A Different Blue

Chapter Eight





When I heard the first shot I thought of the fireworks that had cracked and sizzled throughout the neighborhood on New Years Eve. It startled me, but it didn't occur to me to be scared. The parking lot around my apartment complex had been lit up for the last two days with residents setting off bottle rockets and spinners and kids running around with sparklers, and I was almost used to the sound. I slammed my locker shut and headed toward my seventh hour class as another shot rang out.

And then kids were screaming and people were yelling that someone had a gun. I rounded the corner on the way to Mr. Wilson's room and saw Manny, his arm raised like the Statue of Liberty, a gun clutched torchlike in his hand. He was shooting at the ceiling and striding toward Wilson's door demanding to know where Brandon Bates was. Horror slammed into me like a runaway train. Brandon was in my seventh-hour, European History class in Mr. Wilson's room. I dropped my books and raced after Manny, screaming.

“Manny! Manny, stop!” I shrieked. Manny didn't even turn his head. He kept walking and shooting. Three shots and then four. He walked into Wilson's classroom and shut the door behind him. A shot rang out once more. I flew through the door seconds later, expecting the worst. Mr. Wilson stood in front of Manny, one hand stretched out toward him. Manny had the gun pointed at Wilson's forehead and was demanding to know where Brandon was. Kids were crying and huddling together underneath their desks. I saw no blood, no bodies, and no sign of Brandon Bates. My relief gave me courage. I was behind Manny, facing Wilson, and though Wilson's eyes never left Manny's face or the gun pointed at his forehead, his hand motioned me away. I moved toward Wilson, giving Manny a wide berth so I wouldn't spook him, speaking softly as I did.

“Manny. You don't want to hurt Wilson. You like him, remember? You said he's the best teacher you've ever had.” Manny's eyes swung wildly to me and then zeroed in on Wilson once more. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely, and his hands were shaking violently. I was afraid he would accidentally pull the trigger. At that distance he wouldn't miss Wilson.

“Stay away, Blue! He's protecting Brandon! Everybody get down!” Manny screeched, waving the gun in every direction. “I'll b-blow his head off, I promise,” he stuttered, the words so at odds with his young voice that I almost laughed. But it wasnt funny. None of it was funny.

I kept walking, and Wilson shook his head furiously, willing me to stay put. But I kept moving. My legs felt like they weighed four hundred pounds, and I couldn't feel my hands. I was completely numb with fear. But I wasn't afraid of Manny. I was terribly afraid for him.

“Manny. Give me the gun, sweetie. None of us are protecting Brandon.” I looked around at the cowering students, praying Brandon wasn't in the room. Several students lifted their heads, looking for Brandon too, but nobody spoke.

“He's not here, Manny,” Wilson offered, his voice as calm as if he were just giving another lecture. “I'm not protecting him. I'm protecting you, do you understand that? Your sister needs you, and if you shoot Brandon or anyone else, you will go to jail for a very long time.”

“But she's only fourteen! And he sent the pictures to everyone! She thought he liked her. He told her to send him some pictures and then he sent them to everyone! She tried to kill herself, and now I'm going to kill him!” Manny cried, bending down to look underneath the desks, certain we were hiding Brandon.

“And he's going to have to answer for that, Manny,” I soothed, now within an arm's length of him. Wilson reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me toward him. He tried to push me around his back but I shrugged out of his grasp, keeping myself between him and Manny. I knew Manny wouldn't shoot me. Manny had resumed pointing the gun toward Wilson, but I now stood in the way.

“There are picture of you too, Blue! Did you know that? Gabby showed me this morning. The whole fr-freaking sch-school has seen y-you!” Manny stuttered, his face a shattered mask.

I reassured myself that it couldn't be true, even as stunned humiliation clogged my throat and spread through my limbs like snake venom. I kept my arm outstretched, hoping Manny would relent and hand me the gun.

“If that's the case, then shouldn't Blue be the one with the gun?” Wilson countered mildly. Manny's eyes shot to Wilson, a shocked look on his face. Then he looked at me, and I wiggled my fingers, indicating he should hand it over. He seemed to consider what Wilson said.

