Open my eyes at the top of the auditorium. The movie’s off. The house lights are off. It’s light outside—what time is it? Did they do it yet? They must not have done it yet. I actually slept. What was I dreaming? I don’t think anything. Sweatshirt covering my legs. That’s right. Left my stockings in 109. Threw them away. Was outside. Moon was nice. Came back in. I had sex last night. That’s excellent. Really. Don’t get trapped by ideas. Where is Jared? Oh yeah, those three were sleeping in the lunchroom to get a feel for things. I think I should call the police. Or maybe not the police. But someone. Sit up. Look over the balcony. Jared’s bike is still in the seats. I guess they don’t care about anything now. The projector is off. Wonder how they get by in the morning without anyone noticing them. Duh. They go out one of the windows and just come back in with everyone else. Sit around in the courtyard playing hackey sack and Bobby Fischer and go in with the rest of us. I could go out the window. Except how do I get up without help? Did they go out already? Fuck. I’m gross. I need a bath.
I push open the backstage door. Hall lights are on. Janitors must be here already? Is it 7:30? 8:00? There’s a bathroom right outside the auditorium. Blue light showing on the frosted plastic. Beyond it zig-zagged wire grating. Four-inch slit at the bottom of the window. Trees outside. A cold breeze but something springlike in it. Something of a new day. Tingling in my lower spine, my forearms. Springtime. It is one of those days that feels like springtime in the winter. This is the type of day when we always cut class. Me and you. Go to the park downtown. Go look at mansions for sale. Pretend we could buy them. Get the flyer and call the real estate agent. Pee in the stream in the park. Cool air running through the four-inch slit. Frosting my legs, and I like it. Making me feel like shorts. Stockings from last night completely gone. That me completely gone. Let go of it. Let it fucking go. Completely gone. Wearing my skirt like it was summer. Late spring days when it’s still cold in the morning. When you dress for noon but leave at seven. New outfit, new day. This is the type of day when you and me would walk right out the front doors, see Martin Shapiro picking up some kid who was cutting, and smile and wave at them both as we left the school. That’s all you have to do is smile and wave. Kids who cut class look like they’re trying to hide. If you smile and wave at the principal, even if the reason he went outside is to find kids who are cutting, he won’t catch you. If you wave at him and maybe add in a pleasant “Good morning Mr. Shapiro!” then he will think you are doing something you are supposed to be doing. Must be going off to a doctor’s appointment without your parents. Must be doing some kind of art project. That’s our other major tactic. Carry some piece of school-supplied art equipment. A video camera. A film camera. Must be doing an art project. Getting a good shot of the school. “Good morning Mr. Shapiro!” We love you Miss Hannigan. Fuck ‘im. As he’s dragging some other kid cutting back to school. That’s the whole thing. It’s how you look at things.
Run my hand under the cold water. Then put it under the hot for a second. Two separate knobs, two separate spouts in these sinks. Temper the cold with a splash of hot then take the smattering to my leg. Try to give the major surfaces a lick, is all. Half these kids probably don’t even bathe ever. Just give it a lick so as not to draw attention.
The bathroom door opens. It’s a student. Must be a freshman. She goes to a stall and locks herself in. It might not be 7:30. It might be later than I think.
Hand in the sink. Cold then hot. Splash it on my face. Wipe my eyes. Get the gunk out of the cracks. Splash again. Wipe it with my shirt. It’ll dry by the time anyone sees me. Doesn’t matter. You’ll probably notice, though. You’ll probably notice I’m wearing the same thing as yesterday. Probably. Not necessarily. Sans stockings. Oh well.
Cool spring day in the winter. Maybe we can cut today.
Heft my bag onto my shoulder. The thing has got to weigh a third of what I do. Or possibly half. Out the bathroom. That’s a classroom door open. Lights on inside. What time is it? Find a clock. I go past the class. There are people in it. Mrs. Reece is there. The desks are in a circle. Are they meditating? Keep going. Round the corner. There’s a clock. 10:58. Just go downstairs. Go downstairs.
Bottom of the stairs. There’s people everywhere. Woman in a maroon jumpsuit with a set of keys. She looks me up and down, looks at my skirt. Am I a mess? I thought I got everything. Maybe I’m just wrinkled. Keep going bitch. This is where you’ll be working for the rest of your life. Don’t talk to her. Pretend she didn’t look at you. Don’t turn around. Just walk like normal. She doesn’t know where I slept.
Past the main office. There’s my office aid, phone in hand. How did I sleep this much? Payphone here. Fuck. I don’t have any money. Those fucking bitches took it. But—right—it’s free to call 911.
Across the hall, the lunchroom is full. It’s fifth period.
Pick up the handset. Are those guys gonna do it today? Dial 9. What am I gonna say? Dial 1. Some guys are gonna blow up the school?? How do you know? Where are you calling from? Just press the other 1. Press it. Hello? What’s your emergency? My emergency? Is that my friends are gonna blow up the school. Well not really blow up. You see, there’s this thing called a sure-kill region. I mean even our most optimistic estimates—. This is like—. This is like a hundred people dead. Max. A hundred people max. You think you can send someone out? Where?? Van Buren. You know the fucked-up ghetto school where teachers hand out crossword puzzles in English class. Yes. Yes. That’s the one. Me?? I’m nobody.
