and quietly. “Don’t go back to my locker.”
I shake my head.
“Listen to me. Listen to me. You don’t know my combination.”
I’m pulling away.
“Go home. I’ll meet you.”
Mr. Walker is in the hallway now. So is Laura. So is Jason.
You say. “I have to check some things. Go home.”
Laura hears this. I push past her and go back to the sculpture studio. I hoist my bag.
You knew about this from the beginning. Was it you that thought of this? Was it you that wanted this to happen? I can see Jared all excited when you first mentioned the idea. Or did they come to you? Put a few heads together and look what happens.
Shluffing my bag down the hallway after you. Where is Jared now? I look in the gym. They’re playing soccer. Red versus black. Girls in shorts and ponytails. Squeak of their shoes on the floor. Laura trails behind me. She definitely knows something is up. Kayla’s outside the special-ed room with her mouth open. Don’t look. Don’t look. There’s the one with the epic limp, who walks like a car with wheels of different sizes. I don’t want to see that one. Kayla is coming up to me. She has spit in her braces. Close your mouth Kayla. Close your mouth. What is she saying? Will you deliver this??
“Wi’ you ‘e’iver i’?” She shoves it in front of me. It’s a badly folded note—addressed to you, by the way.
I stop and look at her. “Kayla. Close your mouth.”
She does.
“That’s better.”
A scream from the hall to my left.
“Now what is this?”
The special-ed teacher, Mrs. Skelton, is in the hall now.
“For Wi’iam.” For William. “Wi’ you ‘e’iver i’?” Yes.
“Yes.” Give me the note. I will deliver it.
I’m coming around a corner. There’s someone puking. I can hear it. There’s Adrian walking. She slips on it and the smell makes me want to throw up. I get chills. I shake my head. Just don’t breathe in as you go by. It’s a big girl, really fat, shoulders ballooned up under her sleeves. Stretched skin popping out of her sleeves and she’s only—what—fifteen? Her puke is orange and brown, strict delineations in it. Two distinct meals. I’d hate to see that girl’s shit. That’s what I’m thinking. Wow. There must be something wrong with me. I would hate to see her shit. She probably hates it too. That’s the funny thing. She probably feels the same way about herself that I feel about her. And she feels the same way about me that I do. Uhgg. Whoa. Almost lost it. She’s puking. Walk more. Keep walking.
People gathering in front of the lunchroom.
There’s Mike Breeley. He’s standing next to John Tennemeyer. John covers his mouth. He might throw up too.
Approaching the double doors. A crowd now. I see proper Miss Theobald. She just sits down in the middle of it, not covering the opening of her red skirt when she does it. Just drops a knee to the floor and kind of lops over. A tall girl in a track uniform comes out covering her head. Dobos is next to Miss Theobald. He doesn’t have his ice cup and he’s not saying anything.
Dust, melted plastic, table leg, plaster fragments, blown out the double doors. Martin Shapiro is on his phone. This is the most attentive I’ve seen him all year. I push in, oh—Chris Rhodes has no leg. Bricks everywhere. Chris is sitting in a chair. Parts of the ceiling caved in. There is still a red drink on a table with a straw in it. Chris has one leg now and his blood is on the floor.
