course,” he said. “Make sure she gets some ice on that.”
“Will do,” he replied, an edge of sarcasm to his voice that went completely over Sterner’s head.
My dad slung an arm around my shoulders protectively as we walked out of the building, Mom already starting to rant about the legal actions we could take against the school for my having been injured on their property. This was our family picture: Dad, warm and supportive; Mom, strong-willed and focused; and me, stuck between the two of them like a doll on a shelf.
June 27th
I DIDN ’ T start crying until my dad burst through the curtain, his black hair standing up on one side and his eyes wild with fear. He saw me, and his tense shoulders dropped with instant relief. “Oh, Kitten,” he breathed. And that’s when the dam broke.
“Daddy,” I said like I hadn’t since I was a small child, reaching for him as my eyes welled up with tears. “ Daddy. ”
He was at my side in an instant, pulling me into one of those strange sideways-hugs that you can almost manage on a hospital bed. I clawed at him, my nails catching in his wool sweater, the ugly one that Mom and I couldn’t convince him to give to charity. And then I cried so hard my throat burned and my eyes stung, my tears acidic from grief and horror. He might have said something soothing, but all I heard was the rushing in my ears and the steady thud of his heart under my cheek.
Eventually, the police arrived. Mom fended them off for a while, asserting herself as my legal counsel the moment they pulled back the curtain. She was already bargaining—no photographs containing my face, not one mention of my name outside of official reports; they had ten minutes with me and then I was going home, not a minute longer; she was in her element and Dad was in his, curled around me protectively.
I told the two police officers everything I could remember, numb to the words coming out of my mouth. I spoke in short sentences, trying to make myself as clear as possible.
We were on our way home from prom. Ricky and Jessa had been hungry. We stopped at Sparky’s. I went to the bathroom alone. I heard gunshots, dropped to the floor. I opened the door and looked out. He shot Jake in the head. I hid in the stall that was out of order. He searched the men’s room, then the ladies’. He didn’t find me. He left. I waited for a while, and then I went out. I checked for pulses. I called 9-1-1 on Ricky’s iPhone.
I spoke slowly, as though calm, but my throat burned with tears and most of it came out choked. One officer was jotting down my story in a notebook. My mother started crying. My father was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then came the questions.
“What did the gun look like?”
“It was a sawed-off shotgun. It was—like—” I held out my hands the right distance apart. “Like this big.” I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about guns.”
I looked at my hands then, as though they were coming into focus for the first time since I’d left the diner. They were covered in blood, tacky in places, but mostly dry and flaking off. I felt sick to my stomach again.
“Did you get a good look at the shooter’s face?”
I kept staring at my hands, unable to process the words and the image of the literal blood on my hands at the same time. I didn’t remember there being that much blood on my hands when I’d checked for pulses. When had I put my hands in blood? When I stood up?
“Hey!”
I jumped inside my skin and my heart began racing wildly as I looked up at the officers. My mother jumped to my defense instantly, despite the tracks of tears drying on her flushed cheeks.
“Don’t you dare yell at her,” she seethed, and the cop who had spoken put his empty hands up defensively. “She’s traumatized .”
I didn’t feel traumatized. I felt anger bubbling just below the surface of my cheeks, contained only by the hard set of my jaw. I felt numb in my extremities, violently
“Will do,” he replied, an edge of sarcasm to his voice that went completely over Sterner’s head.
My dad slung an arm around my shoulders protectively as we walked out of the building, Mom already starting to rant about the legal actions we could take against the school for my having been injured on their property. This was our family picture: Dad, warm and supportive; Mom, strong-willed and focused; and me, stuck between the two of them like a doll on a shelf.
June 27th
I DIDN ’ T start crying until my dad burst through the curtain, his black hair standing up on one side and his eyes wild with fear. He saw me, and his tense shoulders dropped with instant relief. “Oh, Kitten,” he breathed. And that’s when the dam broke.
“Daddy,” I said like I hadn’t since I was a small child, reaching for him as my eyes welled up with tears. “ Daddy. ”
He was at my side in an instant, pulling me into one of those strange sideways-hugs that you can almost manage on a hospital bed. I clawed at him, my nails catching in his wool sweater, the ugly one that Mom and I couldn’t convince him to give to charity. And then I cried so hard my throat burned and my eyes stung, my tears acidic from grief and horror. He might have said something soothing, but all I heard was the rushing in my ears and the steady thud of his heart under my cheek.
Eventually, the police arrived. Mom fended them off for a while, asserting herself as my legal counsel the moment they pulled back the curtain. She was already bargaining—no photographs containing my face, not one mention of my name outside of official reports; they had ten minutes with me and then I was going home, not a minute longer; she was in her element and Dad was in his, curled around me protectively.
I told the two police officers everything I could remember, numb to the words coming out of my mouth. I spoke in short sentences, trying to make myself as clear as possible.
We were on our way home from prom. Ricky and Jessa had been hungry. We stopped at Sparky’s. I went to the bathroom alone. I heard gunshots, dropped to the floor. I opened the door and looked out. He shot Jake in the head. I hid in the stall that was out of order. He searched the men’s room, then the ladies’. He didn’t find me. He left. I waited for a while, and then I went out. I checked for pulses. I called 9-1-1 on Ricky’s iPhone.
I spoke slowly, as though calm, but my throat burned with tears and most of it came out choked. One officer was jotting down my story in a notebook. My mother started crying. My father was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then came the questions.
“What did the gun look like?”
“It was a sawed-off shotgun. It was—like—” I held out my hands the right distance apart. “Like this big.” I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about guns.”
I looked at my hands then, as though they were coming into focus for the first time since I’d left the diner. They were covered in blood, tacky in places, but mostly dry and flaking off. I felt sick to my stomach again.
“Did you get a good look at the shooter’s face?”
I kept staring at my hands, unable to process the words and the image of the literal blood on my hands at the same time. I didn’t remember there being that much blood on my hands when I’d checked for pulses. When had I put my hands in blood? When I stood up?
“Hey!”
I jumped inside my skin and my heart began racing wildly as I looked up at the officers. My mother jumped to my defense instantly, despite the tracks of tears drying on her flushed cheeks.
“Don’t you dare yell at her,” she seethed, and the cop who had spoken put his empty hands up defensively. “She’s traumatized .”
I didn’t feel traumatized. I felt anger bubbling just below the surface of my cheeks, contained only by the hard set of my jaw. I felt numb in my extremities, violently
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