Graduation was in ten days, and everyone was all about getting high school over with. Other than a moment of silence on May 2nd, nobody seemed to even remember that our class was going to be missing a bunch of grads. And it was only a few minutes after the moment of silence that Jacob Kinney, supposed best friend of the tragically late Chris Summers, started in again.
“Hey, Dav-a-lina,” Jacob called as we walked back to our classes, “maybe you can find a pink, glittery cap and gown for graduation. With flowers!”
Whatever.
Ten days from now, I would never have to listen to that jerk again. I would never have to answer to “princess” or worry that the drawing of a penis someone had inked on the cover of my math book would be seen. I would be free.
But then they pantsed Doug Hobson again. Right outside the locker room, their favorite place. And I don’t know what made me snap. I don’t know if it was the buildup of two years of torment or if it was the look on Doug’s face, like he was laughing along with them, only I knew he wasn’t. I knew he was only doing it because he felt that laughing somehow made him look like he was in on the joke. Like he was in control of his uncontrollable situation.
“Grow up,” I called, stepping next to Jacob, so close I could smell his breath.
He stopped laughing, though he was still smirking. “Why don’t you back off, queer? I’d think you’d like it. Free show. You don’t even have to buy him dinner first.”
I was done. I was done listening, I was done watching, I was done talking. Without even thinking, almost without even realizing, my fist darted out and smashed against Jacob’s cheekbone.
He hit the ground, and I had a crazy moment of staring at my hand thinking, Holy shit, I just dropped Jacob Kinney! But I barely had time to process the thought before he was up on his feet again and coming at me. I tried to dodge, but I was too slow, and his friends got behind me, blocking me from running away. He caught me under the chin, and my head snapped back. I stumbled backward a few steps, regained my footing, rammed into him, and next thing I knew, we were on the floor, and I was swinging my arms as hard as I could, my eyes shut, not paying attention to where my fists were landing. He cussed and called me names, landing punches on my cheeks, shoulders, chest. I just kept swinging until someone grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me up.
I finally opened my eyes, and there was Jacob, just a few feet from me, yelling and struggling to get free from Coach Radford.
“Calm down,” I heard in my ear, and wanted to die when I realized that it was the girls’ gymnastics coach who was holding me back. Of course. Because being subdued by a woman could only make me look even more like a weakling.
“He attacked me,” Jacob said, seething. I was pleased to see his face streaked with blood and hoped that it was at least partially his and not all mine.
“I’m sick of it!” I screamed so loud, my voice cracked. “I’m sick of him getting away with it! He didn’t learn! Nick shot all those people, and he still hasn’t changed! His best friend died! His best friend!” I knew at that point I wasn’t making any sense, that I wasn’t getting my point across, and that at best I was going to land myself on Angerson’s Potential School Shooter watch list. But I couldn’t stop. “He’s a bad person! He’s just a bad person!”
***
Mom picked me up. She had to find a sub to run her bus route, and she was so upset, her voice quivered when she spoke.
“Suspended,” she said as we left the school together. “You’re lucky they didn’t expel you. Ranting and raving about the shooting? Picking a fight? What is wrong with you?”
I ground my teeth together, which sent pain shooting through my jaw. She had no idea. Of course she didn’t. Because I never told her. Not anything. Not about the years of being called names. Not about finding Nick and Jeremy at Blue Lake the day before the shooting. Not about what happened May 2nd in the Commons. She knew none of it.
Say something. Just say it.
But I’d held it in for so long, I didn’t know where to begin. The words seemed too long, the story too big. I’d never felt so guilty in all my life.
When we got home, I went to my room, leaving Mom hollering from the kitchen, something about being grounded and how lucky I was that they were still going to let me walk at graduation and what was this she was hearing about me skipping school and I wasn’t suicidal or on drugs, was I?
“It was a mistake,” I yelled back. “I made a mistake.” And I shut the door, hearing Nick’s voice. What if they’re just mistakes?
I flopped on my bed and grabbed my laptop, searching for the Garvin County Sun-Tribune and the reporter who had practically lived at our school after the shooting.
Say something. Say it.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number on the screen. “Hello? Is this Angela Dash? You’re the one writing all the stories about the Garvin High shooting? Yeah, I have a tip for you. Someone knew that the shooting was going to happen and didn’t tell. And it wasn’t Valerie Leftman. You should check out Nick Levil’s other friends.”
I hung up and laid the phone on my chest, staring at the ceiling. If I didn’t have the guts to say it myself, maybe someone would find me out and say it for me.