Then Manny laughed. It was just a slight hiccup, but the sound ricocheted around the room like another shot. I wanted to cover my head, but the hiccup became a chortle, and the chortle a full rolling laugh that turned into wracking sobs.

All at once, Manny seemed to lose his conviction, and his arm went slack, the gun hanging loosely from his fingers. He buried his chin in his chest and let the sobs overtake him. Wilson stepped around me and took Manny in his arms, pulling him close as my hands closed around the gun. Manny let me take it without protest, and I retreated gingerly, one step at a time, as I watched Manny sob into Wilson's chest. But once I had the weapon, I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want to set it down, and I couldn't give it to Wilson. His arms were wrapped around an inconsolable Manny, more to keep him contained, I think, then to offer comfort, though Manny didn't need to know that.

“Do you know how to empty the magazine?” Wilson asked me softly.

I nodded. Jimmy had taught me. I swiftly removed the bullets as Wilson addressed the class, many of whom had started to rise from where they had huddled beneath their desks.

“Students – I need everyone to calmly exit the classroom. Walk, don't run. When you get out into the hallway, don't stop. Exit the school. I'm guessing help is already on its way. Everything is going to be all right. Blue, stay right here with me. You can't go out in the hallway with the gun, and I can't take it from you right now. We'll wait here until reinforcements arrive.”

By reinforcements, I knew Wilson meant the police, but was trying not to alarm Manny who had clearly come undone, and was a quivering mess in his arms.

My classmates scrambled for the door, flinging it wide as they erupted into the hallway beyond. The corridor was silent and empty, as if classes were in session beyond the closed doors. But I knew there were teachers trying to keep their students safe, huddled in terror behind those doors, crying, praying, hoping that they wouldn't hear more gunshots, begging for rescue, calling 911. Maybe everyone had run for the exits when Manny began shooting at the lights. Maybe there was a SWAT team running up the stairs at that very moment. All I knew was that when the police arrived, my little friend would be leaving in handcuffs, and he wouldn't be coming back to high school. Ever again.

“Set the gun and the bullets on my desk, Blue. You don't want to be holding them when the authorities arrive,” Wilson instructed, pulling my attention back to the now-empty classroom and the gun in my hand.

I did as Wilson asked, and as I moved back toward him his eyes met mine and I saw the terror of what had just transpired stamped all over his young face. It was as if, now that the danger had passed, he was replaying the entire event in his head, complete with bonus scenes and possible bloody outtakes. Even as I wondered why I wasn't shaking, my legs would not longer hold me, and I teetered, grabbing for a desk to lower myself into.

And then the room was swarming with police shouting instructions and asking questions. Wilson answered them all in rapid succession, pointing out the weapon and relaying what had transpired in his classroom. Wilson and I were pushed aside as Manny was surrounded, restrained, and led from the school. And then Wilson's arms were around me, holding me fiercely as I clung to him in return. The front of his shirt was damp with Manny's tears, and I could feel his heart pounding wildly against my cheek. The smell of spicy soap and peppermints that was uniquely Wilson was accompanied by the sharp scent of his fear, and for several minutes neither of us were capable of speech. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with feeling.

“Are you daft?” he scolded, his lips against my hair, his words clipped and his accent pronounced. “You've got more bottle than any girl I've ever met. Why in God's name didn't you hide like every other student with half a brain!”

I clung to him, shaking. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright had abandoned me. “He's my friend. And friends don't let friends . . . shoot . . . other friends,” I quipped, my voice quavering in spite of my bravado. Wilson laughed, the sound almost giddy and full of relief. I joined him, laughing because we had looked death in the face and lived to tell about it, laughing because I didn't want to cry.





Wilson and I answered questions together, and then we were questioned again separately, as was every student present in the classroom and in the hallways from the time Manny entered the school. I'm sure Manny was also questioned extensively, though rumors abounded that he was unresponsive and currently on suicide watch. I found out later that SWAT had been called and ambulances and emergency personnel were already gathering around the school by the time the seventh-hour European History class had erupted through the main doors of the high school.