Wreckage. It makes my throat want to throw up but I like the quiet. Does that make me sick that I like this quiet? I don’t like the rest of it. Oh God, Jordan. Bloodslick. But the—oh—the quiet is nice. That’s—from the back that looks like Meeghan Farrow. Oh God I think that’s Meeghan Farrow. I wonder who else is in here. Don’t look. Oh God. Throat, no, don’t—throat—breathe through your nose. Breathe through your nose. Don’t stop, no, don’t sit down. I don’t believe I’m sitting down. I think if I sat here for the rest of the day no one would notice me. Holes blown in chairs, tables on their sides, fragments of—people. Fragments of people smaller than I would have ever imagined. A piece of skin, burned skin, smaller than a key. Whose? I’m sitting down. Clutch my knees. Probably the safest place to be. Oh God—close your eyes. Better. I can see it still, but better. Vomit. I need to throw up. Taste of vomit. Stand up. Trip—almost. Catch the top of a chair. Don’t fall. Ok. Breathe, look straight ahead. Bag. Up. On my shoulders. Both straps. That feels better. Focus on the bag. Carry my bag. I have to carry my bag. Those kids aren’t dead. This is a movie. Carry my bag. Easy! Do not slip. Do not slip here. Um, yeah. Definitely do not slip here. Is that someone’s lunch or is that someone? Looks like mud on the wall. Like mud right there on the wall. Dirty feet, tire tracks. I know this table. BJ? No, that’s not him. Must be someone with BJ’s shirt. That doesn’t even look like BJ. Who’s this next to him? Is that—? That’s Molly. That is Molly. That definitely is Molly. The top part of her. I’m looking at the top part of Molly.
Next to her, some of the flat black balls. These must not have gone off. If they find these, William, will they track them to you? How many more of them are there, in places around the school. I pick them up, one at a time. Matte-black spheres at the base of the lunchroom wall. Stuff them in my bag. William. William. Why did you have anything to do with this?
There are things I want to say to you. Teal leotard top. Where’s the bottom? Things I cannot say. That’s Molly’s teal leotard top and that’s her shoe over there. That’s Molly’s freshly-done hair. That’s Molly’s makeup. That’s most of Molly’s face. Those are her lips. That’s her cheek. And that is where it ends. The edge of Molly is different now. That is where she ends. There are things you only write in your quietest thoughts, things you never say in words. There are things like this that cross my mind every time I see your face.
I’m about to topple. Put my hand on my leg. Kneel down. Kneel. If I black out here they will think I am one of the dead. Scratch my nails on my leg. I’m one of the living. I’m still one of the living.
Molly with. Oh. One leg so far above her head. God. Circus dancer. Fell off the tightrope. I saw pictures like this in a train safety video in middle school. Stay off the tracks. If you play with trains this might happen to you. Never go between cars. Cars that couple unexpectedly can cut you in half.
That’s Molly. And that’s Molly. There’s part of her there. And there’s part of here there.
Molly’s skinny legs stretched like that. Lincoln when he stumbles. He doesn’t even have enough energy to get onto the couch. He’s big enough, but there’s not enough umph. Not enough umph in that cat anymore. The front half of him gets up and the back half doesn’t make it. It falls limp. It drags the front half back down off the couch. Molly stretched like that. Two halves of her. Vomit in my mouth.
Why do people assume, when a bomb goes off, that it is over? Why do we look at the effects of the blast and not imagine that this is only the beginning? No, a bomb goes off and we look at a person without a leg and instead of thinking that could happen to us right here right now where we stand, we think what a horrible thing just happened to you.
Looking at Molly. Shard of glass from my favorite mirror. It’s in the back pocket of my ALICE pack. Unbuckle it. There. At the bottom. Not wrapped in anything. Feel its edges with my fingertips. Microscopic treads on my pinky. So delicate at that scale. You could just scrape a fingerprint right off. Sit against the wall. Draw up the sleeve of my sweatshirt. That’s Molly, that’s really her. Put the mirror to my arm. Drag it all the way up. All the way through my elbow pit. That’s pretty good. I’m bleeding now. Pull off the sweatshirt. Pull off the left half of it. I don’t feel like throwing up anymore. Put the mirror on my arm and make another line. Press it. Draw it upward. Press harder this time. Press it all the way in. I don’t need that skin. I don’t need it anymore. My blood on laminate tiles. I think I can do one more. I think I can do one more and then I can pass out right here. Probably five minutes. Probably about five minutes.
Blood on the back of my leg. Puddle forming. Sitting. Dizzy. Lean against the wall. There’s nothing in me to vomit. Oh fuck. Almost passed out. Looking at the ceiling. A light fixture. This light, it’s lovely. It’s even celestial, to use a word Molly would use. I’m not worried about blackness. Blackness is what I’m looking for. I don’t think you ever know you blacked out unless you wake up.