But he wasn’t sure he believed it. The image of Brandon slapping his girlfriend’s face made his heart rage—fill with vengeful fire until it burned painfully behind his breast. He knew the only way to snuff out the flames, but he couldn’t be wholly sure his heart was still in it.
Pick up your guns, Jeremy. Remember what you’re fighting for. It’s not just about you. You’re fighting for all of them—all of those people who get shit on every day for no good reason. That used to piss you off. It should still piss you off. Find the anger. It’s still in you. You know it’s justified. You know it’s right.
He fisted the sheets on either side of him, gripping them tightly in sweat-soaked hands.
Be the hero. Be the one who saves them. Be the one who ends the cycle of abuse.
A single tear slid from his eye.
Don’t cry about it, you *! Find your anger! Find your resolve! Pick up your guns and fight!
He shook his head.
Pick up your guns and fight!
He touched his scar. The memory of Brandon taunting him in sixth grade flashed before his eyes: “You’re a freak! A FREAK!” he said, laughing with his cronies.
Pick up your guns and fight, Jer. It’ll never end if you don’t.
Eighth grade: Brandon’s first real punch. His fist jabbed Jeremy’s gut. Knocked the wind out of him. He thought he would die, wheezing frantically for air.
“That’s right, Scarface! Move to the back of the line.”
Pick up your guns and fight.
Eleventh grade: Bus stop. Bloody lip. Bruised ribs.
“You look at her again, and I’ll put you in a wheelchair. Permanently.”
Pick up your guns and fight!
Jeremy nodded.
Yes! Pick up your guns and fight!
“All right.”
With conviction! Pick up your guns and fight!
“I’ll do it.”
Make me believe you! Pick up your guns and fight!
He shot out of the bed.
“I’ll do it! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill them!” he shouted into the dark space.
Silence.
He squinted, searching the room for his vigilante. He expected him to materialize, grab his fist and thrust it into the air: “We have a champion!”
He hesitated, and when no one appeared, he shuffled back to bed, crawling deep under his sheets, trying to hide from his deadly principles.
~
I don’t have one more goddamn thing to say about it.
~
Lab work usually consists of lots of movement, talking, burning, mixing, measuring, slicing, labeling. Today, though, the lab was quiet—seniors were studying individually for an upcoming exam. The only noise inside was the low whirring of the air conditioner clicking on and off, on and off—trying to maintain a steady temperature. A few birds gabbed in blooming Curl-leaf Mountain Mahoganies planted just outside the lab windows. They were pleasant sounds that offset the feverish study atmosphere inside.
Regan slipped a note to Casey, who stifled a giggle. Ms. Griffin cleared her throat and shot warning eyes in the girls’ direction. Students only got one. If she had to do the eye thing a second time, it was office time. They grew quiet and continued their work.
Pop!
The noise sounded from a distance. Half the class looked up.
“Get back to work,” Ms. Griffin ordered.
They resumed their studying. Probably a burst pipe somewhere. As long as they didn’t smell leaking gas, they were fine.
Pop pop!
Everyone looked up this time, staring at Ms. Griffin, waiting for an explanation.
“Pipes or something,” she muttered, unconcerned, and left her desk.
Regan chewed her fingernail. She couldn’t pinpoint the sound, but she knew she’d heard it before. A long time ago. Perhaps with her father? Where? Where did she hear it? She chewed and chewed until she drew blood. She watched it ooze from underneath the stubby nail, and then realization burst in her brain like a blinding sunray.
A hunting trip. The gun. The pop pop of the gun!
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, mind racing. “Jeremy.”
She couldn’t ignore it—his fight with Brandon, his ominous words. The journal. The journal! But the date! Today was March 15, almost an entire month before the date he wrote in his notebook.
“It’s not right,” she breathed, then sprang from her desk. “Stay here!” she yelled to her classmates and headed for the door.
Casey jumped up, too, and followed her. “Regan! Where are you going? What’s going on?”
Pop pop pop!
Close this time. Where was Ms. Griffin? Why hadn’t she returned?
Regan whirled around. “Lock this door,” she ordered.
Casey grabbed Regan’s wrists. “What’s going on? What’s that noise?”
“Yeah, what is that?” Brandon called from the back of the room.
“Casey, lock this door. I mean it,” Regan said. “I’ve gotta go. Now.”
“What? I can’t lock the door. I don’t have the key!” Casey cried. “Where are you going?”
Instant tears.
Pop pop!
Someone yelling in the hall.
“FIND THE KEY!” Regan screamed, cursing the administration. Cursing the building designers. Doors only locked from the inside with a key—a “safety” feature to keep students from locking teachers out of their rooms.
Casey ran to Ms. Griffin’s desk and tore through the drawers. Other students rushed to her side to aid in the search.
Regan bolted from the room, certain she’d come face-to-face with Jeremy in this hallway—Hallway D. She had to; the gunshots were much too loud to be anywhere else.
The hallway was deserted. She halted in her tracks, listening for the next sounds.
Pop pop pop pop!
She ran the length of the hallway and took a sharp right, following the sinister sounds through the empty passageways. No one. Anywhere.
“Good,” she huffed. “They’re hiding. That’s good.”
She picked up her pace and rounded another corner, wiping every now and then at her guilty tears. She was to blame. If people were being murdered right now, she was to blame. How could she ignore the blatant signs? How could she ignore those words in his journal? How could she let him trick her so?
POP!
So close.
But maybe he didn’t trick her. Maybe he never had a plan to shoot people. Maybe it was the fight with Brandon that sent him over the edge. Maybe he was fine until . . .