Most of the student body had been swiftly evacuated by teachers and administrators as the drama unfolded in Mr. Wilson's classroom, and when his students had run from the building, carrying with them the news that Manny had been disarmed, the police just arriving on the scene promptly entered the building. From that first gunshot into a fluorescent light, to the moment Manny was taken into custody, only fifteen minutes had elapsed. It had felt like an eternity.

People said Wilson and I were heroes. There were local cameras everywhere as well as some national coverage of the school shooting that had ended without bloodshed. I was commended by Principal Beckstead personally, which was surreal for both of us, I'm sure. The few times I had been in his crosshairs in the past weren't because of heroic behavior, to say the least. Mr. Wilson and I were hounded for weeks by the media. But I didn't want to talk to anyone about Manny, and I refused all interviews. I just wanted my friend back, and all the police and the interviews just made me think of Jimmy and the last time I had lost someone I cared about. I even thought I saw Officer Bowles, the officer who had pulled me over in Jimmy's truck once upon a lifetime ago. He was talking with a group of parents when I walked out of the school that terrible day. I told myself it couldn't be him. And so what if it was? It wasn't like I had anything to say to him.





It was one month since Manny had lost his mind. One month since I'd had a break from the madness that had ensued. One month of intense unhappiness, one month of despair for the Olivares family. They had released Manny, pending some sort of hearing, and Gloria had taken the kids and fled. I didn't know where they were, and I doubted I would see them again. One horrific month. And so I called Mason. It was a pattern with me. I didn't date. I didn't hang out. I had sex.

Mason was happy to oblige, as always. I liked the way Mason looked, and I liked the way he felt when I was beneath him. But I didn't especially like Mason. I didn't examine why I didn't like him, or even if that should be a consideration. And so when I found him waiting for me after school, pulled up on his Harley with his arms crossed so I could see the tattoos on his healthy biceps, I left my truck parked in the school parking lot and hopped on back of the bike. I slung my purse over my head and wrapped my arms around his waist as we roared away. Mason loved to ride, and the January afternoon was cold but pierced by a relentless desert sun. We road for over an hour, hitting Hoover dam and winding our way back as winter began to claim the light, pushing back the cowing sun, which retreated far too soon. I hadn't restrained my hair but let the wind whip it into a snarly black mass and slap against my face in a way that purged and punished, which was what I seemed intent upon.

Mason lived above his parents' garage in an apartment that was accessed by a narrow set of metal stairs that leveled off on a barely-there platform. We climbed into his apartment, cheeks windburned and red, blood pounding, invigorated by the cold ride. And I didn't wait for sweet talk or flirtatious foreplay; I never did. We tumbled onto his rumpled bed without a word, and I shut off my anxious heart and my nervous head as dusk descended into another night, another meaningless merging, another attempt to find myself as I gave myself away.

I awoke hours later to an empty bed. Music and voices bled through the paper thin walls that separated Mason's bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the space. I pulled on my clothes, wiggling into the jeans that I despised but continually donned day after day. I was starving and hoped Mason and whoever else was out there had ordered some pizza I could steal. My hair was an impossible tangle, my eyes a black-rimmed mess, and I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom making sure Mason's company couldn't make nasty insinuations about the evening's activities.

I finished in the bathroom and, out of habit, switched off the light as I headed across the room. I picked my way carefully around the bed, stepping around the strewn clothing and shoes. The light switch for the bedroom was by the opposite door, but the bathroom was all the way across the room, making negotiating the messy space treacherous in my high-heeled boots. I made it to the door that separated me from something hot and cheesy and was feeling around for the knob when I heard the outside door open and Mason greet his brother with a “What's up, Bro?”

I hadn't seen or talked to Brandon Bates since before the shooting. And I didn't want to. He hadn't even been at the school that afternoon, yet I blamed him entirely for the events that had transpired. I huddled by the bedroom door, hungry and indecisive, listening as someone else offered a greeting as well.

“Hey, Brandon? Anybody try to take you out lately?” It was Colby, my least favorite of all of Mason's friends. He was ugly, mean, and stupid. A triple threat. And he sounded drunk, which didn't bode well for the evening. I avoided him whenever possible. It seemed tonight it would not be possible.

“Not yet, Colb, but the night is young,” Brandon joked, always the friendly charmer.

“Mason says you got some pictures of that little senorita on your phone,” Colby slurred. “They didn't confiscate 'em, did they?”

