I nodded, because I didn’t trust that I could open my mouth without throwing up.
“It’s just today,” Denny said. “Today is always bad.”
“Yeah,” Miles agreed. “Always.”
They were right. That day was always painful. And I’m sure it always will be. But sitting there, all I could think was that it was probably even worse for Kellie Gaynor, wherever she was.
And that was my fault.
The school didn’t reopen until the August after the shooting. There were a few camera crews waiting outside, ready to film our return, but not as many as you might expect. It had been five months, and other tragedies had pushed Virgil County out of the mainstream news cycle.
I was glad there weren’t a lot of cameras, though. I didn’t want my picture all over the news. Especially not that day, when I wasn’t even sure if I could walk into the building without having a panic attack. That would have become a headline in a matter of hours. “Virgil County High School Survivor Has Meltdown Upon Return to Site of Brutal Massacre.” I’d be some poor tragic figure that the country pitied for a few days. I didn’t want anyone’s pity.
I didn’t think I deserved it, either.
Mom had someone cover her shift at the store that morning. I think most of our parents took the day off. Everyone wanted to be the ones to drop their kids off for the first time. Some even walked them inside, like it was the first day of kindergarten.
“I can go in with you,” Mom said when we pulled into the parking lot. We watched as a senior boy, sticking close to his dad, entered the building. “I can stay if you need me to.”
I shook my head. “No. That’s okay.”
As much as I was worried about freaking out when I tried to walk inside, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my mother wouldn’t be able to handle it. Sometimes, it feels like what happened that day hurts her more than it does me. Which, in those first few months after, often left me furious. Like she was making my pain about her. I knew that wasn’t her intention. I knew that I was being too hard on her. But there were moments when I wanted to scream at her. To tell her she didn’t have a right to cry or to panic or to have nightmares. Becauseshehadn’t been there.
“Are you sure?” she asked, and I could already hear the quaver in her voice. “Lee, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I told you. We can look into homeschooling or find somewhere else—”
“Mom.”
I’m sure she was trying to help, but I found these feeble offers more frustrating than anything. She worked far too many hours to even consider homeschooling me, and unless we moved—which we definitely could not afford to do—there were no other options. VCHS was the only high school in the county.
And anyway, it wasn’t as if changing schools would fix anything. The shooting was going to haunt me, no matter where I went.
“I’m just worried. You got so upset when we did the walk-through with the detectives. If you don’t want to go back in there—”
“I’m going to be late.”
I grabbed my backpack and climbed out of the car, slamming the door before she could say anything else. The sound made me flinch, and I felt a pang of guilt. I’d been slamming doors a lot that summer. But as bad as I felt, I knew I wouldn’t apologize.
I kept my eyes trained straight ahead, away from the media parked on the school’s front lawn. All of my focus was on the door. The same one I’d burst out of five months earlier, smeared in my best friend’s blood.
I swallowed hard as I followed a group of upperclassmen inside. This may sound absurd, but part of me expected the place to look different somehow. Like we’d walk in and see the signs of the shooting everywhere. But it wasn’t like that. Everything in the front hall, the cafeteria—it looked exactly the same as it had the previous semester, before it all happened. It was clean and decorated with Virgil County colors—green and gold—and everyone was running to their friends, hugging and laughing, like any normal first day of a new school year.
You’d think that’d make it easier, but it just felt wrong.
I’d been back here once before that day. Some of the witnesses had come in over the summer to help the detectives map out exactly what had happened. But the school had been quiet then. Nearly empty. And it had been possible to pretend, at least for a few minutes, that I was somewhere else.
But this, it felt too normal. I found myself scanning the crowd for Sarah, as if I expected to see her waiting for me, the way she had been every other morning I’d walked into this school. Her bright purple backpack slung over one shoulder, a Pop-Tart in hand. And she’d always have an extra one for me, because she knew I skipped breakfast in favor of sleeping in.
Of course, Sarah and her backpack and her Pop-Tarts weren’t there. So I just stood in the middle of the cafeteria with no idea what to do or where to go.
That’s when I saw the plaque, a large, shiny black square hung up on a pillar in the center of the room. It was the only real physical change to this part of the school, and I almost hadn’t noticed it. I took a few steps forward, looking up at it, and wishing I had the strength not to.
The plaque was engraved with their names. All nine victims, listed in alphabetical order. I took them in one at a time, even though I already knew them by heart.
Kevin Brantley
Brenna DuVal
Jared Grayson