Just press the other 1.
And say what?
I’m at school and some kids are gonna blow up the school.
I think there’s a bomb? No, I didn’t put it there. I’m not even sure where it is. No, I didn’t see it. I don’t know, they just said there was one. Who’s they?? Some kids in my grade. Do you know their names?
Put the handset back. They record these calls. They record these calls. If I do this they will have my voice on tape. It will be on the news. My voice will be on the news. My call will be on CNN someday and I’ll be the one like. “Yeah. There’s a bomb in my school.”
My 911 call will sound very calm and very not-upset and people will later say. “She did not sound upset in her call. She sounded very calm.” She wasn’t acting normally for someone who knew this was going to happen.
Or: She hated everyone anyway.
Or: If she wasn’t in on it she would have called sooner.
Or: When the bomb went off, she wasn’t sad.
And I won’t be. If what? If you blow up some assholes in the lunchroom?
Just pick up the fucking phone.
Martin Shapiro comes out of the main office. In his regular suit and tie. Hasn’t anyone told him he doesn’t have to wear a suit and tie to a school like this? This is the kind of school where people get raped and blown up.
There’s a crowd of kids between us but Mr. Shapiro sees me anyway.
I hang up the phone. I think I was talking to it out loud.
He comes over. “Your mom is looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Are you ok?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“Are you calling someone?”
“I’m calling the police.” That was not what I should have said.
“Why are you calling the police?”
“Because. Our cat. We lost our cat. I just wanted to tell someone.”
Strange look on his face. “Come’ere.”
I take a step backward.
“Use the phone in my office.”
“I don’t think that—I mean—. With sexual harassment—. I could say that you raped me and if there were no witnesses—. So. It’s probably not a good idea. For you.”
He gestures toward the main office. “If you need to make a call. There’s a phone on the desk.”
Lunchroom. Sea of bodies. Tables buzzing. Lines to get food. People sitting with their trays. Whole place lit up. I look to my normal table. Molly. BJ. Janel. Where are you, William? No sign of Jared, Spencer and Rat Boy. Maybe they’re not gonna do it today. Maybe they’re not gonna do it at all. I mean, really, they’ll probably chicken out. They’re not competent to do something like that. I should probably tell someone anyway. But I don’t know who. I will do that. I’ll do that in a minute. I need to get out of this school as soon as possible. And I think I’m gonna leave the state. Get in the bug. Go to your house. If you’re there, we’ll go together. If you’re not, I’ll go by myself.
A girl goes past me. That’s the girl who got raped in here. She got raped in the lunchroom. What’s her name? That corner is the spot where it happened. How did that get started I wonder. I mean was the first one not rape? Or was it all rape. I saw one of the lunch aides see it and walk away. I know she saw it. She walked right out of the lunchroom. And it wasn’t like she was leaving to go tell someone. She walked out slow like nothing was going on. No one even knew about it until the end of next period. I think some kids who saw it told their next period teacher. Then the teacher went to the girl and asked her. She was like in the back of a typing class with bruises on her neck. Like the teacher hadn’t noticed that before someone mentioned it. Hey, I think that girl back there who isn’t typing—? I think she got raped last period. Or maybe the teacher saw the bruises and didn’t think about it. I mean that’s understandable. The teacher probably didn’t want to pry. Or maybe—I think they said it was in her shop class. It is kinda dark in there. Why am I thinking about this? I think there’s something wrong with me.
I pull out a yellow chair. Drop my bag. Sit. The girl one seat away from me looks at me like I’m weird. It’s the girl who got raped. There are two other people at the table. None of them talking. I don’t look at them. I don’t have to look at them. I can sit wherever I want. It doesn’t need an explanation. These aren’t reserved. Pull in my chair. Cross my ankles, boots under my thighs. Skirt is up, part of my ass showing. What does it matter. Blue gel pen.
I want to disappear. I feel like everything I’ve done is wrong up to this point in my life. It’s all so unacceptable. I want to spend forever in the impressionist wing of the national museum. Sit on benches and eat snack lunches and have conversations with you as a stranger. Every time we spoke would be the first time. I don’t know what we would say. Probably nothing that made sense.
But we would sit in front of Monets and it would be awesome.
I’m writing you this note because I might leave today. I will take the car as you suggested. And I will bring it back, someday, because I know you love it. Thank you for understanding me even when I’m crazy. I know I’m hard to deal with, you can spank me for it later. But I do love you. And I want you to come with me because I need you. To live, I think. I know it’s silly. I’ll probably get stuck in the desert. Or Oklahoma with my luck. Have you ever changed a flat tire? I certainly haven’t. I guess I’ll have to learn. So what do you think? New Mexico? Tell me after lunch. I know you hate this place. I can keep you company. And give you backrubs. Kiss me, William, next time we meet. I bet I will need a kiss by then. P.S. If you find Jenna dead don’t worry it was me. I might have to kill someone today. Not you. Love, and pigs, and wriggling toes, ME.