Even though Graciela had admittedly sent Brandon the naked pictures of herself, Colby was being charged with solicitation and distribution of those pictures, and the rumor was that his parents were fighting tooth and nail for his exoneration. But everyone knew what he had done.

“Shut up, Colby, you dumbass,” Mason barked, but his bark lacked a certain bite, and I sighed, seeing the writing on the wall. I would be walking back to my truck, still parked at the school. He and Colby had obviously settled in for the night. Lots of alcohol and endless episodes of Ultimate Fighter.

“What? I saw that picture you have of Blue! Now that girl has a body that don't quit, know what I'm sayin' – not like some little ninth grader!” Colby chortled.

My heart skidded to a screeching halt.

Mason cursed and threw something, his words lost in an obvious tussle as something crashed and obscenities flew with several hard objects.

“She's in the other room, Colby, you freakin' idiot!” Mason spat, and Colby and Brandon started to laugh, obviously not worried whatsoever about the fact that I might hear them discussing my body or the fact that Mason had taken a picture of said body without my knowledge or consent.

“Man, I saw it, too!” Brandon howled. “The whole school saw it. In fact, I think that little Mexican chic saw it on my phone. Made it real easy to convince her that all the hottest girls send me pictures.”

“Shut up!” Mason hissed, his whisper as audible as Brandon and Colby's laughter. “What the hell were you two doin' lookin' at my phone?! Blue doesn't even know I took it!”

I stumbled back to the bathroom, unwilling to hear anymore. My stomach twisted, and the hunger that had growled at me moments before turned into a sour sledgehammer, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. Graciela had seen a picture of me naked on Brandon's phone. Manny had told me as much. But I had convinced myself it was just emotion, just a crazy rant, just him lashing out at me for standing between him and what he perceived as justice. I had said nothing to the police about what Manny had claimed. As far as I knew, nobody else had either.

I thought back to the evening when Graciela had been so angry with me. The night Manny and I had rolled our eyes and joked about hormonal girls and their crushes. And it suddenly all made sense. Graciela had looked up to me, had idolized me. And I had betrayed her. She thought I had sent that picture to Brandon, a boy I knew she liked. A boy everyone seemed to gravitate to, and who, for a moment, had let her bask in the light of his attentions. And so she had done it too.

My eyes were dry, but my chest heaved in an effort to hold back a sharp, dry cry that rattled around my heart and clogged my throat with guilt.

“I didn't know!” I begged my conscience for acquittal. Mason had snapped that picture of me without my knowledge, and his brother had gotten hold of it.

“I didn't know!” I said desperately, and this time my voice echoed in the filthy bathroom where I cowered. I looked around at the soiled clothes, the drooping shower curtain, the rancid toilet and the crud-lined sink. What was I doing here? What had I done? I chose to be here! And I had chosen to be in that situation with Mason. I hadn't known about the picture. But I wasn't innocent, either.

My actions had set off a chain of events. A mixed up girl, hungry for affection, makes a terrible choice. Was I talking about Graciela or myself? I faced myself in the mirror and immediately looked away. My actions, as inadvertent as they may have been, had triggered Graciela's choice and. in turn, Manny's response. Manny, who had seemed to love the whole world and, even more impressive, to like himself. I'm nobody. Who are you?

“I'm Manny,” he had said, as if that should have been enough. And why wasn't it? Because despite all the good intentioned urging to just be yourself, how was being yourself even possible if you didn't know who the hell YOU were? Manny seemed to have known, but he was as susceptible as we all are to the influences of a world where people act without thought, live without consciousness, and judge without understanding.

I grabbed my purse and headed back through the bedroom. Should I demand Mason's phone and delete the picture, threatening to go to the police? Should I throw things and cry and tell him he was a sick bastard and I never wanted to see him again? Would it do any good? The cat was already out of the bag, so to speak. The picture was in the wind. And maybe that was justice.

I strode through the living room and shrugged into my jacket. Colby belched out a happy hello and Brandon seemed uncomfortable. Mason was silent as I headed for the door. He had to have known what I had heard.

“Don't go, Blue,” he said as I walked out. But he didn't come after me.