3

First thing in the morning, the school sends an administrator to each homeroom. Mine is calculus. Goal—to calm everyone down. It does the opposite. Administrators don’t come to hang out in math class unless the world is ending.

Dr. Paisley stands in front of my class and clears her throat. She wears a long braid down her back, with a loose, flowy top and peace-sign earrings. She looks like a hippie love child stuck in the wrong decade. Paisley smiles. “Okay, folks, why do you think I’m here to talk to you all?”

We all know why she’s here. But there isn’t anything she can say to make us forget about what happened. At least half the seats are empty today. I look around and wait for someone to answer. I feel a little nauseous.

Garth Johnson shifts his massive upper torso in his seat. He looks like the dad in The Incredibles—not when he’s retired, but when he’s in good shape. “You’re here to get us to talk about what happened yesterday. Obviously.”

“You got it.” Paisley points her finger at him. She reminds me of that old-fashioned “I Want YOU for the U.S. Army” poster. “But I’m also here to talk about how to improve our school. Generally when something like this happens on a school campus, some students knew about it beforehand.”

I need water. I am definitely on my way to being sick.

This little pipsqueak kid, Simon or Steven or something, raises his hand. “You’re saying there are kids on campus who knew someone was going to try to blow up the school?” He sets his pencil on his desk and it rolls toward him. The sound of the pencil against the desk is louder than I would’ve thought. He stops it with his hand.

“I’m saying that when experts have studied incidents of school violence across the nation, they’ve tried to identify patterns. Often the aggressor has told his close friends or made threats.” She lets that thought hang over us for a moment. “Unfortunately, sometimes there’s a school climate that interferes with those friends coming forward and telling an administrator. We aim to fix that.”

“So you want us to rat on each other?” Garth calls out.

A bunch of kids laugh and someone mutters “Petey” in a low voice. Pete Plumber is this brilliant, socially inept kid who thinks he has to tattle about everything to make the world go round. “So-and-so’s chewing gum in class,” “So-and-so’s copying homework,” and yada, yada, yada. The other kids have a field day, just messing around with him. I think it’s mean, but honestly, it’s none of my beeswax.

“Not rat.” Paisley smooths back the loose wisps of hair around her face. “Let’s use another word.”

“Snitch?”

When Paisley smiles, she pulls her lips back too far, making it seem forced. I’m close enough to see one of those clear teeth straighteners over her pearly whites. There’s something creepy about adults with braces. Plus it makes her slur. “How about something with a more positive connotation? How about ‘share’?”

Exactly how long has it been since she was a teenager? Maybe she’s older than she looks. That hippie thing is working for her.

“Here’s the thing. If there really had been a live bomb, and if we hadn’t been able to defuse it, we would’ve been looking at massive casualties.” Pause.

I look around for a trash can just in case breakfast decides to resurface.

“And let’s say hypothetically some of you knew about this plan before it went down … Think of how you’d feel. Think of how it would be to go to one of your friends’ funerals.”

We all stare. Well, duh. We have been to other students’ funerals. Paisley has only been an administrator at our school for six months, so maybe she doesn’t know. But freshman year Alicia Benton died of bone cancer. Sophomore year Jo Moon hanged herself on a tree. Junior year a group of kids got their hands on some bad ecstasy. One died and another fried his brain.

This year, senior year, we’ve been tragedy free. So far.

Paisley moves around the side of the room and we all shift in our seats. “Here’s my point. We need to create a school culture in which people feel comfortable sharing their own observations with the administration. Where students can come to me and tell me their concerns with no fear of retribution from peers.”

There is a trash can by Paisley’s left knee. I might puke right here in front of everyone.

Paisley fingers her peace-sign earrings. “So we’ll be pulling every single student out of class for an individual interview. We’ll gather data about how you all feel about this school, what you think we can do to improve the school climate, and so on. If you know anything about yesterday’s incident, this will be a time when you can share. We promise to keep your comments confidential.”

Someone in the back row coughs. Loudly.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” someone else calls out.

Paisley ignores this. “I also want to commend you all for coming to school today. With all the support we have from the police at this time, school is the safest place on earth for you. Tell your friends. We’d like everyone back in their seats tomorrow.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I whisper under my breath.

I text Beth that evening. FYI, Paisley says “school is the safest place on earth.”

She must have her phone in her hand, because she’s quick. No … that’d be Disneyland.

Disneyland is the happiest place.

Not for me. My happiest place is my bed.

If you’d ever had a boyfriend in your entire life, that’d sound dirty.

LOL! Your mind’s in the gutter!

Proudly. Hey, you coming back tomorrow?

Dad’s making me. Gotta keep my “eye on the prize.”

I’m impressed you stayed home today.

Yeah. Faked a fever.

Clever.

It’s okay. School’s my happy place too.

I know, you rocking genius.

Look who’s talking, Miss Straight A.

That’d be sweat and tears and zero social life.

Study groups are social. There’s conversation. And snacks.

Yes—but no kissable boys!

Boys are drama. No time for that. You’ve got too much to do.

Thanks for reminding me.

The story of my life.