Gone, Gone, Gone by Hannah Moskowitz Page B

says, and she gives me an extra kiss on each cheek. “I love you.” She doesn’t roll down the windows, even though it’s not as cold outside as it has been and the leaves are falling and it already smells like Halloween. October has a smokier smell than September, like there are candles burning in pumpkins the whole month.
    Before I get out of the car, she says, “Craig, maybe we should stop hunting for the animals for a while.”
    I look at her.
    And my brain stops CodyCodyCody ing just long enough to think, two dogs, three cats, three rabbits, one guinea pig .
    She says, “Okay, honey, I’m sorry. God, don’t ever make that face at me again.” She hugs me, but I don’t know what face I’mmaking, because I didn’t mean to make a face. Maybe my normal face is just a really sad face, and how shitty would that be?
    But the point is that I’m not going to stop looking for the animals, because they are mine and they are counting on me.
    When I get out of the car, all these teachers and parent volunteers sweep in and form a pod around me until I reach the building. It’s claustrophobic and annoying and I’m fifteen and I can take care of myself.

    I’m doodling in American Civilizations when Mr. Spavich sets aside his lesson plan and says, “Okay. Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”
    We all look at him like we don’t know what he’s talking about.
    “Are your parents afraid to pump gas?” he asks. “All of a sudden, that seems like a risky activity, doesn’t it?”
    We don’t look at each other.
    Mr. Spavich says, “Guys. It’s okay to be scared.”
    Marisabel says, “If we’re scared, the terrorists win. Isn’t that what everyone said after September eleventh?”
    “This isn’t terrorists,” Lio says under his breath. He’s sitting next to me, wearing these fingerless gloves that make him look like a badass. After his email last night, I haveno idea what to say to him. And I guess he’s forgiven for kissing me, but I guess I still have that headache.
    Dennis says, “Well, my parents are paying my brother to pump gas for them, which is kind of disgusting. Like, it’s all well and good if he’s the one who gets shot, we get it.”
    “There are articles online, now,” Marisabel says. “Like, ‘How Not To Get Shot While Pumping Gas.’ People are getting paid to tell us how to not get randomly shot.”
    Lio writes AND HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT in big letters on his notebook. Next to it is a scribble from his English class— fucking Kafka climaxed too early— that makes me smile. I chew my knuckle so I don’t laugh, and he notices and gives me this fantastic grin, though I’m not sure he knows why I’m laughing, and I think that’s okay. I think it’s this thing that’s okay, here in the middle of everything.
    “Craig?” Mr. Spavich says.
    Fuck. I look up.
    He raises his eyebrows at me. “Thoughts?”
    So I say my first thought. “I think it’s really disrespectful and stupid to compare this to September eleventh.”
    Mr. Spavich says, “Oh?”
    I bet American Civ had a field day last year, with September 11th. God, how can I even think things like that? I should be arrested. How many awful thoughts do you need to have before you count as a terrorist?
    Lio whispers, “Numbers,” but like he’s talking to himself, not to me. It’s stillenough for me to get my bearings.
    I clear my throat. “Yeah. I mean . . . we just had the anniversary, and already we’re looking for our next big tragedy? This doesn’t compare at all. And how many people died in the Pentagon?”
    “One hundred and eighty-nine,” Mr. Spavich says.
    Damn. That sounds so low. I thought it was more than that, and it throws me for a second, but then I remember what the Pentagon was and what this is and everything comes back faster and harder. I say, “But, yeah. A hundred and eighty-nine people versus six from a sniper? Like, a life is a life. . . .”
    “And more lives is more lives,” Mr.